7

BRIGGS STARED INTO the fire long after India had drifted into a fitful sleep. The tropical night had fallen almost as fast as her mood. She’d hardly spoken more than a few words to him since making their sparse camp of a palm frond lean-to.

Mosquitos’ incessant whine further increased the night’s suck.

When that wasn’t enough fun to make him thoroughly miserable, Mother Nature whipped up a fresh storm. This time She combined cold rain with an equally cold wind. That afternoon’s tranquil beach resembled a war zone with flotsam projectiles. With the fire drowned, he retreated to the pitiful shelter—not that it did much good.

The India he remembered had been a sound sleeper, but she stirred beside him. “Briggs?”

“It’s okay.” He wrapped his arm around her, holding her shivering form close. If it got much colder, they’d both be in danger of hypothermia. “This rain has to stop soon.”

But it didn’t.

The night dragged on and on.

Merciless, inky black that left him with entirely too much time to think. He’d jumped into this scene, envisioning himself India’s hero. Now? Not only had Turtle’s killers played him for a fool, but so had she. How many hints had she dropped? Asking if he had time for a visit. Getting his opinion for a pregnant “friend.” With the benefit of hindsight, the list went on and on.

Teeth chattering to a frightening degree, she asked, “Are we going to be all right?”

“Of course. Come here.” He hefted her onto his lap, infusing her with as much of his body heat as possible. He checked his watch. It was 3:12 a.m. Shit. There was a whole lot of night left to go before dawn.

“T-tell me a s-story.” He’d never seen anyone shiver so hard—not even during hell week of BUD/S.

“What kind of story?”

“S-something h-happy . . .”

“Okay . . .” He stroked her damp hair, imagining it free of its ponytail and shining in the sun. He used to tease her that it was the color of paprika, and reminded him of the last time he’d been to India. The entire trip had left him hot and bothered—only not in a good way. “Let’s see . . .” The near gale-force wind blew so hard he spoke directly into her ear. “A few years ago, a buddy of mine—Jasper—hooked up with this mega-smarty scientist named, Eden. She was like crazy smart. No clue what she saw in him.” Hoping to soothe India, Briggs rocked while he spoke. “Well, he was pretty sure they were headed for wedded bliss till—boom. Out of nowhere, she called it off.”

“W-what happened?”

“Turns out she had big-time cancer. Her mother died of it. She assumed she would, too. Eden broke things off with Jasper before she got too bad sick.”

“Oh n-no . . .” She wrestled around to face him. “Did she die?”

He framed her dear face with his hands. “Nope. After killing a bunch of bad guys in Antarctica, then finding nearly a billion worth of stolen WWII treasure, she had a successful surgery and treatment. She and Jasper got married and had kids and now live happily ever after.”

“Mmm . . .” Settling sideways on his lap, resting her cheek against his chest, she said, “That was a g-great story. T-thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The wind and rain had thankfully lessened, as had India’s shivering.

“Y-you might not want to hear this,” she said, “but you know how Eden made a wrong assumption about her cancer?”

“If you’re about to say I’m making the same wrong assumption about me being a bad father, forget it.”

“How do you know?”

He eased her off his lap. “I just know.”

“But how?”

“Because how in the world can anyone be an acceptable parent when they’ve never seen what one looks like? Please, India, drop it. I’d do almost anything in the world to make you happy—just not this. I’ll never be your ideal family man.”

After drifting into a sleep tortured by nightmares of being trapped beneath dark water, India woke to brilliant sun, calm seas, and the sound of an outboard motor—wait, lots of motors.

She jolted upright, scanning the horizon to see an entire flotilla of local fisherman and friends and family who had to be out searching for them.

“Briggs! Wake up. We’re—rescued . . .” She glanced around their lean-to and then camp to find him gone. Rising, she waved her arms toward the search party. “Here! Over here!” Then called, “Briggs? Briggs, where are you?”

It was then she noticed the raft was gone.

Written in charcoal on an old white cooler lid, a note read:

Know u r safe. U keep baby safe. I will find bad guys.

Seriously? Just like that, he’d left her? Why? How was he going to find Turtle’s killer without her help? More importantly, how was he planning to keep himself safe? The man was infuriating. As much as she appreciated him volunteering to play the martyr, India wasn’t willing to sacrifice Bridgette’s dad. Briggs might not think he was capable of being a great father, but just the fact that he was so concerned for her safety that he’d sacrifice his own showed the degree to which he already cared.

He could deny it all he wanted, but he had a heart of gold. In her book, that was the only qualification necessary for being a husband or dad.

India’s mother, Paris, was first off Cousin Ollie’s fishing boat, smothering her in a well-meaning hug. “I was so worried when you didn’t come home. Where’s Briggs?”

“No clue. When I woke, he was gone.”

“What? Is he okay?”

“I assume so. He left a note saying he’s going to find Turtle’s killer. He wants me to stay with Bridgette.”

“You told him?”

India nodded. “The story fell out. I’d planned it a dozen different ways—all more eloquently. At least now he knows the truth.”

“You were right? He wants nothing to do with Bridgie?”

“Oh, Mom . . .” India didn’t care that she had an audience of nearly everyone she’d ever known. The pain of Briggs’ rejection was inconceivable. She could get over the sting of him rejecting her. But how could he turn away their innocent child? He hadn’t even seen her. Smelled the simple perfection of the baby shampoo in her hair. Maybe he truly was the cold-heart bastard he’d always claimed to be? “Where is she now?”

“With Nettie and Sam. They didn’t feel up to another search and rescue—especially so soon after losing Turtle.”

“What happened with you and Briggs?” her mother asked. “When it was past dark and you still hadn’t come home, I started making calls. No one had seen you. Ollie mentioned he thought Turtle’s boat wasn’t in its slip. When he doublechecked and found it gone, and then I remembered we’d had that awful storm yesterday afternoon and another last night… What were you two doing? You know better than to go out on the water without checking the forecast. I’m already on edge with this curse. You have to be more careful.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” India didn’t want to mention the gunman who’d literally blown the boat’s hull out from under them. Not yet. Odds were, someone in this crowd not only knew Turtle’s killer, but had helped seal his fate. It might have been indirectly, but in India’s mind, they were just as guilty. Maybe more so, considering they were also now targeting her and Briggs. “How did you know where to look? We could have been anywhere?”

“Zeb Hawthorne captained the last ferry from Middle Caicos to West Caicos last night. Said he saw a fire on your island and thought it odd. When he heard you were missing, he led us straight to you.”

Perfectly logical explanation. India had gone to grade school with Zeb. He had a wife and three kids. He wasn’t a drug mule. Or was he? At this point, was there anyone she couldn’t rule out? Pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead, she willed her mind to stop spinning.

Her mom said, “Let’s get you home . . .”

Her dad stepped up, wrapping her in a blanket, leading her through ankle-deep water to Ollie’s flat-bottomed boat. It didn’t matter that she was surrounded by a hundred smiling people, all wishing her well. Never had she felt more alone.

The sun shone.

The sea was glassy calm.

The only noise aside from the low murmurs of friends and family exploring the island came from seagulls bickering over a fish carcass.

Why couldn’t she be happy? Why couldn’t she forget this horrible mess with her cousin or ever having met Briggs Denton?

Oh—that’s right, because she and Briggs shared a child. And her cousin deserved justice.

She never should have asked for Briggs’ help finding Turtle’s killer. She should have somehow handled it on her own.

And ended up dead? Because that’s certainly where I’d been headed.

The whole ride home, India’s heart thumped in time with Ollie’s ancient inboard diesel. The exhaust fumes did little to settle her already roiling stomach.

If there was one thing she knew about Briggs, it was that he wouldn’t have left her unless he had a highly compelling reason. Maybe even a belief that she was safer without him than with. What did he know that she didn’t? How would she find out?