The hours dragged by, interrupted only by the arrival of the ferry and mail from the mainland. An envelope was addressed to Gwen, and Uncle Milton promised to deliver it to her. By the time the sun went down, they had switched from drinking soda to bottles of cold beer. Milton seemed delighted to have found a comrade to join him in playing hooky from the Blackstone festivities. They’d been sitting at this counter for six hours, and it was a typical day for Milton. He put in a few hours fishing, then hid at the soda fountain for the rest of the day to avoid Martha’s relatives.

Milton clapped Patrick on the back and tried to persuade him not to leave on the ferry when it would return to the mainland tomorrow. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “I could use a partner in crime. Tomorrow I’ll take you fishing in the morning, then we can come back here and do it again.”

The prospect of following in Milton’s footsteps was unthinkable. Patrick didn’t want to spend his days at a soda fountain to hide from Gwen’s family. She had been so convinced he would adore them, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. Like Uncle Milton, he didn’t belong here.

The bell dinged over the door, and Natalia came racing into the store, her normally pristine hair a scraggly mess.

“Smitty, I need to send a telegram,” she panted.

Patrick stood, alarmed by the panic in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Somebody shot Poppy. She’s gone into labor, and we need a doctor right away.”

Mr. Smitty pulled the cover off the telegraph machine, but Patrick could barely absorb what she’d just said. “Poppy?” he asked in disbelief. “What about Gwen. Is she all right?”

Natalia gave an impatient nod, then turned her back on him to dictate a message to the mainland. Her father’s yacht had already left for New York, and she wanted a doctor to be waiting at the port for a return trip to Cormorant Island tonight.

After the telegram had been sent, Natalia relayed the entire story of an unknown assailant who unloaded a six-shooter at Liam but hit Poppy instead while Gwen cowered in the underbrush.

Patrick’s mind reeled. While he’d been drinking with Milton, Gwen had been dodging bullets. “I’ve got to get back right away,” he said.

He only hoped Gwen would be able to forgive him for sulking during her hour of need.

It was dark when Patrick arrived at the house, where the Blackstone clan remained crammed into the main gathering room. Everyone looked exhausted, but Frederick wouldn’t let anyone leave until police officers from the mainland arrived, which probably wouldn’t be for a few more hours.