13

“I HATE THE SEA.” Jess pressed one hand to her stomach; the other held binoculars to her eyes as she stood on the deck of the Blue Pearl. “And staring at the horizon is not helping.”

“Are you going to lose it?” Pete said and wrapped his arm around her waist. “You don’t look well at all. You should go lay down.”

“Not until we find them.”

He said nothing at her words, the same ones uttered by the Coast Guard only twenty-four hours earlier. “You’ll never find them, not with this storm heading in.”

Yeah, well, he didn’t know PEAK Rescue.

Jess held on to the rail. “Besides, we have lost time to make up for.”

He couldn’t agree more. He pressed his binoculars to his eyes, heard his own voice growling up from twenty-four hours earlier. “If they’re not going to find them, then we will.”

He’d just marched out of the Coast Guard office, feeling the change in the air, the breeze turning chilly, and it raked up a swill of desperation inside him.

It only added to the roil of frustration he’d been fighting since the crazy moment at the hospital when Jess had changed personas right in front of his eyes.

He knew that Jess had a past, an entirely different life according to Ty, but her old life hadn’t come crashing down over Pete until the moment she greeted her friend Vanessa like she might have been sightseeing in Europe for the past three years.

Instead of redefining her life. Turning into a completely different person.

Selene Jessica Taggert.

Pete practically fled the hospital room in a crazy attempt to escape the sense that the life he’d come back to rescue might be slipping out of his grip.

“You okay?” Ty had said, following him out of Vanessa’s room.

Pete shot him a look that made Ty give him a grim nod. Then, “We need to go to the Coast Guard office and get an update.”

But first, he’d needed a moment to just breathe. And do a Google search. So, he headed to the john, locked himself in a stall, and pulled up his phone.

Selene Jessica Taggert wasn’t just wealthy. Her father had hit Forbes for a decade as one of America’s top one hundred wealthiest people. According to the New York Observer, Selene grew up hanging out with people like Ivanka Trump, Ariana Rockefeller, and Kick Kennedy. He recognized the surnames, at least.

He’d found several pictures of Selene. One, a shot of her on the red carpet for some Hollywood gala, another of her dressed to the nines at some inaugural ball. Both times, she was with a man whose appearance didn’t suggest he’d emerged from the woods after being raised by wolves.

And while Pete’s persona—the long hair, the untended beard—didn’t bother him, he’d taken a long look in the mirror, the words “Wait until Felipe hears” thundering through his brain, and didn’t like the comparison.

More, Vanessa’s words to Jess dogged him. “He’s never gotten over you leaving him.” And why should he? Pete barely recognized Jess in the visage of Selene Taggert, her golden blonde hair up in a tidy hairdo, diamonds sparkling at her neck, her curves outlined in a white, shimmery floor-length dress.

He would, however, recognize that smile anywhere, and something dark curled inside him as he zoomed in on the picture, recognized the look of possession on her date’s face as Selene danced in his arms.

The guy looked like a Felipe, angled face, high cheekbones, just the right amount of facial hair, dark, combed-back hair. Really white teeth.

Pete had closed the picture, shoved the phone into his pocket. And when he emerged from the bathroom, he tried not to notice that Jess watched him with such a questioning look on her face, he didn’t know what to say.

Because he wasn’t an idiot. He might have been the right man for Jess Tagg, but he hadn’t a ghost of a chance of being good enough for Selene Taggert.

But he couldn’t say that to her. Not with Ian and Sierra still out there, lost in the vastness of the Caribbean. So Pete put on his Incident Commander brain and headed over to the Coast Guard office.

He’d used his Red Cross creds to get them into the inner sanctum and land a meeting with the commander. They’d clustered around a table-sized map of the Gulf of Mexico, the Keys, and the Bahama chain. “The Montana Rose went down in six thousand feet of water. That’s over a mile down.” The commander had pointed to the location.

Pete barely remembered the commander’s name, but he did memorize the map, the depths, the various islands, and the direction of the currents. And the weather report. “According to the latest radar, the hurricane might miss south Florida,” Pete said. “But it would hit this Bahama chain, right?”

He got an affirmative.

“Could the current have taken them far enough to hit one of these islands?”

“It’s possible, but with that storm headed in, I’m not sending my crew out. We will, however, resume the search in the morning—”

“You mean after they’ve spent the night at sea, drowning?” Shae said, her eyes dark. Pete recognized a shade of Ian Shaw in her fierce countenance.

That was when he herded them outside.

He’d stood at the car, sorting through his options, his gaze on Shae, who stood a few feet away, her arms folded. “I can’t believe they’d give up the search this soon.”

“They’re not giving up,” Jess had said. “The Coast Guard just can’t go out with the threat of a hurricane—”

“Hello, that’s the point!” Shae rounded on her. “If they’re out there, bobbing around on a flimsy life raft, they won’t survive a hurricane!” She ran her hand violently across her eyes. “They’ll be lost.”

If they weren’t already. But Pete hadn’t wanted to say that. So he’d turned to Ty. “Find us a boat.”

Ty nodded and walked away, pulling out his phone.

Jess’s gaze had followed him. Then landed back on Pete.

“If he gets a boat, we’re going,” he said quietly.

Jess gave a stiff nod. But when she sighed, he knew that wasn’t what she cared about.

He swallowed and deliberately kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t talk to her about the roil of emotions inside. The sense that something had broken between them. Not yet. Instead, Pete had called Chet, given him an update.

By the time he got off the call, Ty had returned. “Done,” he said.

“Yeah?” Pete said.

“It’s a friend of . . . well, ours, actually.” He shot a look at Jess. “Winnie Henley.”

It was the way Jess glanced at Pete, wary, almost afraid, that told him something had indeed shifted in their relationship.

Something in his gut knew it couldn’t be good. “What?”

Ty shook his head.

“What?” Pete repeated, this time more quietly.

“Winnie is best friends with Colette, Felipe’s older sister—”

“Whatever,” Pete said sharply. “When can we get going?”

Not soon enough.

He hated that they’d gotten such a late start. Day three since the Montana Rose had capsized and only now were they setting out.

They’d spent way too much time last night charting a route and fueling up, and by the time the sun was sinking into the horizon, the captain called an audible.

Pete tossed in his tiny berth all night, listening to the rain on the hull, his brain consumed with Ian and Sierra and whether they might be at sea.

Helpless.

Off course.

Lost.

He’d finally risen at the first hint of dawn, woke the captain, and had them underway within an hour.

Now, with the sun breaching the morning, they were churning up nautical miles, following the current east to the Bahamas corridor. On the starboard side, Ty and Shae also held binoculars and scanned the horizon.

What they really needed was a chopper.

Jess seemed to read his mind. “How are we going to find them?”

“We keep looking. We don’t give up.”

Yet. The word hovered on his lips, and he refused to let it free. Because this wasn’t the Montana wilderness. They might, in the park, eventually find a body, or two.

But Ian and Sierra, their friend Dexter, and the rest of the missing crew could very well have gone down with the Montana Rose.

“Look, dolphins,” Jess said, pointing to the gray bodies under the water, racing with the yacht.

“At least they’re not sharks,” he said. “People get them confused sometimes. A dolphin has a curved fin. And a shark has a vertical tail fin.”

“I didn’t know you knew so much about sharks.”

“Just because I haven’t been on a yacht before doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about the ocean.”

Her eyes widened.

Aw, shoot. “I’m sorry. I’m just on edge.”

She gave him a tight smile, nodded. Sighed. Put the binoculars back to her eyes. The smell of the motor, the hum of the boat filled the silence.

“I didn’t know Nessa would be there, Pete. Or I would have never gone in there.” She didn’t remove the glasses as she spoke.

He kept his binoculars affixed. Dug past this crazy sense of hurt to the truth. “You can’t hide from your old life forever, Jess. I get it. I’m just . . .” He sighed. “We’re just very different, is all. I didn’t realize that until yesterday.”

There it was, the real problem. The fact that he didn’t know anything about the life she’d led.

The life she’d buried.

The life that had suddenly risen from the dead.

She pulled her binoculars away, her expression stricken. “What? No, Pete, I don’t know who you think I am, but the woman Nessa was talking about—she’s gone. And . . .”

He let his binoculars dangle from his neck. Turned to her. “Stop, Jess.” He put his hands on her upper arms. “There’s no reason to be defensive.”

She swallowed, her jaw tight.

“It’s just—I never realized everything you lost. Not just your family, but your entire way of life. Your . . .”—it hurt him to say it—“fiancé.”

She closed her eyes as if in pain.

Shoot. Because he’d sort of held out hope that she would have dismissed this Felipe as . . . maybe someone she’d once loved, briefly. Or not at all.

He’d be happy for a confession of an arranged marriage.

But he knew Jess better than that. Knew that she didn’t just hand over her heart, agree to marry someone and not mean it.

“You loved him.”

She met his eyes then. Gave the barest of nods.

He drew in a breath that felt like razors to his chest. “Yeah. I thought so. But . . . be honest with me. Felipe didn’t leave you, did he, Jess? You left him.”

Her eyes filled.

This was not at all how he wanted this conversation to go. He wasn’t ready—and frankly really wanted to hold on to the fist of anger inside. Not be overtaken by this strange swell of compassion.

But when she put her hand to her mouth and shook her head again, he couldn’t help it.

“Aw, Jess,” Pete said and pulled her into his embrace. Wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips to her hair as she leaned into him.

She’d turned breakable, simply clutching him. He couldn’t tell if she was crying, but he thought she might be, judging by the tremble in her body, the hitch in her breath.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” he said quietly, the spear of pain in his chest burrowing into a bone-deep ache. “I get it.”

She shook her head, leaned back. Yep, she was crying, and with everything inside him he longed to reach out, wipe her tears from her beautiful eyes.

“No, you don’t. See . . . yeah, I loved him. I dreamed of marrying Felipe. And then . . .” She wiped her hands across her cheeks. “And then I realized that he wouldn’t want me—not after what I did. His family is very . . . connected. And political. And marrying me would be a very bad idea.”

Pete traced her hairline, caught a wayward strand between his fingers. “Oh, Jess, why do you always make decisions for everyone else?” He didn’t want to say it, but there it was. He met her gaze, found the right words, tearing them free from where they were trapped in his heart. “How do you know if you don’t ask him?”

She seemed as unsettled by his question as he was posing it. She bit her bottom lip, smoothed her hands against his chest, gave him such a look of confusion he just wanted to take it back.

“I . . . but . . . I choose you,” she said finally.

He wanted to weep with the softness, the earnestness of her voice. The way the hope in her eyes reached out, latched on to his.

“Shh,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. Sweetly. Lingering.

Because it might be for the last time.

He relished the taste of her lips, the feel of her softening under his touch. He’d never wanted to do the wrong thing more in his life. Just tell her to forget her past, to belong just to him. The words nearly broached his lips.

But she’d never truly be with him if the past kept rising between them. If she kept looking over her shoulder at the what-ifs. He leaned away and smoothed her hair back from her face. “Listen. You know . . .” He swallowed, tried to keep his voice even. “You know I love you. And that’s not going to change. Because I’m not going to change. Pete Brooks is the right guy for Jess Tagg.” He touched his hand to her cheek, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. “And I’m so glad you choose me. But . . .” And here came the hard part, so he fought to keep his voice solid.

“Pete Brooks might not be right for Selene Taggert. And she has to choose too.” She frowned at him, but he shook his head. “Did you not hear Vanessa? She said that your mom misses you. Your brother misses you—that everyone is worried about you. Jess, think about how Ian feels about his niece. Don’t you think your family misses you like that?”

And now he did wipe away the tear that escaped. “You owe it to yourself—and to them—to see if there is a life waiting for you back in New York.”

She stilled. Shook her head.

“Yes, babe. You need to go back and . . . and you need to face Felipe.”

“Pete—”

“And then . . .” Pete ground his jaw, and couldn’t fight the tremor in his voice. “And please, please—come back to me.”

He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t breathe past the boulder in his throat.

She sank into him again. “I’ll come back to you.”

He wrapped his arms around her. But as he stared out into the vast blue horizon, the sea churning below them, he felt just about as lost as Ian and Sierra.

“We’re lucky to be alive.” Ian stood outside the mouth of the cave, staring at the debris of the forest. Downed palm fronds, stripped from broken and damaged trees, created a web of disaster. “How did we not die, running through this?”

Sierra came up behind him limping, and he immediately put his arm around her. “How’s the leg?”

She made a face. Then stared out at the litter of the forest. “This is terrifying. I’ve never been in a hurricane before.”

Ian didn’t comment, but her words scraped up too many memories. He reached out, braced his arm on the edge of the cave.

Had he not found this cave earlier yesterday, he had no doubt they would have been seriously injured.

Or killed.

And there it was, the image of Allison’s body, bruised, broken, and bloated from seawater after her minivan had been picked up by the surge and thrown against a tree. Just a photograph on a database, one of nearly two thousand he’d looked through, hoping to be wrong.

“Ian, are you okay?” Sierra curled her hand around his arm. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

He looked at her, barely seeing her.

Instead, his stomach roiled, probably from the emptiness. The world swayed at an alarming pitch, and if it weren’t for Sierra’s arms suddenly around his waist—

“You’d better sit down.”

He nodded, slid down to the floor of the cave, and cradled his face in his hands.

She crouched next to him.

“I just can’t escape it,” he said softly. “It was just like this—Katrina. The storm, the destruction. I found a boat and took it back to our apartment. We lived downtown, near Canal Street, in this loft Allison had designed. I could barely get there—there were electrical lines down and gas lines exposed—the air reeked. And bodies . . .” He winced, pressed his hand over his mouth. Blew out.

“I kept fearing that I’d see hers, floating . . . I . . . haven’t really talked to anyone about . . .” He looked up, met Sierra’s eyes, swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Ian, you lived through a nightmare. I’m the one who’s sorry. I never asked you about it—I always thought it was too painful for you to talk about.”

“It was. It . . . I remember finally getting to the loft. All the windows had been blown out, and the ocean had washed in shipping containers from the harbor, and they blocked the entrances. I finally climbed up onto a balcony on the third floor and went through an open, abandoned apartment.” He drew in a breath. “She wasn’t at home, of course. And I just stood there, in the remains of our loft. The wind destroyed the place—littered it with storm debris. Pictures smashed, the furniture water-logged . . . I stood there and like a stupid person just kept calling her cell phone. Over and over. Praying.”

Yeah, praying. Probably the last time he’d prayed until yesterday.

His eyes burned, and he couldn’t look at Sierra.

“I picked up a couple guys sitting on the roof of the McDonald’s on my way back to the Superdome. And I spent two days there, searching.” He looked at Sierra. She had woven her hand into his.

“The Red Cross was collecting a database of the deceased, and every day I’d look at it, hoping not to see her. Or Daniel. I couldn’t even think about Daniel, how . . . they must have been so afraid.” He leaned back, ran his hand down his face. “If I’d told them to leave earlier—”

“Stop it, Ian. Just—enough.” She grabbed his hands. “You aren’t to blame!”

He stared at her. Shivering, wet, her dark hair in tangles, her eyes so earnest. The truth simply welled up, spilled out. “What you don’t know is that Allison and I were on the verge of divorce.”

He hadn’t admitted that to anyone. Even himself, really, for years. He looked away. “When Daniel was born, I thought he would fix everything. She wanted a baby more than anything. And then, when he was about two, we realized he wasn’t developing like other kids. That’s when he was diagnosed with autism. I didn’t know what to do. So I fled into my work.”

His throat tightened.

“The last time she and I talked, before Katrina, she told me that she was moving home to her parents’. Then the storm warnings started to hit. I thought the levees would hold—we all did. I felt like if she left without me . . . I’d never get her back.” He blew out a breath. “I was afraid of losing her. And then I did.”

“Ian. You can’t keep everyone safe, can’t keep bad things from happening. They just do—and you trying to control that is just . . . is just . . . living in fear.”

“I’m not afraid, Sierra.”

Her voice softened. “You’re completely afraid. You’re afraid of loving someone and losing them.”

He blinked at her, the words lethal despite her soft tone.

“Like Allison. Daniel. And Esme.” She paused, her voice soft. “Your mom.”

Oh. His throat thickened.

“You’re afraid that a rogue wave will take you out, destroy your world.”

“Because it did,” he said softly. “A few times. I just can’t seem to catch a break with God.”

“Ian, Katrina wasn’t some divine retribution aimed at you. It was a tragedy. Just like the wave hitting your yacht was a fluke disaster. It’s not what happens to us, it’s how we respond. Being broken, being empty is part of life. But how we fill up those empty places, how we heal—that’s what matters.” She caught his hands. “You’re an amazing man, Ian. A survivor. But you heard my prayer last night. God is our refuge and our portion. Meaning, we don’t have to be enough. He is all we need. We either embrace that or we walk away empty-handed.”

He swallowed, leaned his head back, stared outside. The sky had cleared to a light, wispy blue.

“I wish I had your faith,” he said quietly.

“You can. The first step of faith is a choice. A choice to believe God loves you. A choice not to live in fear. A choice to trust God. You can choose to take everything that’s happened and walk away and fend for yourself. Or . . . well, I think you should take a look at all the times God has given you a divine offer to trust him. Look what happened when you prayed—you found this island.”

“I found you.” He caught her gaze then. “I found you alive.”

She smiled then, and it touched her hazel-green eyes, lit them up. “Yeah. And last night, God lit up the sky, showed us the way to this cave.”

He had, hadn’t he?

“Choose faith, Ian. We’re going to get off this island and go home. Together.”

Together. “I love you. And don’t deserve you.”

She leaned over to him, her lips inches from his. “Nope.”

Then she kissed him, sweetly. But an ache rose through him to sweep her up, to hold on to her and never let her go. He slid his hand around her neck, his thumb caressing her cheek, and tried to tame the wild roll of emotion.

She pressed her hands on his chest, and when she pulled away, she met his eyes.

Only then did he realize his were wet. “Wow,” he said softly. “I need you, Sierra. Please don’t ever leave me.”

He knew that sounded desperate, but . . . “I can’t lose another person I love.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

He drew in a breath. Choose faith, not fear.

I’m trying, God. I’m trying.

“Let’s see if we can find the raft, or anything left of our camp,” he said.

“I’m thirsty. Maybe the cooler wasn’t washed out to sea.”

Water, yes. “Or the flares.”

He got up and leaned down to pick her up, but she stopped him. “I can walk.”

Barely. But he nodded and put his arm around her waist. She hung on to him as they worked through the tangle of forest, past downed palm trees, the wind-stripped ferns, and elephant ear plants. The spongy ground seated his feet deep into muck, and once he had to pull Sierra free. He cajoled her onto his back, and she hung on as he fought the debris.

He finally found their campsite, the fallen palm tree, the dugout where he’d created the fire. He put her down.

Their supplies had been scattered. He spotted the cooler slammed on its side and pushed into a tree, the contents emptied onto the beach. “I found a water bottle,” he said, prying it from the sand.

“Here’s a flare,” Sierra said. “I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“If it hasn’t been damaged, it will probably still light.” Ian came over, crouching next to her. He took the canister and grimaced. “It’s cracked. And waterlogged.” He held it open, and water dripped from it.

“We’ll find another one,” she said, getting up. He watched her limp around the campsite, kicking leaves and other litter. “Here’s the MRE!” She picked up the dripping packet. “It looks unopened.” She grinned at him. “See? Oh—and there’s the raft!”

He followed her pointed finger and spied the crumpled remains of the raft, now completely deflated and wrapped around a tangle of sea grapes.

Ian ran over and worked it free, dragging it out into the open. For the first time, he got a good look at the harbor. Despite the protection of the reef, the ocean had dug into the sand, scraping out a wall, leaving a line of seaweed and foam.

They might be able to dry and eat the seaweed—he made a mental note as he carried the raft out to a sandy dune and settled it on the sea oats to examine it. “It has a couple tears, but I think the repair kit is still in the pocket.”

He got on his knees to examine one of the rips but then he heard Sierra’s shout.

Turned.

She had followed him out to the shoreline, and now stood, her hand cupped over her eyes. “Ian—there’s a person out there!” She was pointing to the rocky alcove where, just yesterday, he’d held Sierra in his arms.

He got up and walked toward her, squinting, not seeing—

He started running, his feet finding purchase in the wet sand as he raced to the crumpled body.

Maybe . . . please . . .

A man. He lay facedown in the sand, practically wedged into the rocky alcove, as if he’d huddled there for protection. Dirt and sand caked his blond hair, and he wore a white shirt and ripped brown linen pants.

One leg appeared grotesquely angled and bloody.

Ian landed on his knees next to him, his hand to his back. Leaned down to examine the man’s face.

Sierra ran up behind him. “Is it—”

“Yeah,” Ian said thickly. “It’s Dex.”

Sierra stood over Dex, unable to move, staring at his leg. The bone protruded from just below his knee, and his foot was gray and lifeless.

“His leg,” she said.

“I know.” Ian pressed two fingers to the carotid artery at Dex’s neck.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to hold back the tremble that wanted to work its way out. “Is he—”

“He’s alive,” Ian said. His voice shook too. “Listen, you hold his neck steady and I’ll turn him over.”

She knelt beside Ian, her hands on either side of Dex’s head. “Okay, ready.”

Ian crouched over Dex, put his arms around him, and gently rolled him onto his back.

Dex emitted a groan, but his eyes remained closed.

“He’s badly sunburned,” she said, looking at the blistering on his nose, his lips. “I’ll bet he’s dehydrated.” She got up. “I’ll get water.”

She wiped a hand across her eyes as she ran over to the cooler, found their bottle of seltzer water.

She brought it back to Ian, who was assessing Dex’s condition—running his hand down his arms, his other leg. He put a hand on his chest. “Shallow breathing, but it seems steady.”

Another groan.

“Dex, buddy,” Ian said. “Wake up. You’re on shore, man.”

She stood over Ian, blocking the sun, creating a shadow over Dex’s face. He frowned. Blinked.

Groaned.

“C’mon, Dex.” Ian slipped his hand under Dex’s neck, held the bottle to his mouth. “Open your mouth, I have water.” He dribbled it over Dex’s swollen lips.

Dex choked, coughed, curled over. Ian didn’t let him go. “Bud, you need more.”

Dex opened his eyes, and for a second, a feral, confused expression crossed his damaged face. His eyes raked over Ian, then to Sierra. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing emerged.

“Water, bro,” Ian said, and this time Dex nodded, let Ian hold the bottle to his mouth.

He closed his eyes as he drank the dribbles Ian washed into his mouth. Arched for more when Ian pulled the bottle away.

“I’m so thirsty,” he said, his voice reedy. He leaned back into the sand, his gaze going back to Sierra. And then, to her horror, his hand went over his face and his breath hiccupped.

Dex?

He began to sob. Just rolled over onto his side, his body wracking.

Ian capped the bottle, his face a wreck as he watched Dex lose it.

Sierra crouched behind Dex and, not knowing what else to do, wrapped her arms around him. “You’re okay, Dex. You’re safe.”

She glanced at Ian, but he’d looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as if fighting his own wave of emotion.

Dex’s hand curled around hers. Squeezed. “Sorry,” he said, his breath jagged. “I’m just . . . I’m so tired.”

“I know. But you’re safe now.”

He looked up at her then. “How did you survive? I lost you when the wave hit.” His expression was wrecked when he turned to Ian. “I saw you, standing on the raft. I tried to get to you, but the second wave hit.”

Silence as the horror of the tragedy sank into them.

Ian spoke first. “How did you survive?”

“A Jet Ski. I found one floating in the water.” He struggled to sit up, groaning. “I was able to right it, but I couldn’t get it started. I was bleeding, and I was afraid to get in the water, so I just hung on, hoping I might find land.”

His voice turned raspy again, and he reached out for the bottle. Ian surrendered it, watched Dex gulp it down.

“Easy, bro. That’s all we have.”

Dex nodded, handed it back. “Sorry.”

Ian capped it.

“I hung on to that Jet Ski for two days, and then I found the island. I came ashore last night before the storm hit, crawled over here.”

Ian stood up, as if searching the harbor.

“Your leg, Dex,” Sierra said. “It’s bad.”

“I know.” He ran his hand across his cheekbone. “The good news is that I can’t feel it anymore.” His mouth pinched into a tight line.

Sierra swallowed. Looked at Ian.

He wore a terrible expression, one that told her that he’d come to the same conclusion she had. If they didn’t get Dex some help, he might lose more than his leg.

“Sierra, c’mere.” Ian gestured her away from Dex.

She followed him across the sand toward the beach. He seemed to be searching out to sea.

“What, do you see a boat?”

He shook his head. “But we know there is a shipping lane out there. And if we can repair the raft—”

“You said we couldn’t get over the reef.”

“I haven’t figured that part out yet.” He glanced behind her. “But Dex is going to die if we don’t get him off this island.”

She gave him a grim, agreeing nod.

“What about the signal fires?”

“We need to scour the island for the other flares. But we should probably make some sort of signal, even without a fire. A set of three bamboo poles with some of that ripped life raft tenting fabric should work. But we’ll have to hope a plane flies over or a yacht comes close because that lane is too far away for anyone to see our signal. If we can’t make a fire, then we need to get out to them.”

“We can’t go out there in a patched-up raft, Ian. It could sink before someone finds us.” She wrapped her arms around herself, glanced back to where they’d left Dex. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

“I’m going to start by searching the shore and see if the Jet Ski is still around here somewhere.”

“You think you can get it started?”

“Once upon a time, I was an engineer, so maybe. We can attach the raft to it and motor out to that shipping lane.”

“I don’t know, Ian.”

“I can’t just sit here waiting, Sierra.” He turned, caught her shoulders. “Maybe you need to choose faith too. Faith in me.” His voice gentled. “And yeah, God. Because you live in fear too, babe. Fear that you’ll be left behind. Forgotten. Fear that you aren’t important.” He focused his gaze into hers. “You are the most important thing to me. And I will get you off this island.”

Maybe it was sand whisking into her eyes, but they burned and watered.

He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her mouth.

Never had she loved him as much as she did when he touched his forehead to hers. “Weren’t you the one who said that we’re going to get off this island and go home? Together?”

She nodded.

“Then trust me.”

She drew in a long breath. “Yeah. Okay.”

“That’s my girl.” He kissed her forehead. “I need you to keep Dex hydrated. Figure out how to splint his leg. And find the fabric, maybe set up a signal. A set of three—that’s the international signal for help. Can you do that?”

“Yeah. And I’ll look for the flares too.”

“Perfect. See, we still make a good team.”

A team. She nodded, whisked her hands across her cheekbones. “Let’s save Dex.”