He had never been known to attend services—though many of his ship’s crew often slid in to occupy the back pews in respectful silence—and more than one of the town’s citizens wondered why he was there. Tyrone didn’t enlighten them. He made certain his gaze was casual as he took a seat near the back, but it took only one glance to find Catherine. She was sitting in the third pew beside her father, a small, neat hat atop the braided coronet of her dark hair. With an effort he kept his eyes away from her. Stupid to come here, he knew. Dr. Scott had been right; he was going to give himself away. But he was worried about her, and had to see that she was all right. He told himself that was all he meant to do, but he knew only too well that given half a chance, he would try to talk to her. There was no chance, of course, during the service, or immediately afterward. As was true in most small communities, people stood around outside the church, chatting, laughing, and making plans for the day.
