It was then Chet had gotten up and closed his office door.
Leaned against his desk. “What now?”
“We assembled a team at first light, but again they found nothing.” He let a long pause pass. “Of course, this is the Caribbean, so the water is much warmer, and if they were able to find flotation devices . . .”
“You can’t give up!” Pete jumped to his feet. “They couldn’t have just vanished.”
The silence on the other side of the phone suggested that yes, they could have.
“We’re still searching the area. There are other vessels in distress, however, and we’re also in mid-rescue of these vessels. We have reports of the wave being over sixty-five feet tall, and it came in threes. So, even if they made it off the ship after the first wave, the likelihood of them surviving two more . . .”
Chet had held up a hand to Pete’s open mouth. “Thank you, Commander. Please let us know if you hear anything.” He hung up.
A rogue wave. Pete sat down hard in his chair. “How does that even happen?”
Chet walked over to the window. “I have a buddy in Miami who does fishing charters. He told me once about the phenomenon. They’re actually more common than we think. They happen where high winds and currents come together. The waves build over miles and only become dangerous as they approach shore. The Montana Rose was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Pete got up then, frustration a live wire inside him.
No. This was not how the story ended for Ian. Or Sierra.
Not with Esme returned after so many years.
God could not be this unfair. Pete had made his peace with the Almighty, but sometimes the unfairness of life could swipe his breath away.
He pressed his hands to the table, sweat building down his spine. Closed his eyes.
When he felt Jess’s hand on his arm, he nearly gave into the urge to pull her close and bury his face in her hair. But he didn’t want to freak out Shae.
Or Jess, really, who, when he looked over at her, met his gaze with a frown. “What’s going on?”
He sighed. “We have work to do.”
She’d helped him print out a map they found online of the Gulf of Mexico and tape the pieces together. Then, they spread it out over the middle table.
He got back on the phone with Galveston, who gave him the lats and longs of the EPIRB signal.
As he sipped his coffee, he stared at the current ocean currents. He’d drawn in green the faster current, headed to the east, around Cuba, and into the Bahama chain. But the Loop Current in the Gulf might have sucked them back toward Mexico.
It depended on where the rogue wave took them.
“A life raft can drift up to eighty nautical miles a day, so it’s possible they could be in Cuba right now,” Pete said.
“Or they could already be rescued,” Chet said. Pete stepped aside as Chet came over to the map. “Good news. The Coast Guard got a call from a fishing vessel that picked up four survivors who say they’re from the Montana Rose.”
“Ian and Sierra?” Shae stood now at the edge of the table.
“I don’t know, honey. They didn’t say. The fishing boat is bringing them into the Guard sector in Key West.”
“Only four?” Jess said. Only then did Pete notice she’d slipped her hand into his. He gave it a squeeze. I love you. I choose you.
Maybe he should take her at her word.
“It could be them,” Chet said. “Listen, like I said, I have a friend in the Keys. What if—”
“Yes. We’re going down there,” Pete said, meeting Shae’s eyes. “Of course we are. We’ll look until we find them, Shae.”
She pressed her hand over her mouth, nodded. Turned away from them.
“Pete—” Chet started.
“Just give me the number of your friend. And don’t look at me like that. We’re going to find them.”
He turned to Jess, then to Shae. “C’mon.”
But Jess stopped him, still holding his hand. “Wait.”
“Jess, if you don’t want—”
“Of course I’m going. I was going to say we should call Ty.” She offered a wisp of a smile. “He has . . . friends. In the Keys. With boats.”
Oh.
She left out the rest—the fact that maybe she had friends in the Keys with boats.
“Right,” he said.
“This is my life now—and . . . it’s the life I want, Pete.”
With everything inside him, he wanted to believe her.
He glanced at Chet as he held the door open for Jess and Shae. “We’ll call as soon as we know something.”
He just had to stay afloat. Keep paddling.
Don’t fall asleep.
And find Sierra.
Ian blinked the sea grit from his eyes. His mouth had turned to the desert, his lips were swollen, his eyelids puffy, the ache in his body bone deep.
He wanted to groan with every wave, but the effort to stay on the big deck cooler kept him from sinking into the pain. The fatigue.
If he hung on, he might see Sierra again.
When the sun had finally settled, the respite from the glaring heat was short-lived as the waves picked up and the wind pushed him into the current. Now, deep into the inky night, he had no warning, nothing but the feel of the swell beneath him to warn him of impending danger. With each wave, he gripped the handles of the cooler, rode it like a horse, his thighs clamped around the edges.
If the cooler opened, if it filled with water, he’d be in the drink, with only his life preserver keeping him afloat. And this might be the Caribbean, but a man could die from exposure just bobbing around in the sea. Never mind what might find him from beneath during the long night.
The truth was, with one robust swell, he’d probably drown.
He rode out the current wave, settled into the valley, and lay his head on the pebbly surface of the cooler. Tried to catch his breath.
How had it come to this? Dex, Noelly, Nessa, and Hayes, lost, not to mention his crew. If a rogue wave didn’t account for God’s direct aim to dismantle his life, he didn’t know what did.
Except . . . he kept hearing it, the desperate nudge inside to cry out. Reach for something. Anything.
His own words, spoken a year ago to Sierra, thundered at him, and he winced.
“The last person I’m going to turn to is God. I helped myself to where I am today—no thanks to God. My destiny is in my hands, and mine alone.”
Yeah, he’d been angry. She’d practically accused him of forcing himself and his help on others.
“Not everyone needs your help, Ian. Or wants it.”
But right now, a man clutching a cooler in the middle of an ocean had few choices.
He closed his eyes but had no words.
Help. Yes.
Sierra, please be alive.
Not a prayer, really, but . . . it was all he had.
He’d spent the day searching the sea for her, his hands cupped over his eyes. Once he’d thought he’d spied the raft but lost it in the sun.
Decided it had simply been his heart, hoping.
“Ian, get in the raft!”
Why hadn’t he listened? He could have cut the raft free from inside.
Maybe. Except it had all happened so fast.
He’d let go of the rope, let the wave take him.
When he sputtered free, he’d spotted the hull of his boat in the distance, disappearing into the depths. He’d yelled for Sierra. For Dex and Hayes. For anyone, his voice feeble and broken as the waves pushed him into the darkness.
The fact that he’d spotted the cooler, nothing but a dark outline as it drifted near him, seemed a miracle.
The hand of God, perhaps. So maybe . . .
Please help me find Sierra.
Yes, a better prayer, and the words formed inside him. Please help me find Sierra, help me be the man I should have been.
He should have listened to her. Given up the search for Esme long ago.
Sierra was right. Esme didn’t want to come home.
And Sierra knew it. Knew he was the kind of man who drove people away. Who always had to be in charge—some might call it bullying.
No wonder she didn’t want him in her life.
He felt another swell and gripped the cooler, his heart in his throat as he rode the wave. The night seemed to be waning, the finest thread of shadow to the east. The moon, which had traced a beguiling finger across the waves, as if beckoning, was paling, the stars winking out.
He might not survive another day of this.
It was almost comical, really. Ian Shaw could purchase a private fleet of searchers and yet . . . well, it hardly mattered who he was when he had nothing between him and the sea but a cooler full of chip dip and root beer.
He leaned his forehead into the cool surface and tried not to let the next wave unseat him.
If Dex could see him now . . . He could hardly believe that only twenty-four hours ago, he’d wanted to throw Dex overboard.
If he closed his eyes, he could see it, Dex reaching out, pulling Sierra close—
Please, God, keep Sierra alive. Let me find her.
Yep, a real prayer. And it didn’t hurt in the least—in fact, like the swell behind him, it lifted him, pushed him forward.
Filled him with power.
The sun had begun to lip the rim of the earth, brilliant and gold, with an edging of rose as it cascaded into the morning.
And in that moment, he heard her. A memory, perhaps, but Sierra sat next to him on the porch of her house. He could still remember the dress, light blue against her dark hair, those beautiful hazel-green eyes.
He’d shown up to apologize for kissing her, for stepping over the line between employer and employee. To beg her not to leave him. He’d even driven his Vanquish, hoping to impress her.
Always hoping to impress her.
In fact, that had pretty much been his entire MO. He’d impressed Dex enough to let him tutor him, impressed Stanford enough to give him a scholarship, impressed Allison enough for her to marry him, impressed the government enough to give him an exclusive contract.
Deep down inside, maybe he thought he could impress God enough to give him a break. Be on his side for once.
But his own words burrowed inside him, words he’d confessed that day on the porch.
“I know I’m not a good person, Sierra. I’ve tried to be. I keep hoping that maybe I’ve done enough to make up for my sins so that God will save Esme anyway. That wherever she is, he’ll keep her safe.”
He could hardly believe, even now, that he’d let those words sneak out.
But Sierra didn’t gasp. Somewhere in there, she even took his hand. “Your worth to God has nothing to do with your actions. He loves you because he wants to. Because he chooses to.”
Yeah, well, that still didn’t make sense to him, and maybe he’d been more focused on the fact that she’d taken his hand. He did remember, however, shaking his head. “I don’t have what you have. I don’t have faith.”
Her soft words had wheedled inside, set up camp, built a fortress. “But I do,” she’d said softly. “And I’ll hold on to you until your faith shows up.”
Maybe it was time for his faith to show up.
Oh boy, the sea had clearly gone to his head.
But that was when he heard it. The crashing of the sea against something solid. He looked up and in the burgeoning dawn made out the spray of water as it hit . . . land.
An atoll rose from the night like a humpback giant. He lay on the cooler and began to windmill his arms, riding the surf in.
The sun rose higher, and the sky was tufted with hot flames of crimson and gold. The dawn turned the island to brilliant, beautiful green and cast light through the mangrove and coconut trees, the swaying, sheltering palms.
He rode closer into shore, felt the ocean’s welcome beneath him, and tucked his arms in as the water cast him across the reef. The cooler washboarded against the coral, but it slipped over it, and in a moment, the ocean spit him out into the harbor.
The shoreline remained gray, and the sea was a shiny platinum on the sand as the tide came in.
Wait.
He slipped off the cooler. The sand clouded beneath his feet and dissolved in his footfalls as he splashed to shore. He fell, ground his knees on the sand, scrambled back to his feet, and fought his way to the mass of rubber caught in a tangle of mangrove near the forested shoreline.
The life raft. Or a life raft—but it looked like the one from the Montana Rose. He caught it up, searched for the opening. “Sierra!”
The floor seemed intact, but the bottom tube had lost air and the raft hung limp, as if torn from the ocean and cast aside, having succumbed to the torment of the sea.
No. Please.
Ian dropped the raft, pressed his hands over his face.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was supposed to find Esme, bring her home, and then everything between him and Sierra would be fixed. They wouldn’t have anything standing between them—the deception that made him push her away or his obsession that drove her out of his life.
Somewhere deep inside, he always thought—well, desperately hoped—he’d end up with Sierra in his arms.
“God—no.” He let a wave wash over him, the surf bleeding out in foam onto the sand.
“Ian?”
The voice, shaky, nearly a whisper, caught his breath.
He turned.
And there, wearing her torn white dress, her arms wrapped around herself, her black hair tousled and full of sand, stood Sierra.
He couldn’t breathe, and for a second, couldn’t move.
Sierra.
He might have rasped out her name as he tumbled over onto his hands, crawling toward her, scrambling up the beach, his feet finding purchase.
Running.
And then he was sweeping her up, catching her around her waist, clutching her to himself, trembling.
Weeping.
He didn’t care that relief shook through him, that he had fallen onto the sand.
Didn’t even notice if she might be clutching him back.
He simply held on, refusing finally to let her go.
11
IAN.
Was alive.
Sierra covered her face with her hand even as Ian held her, on his knees in the creamy sand.
Ian.
His body shook, and it sounded like he might actually be crying, but perhaps the sound issued from her, the great, gasping breaths, the hiccups as emotion crested over her.
“Shh,” he said, his hands in her hair, his forehead to hers. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” But he didn’t sound okay, not with the way his voice had thickened. She’d pressed one hand to his chest and felt the hammer of his heart right under his salty, hot skin.
And she definitely wasn’t okay.
He held her until she stopped shaking, his pounding heart slowing to a hard, resounding, very much alive rhythm.
Ian. Alive. How . . . ? She wiped her eyes and finally leaned away.
He sat back, staring at her. The fine copper hairs of his chest glinted in the sun from his open shirt.
“I thought you’d drowned,” she said quietly.
He touched her face as if amazed, as if he were caressing something rare and breakable. “I looked for you. All night.”
“You shouldn’t have cut me free—”
“What, and let you go down with the ship?” His blue eyes turned sharp, almost angry. “They’re all dead, Sierra. Noelly and Vanessa, Hayes—even Dex. They went down with the ship. And you would have been dragged down with it.”
His tight, hollow voice shut her down.
Dex. Noelly. Hayes and Nessa.
And the crew. Erica. Cat. Kelley and Captain Gregory.
“Oh.” She pressed her hand to her mouth again. Of course she knew it, but . . .
“I’d hoped that maybe they’d, I don’t know, gotten out . . .” Heat filled her eyes.
<
br /> With a moan of grief, Ian pulled her to himself.
The immensity of it all washed over her. Drowning her and she just wanted to curl into herself, press her entire body into a tight ball, and never move.
He tightened his hold on her, braced his chin on her head. She touched his cheek, rough with cinnamon whiskers.
Her voice emerged ragged, a whisper. “I can’t believe you found me.”
He wove his fingers through hers. “I think . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind. You’re alive and that’s all that matters.” He ran his thumb down her cheek in a caress. “Now we just have to stay alive until someone finds us.”
She leaned away, and her gaze roamed his face, his sunburned nose and lips, the way he stared at her as if to make her believe his words.
“Someone will find us, Sierra.”
Oh. And now he possessed the ability to read her mind. She looked away, out toward the ocean. The sun had risen, turning the horizon to a palette of lavender, golden rays cascading through a distant clutter of clouds. The harbor had turned a rich indigo, waves catching the dapples of gold.
“It’s paradise,” she said.
“And deadly if we don’t find water, shelter, and a way to signal for help.”
She drew in a breath.
He touched her chin, turned her gaze back to his, met her eyes. “Sierra, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I might not be a PEAK rescuer, but I’m resourceful, and I promise I’m going to find a way to keep us alive. Do you hear me? I promise.”
And for the first time ever, she wanted to sing a song of joy at Ian and his frustrating never-let-go obsessiveness.
She nodded. Caught her bottom lip in her teeth.
He glanced down at her mouth, swallowed.
She could blame her stripped, raw emotions for the need that ran through her, nearly made her lean up, press her own salty lips to his. She held her breath, studying him, the burn on his cheeks, his tousled hair now drying in the wind, the finest glints of gold in that mop of auburn.
Troubled Waters Page 19
