But fire at sea, this far out...
Fire extinguishers had limited volume. It was useless to simply point it at smoke and pull the trigger. But how to get to the seat of the fire?
She hauled her windcheater over her face and tried to open the hatch over the engine...
Flames.
‘Get out.’ The voice was harsh, deep, and then repeated, a roar of command. She hesitated, shoving the extinguisher forward, trying desperately to see...
‘Now!’ And a hand hooked the collar of her windcheater and hauled her upward.
She dropped the extinguisher and went. He was right. The speed of this fire...
There was a bag at the entrance to the galley. Heavy. Lifesaving. She grabbed it and lugged it upward.
‘Let it go,’ the voice roared, and the hand on her collar was insistent.
Pigs might fly, she thought, clinging like a limpet as the hand hauled her higher. And then she was out on the deck, clinging to her precious bag.
‘The tender...’ A condition of charters in these waters was that a lifeboat was with them at all times and she’d checked the inflatable dinghy before she left. Thank God. The deck was now a cloud of smoke. If the fuel went...
She had to get the tender into the water and get them all into it. Now!
She grabbed the lifeboat’s stern pulley. Matt was beside her, seeing what she was doing, matching her at the bow. Lowering it with her.
It hit the water. Almost before it did, she grabbed Henry and thrust him into Matt’s arms.
‘In. Now.’ She grabbed one of the lines from the tender and thrust it into his hand. ‘Don’t let go. If you fall in, shove the tender away from the boat and pull yourselves in.’
‘You take him,’ Matt snapped.
‘Don’t be a fool.’ The engine could go up at any minute. ‘Take care of the kid. Go.’
She copped a flash of concern but the decision was made. Henry had to be his first priority. He lifted the stunned Henry onto the side of the boat, steadied for a moment and slipped downward.
Thank God she had them both in lifejackets. Getting into an inflatable from a wallowing boat was fraught at the best of times. But he had Henry in, tucking him into the bow. Then he was standing, holding on to the boat. ‘You!’
It was the kind of order her grandfather would have made. A no-nonsense order, the kind you didn’t mess with, but she still had stuff to do.
‘Boof!’ she yelled and the big dog was in her arms. She thrust him downward and somehow Matt caught him.
‘Get down here,’ he yelled.
She could no longer see him. The smoke was all around her.
One last thing...
She grabbed her bag and slid over the side. Strong hands caught her, steadied, but she allowed herself a mere half a second for that steadying. Then she was at the tiller of the tender. The little engine purred into life. Thank You, God.
Without being asked, Matt was shoving with all his might, pushing the tender as far from the boat as he could.
Into gear... Full power... Away.
And maybe twenty seconds later the fuel tank caught and Bertha erupted into a ball of flames.
She kept the tender at full throttle. The danger wasn’t passed yet. Burning fuel could spread across water.
A minute. Two. The distance between them and the flames was growing. She could breathe again.
Just.
She did a quick head count. Not that it was necessary but she needed it for her sanity.
Matt. Henry. Boof. Bag.
They should survive.
* * *
‘Wow, that was exciting. We’re safe now, though, Henry. We’re okay.’
He couldn’t think what else to say. Matt sat in the bow of the little boat and held Henry. Tight. He was giving comfort, he told himself, but the feel of the child against him, the solidness of the little body, the safeness of him... It was a two-way street.
The charter boat was now a smouldering wreck. The flames were dying. It was already starting to look skeletal.
They’d been so lucky. From the time he’d seen Meg’s head jerk around, heard her cut the engine, from the time he’d caught the first whiff of smoke himself... A minute? It must have been more but it didn’t feel like it.
He felt stunned to numbness.
They were safe.
Meg was at the tiller. She was coughing, but she was in control. She’d been hit by a wall of smoke as she’d gone below and she’d fought him for that stupid bag. When she’d got herself together, he was going to have words with her about that bag. Like passengers on an airliner trying to save their carry-ons after a crash landing, she could have killed them all. His and Henry’s baggage was now ashes, and he wasn’t grieving about it one bit. For her to fight to get her bag...
Mind, there was nothing unprofessional about the rest of the way she’d performed. She’d moved seamlessly. All he’d done was follow what she was doing. She’d made them safe.
Safe was a good word. A great word.
He held Henry and let it sink in.
And then he thought, Where are we?
Maybe they weren’t so safe.
Meg had pointed out Garnett Island to him a few moments ago. It was still in the distance, surely too far to head for in these seas, in this little boat. The tender was sitting low already. The swells didn’t cause a problem but the wind was causing a chop on the top of the water. Meg was steering into the wind, minimising water resistance, but if one of those waves veered sideways...
He looked ahead and saw where she was steering.
A rocky outcrop rose, almost like a sentinel, straight up from the ocean floor. Maybe half a kilometre from them? Maybe less. It looked rough and inhospitable, but part of the rock face seemed to have slipped, forming what seemed a little bay. A few hardy plants must have fought their way to survival, because there was a tinge of green.
‘That’s where we’ll land,’ Meg said, watching his look, and then she had to stop and cough again. And again.
She buckled, fighting for breath. She’d copped so much smoke.
‘We’re swapping places,’ he said.
‘I’m not moving anywhere.’ Every word was a gasp.
Time to be brutal.
‘No choice. Your breathing’s compromised. Think about what happens if you collapse at the tiller.’
‘You can’t...’
‘I can handle a boat.’
And he saw her shoulders sag, just a little. Relief? She was only just holding herself together, he thought, and with that thought came another. She’d gone down below, to try to fight a burning engine.
‘The flames... Is your throat burned?’
‘Only...only smoke. Not...burned.’
‘Good, but you’re still moving. When I say go, move.’
She didn’t reply, fighting another paroxysm of coughing.
‘Meg needs help,’ he told Henry. He was torn. Henry needed to be held, but the tiller had to be priority.
Boof was on the floor of the boat, crouched low, almost as if he knew stability was an issue. He took Henry’s hand and guided it down to the dog’s collar. ‘I want you to hold on to Boof,’ he told him. ‘He’ll be worried. Hold him tight. Don’t let him move, will you?’
And to his relief he got a silent nod in response. Excellent. Not only would Henry’s hold anchor him to the big dog, it’d keep him low, as well.
Right. Meg. The tiller.
He watched the sea, waiting for his chance. The next swell swept by. No chop.
Now.
* * *
One minute she was holding the tiller, trying to stop the coughs racking her body, trying to keep control. The next...
Matt seemed to come from nowhere. Keeping his body low, he was suddenly at her end of the boat, though with e
nough sense to keep his weight back as far as he could. Crouching low, he tugged her hard against him, pulling her forward. For one long moment he held her still, checking balance, checking the waves.
Another swell passed—and then she was swung around and propelled onto the central seat.
And then Matt had the tiller and she was no longer in control.
His hold had been swift, firm to the point of brutal, a hard, strong grasp that had left her with nowhere to go. In any other circumstance it would have been terrifying, but right now she’d needed it. It was the assurance that responsibility wasn’t all hers. That she wasn’t alone.
It was a feeling that made her almost light-headed.
Though maybe that was the smoke.
She was still struggling to breathe. Matt might be in control, he might have reassured her that the boat was being cared for, but she needed air.
Smoke inhalation...
She’d done first-aid training. Grandpa had insisted and he’d also insisted on her updating over and over.
‘The bag...’ she managed and then subsided again. Oh, her chest hurt.
Matt was handling the tiller, watching the sea, but in between she could see him coming to grips with controls. He was also watching Henry, but he flashed her a glance that told her he was almost as worried as she was about her lungs.
He looked down at the bag. She’d seen his reaction as she’d tossed it down to him—what, you’re worried about luggage? Now, though... He wasn’t a fool. He had the bag opened in seconds, and, still with one eye on the oncoming sea, he started checking the contents.
The first-aid kit lay on top.
What she needed apart from a canister of oxygen—which she didn’t have—was a bronchodilator. Albuterol. It was in the first-aid kit to cope with possible asthma attacks.
‘Alb...alb...’ she gasped but he got it. He had the small canister clear, and she clutched it as if she were drowning.
‘You know how to use it?’
She did. She’d used it once on an overweight fisherman with a scary wheeze. She held it and inhaled, held it and inhaled.
Matt was steadied the little boat and turned her slightly away from the outcrop they were heading for, making a sensible adjustment to their path so it was more of a zigzag. It would stop the sideways swell.
He knew boats, then.
Maybe panic had as much to do with the coughing as smoke did, she thought. As she felt her breathing ease...as she watched Matt turn the tiller to avoid a cresting chop...as she twisted in the boat and saw Henry, crouched over Boof, holding his collar and even speaking reassuringly to him...her world seemed to settle.
For now they were safe. Moving on.
They needed help.
Radio...
‘There’s a radio in the bag, too,’ she managed. The coughing wasn’t over but at least she could talk. ‘And a GPS tracker. In the side pocket.’ She subsided and coughed a bit more while she watched Matt delve into the bag again.
And come up with nothing.
‘There’s nothing in the side pocket.’
‘There must be.’
No charter boat went to sea without an emergency radio and tracker beacon. It was illegal to leave port without them. Every boat in Charlie’s Marine Services therefore held a bag such as the one Meg had rescued. The presence of the bag was one of the things she checked, every time she boarded. She hadn’t checked the contents today, though. There’d been no need. The contents were standard, always in there.
But Bertha wasn’t usually used for charters.
No!
‘What?’ Matt went back to looking at the sea but she could tell by the rigidity of his shoulders that he’d sensed something was wrong. Seriously wrong.
‘My idiot boss.’ She buckled and coughed a bit more, and maybe that was caused by panic, as well. She was trying to make herself think.
Radios and GPS trackers had batteries that ran out. Charlie ran a regular schedule of checking, because it was sensible, but also, if any marine inspector found a charter boat without a working GPS beacon, or a radio with a flat battery, he’d be down on them like a ton of bricks.
But if such an inspector had come...say, last week...and Charlie had panicked and realised one of the sets was flat...
Why not grab the set from Bertha’s bag? Bertha wasn’t being used for charters. She wouldn’t be checked.
All these things were flying through her head like shrapnel. Her head felt as if it might explode. For one awful moment she thought she might be sick.
And then Matt’s hand was on her head. He was leaning forward, propelling her downward.
‘Head between your knees until it passes,’ he said. ‘And there’s no need to panic. We’re safe. One step at a time, Meg.’
She had no choice but to obey. She ducked her head and started counting breaths. It was a trick her grandpa had taught her after her parents had been killed.
When all else fails, just feel your breath on your lips, lass. That’s all that matters. One breath after another.
It felt wimpy. It felt as if she’d handed total responsibility to a stranger but she put her head down and counted.
She was up to about a hundred and twenty before she heard Henry, his thin little voice piping up from the back. ‘Where are we going?’
She should answer. She should...
‘We’re going over to that big rock you see in front of you.’ And Matt sounded totally in control, as if he were stranded at sea after fire every day of his life.
‘Is that Grandma’s island?’
‘Nope.’ Matt’s voice sounded almost cheerful. ‘We’re going to this island first. Garnett Island’s a bit far away for us to get there in this little boat.’
‘But how will we get to Grandma’s?’
Good question, Meg thought. Right now she didn’t have an answer. Luckily Matt did.
‘We might have to wait awhile,’ he conceded. ‘But I’ve been checking this interesting bag our skipper’s brought with us. Apart from muesli bars and bags of nuts and sultanas, there are some cool things that look like flares. When you light flares you can be seen for miles. So my guess is that we’ll land on this island, we’ll eat our muesli bars and our sultanas, and we’ll wait for Meg’s boss to realise she’s no longer in radio contact. I imagine they’ll send a helicopter to find us. If we need to, we’ll light our flares to help him find us and then we’ll all be rescued. Even Boof. Is that a good plan?’
‘We might need a drink,’ Henry said cautiously.
‘There’s a water carton under the seat you’re sitting on,’ Meg managed and then turned and checked herself. All the tenders carried fresh water. At least that was there.
‘And what if it gets dark?’ Henry quavered.
‘I’d imagine Meg’s boss will send help before that, but if he doesn’t then we’ll build a fire with driftwood. I can see matches in Meg’s Marvellous Bag. We’ll sing songs and tell each other stories and then we’ll lie on these...yep, thermal blankets...and we’ll wait until they come. Is that okay with you, Henry?’
‘I...guess...’
It was okay with Meg, too. It sounded like a workable plan—the only hiccup being...
Charlie.
We’ll wait for Meg’s boss to realise she’s no longer in radio contact...
Charlie’s charter boats were supposed to check in every hour, acknowledging to Charlie that boats and punters were safe. Meg couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Charlie monitor those calls. The calls were made—most of his skippers were punctilious—but they were made to an empty control room.
Charlie was always on the pier, chatting to the locals. He watched his boats come in every night. If Meg was due in tonight and didn’t show, Charlie would notice. The trouble was, Meg wasn’t due back tonight. Or tomorrow.
Sh
e closed her eyes.
‘Bad?’ Matt asked sympathetically.
And she thought, He’s not going to be sympathetic when I tell him I work for one of the world’s shonkiest charter companies.
But it was no use telling him now, especially not when he’d just reassured Henry.
‘I’m okay,’ she muttered and lowered her head again. It must be the smoke still making her feel sick. ‘We’ll all be okay. Eventually.’
CHAPTER THREE
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER they reached their destination.
The combination of medication and salt air had worked their magic. Meg’s lungs felt almost clear.
She still wasn’t in control, though. Matt had taken over. The letterhead on the documents she’d read had been embossed with the words McLellan Corporation. Matt’s name? Her first impression had been wealth and command, and she was now adding skill to the mix. Wherever he’d learned it, he’d acquired knowledge of the sea and small boats. He was now in charge, and the feeling was almost overwhelming.
How long had it been since anyone had taken charge of her world? Not since her grandpa had got sick. Even as a child Meg had learned to be leaned on. Her grandparents had been gutted when her parents had been killed. If she cried, they couldn’t handle it. She’d had to act cheerful even when things were dire.
When she was sixteen her gran had died, too, and Grandpa had pretty much fallen to pieces. That was when she’d decided to quit school and go fishing with him. She’d cajoled him back to enjoying life.
It was only when he was gone that she realised how restricted her own life had become. She could heave craypots. She could count punters in and out of charter boats and she could cope with boats in heavy seas.
Was that what she wanted for the rest of her life?
At twenty-eight, what other choices did she have?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, why was she thinking that now? They’d reached the outcrop. Matt was steering carefully—because the boat was inflatable and the rubber could rip on any one of these sharp rocks—into the tiny cove. There was a stony beach.
Cinderella and the Billionaire Page 3
