Work had always come first—with the ambition scrambling behind it. And that, she decided, was a sad commentary on her life. Work had been a huge part of who she was, or considered herself to be. Now she’d cut herself off from it, purposely, so that she felt like a solitary survivor, drifting alone in an ocean of self-doubt.

If she was not Shannon Bodine by birth, and the hot young commercial artist by design, who was she?

The illegitimate daughter of a faceless Irishman who’d bedded a lonely woman who’d been on her own personal oddessy?

That was a painful thought, but one that kept worrying at her mind. She didn’t want to believe that she was so unformed, so weak-hearted that the bald fact of her birth should matter to the grown woman.

Yet it did. She stood on a lonely strand of beach with the wind whipping through her hair and knew it did. If she’d been told as a child, had somehow been guided through life with the knowledge that Colin Bodine was the father who chose her if not the father who’d conceived her, she felt she couldn’t be so hurt by the truth now.

She couldn’t change it—not the facts or the way she’d learned of them. The only option left was to face them. And in facing them, face herself.

“Rough seas today.”

Shannon looked around, startled by the voice and the old woman who stood just behind her. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, but the breakers were crashing, and her mind had been very far away.

“Yes, it is.” Shannon’s lips curved in the polite, distant smile reserved for strangers. “It’s a beautiful spot, though.”

“Some prefer the wildness.” The woman clutched a hooded cloak around her, staring out to sea with eyes surprisingly bright in such a well-lined face. “Some the calm. There’s enough of both in the world for everyone to have their choice.” She looked at Shannon then, alert, but unsmiling. “And enough time for any to change their mind.”

Puzzled, Shannon tucked her hands in her jacket. She wasn’t used to having philosophical discussions with passers-by. “I guess most people like a little of each, depending on their mood. What do they call this place? Does it have a name?”

“Some that call it Moria’s Strand, for the woman who drowned herself in the surf when she lost her husband and three grown sons to a fire. She didn’t give herself time to change her mind, you see. Or to remember that nothing, good or ill, stays forever.”

“It’s a lonely name for such a beautiful spot.”

“It is, yes. And it’s good for the soul to stop and take a long look now and again at what really lasts.” She turned to Shannon again and smiled with great kindness. “The older you are, the longer you look.”

“I’ve taken a lot of long looks today.” Shannon smiled back. “But I have to get back now.”

“Aye, you’ve a ways to travel yet. But you’ll get where you’re going, lass, and not forget where you’ve been.”