Tides of Love (Garrett Brothers Book 1)

by Tracy Sumner

  Just ahead, part of a skiff bobbed free. And atop it lay a body. Noah paddled forward, lungs near to bursting. Too late, he'd arrived too late. Closing in, he slapped his hand against the stern, brought his lips above the surface, and gasped for air.

  "I thought your brother... had this skilled group of... sea rescuers. All I get is you."

  Noah reared and swallowed water. He hauled himself atop the skiff, coughing.

  "Please don't drown... on me, Garrett. I'm afraid I left my... medical bag at the office."

  "Leland?"

  "Who does it... sound like?" Ruining the show of bravado, the doctor's teeth began to chatter.

  Noah dropped his cheek to the notched wood, gulping for breath. "I risked my life for you?"

  "I'm sorry, Garrett. What does one do... when they helplessly watch men drown, screaming... as their ship is sucked into the sea? As it sucks them into the sea? You may think I'm a... bastard, and I suppose I can be," he said, his voice cracking. "Yet I am also a doctor. I prefer to save lives, not see them... being extinguished in front of me." He groaned, and Noah felt the skiff rock with the force of his shudder.

  "Can you swim? Because I don't think I can carry you." Noah blinked, his eyes stinging as if he had shoved a fistful of lye soap in them.

  "Of course... I can swim. I wasn't sitting here... waiting to c-catch my breath. Look around you. I didn't have... anywhere to swim. Because of the fog, I have no idea how... far we are from shore."

  Noah hitched to his elbows. Magnus's bewildered gaze slid his way, and he felt the first real stab of fear. "Who else sailed with you?"

  "We came upon the ship so suddenly, I couldn't... t-turn. A slow sail. Not much wind."

  Not able to grasp Magnus's shoulders, he put the strength in his tone. "Who, Leland?"

  "The clipper's mast, the main one, I think... crashed and caught"—he choked on a sob—"caught us right in the middle of the skiff. A-a clean break."

  "Leland!"

  The doctor's head lolled to the side as he stared into the distance. "She'll never love me now. Not when her father d-died in my skiff."

  "Oh, Jesus." Noah pressed his stomach into the curve of the stern to keep from heaving. "Tell me Henri Beaumont isn't out here somewhere."

  "On the other side of the skiff," Magnus whispered, his lips tinged blue. "I've been holding... his arm so he doesn't drift away. He's not heavy. Floating, he's floating."

  "Holding his arm." Noah wrenched back, plunging into the water. "Cale!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Caleb returned a hoarse shout.

  He screamed his brother's name again, his thread of control snapping.

  A rumble and a shudder. The clipper going under. Noah felt the answering quiver along the surface of the water and the strong tug near his feet. "Hang on, Leland," he said, his teeth beginning to chatter. It sickened him to admit he meant, hang on to Henri. He watched the wave swell and braced against the edge of the stern. It roared over them, washing him into a large fragment of the clipper and washing Leland into him.

  "We're going to die," Magnus cried and circled Noah's wrist.

  Noah shoved Magnus toward the skiff. He nearly retched at the solid bump of another body. "Climb up, Leland. Do it. Caleb's coming." If Caleb's boat hadn't overturned. Please, God, no. Starting to shiver, he kicked his feet and grasped the underside of the skiff between numb fingers. "Leland, don't let go—don't let go of Henri."

  "Still got him," Leland returned in a singsong voice.

  Hurry, Cale, he prayed. The frigid water and the biting wind consorted to drive every bit of heat from his body. He never wanted to swim again, yet he dreaded having to step on shore and face Elle.

  "I can see you. Just hang on."

  He opened his eyes, unaware he had closed them. Kicking his feet, the surface of the water rippled, smooth and gentle this time. The knotted end of a rope thumped the skiff, emitting a startled cry from Magnus. "Leland take the rope."

  "Leland?" Caleb leaned out. "What is he doing... Holy Mother Mary!"

  Noah groaned. Water lapped against his chin and into his mouth. He coughed and spit it out.

  "This is going to kill Ellie." Caleb's voice was rough.

  "I'll be there," he said, wondering if that would be enough.

  Along the shore, the occasional chip of quartz glittered in the dim moonlight. At the water's edge, a crowd of people gathered. Near the dunes, flickering bursts from a campfire danced across the sand. Long ago, Noah had stopped noticing the rancid smell and Leland's corresponding whimper at each crest and dive of the boat. Long ago, he had stopped feeling his teeth banging together or the searing pain in his side.

  Now, Elle's pain consumed him.

  When they reached the shore, the men greeted them, voices raised in jubilation and relief. Caleb released the oars as they dragged the boat to the sand. Someone slapped Noah between his shoulder blades and he pitched forward, scraping his palms on the bilge.

  The joyful laughter ceased when the men got a look inside the skiff. No one proved quick enough to keep her from meeting them.

  "Get her away." The crashing waves smothered Noah's hoarse plea.

  He watched her drop to her knees in the edge of the surf, waves striking her beautiful body. He struggled to hold her back.

  Her scream, Zach's curse, the boat shifting crazily as she threw herself against it. His lids lowered, obscuring the sight of her face, the horror and revulsion, the devotion. Brave and honest, Elle possessed a fullness of heart that gave her the faith to love when it would likely never be returned measure for measure.

  He and Henri Beaumont shared this betrayal, Noah realized.

  Swaying forward, he flailed, meaning to protect her. A barbed pain, violent and sudden, cut down the right side of his body.

  With a gush of liquid heat, he felt nothing at all.

  10

  "The enormous pressure at these great depths seemed at first sight alone sufficient to put any idea of life out of the question."

  ~ C. Wyville Thomson

  The Depths of the Sea

  "Cale, get off... my chest."

  Noah's whisper had Caleb lurching against the bedside table, nearly dropping the pitcher of water. He hadn't sat on Noah's chest, threatening to let the long string of drool drop from his lips, in fifteen years or more.

  He hesitated, then took a step closer, gazing at his brother. Noah's hair lay against his brow in a tangle of gold. His gaunt cheeks were beaded with sweat, his usually clean-shaven jaw lined with stubble. He had kicked the sheet off his feet, and the frayed edge of Caleb's work trousers caught him mid-calf. He probably wouldn't be pleased knowing he looked... sloppy. He'd never liked looking sloppy, Caleb recalled.

  Perching on the chair, he reviewed the list of things Leland had told them to do. Change bandages daily. His gaze flicked to the strip of white wrapped around Noah's chest. He tugged the sheet to Noah's neck and tucked it in for good measure. Thank goodness, Christa had promised to change the bandage when she returned.

  Apply cold compresses. He snatched a rag from the basin at his side and wrung it with a twist. As carefully as if he placed flowers on a grave, he laid it on Noah's brow. His shoulders slumped in relief. Not a flicker of pain crossed his brother's face.

  Chair wobbling beneath him, Caleb dug in his pocket. The least he could do was straighten Noah's hair. His hand shook as he began to comb. Not much experience with nursing. He and Zach were fit as fiddles, no need for doctors and sickbeds. Course, they'd never been slammed upside a splintered hull, either.

  Leaning back in his chair, he studied the combing job, deciding it would do. This wasn't as frightening as he'd believed. Gave him a warm feeling actually. With a renewed burst of confidence, he plucked the damp rag from Noah's brow, dumped the cloth in the basin, and grabbed another. Turning, he slammed into a wide-eyed stare.

  He yelped and dropped the rag on Noah's chest.

  Noah blinked. "Cold," he said. His throat worked in a slow swa
llow.

  "You're cold?" Caleb raced to the closet. Stretching, he tugged a blanket from the shelf above his head. It smacked his face, and he hurried back to the bed.

  Noah grimaced and lifted the rag to his brow.

  "Oh, you meant... I see." Caleb slumped into the chair, the blanket still wadded in his arms. "Yeah, we've got ice in there to keep them cold. Doc's orders."

  "What time... how long have I been?" He coughed, trying to strengthen a voice frail from disuse.

  "In and out for two days." Caleb hurled the blanket to the floor. "Have been too much to let me know you'd split your side open getting washed into something?"

  Slowly, Noah lifted the sheet.

  Caleb rested his hands on his knees and leaned in. "You got slammed into a jagged piece of wood, looks like. Cut into you like a knife."

  Noah let the linen drop. "I just figured... the pain"—he flicked his fingers—"a bruise."

  "A bruise?"

  His eyes closed, and Caleb thought he had slipped into sleep.

  "How is Elle?" Noah finally asked.

  "Not so good."

  "Funeral?"

  "Today."

  Noah's lids lifted. He struggled to rise to his elbows.

  Caleb subdued him with one finger on his shoulder. "No, way, little bro'."

  "Someone needs to... be with her, Cale."

  "I realize you think that someone should be you, but Zach and Christa will have to do."

  His throat clicked off a dry swallow. "Why aren't you there?"

  Caleb poured a glass of water—then belatedly remembering another of Leland's orders—quickly stirred in a pain powder. He slid his arm beneath Noah's shoulders. "Because I never liked him. He treated Ellie as poor as a fistful of dirt, and she loved him too much to return the favor. Zach was scared I wouldn't be able to hide my distaste for the man. I think that's how he phrased it. A pretty way of saying I hated the bastard. So, here I am playing nursemaid to you."

  With a pained grimace, Noah wrenched from Caleb's hold, sending the rag from his brow to the wall. Clumsy as a baby, he grabbed the glass and emptied the contents in three long gulps.

  "Easy, partner." Caleb frowned and snatched the glass out of his hand. "If you vomit all over yourself, Zach will hang my butt in a sling."

  "Typically vulgar," Noah said and slumped to the mattress, his skin pallid beneath a fevered flush. "Whatever you put... in the water tastes like—"

  "Hush and lie there, grouchy little man." Caleb slapped a new rag in place.

  Noah edged the cloth from in front of his eyes. "What kind of... nursemaid are you?"

  "You scared us to death, Professor." He drew a breath that stunk of camphor and rubbing alcohol.

  Noah waved away the concern, his lids drooping. The white scar on his eyelid held Caleb's attention, a beacon signaling their rocky past.

  "Do you think this is a joke, what we feel for you? Watching you topple over in that boat, a river of blood gushing down your side?" Caleb's chair skidded back, and he stomped to the window. He flicked the curtain aside—ones they'd always detested but kept to spare Hannah's feelings—and glared into a blustery charcoal day that completely suited his mood. "Ellie was raving mad. You bleeding on one side of her, her father all mangled on the other. Stymie sailing in with three bloated bodies piled in the stern. It was a holy mess, the likes of which I never want to witness again."

  Noah ached to the depths of his soul, but the pain was not merely physical. Elle had lost her father, and he couldn't protect her. Through a wealth of anguish and confusion, he searched for the part of her living inside him. It came to him gradually, then in a swelling tide.

  Alone. She felt alone.

  "I need a drink," Caleb said.

  "Go find one," Noah challenged in a weak tone.

  Caleb stalked to the side of the bed and stood, feet braced. "Let's get this done right now. No more secrets, no more tiptoeing around. I'm sorry for what I did to you, hitting you in the attic. Not understanding what my anger would do to you. I'm so damned sorry, I can't tell you how much. Every day since I've puzzled about it, worried over it. I was just"—he plunged his fingers through his hair—"stunned and... hurt. And mad. But not at you. At him, for leaving. Mama tried to make up for it. I know she did. But I wanted a father. I needed one. I hated him for leaving. Then I hated him more for making me crazy and making you leave."

  "I chose to leave, and I'm sorry, too. I wish I could go back in time and handle the situation in another way."

  "You don't have anything to be sorry for. That's what I'm trying to tell you. If you're still angry, if you can't forgive me, I want to know. Right now, I have to know."

  A wave of dizziness swept over Noah. "Cale, I was very... lonely for a long time. Maybe angry. But I forgave you." He closed his eyes. "I did it to myself. Stupid to run away. A coward's way out."

  He heard Caleb's boots strike the floor, then the soft creak of the door. "You're part of this family. That isn't ever going to change. Quit expecting it to."

  "Cale?"

  "Yeah?"

  The church bell chimed, signaling the lowering of Henri Beaumont's casket into sacred earth. Noah sought to distance his mind from Elle, but she slipped inside, and he shivered from the impact.

  "Noah? You okay?"

  He tangled his hands in the sheet, ignoring the stab of pain beneath his ribs. "Has Elle been here?"

  A minute ticked by. "This morning." Caleb coughed. "Only, she left. She had to leave in a hurry."

  Noah slipped into a deep, drugged sleep before he could ask Caleb what he meant.

  Caleb closed the door before Noah could ask more questions and backed straight into Christabel. The tray in her hands tottered, and he grabbed it to keep it from crashing to the floor. "Darn, Chris, what are you sneaking around for?"

  Christabel smiled and tapped the edge of his jaw, as always, dismantling his wrath with her touch. "How's he doing?"

  "Seems to be in some pain and really, really grouchy."

  Christabel nodded. "Men make lousy patients. Why, do you reckon?"

  Caleb shuffled from one foot to the other. "Chris, I, well you see, we had lots of things to talk about, me and Noah." His apprehensive expression was reflected in the silver tray.

  She perched her hands on her hips. "You didn't tell him?"

  He shook his head.

  "Chicken."

  He lifted his chin. "What do you want me to say? How you feeling, Noah? By the by, your married lady friend, the one none of us knew the first damned thing about, decided to pay a visit. Oh, and guess what else? Elle walked into the room to find her holding your hand and lit outta here like she'd seen a body hanging from the ceiling."

  "Honey, if that's what you would have said, I'm glad you waited."

  "Thanks." He stalked down the hallway, the tray clutched to his chest.

  "You've got to tell him before that Bartram lady appears on the doorstep again, Cale. I met her on my way to the funeral. Plainly, she isn't leaving. Truly, this is a delicate situation."

  Caleb cursed beneath his breath and wondered when exactly the tables had turned. For the first time in his life, he had to rescue his little brother from trouble.

  Elle slumped against her father's mahogany desk and kicked at the papers scattered by her feet. The echo of the grandfather clock provided the only sound beyond her shaken, terse breaths. She hated this room. Despised the shelves of leather-bound books, untouched except for a yearly waxing; the emotionlessly amassed collection of art and antiques; the costly poplar-paneled walls; even the explosion of naked color on the ceiling.

  She had perched on the horsehair sofa, caught between apprehension, rebellion, and love, during more dreadful paternal encounters than she cared to remember. From the time her father discovered her sneaking out her bedroom window, Noah and Caleb hidden in the shrubs below, to the time she quietly informed him she would not marry Magnus Leland, each episode had been a battle of wills, a contest of strength. Even now, his host
ility held as heavy a presence as his cologne.

  Elle grasped the official document, the crisp parchment stamped, signed and sealed. This scrap of paper had severed her affinity for her father more than all his cold-blooded threats. She rolled the paper into a cigar-shaped cylinder and blew a breath down the barrel. His betrayal, quite simply, left her numb.

  Swaying to the side, she sloshed brandy in the crystal goblet and swabbed at a spill using the sleeve of Noah's coat. Her father would chastise her for using a goblet instead of a snifter, for sitting cross-legged on the floor, for being foolish enough to wear Noah's coat and, worse, for leaning in to sniff the sleeve with unerring consistency. She rubbed the wool beneath her nose, breathing in the warm embrace of Noah's smile, the heartfelt compassion in his eyes, the gentle caress of his fingers.

  She needed him as much as she ever had, and yet, he could be in Morehead City or Chicago or, for that matter, on the moon.

  Clinking the goblet against her teeth, she took a gulp of brandy, then choked and coughed. Damn and blast, why hadn't Noah's betrayal—in truth, no betrayal at all—left her numb? Why, why, why could she still feel everything? He'd made no secret of his correspondence with the woman in Chicago, sending off the letters pretty as you please, fodder for town gossip. Nevertheless, to see a woman sitting beside his bed, the bed he had tucked Elle into the night she'd broken her arm, the bed she dreamed he would one day return to sleep in—

  With a curse, Elle flung the goblet against the wall. An amber trail trickled down the poplar paneling and to the Wilton rug.

  Moonlight spilled through the window, a wash of silver across the rolled document in her fist. She flattened it on her thigh and skimmed the lines of text. Her father had left her penniless, or close to it. Enough for his burial and the employment of a solicitor to arrange for the sale of his business and his properties, the antiques, the art. In the bottom paragraph, he addressed the issue of his only child, Marielle-Claire. She would wed by May of 1899 or lose any entitlement to his estate. If she did not meet the terms, the estate would be transferred to a Banque National de Paris account in the name of Gerard Claude Beaumont, the deceased's cousin.