Sanctuary by Nora Roberts Page B

This was nature and could be accepted. No man caused this or—as long as Sam was in control—would interfere with it.
    At the edges he could watch the fiddler crabs scurrying, so busy in the mud that they made quiet popping sounds, like soapsuds. Sam knew that when he left, raccoons and other predators would creep along the mud, scrape out those busy crabs, and feast.
    That was all part of the cycle.
    Now, as spring came brilliantly into its own, the waving cordgrass was turning from tawny gold to green and the turf was beginning to bloom with the colors of sea lavender and oxeye. He had seen more than thirty springs come to Desire, and he never tired of it.
    The land had been his wife’s, passed through her family from generation to generation. But it had become his the moment he’d set foot on it. Just as Annabelle had become his the moment he’d set eyes on her.
    He hadn’t kept the woman, but through her desertion he had kept the land.
    Sam was a fatalist—or had become one. There was no avoiding destiny.
    The land had come to him from Annabelle, and he tended it carefully, protected it fiercely, and left it never.
    Though it had been years since he’d turned in the night reaching out for the ghost of his wife, he could find her anywhere and everywhere he looked on Desire.
    It was both his pain and his comfort.
    Sam could see the exposed roots of trees where the river was eating away at the fringe of the marsh. Some said it was best to take steps to protect those fringes. But Sam believed that nature found its way. If man, whether with good intent or ill, set his own hand to changing that river’s course, what repercussions would it have in other areas?
    No, he would leave it be and let the land and the sea, the wind and the rain fight it out.
    From a few feet away, Kate studied him. He was a tall, wiry man with skin tanned and ruddy and dark hair silvering. His firm mouth was slow to smile, and slower yet were those changeable hazel eyes. Lines fanned out from those eyes, deeply scored and, in that oddity of masculinity, only enhancing his face.
    He had large hands and feet, both of which he’d passed on to his son. Yet Kate knew Sam could move with an uncanny and soundless grace that no city dweller could ever master.
    In twenty years he had never welcomed her nor expected her to leave. She had simply come and stayed and fulfilled a purpose. In weak moments, Kate allowed herself to wonder what he would think or do or say if she simply packed up and left.
    But she didn’t leave, doubted she ever would.
    She’d been in love with Sam Hathaway nearly every moment of those twenty years.
    Kate squared her shoulders, set her chin. Though she suspected he already knew she was there, she knew he wouldn’t speak to her unless she spoke first.
    â€œJo Ellen came in on the morning ferry.”
    Sam continued to watch the hawk circle. Yes, he’d known Kate was there, just as he’d known she had some reason she thought important that would have brought her to the marsh. Kate wasn’t one for mud and gators.
    â€œWhy?” was all he said, and extracted an impatient sigh from Kate.
    â€œIt’s her home, isn’t it?”
    His voice was slow, as if the words were formed reluctantly. “Don’t figure she thinks of it that way. Hasn’t for a long time.”
    â€œWhatever she thinks, it is her home. You’re her father and you’ll want to welcome her back.”
    He got a picture of his older daughter in his mind. And saw his wife with a clarity that brought both despair and outrage. But only disinterest showed in his voice. “I’ll be up to the house later on.”
    â€œIt’s been nearly two years since she’s been home, Sam. For Lord’s sake, go see your daughter.”
    He shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. Kate had a way of drawing out those reactions in him. “There’s time, unless she’s planning on