by Sarah Monzon
The floor seemed to fall out from under her, and her chest slammed up against the wall. Grandmother’s necklace dug into her skin, and Isabella winced in pain. Layers of material she’d used to bind herself protected against cuts from the large jewels, but they didn’t add enough cushion to prevent bruising.
Weeks of sitting in the same spot, added with the crushing weight of the quartermaster when he’d pressed himself upon her, and she was ready for a few moments of relief from the family heirloom. Surely she could find someplace within the captain’s cabin to hide a necklace. There’d be time before they reached the New World when she could come back and retrieve it.
She exhaled all her breath. It would be easier if she could undress, but the buttons in the back of her gown would make that impossible without help. This would have to do. With her shoulders hunched, she reached between her breasts and dug through the torn fabric there until she felt something hard. She pinched the chain and tugged it free.
No matter how many times she looked upon the piece of jewelry, the awe she felt when viewing it never diminished. It was a circle of fine gold with alternating emeralds and diamonds. A larger emerald pendant with a teardrop pearl hung at its apex, which lay just below the throat when worn. Isabella remembered her mother wearing it once. She couldn’t recall what the occasion had been, only that her mother had looked resplendent in her black brocade gown. The arms, bodice, and hem had been embellished with small green flowers, and her ruff was an intricate lace design instead of her everyday cotton. A gold chain had hung loosely around her waist. Isabella remembered the moment her mother had asked her to help with the clasp of the necklace. As soon as she had fastened the jewelry about her mother’s neck, she’d looked up, and their gazes met in the reflective glass. The emeralds complemented the flowered embroidery, but even the beautiful gown and extraordinary necklace couldn’t compare with her mother’s radiance.
Hot tears stung Isabella’s eyes. It was good to remember, but oh, did the memories bring an ache so great she thought her heart would cease to beat.
She took a shaky breath and waded through the past until she emerged once again into the present. The task at hand was to find a nice, safe spot for the necklace. Her eyes cleared of moisture as she looked about the room, avoiding Romero’s lifeless body sprawled in the center of the floor.
The captain’s desk? Had she not heard that some nautical desks were equipped with secret compartments? She ran her hand along the underside, but her fingers skimmed solid wood. No grooves, no crevices. She jiggled the drawers, but they both held fast. Without a key she would not be able to open them.
She continued her search about the room. A chest lay along the far wall. Perhaps there would be a place to conceal the necklace there. The lid lifted without protest, and Isabella caught her lip between her teeth.
A glimpse of white cotton, then dark velvet with shiny brass buttons. Neatly folded garments rested in two piles.
She released her lip from its prison and let out a huff. Hiding her grandmother’s jewels among a gentleman’s clothing was not an option.
Where then?
The ship plunged, and Isabella pitched forward, landing hard on her hands and knees. Oomph. The necklace skittered across the floor, finally stopping when it snagged on a knot in the planks.
She crawled to it, not caring how improper it was for a lady to be in such a position, with her bottom in the air and scurrying along the floor like a babe. The necklace was her only chance at a new life. She needed it either with her or secure in a concealed location, not out in the open lying upon the ground where any person could spy it should he walk into the room.
When her hand pressed down on the plank beside the heirloom, it lifted. Isabella’s eyes widened. A loose board? A childhood friend had often hid sweets from her siblings under a loose panel in her room. Her four brothers had never been the wiser.
Isabella pried the beam up, the wood creaking loud in her ears. She flattened her cheek to the ground and closed one eye, straining to see in the small opening. It was dark, and she couldn’t make anything out. That was a good thing though, verdad? It meant there was another layer of wood between the two decks.
Díos, protect the jewels, and may we all make it to the New World alive. She pressed her lips against the hard stone before shoving it through the small opening. For good or bad, it was out of her control now.
She took a deep breath and propelled herself back onto her feet. Now that Abuela’s necklace was safely hidden, it was time to face the storm. No one could call her a well-trained sailor, but she had learned much the months she’d been at sea. Two extra hands could be helpful, and she was willing to put them to use.
Isabella braced herself along the wall as she walked down the corridor and up the rungs that led to the main deck. Salty spray slapped her face, forcing her to blink back the sting from her eyes. The sound of the wind and the waves roaring in her ears drowned out the shouted commands of the captain. He stood on the quarterdeck, his long black hair fastened with a leather thong at the base of his neck, strands being yanked out and flying wildly about his head as the squall raged with the temper of a toddler. He held the giant pegged wheel unmoving in his hands—the only still thing in sight. Sails flapped with the gusts, untied rope at the ends snapping like the whip of a carriage driver. Men scrambled to batten down hatches and pull down sails from the masts.
It was sheer chaos.
Her intent had been to help battle the storm, but now she knew that was pure madness. The only way they’d survive was if Jesus himself were on board and uttered the words peace be still.
A sailor hurried past her, and her eyes followed his progress. Everyone moved with a purpose.
Did she have a purpose?
Sí.
Luis had given her one—to take care of his son. Where was he? Her eyes roamed from one person to the next. All grown men. Not a child among them. When was the last time she’d even seen little Luis? So much had happened in such a short period of time that her mind was still spinning, trying to catch up. Had it really only been that morning that she’d been yanked awake by Romero on false charges of stealing? Without a doubt little Luis would have heard Benito was really a woman—she was a woman. She needed to find him and explain.
Cupping her hands around her mouth, she yelled, “Luis!”
The wind caught her words and carried them away.
A lump lodged in her throat, and she struggled to swallow it down. Now was not the time to let fear win. Someone depended on her, and she would not let him down.
She shuffled to the rigging of the mainmast and fell upon the ropes when the boat shuddered from the crash of a wave. Hand over hand she pulled herself along, her feet slipping from the water pouring over the deck.
Just a little farther.
It was hard to see, the sky dark as it was, water stinging her eyes, the wind blowing wet strings of hair into her face. Again she called the boy’s name, searching through the pelting rain for a glimpse of his small frame.
Nothing.
She reached the end of the rigging and eyed the distance to the steps leading up to the quarterdeck. Without support she doubted she’d stay on her feet for long. Muscles coiled, then she sprang for the ladder. Her hands scraped the rough wood, and she pulled herself close to steps, her forehead pressed to the top rung.
The ship rolled to the side, and she lost her footing. Splinters bit her palm as she clung to the ladder.
“Ah!” A stray barrel rolled into a crewmember, knocking him to the deck. The two bounced off the mainmast and continued to roll on the deck until they disappeared over the railing.
Isabella squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away. A tear seeped past her lids, mingling with the rain and salty spray already dampening her cheeks.
No more. I cannot take any more. There was only so much strength in her bones, so much courage in her soul. And she’d used it all. There was nothing left. She felt wrung out—used up.
A hand descended from above. “I said take my hand.” The voice shouted over the roaring wind and crashing waves.
Isabella lifted her head, and the captain’s face came into view. The blood had been washed from his lip, but his eye remained swollen shut, a deep gash sliced vertically over his brow. She placed her hand in his. Strength flowed into her parched spirit.
He helped her up onto the quarterdeck but didn’t release her hand. If he was here with her, then who was manning the helm? She looked around him, trying not to let her gaze rest too long on the way his soaked shirt clung to his body.
Pepe held the large wheel in his hand. Strain showed in the gritting of his teeth and the bulge in base of his neck that reminded Isabella of the roots of a tree—which was fitting since his feet were planted in place. She had seen many palms fall to the ground after a strong storm. She had no wish to witness her uncle topple.
Captain Montoya pulled on her hand and effectively brought her focus back to him. “What are you doing here? Were you not ordered to stay in my cabin?”
Now was not the time to worry about whether she had obeyed his instructions. Isabella quickly scanned the quarterdeck, but the only occupants were the three of them plus two sailors attempting to lower the sails of the mizzenmast. No Luis.
“Have you seen Luis?” She had to yell in order to be heard above the storm.
“What?” He lowered his head closer to hers.
“Have you seen little Luis?”
A shake of his head had her insides plummeting. Where could the boy be?
“It is not safe for you here. You must go back below deck.”
Isabella nodded and turned to go. She’d search each level of the ship until she found Luis.
“Look out!”
There was no time to react. A wall of water rose and lifted the galleon high into the air and then came crashing down, swallowing it up in one famished gulp.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Florida, Present Day
A four-hour drive had never seemed so long. Memories had chased Trent every mile of I-75 until he was loathe to admit they’d caught up and now tormented him like sadistic demons. They might as well have put on a horned headband and toted around a pitchfork like some Saturday morning cartoon.
Past logic for his actions seemed no more than water through a strainer. He’d run all the justifications through his mind—the women he’d been with were consenting adults, he had to find happiness and steal moments of joy where he could, he was just following the natural and biological course of the human race—until the defenses produced the same reaction as nails on a chalkboard. That muscles-seizing, teeth-gritting, eyes-squeezing, cringe-worthy reflex. Because even if his past relationships had been consenting, and even if some of the women had used him the same way he’d used them, that was the bottom line.
He’d used them.
Which meant his mom was right. A groan rumbled through Trent’s chest. No man wanted to admit his mama was right.
You can try to fit a square peg in a round hole all you want, Trent, but nothing is going to fill that Jesus-sized void in your life but the Man upstairs.
He shook his head to try and dislodge his mom’s voice, but even there she wouldn’t be quieted.
You’re searching for treasure, for recognition, for meaning. Don’t you know, son, that your treasure is already stored for you in heaven, that your recognition comes from the Creator, and that your meaning is found in your status as a child of the King?
It wasn’t a Jesus-sized hole though. It was a Trevor-sized hole. One put there by God himself. Or, at the very least, one that God could have prevented.
“Why’d you take him, huh, God? Didn’t you know I’d be missing a part of myself when you let him die?”
A voice whispered that it wasn’t his fault. Not if that hole had been created by someone else. All his decisions, the women he’d been with to fill the hollowness, it wasn’t his fault.
Even as the thought registered, he pushed it aside. Only a coward didn’t take responsibility for his own actions. He was an adult, a man. The guilt lay at his own feet. And the consequences.
Consequences. He had a few phone calls he needed to make as soon as he got home and found his phone. Meeting Dave Landstrom had been like looking into a dirty mirror, and the image had sickened Trent.
His Harley rumbled the last mile down the road, and he found himself wishing the drive had been longer. These weren’t going to be easy phone calls to make. He’d rather wrestle an alligator than have this conversation—multiple times.
He killed the engine and propped up the kickstand. Mrs. Wheeley waved from two houses down, and he returned the gesture as he walked to his door and unlocked it.
No searching required. His phone lay like a beacon on the coffee table.
Trent took a deep breath. Let’s get this thing done.
He pressed the Home button, and a list of notifications filled the screen. Maybe he should check and see… No. He shook his head. No procrastination and no distractions. He swiped the screen and brought up his contacts list.
Where should he start? Chronological order? Alphabetical? He rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers and hung his head. Shame soured his stomach.
He ran his thumb up the screen and stopped at the Ds. Susan Daigle. Legs as long as Florida’s coastline, with a personality just as flat. She had the art of body language down with come-hither eyes and not-so-innocent touches that promised more as the night wore on. They’d met at a club, the music too loud for any proper communication. Not that he’d been there looking for a chat. She’d be as good a place to start as any.
A tap on her name, then another on the Phone icon, and ringing sounded from the receiver. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he waited for her to answer.
“Hey, sexy. Calling to have a little fun?” He’d forgotten how sultry her voice sounded.
“No, Susan, that’s not why I’m calling.” He paused and swallowed hard. Old habits died hard, and his traitorous body was reacting on its own accord.
“No?” Her voice took on a pouty tone. “That’s too bad, because I miss you, baby. You and me, we always have a good time.”
Hot. He put the phone on speaker and set it down, then shrugged out of his leather jacket and undid his top two buttons. Maybe Susan hadn’t been the best place to start. He’d forgotten how strong she came on.
“I’m calling to apologize.” There. He’d said it.
Her throaty laugh rang in his ear. “Apologize? Whatever for?”
She was going to make him spell it out for her. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets. “For using you.”
She laughed again. “Honey, you can use me anytime.”
Mouth gone dry, he popped off his couch and paced to the kitchen. A half-full bottle of Dasani sat on the counter. He unscrewed the lid and took a large gulp.
Now for the really uncomfortable part. “There’s one more thing, Susan. We didn’t…you aren’t…you haven’t…there’s not a baby, is there?”
“Baby! Are you nuts?”
Yeah. He just might be.
“Look, Trent, you’re good for a fun time and all, but if you’re looking for a baby, then you’ve got the wrong gal.”
The line clicked, then went dead.
Trent took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Was Russian roulette this nerve-racking? One thing was for sure—he’d dodged the first bullet. Hopefully, none of the barrels were loaded.
Straightening his spine, he slid his finger up the phone’s screen again, stopping this time at the Ms. Marissa Morgan. Sweet girl. Too sweet to have tangoed with him. Before he lost his nerve, he rapped on her name.
“Hello?”
So, unlike Susan, she didn’t have his number saved.
“Marissa, this is Trent.”
Silence hung over the line, and he wondered if he needed to add his last name. Maybe she didn’t remember him.
“Hi.” Her voice was small. Hes
itant.
He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. Surprised you’re calling, but glad. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but every time I picked up the phone, God told me it wasn’t the right time.”
“God?” That was new. She hadn’t been a Jesus freak before. He’d made it a point never to spend any time with them.
Except for his family, but that was different.
A nervous giggle. “He didn’t speak to me, speak to me. Although that would’ve been cool. I just kind of got this impression that it wasn’t time to talk to you yet, you know?”
No, he didn’t. “Uh, is it okay to talk now?”
“I think the fact that you called me means that it’s the perfect time.”
This conversation was weird. He’d expected it to be difficult and uncomfortable, not wacky. He took another swig from the bottle of water. “I called to apologize. I knew I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship when we met, and I took advantage of you.”
Another pause. Unlike Susan’s instant response, Marissa seemed to need time to process.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me. I take responsibility for my own bad choices though. But, Trent, I have to tell you, a month after we spent time together, I found out I was pregnant.”
Pregnant. His head spun faster than the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair, and left him just as unstable on his feet. He did the math in his head. He’d been with Marissa five, six, no, seven months ago. That meant in two months he’d be a father. His hand reached out and gripped the edge of the counter.
“I’m going to be a dad?” His voice sounded breathless and far away, like it was someone else speaking.
“I’ll be honest. I’m not positive the baby was yours.”
Was. She’d said was, not is.
“Did you…”
“I miscarried the baby at fourteen weeks.”
His mind was running a relay, one thought racing by, then passing the baton to the next.
“When I first found out I was pregnant, I was scared. No one plans on being a single parent, right? And I was ashamed because I wasn’t positive who the baby’s daddy was. But then I felt him move. He was real, you know? A part of me. I know babies grow in the womb, but I swear they grow in the heart too.” Her voice shook. “When I lost him, I lost a part of myself. He took a part of me with him.”
