Bobby stared at her with an expression as close to awe as his face could humanly manage. “You gotta be shittin‘ me, Cook-man.”

Dinah shook her head, grave as a judge. “I shit you not, Clark. She camped out with them, and then she took them into Cordova, where she treated them to breakfast at the Coho Cafe.”

Bobby whooped so loudly this time that Katya grumbled and wiggled her butt. There were actual tears of mirth in Bobby’s eyes. “Did they hit on any of the fishermen?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

He wiped his eyes. “She’s gonna help the whole friggin‘ Park into an early grave is what she’s gonna do.”

Dinah grinned. “If someone doesn’t help her there first. I also hear tell that she was sitting in on one of the aunties’ quilting bees at the Roadhouse the other night.”

There was a moment of dumbstruck disbelief. Bobby’s jaw might even have dropped.

“She sewed the quilt they were working on to her jeans.”

This time, his whoop was so loud, Katya did wake up.

“Okay,” Old Sam said. He took a deep, calming breath and removed the boat hook from Kate’s hand.

“But Uncle-”

“Go to the galley,” he said. “Write fish tickets.”

“But-”

“Go. Now.”

Old Sam didn’t sound calm that often, and when he did, it always presaged a force 10 storm. Johnny held on to his pew with both hands, watching with wide eyes as Kate obeyed orders, and spent the rest of the sunny August afternoon stuck at the galley table, writing fish tickets for fishermen who were always absolutely certain that they had delivered half a dozen more reds than Old Sam had counted when they were transferring them to the Freyd’s hold. Even Mutt deserted her, preferring the open air on the bow to the claustrophobic confines of the galley. Miserable, Kate didn’t blame her.