Clashing In Seward

Reilly’s hands were slick with rain and diesel when the first line snapped against the cleat.

“Damn it.”

The word vanished beneath the harbor’s morning racket - winches whining, gulls shrieking over fish scraps, deck boots striking wet planks. She caught the line before it could snake into the water and hauled it tight, shoulders burning beneath her new navy jacket.

Her boat rocked against the fenders. Beyond the breakwater, Resurrection Bay opened in a sheet of pewter-blue, mountains rising on either side as if they had been shoved up from the ocean overnight. The air smelled of salt, fuel, and the sharp promise of a busy summer day.

This was supposed to be simple. Cast off. Welcome twelve guests. Give them a safe, unforgettable tour.

Prove she belonged here.

Across the dock, a burst of laughter drew her attention. Andrew Kincaid stood beside the larger vessel bearing the rival company’s red-and-white logo, one boot braced on a bollard. He was thirty, broad through the shoulders, his dark hair wind-tossed, beard shadowing a jaw that looked carved for bad opinions. Salt had bleached the cuffs of his shirt. He handled a coil of rope without looking at it, as if the harbor had taught his hands everything they needed to know.

His crew moved around him. His guests gathered close.

Reilly looked away before he could catch her watching.

“Captain Hart?”

A woman in a yellow rain shell hovered at the boarding gate with a phone in one hand and a camera hanging from the other. “Are we really going out this morning? The forecast says the water’s rough.”

“The bay is active, but we’re staying inside the protected route until conditions settle.” Reilly gave her the smile she had practiced in the mirror, the one people remembered. “I’ll keep you informed the entire way.”

The woman relaxed. “Good. My husband gets seasick.”

“Then I’ll make him my most important passenger.”

That earned a laugh. A small one, but it loosened something beneath Reilly’s ribs.

She turned toward the rest of the group. “Once we leave the harbor, we’ll watch for sea otters along the rocky shoreline. If we’re lucky, we may see porpoise near the entrance. Humpback whales have been reported farther out, though we won’t chase sightings or put anyone at risk to - ”

“ - get there,” Andrew called.

His voice carried across the water with irritating ease.

Several guests turned. So did the deckhand beside Reilly.

Andrew lifted one hand, not quite a wave. “That route won’t give them much.”

Reilly felt every face swing toward her.

She kept her smile in place. “My route is based on today’s conditions.”

“Your route is based on the harbor schedule.” He glanced toward the clock mounted on the fuel shed. “If you want whales, you’ll need to clear the entrance before the tide turns.”

A man in a Mount Marathon Race shirt leaned toward his wife. “Is he with this company?”

“No,” Reilly said.

Andrew’s mouth curved. “Not yet.”

The laugh that followed was scattered, uncertain. Reilly heard the insult underneath it: new captain, new boat, new mistakes waiting to happen.

She stepped closer to the edge of her deck. “And your guests will be pleased to know they’re paying for commentary from the dock.”

Andrew’s eyes settled on her then, gray as the bay and just as difficult to read. “Only trying to save you from disappointing them.”

“I’ll risk it.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her hands, still damp from the line. When he looked back, something warmer flickered beneath the challenge. Not kindness. Not exactly. Interest, perhaps, and that was worse.

A harbor worker shouted for a cart to move. Engines coughed awake. The dock narrowed around them, crowded with tourists in bright jackets and guides carrying coffee.

Andrew stepped down from his vessel and came toward her. He smelled of cold water, cedar, and the bitter coffee everyone drank from the fuel shed. Up close, the roughness of him became specific: a pale scar crossing one knuckle, a weathered line beside his mouth, a fleck of grease near his wrist.

“You’re blocking the boarding lane,” he said.

“So are you.”

“I was here first.”

“Congratulations.”

His eyes glinted. “You always this pleasant before breakfast?”

“Only when strangers interrupt my briefing.”

The corner of his mouth moved again, but he did not smile. “You want advice, Hart?”

“No.”

“You’re going to get it anyway.”

Before she could answer, a dockhand rolled a stack of crates between them. Andrew caught the top one against his thigh, then shoved it aside with a strength that made the gesture look careless.

Reilly hated that she noticed.

Her guests began boarding. She turned away from him and reached for the woman in the yellow shell, steadying her elbow as the boat shifted.

“Watch your step.”

Behind her, Andrew said, “Keep them seated until you clear the channel. The wind is pushing hard off the point.”

“I know how to operate my boat.”

“Knowing isn’t the same as doing.”

Reilly spun around....