Bill stared at the young man dumbfounded. Five years ago a younger version of this man had gone to India and his father had given it his grudging blessing. The army was better than prison, and it had been prison young John Blacke was headed to. Bill had hated him at times, and hated that he hated him. He had found it easier to love his son once he was halfway across the globe.

Five years. Lottie had quietly suffered for all that time. And now he was here in Whitby, in the kitchen of his old home, offering him a brew as if he had been here all this time. Bill had half a mind to rush over and give him a good slap for the audacity of it, and half a mind to rush over and embrace him.

But he did neither, and instead he stood very still in the doorway. "You didn't say you were comin' 'ome..."