14

MAYBE YOU NEED to choose faith too. Faith in me.

Ian’s own words thundered in his head along with the surf as he scoured the shoreline for the Jet Ski. Not in the harbor, not tangled in the mangroves as he’d hoped. Now, with the sun long into the morning, burning his shoulders, he climbed the shoreline toward the boot of the island. Beyond the harbor, the coral and jagged limestone flattened out into a shelf under the water as the rest of the island rose above him, steep, inaccessible.

“You are the most important thing to me. And I will get you off this island.”

His words to Sierra galvanized him.

Yes, a signal fire might work. But he couldn’t bear the helplessness of waiting for rescue.

Not when it meant watching Dex die.

Waves crashed into the caves, digging out pockets in the cliff wall, foamy water pooling around the entrances. Ian crept along the shallows, but he was already up to his knees, and the farther he went, the stronger the current, the deeper the water.

A wave slammed into him. He lost his footing and careened into the limestone wall. Its teeth sliced his skin, razors against his burned flesh. He bit back a word, bounced back, and held himself away with his scraped palms.

Okay, maybe the sea had simply consumed the Jet Ski.

Except he made out a distinct, low thumping, the hull of something hitting rock.

The ski might be caught under the jutting of rock, in one of the caves. He braced himself as the next wave hit, bathing him up to his shoulders in gritty, salty water. When it receded, he worked his way along the shelf. The water rose to his waist. But the thumping deepened. He ducked his head as another wave hit.

The salt filled his eyes, blinded him, and he shook the water away, coughing.

However, as the wave fell back, he spotted it—the whitened hull of the Jet Ski wedged into a cavern ten or so feet away.

To access it, he’d have to dive in and swim.

Ian blew out a breath as he dug his hands into the limestone, searching for a grip, working his way along the shelf. The sea level rose to his shoulders, and he held his breath as another wave hit.

He slammed against the limestone with such force that it nearly unlatched his fingers from the rock. He hung on as the wave tried to yank him away, the flesh in his fingertips tearing.

However, he’d reached the edge of the cavern. As the water shallowed with the trough of the wave, he lunged for the hull of the craft.

Wrapping his hands around the edge of the foothold, he took a breath as the ocean crested over him. The wave filled the cavern, tried to unseat him, but he refused to let go.

The water slunk back. As he shook the grit from his eyes, he got a good look at the entrapment. The limestone gripped the nose of the machine, which was floating hull side up in the water. If he could get in front of it, keep it from being slammed into the wall, then push off with the current of the gathering wave . . .

Ian worked his way to the front of the ski and wedged his feet against the rock.

The next wave was a fist, hitting him so hard it slammed his head against the dark bowels of the cavern.

The ski slid in and pinned him.

Underwater. His head spun, his air cutting out. He scrabbled for the surface, but the water soaked the cavern.

The Jet Ski wouldn’t budge.

His lungs turned to fire, ready to explode. Why had he thought he could save them when he couldn’t even save himself?

Light flashed behind his eyes and he longed to open his mouth, to breathe—

Help!

He turned, set his feet against the rock, his back to the ski, and tried to push. But the world had started to blacken. The primal need to breathe rumbled up through him, clawing for air—

The ski moved, and the trough of the wave sucked it away from the cavern’s vise grip. Ian pushed, helping the sea extract the ski.

Grabbing the edge of the ski with a death grip, he smacked his head on the top of the cave but gulped sweet, salty air as finally, miraculously, the ski ripped loose from the cavern out into the open.

For a beautiful, glorious moment, he floated in the crystalline water.

Then it hit him—whatever current had freed him probably foreshadowed a wave that would destroy him.

Ian maneuvered around to the side of the ski and had just enough time to haul himself over the hull and grab the far edge when the wave hit.

He expected to plunge back into the cave. But the current had dragged the ski out past the lip, and the force of the wave scooped him up.

Turned the ski upright.

Ian simply hung on and found himself clinging to the foot wells. The wave tried to bash him into the limestone wall, but he worked his way to the back and pulled himself up onto the seat.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath and now leaned over the handlebars, breathing hard, not sure how he’d survived that.

Choose faith.

Maybe.

Now to get the machine started. Thankfully, the ignition key remained fixed in place. Without the safety kill switch key fob, however, the ski wouldn’t turn over. One problem at a time. First to check the engine.

Ian stood up and pulled the seat cover off. He’d expected standing water in the compartment, but the seat seal had held. The inside seemed dry.

Which meant he just needed to figure out how to start the craft without the safety kill switch key fob. He replaced the cover just as the next wave hit.

Without the key fob, he’d need to bypass the relay and supply wires and close the circuit. That entailed yanking the wires, stripping them, and twisting them together.

And if they got wet, his entire experiment would fail.

He’d have to pull the machine to the shallower shelf and protect it from the waves while he worked.

Kicking off from the limestone, this time he angled the machine out. He grabbed ahold of the limestone and turned the machine with his legs.

The wave did the rest of the work, wedging him against the rock. But when the water receded, it freed the craft into the ocean to maneuver. Ian gritted his teeth against the tearing in his hands and pulled the Jet Ski along the rock, across the mouth of the cavern, holding it steady with the next crash of waves, then finally toward the shelf.

He slid off when he reached chest height, grabbed the edge of the ski, and walked along the shelf until he’d beached the ski.

Ian’s hands openly bled into the water, and the limestone clawed deep scratches into his chest. He bit back a word as the saltwater burned the wounds, and grabbed the two wires protruding from the handlebar attached to the ignition box. When he yanked, they refused to budge.

But so did he. He yanked again, and they snapped free. He used his teeth to chew away the rubber insulation and expose the wires. Then he tied them together, shorting out the circuit.

Closing the loop to the emergency kill switch.

“So no falling off,” he said.

He pressed the ignition button. Please. The machine turned over, coughed, and with a belch of smoke, fired up. Ian sat on the seat and wanted to weep.

Thank you.

He waited for the next wave and then pushed off the ledge into the open water.

In moments he was skimming over the waves as if he might be on holiday in the Caribbean. The sense of success was so surreal after the past two days, he could barely wrap his brain around it.

More, he was keeping that promise to Sierra.

He motored around the atoll, rode a wave over the reef, and skated into the harbor.

Sierra stood on the beach, her mouth open. “Ian!” She ran through the sand as he pulled up. He turned off the ignition key and let the boat float in the water as he slid off and grabbed the edge, dragging the craft up to shore.

“Are you kidding me?” she said.

He turned just as Sierra caught up to him. And just in time to open his arms as she launched herself into them.

Or nearly, because at the last second, she pulled back, grabbed his biceps to stop herself. “Ian, your chest—what happened? Were you attacked by a shark?”

He looked down and for the first time took a good look at the bites left by the limestone.

Raw lacerations, some of them deep enough to require stitches. No wonder they burned.

“By the rocks,” he said.

“And your hands!” She grabbed them, opened his palms. More scratches, the meat of his palm split open. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Um, well . . . “I got us a Jet Ski!”

She looked up at him and then slowly smiled, putting her hands on his face. “Yeah, Crusoe, you did.”

Then she pulled his face down and kissed him. Soundly. Sweetly.

He was tempted to wrap his arms around her and hold her forever.

Instead, he pulled away. “We need to blow up the raft and get Dex out of here before the sun goes down.” The remainder of the morning had been spent.

Her expression grew serious. “I didn’t find any more flares, but . . . I did set up the signals.” She turned and pointed to three bamboo stems propped up with rocks. Around each, she’d wrapped a piece of orange tent fabric, now fluttering in the wind.

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks, but . . . I think you’re right. Dex is not good. He’s been in and out of consciousness since you left. I think he’s definitely in shock.”

He met her eyes. “Let’s get us off this island.”

Ian had indeed turned into Robinson Crusoe. Or maybe just the man she remembered from when she first started working for him. Determined, yes, but with a strength, a confidence about him that had vanished with Esme’s disappearance.

She didn’t know exactly what happened to him out there, in the three hours it took for him to retrieve the Jet Ski—he looked like he’d done battle with a tiger shark. He wouldn’t admit to any pain, but deep scratches grooved his chest and his right shoulder and left bloody trails down his sea-damp body. All the same, he’d returned with a strange glow around him, as if something had sparked inside him.

Maybe he’d just gotten a taste of triumph. At the moment, he certainly seemed invincible.

She’d wrapped up his hands with leftover tent material, but he’d shucked them off when he went to work on their damaged raft.

The floor had somehow survived the storm intact, but two rips had deflated the tubes. She guessed the culprit might have been the coral, but she could also blame the storm.

The raft kit came with glue and a few rubber patches. Ian broke the adhesive seal and, after cleaning the areas, glued the patches onto the surface.

He glanced now and again at Dex.

Then returned to his work. Focused. Driven.

For the first time, she realized . . . she loved this part of Ian Shaw. In fact, she might have even been a little jealous of the way he focused so much on Esme.

She’d accused him of not having room for her in his life. Maybe she’d simply been afraid that Esme would edge her out. “Because you live in fear too, babe. Fear that you’ll be left behind. Forgotten. Fear that you aren’t important.”

I’m sorry, Ian. She sank down in the sand next to him, the truth suddenly a flame inside her. Esme is alive. I saw her. She’s living in Minneapolis and going to college.

Yes, he said he didn’t want to talk about her, but he deserved to know. Even if she told Esme she’d wait . . . Oh shoot, she didn’t know what was right anymore.

As if sensing her gaze on him, Ian looked up from where he pressed his hand over the leak. “These patches aren’t the right size, but hopefully they’ll hold.”

“It’ll work, Ian.”

They spent the next two hours blowing up the raft, a feat she shared with him. Admittedly, she felt a little woozy by the time they had it adequately filled. While she went to check on Dex, Ian flipped the raft over, tested the air fill. Then he stood up and stared out into the horizon.

When she returned, he asked, “How’s Dex?”

“Not good. His breathing is shallow, and his pulse seems faint. And he’s shivering, as if he’s running a fever.”

Ian took this news with a dark nod. “We need to get going if we want to make it out there in daylight. Once it turns dark, there’s a chance boats won’t see us.”

She took a deep breath. “I wish we had those flares.”

He turned to look at her. “Sierra?”

“I just . . . the thought of going out into the ocean again . . .” She swallowed, hating the cold hand that closed around her heart. “But I know we have to go.”

He pulled her into his arms. “We’re getting off this island and going home.” His lips pressed against her forehead.

“I don’t have a home.” She didn’t know why she said that.

He put her away from him, frowning. “What?”

“I was just thinking about my poor, charred house. It was small and a little run-down, but it was mine, you know? My home.”

His mouth tightened into a grim line. “I know you loved that house.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why this is bugging me now. We need to go—”

He caught her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She must have worn an incredulous expression because he winced. “Okay, fair enough.” He touched her face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I should have never let Esme come between us. I’m not letting the past come between us ever again, okay?”

“Ian—”

“Listen, babe, we’re going to find a boat and go home. And then we’re going to live the life we were supposed to live. Except, well, you know I’m a little cash poor right now, right?”

She laughed. “Oh, Ian.”

He kissed her and met her eyes when he released her.

Okay.

He turned back to the raft. “There’s a tow rope in the front compartment of the Jet Ski. Can you get it?”

She retrieved the rope while he hauled the raft to the edge of the sand. He secured the rope to a front bracket on the raft and the other end to the back of the ski.

“Unfortunately, we only have a quarter tank of gas, but it’s enough to get us out to sea.”

Oh, perfect. With their luck, they’d run out of gas long before they hit the shipping lane. But she managed a nod and followed Ian as he headed over to where Dex lay in the sand.

Dex roused when Ian knelt next to him. She’d splinted his leg as best she could with two half-rounds of bamboo and a couple strips of tenting, but the leg was gray and lifeless.

A press to the side of his neck on the artery suggested that he was fading.

“Okay, buddy,” Ian said. “I’m going to lift you into the raft and we’re going out to get you some help.” He squatted, pulled Dex up by his arms, then draped him over his shoulder.

Lifted him in a fireman’s hold.

Dex groaned.

“I know. Hang in there. Sierra, grab the—”

“I got the water. And the MRE packet.”

“And the life jacket. I want you to wear it.” He carried Dex across the beach, his feet digging wells into the sand.

“No, forget it. It’s for Dex—”

He set Dex into the raft, breathing hard. Turned. “No. Dex will wear mine.”

“Ian, you’re the one who can’t swim!”

“I’m not going out there unless I know you have a life jacket on.”

“What if the raft goes down?”

“Then it’s better that you have the life preserver. You can hold him up.”

He wasn’t kidding.

“Ian—”

“Sierra, please. For me. Please.”

Oh.

She slipped the life jacket on. “Bossy.”

That got a flicker of a smile.

“Help me push the raft out,” he said, and she grabbed the other side, working it into the water. It sat lower than before—probably because of the lower air pressure in the tubes. Ian waded out with it into the harbor.

The sun hung low, streams of orange and bright red burning the horizon. High tide ran the waves over the reef in giant crests of foam and thunderous booms.

“Are you sure we can make it over that?”

He pulled the Jet Ski offshore.

“Just hold on,” he said. “And keep Dex’s head up.”

She nodded and climbed in, then sat on the tube and held Dex’s body up with her legs and arms. His head rolled to one side.

Ian fired up the ski, and a cloud of gas fogged the air.

He turned and met her gaze. “Let’s go home!”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around Dex.

Ian motored out into the harbor, the rope unwinding in the water. Forty feet later, it pulled taut and the raft started to move.

The harbor fought their escape, and the waves crashed over the tubes as Ian pointed them out to sea. Water crested over the side, and the spray hit Dex’s face. She wiped it away and kept one eye on the reef, the line of waves breaking over it.

The low-hanging sun had turned the water a deep, bitter orange, and the waves were foamy as they crashed down onto the reef. They had to be eight, maybe ten feet.

They were going to die. The thought seized her, a fist around her chest. “Ian!” Stop. Stop!

Ian had reached the reef and was driving against the current toward the still-forming crest of the wave.

From where she sat, it seemed he aimed to ride over the wave at the top, right before it crashed down. But that would leave her and Dex in the spill zone.

Ian—stop!

The rope pulled taut as he gunned the ski, and she tightened her hold on Dex, wrapped her hands around the ropes.

The roar of the waves thickened as he hit the apex, floated for a moment at the peak, then disappeared into the trough on the other side.

The wave crested down toward them, and she huddled over Dex as the foam crashed just in front of her.

Water filled the raft, washed over Dex, and caught her broadside. She held on, sputtering.

The wash lifted them, pulled them back, along the current.

She spied Ian, pulled back with the next wave, gunning the engine. The oily fog soured the air.

“Ian—we can’t make it!” she screamed, but he was too far away to hear her.

Dex roused, looked up at her.

“Hang in there, Dex. We’re getting you to help.”

Ian topped another wave, gaining ground, and this time they got under the wave. It lifted them before it crashed down, filling the raft, yanking them back.

Ian turned and she waved, hoping to get his attention. He waved back.

No, that’s not—

Dex moaned.

Please, God. Get us over the waves.

They were moving now, racing the pull of the wave, along the crest, fighting the swell, skimming across the trough.

The wave built under her, and she looked behind her, spied the frothy edge starting to crash.

Ian had pulled them just beyond the reef, but if they capsized, both she and Dex would be slammed against the coral teeth.

She propped Dex up and got on her hands and knees, leaning into the leading edge, trying to keep them stable.

They climbed the summit of the peak, and the rope disappeared into the wave as the Jet Ski fought the surge of the ocean.

Then they were at the top, riding through the slurry of water. The halt in speed knocked her forward.

In a second, they were sliding, fast, down the trough on the other side, gaining momentum. Ian had already lipped the next wave, but the force of the tug tossed her back.

The back of her knees hit the edge of the raft, and she made a wild grab for a handhold.

Caught air.

In a stunning second, she’d crashed over the side of the raft, into the surf. Water crested over her, filled her mouth, her nose, blinded her.

She fought to the surface, sputtering, but by the time she reached air, the next wave hit her.

It dragged her toward the coral.

She fought it, trying not to scream. Somehow, she managed to get under the wave, fighting the constriction of the life jacket even as she popped up in the trough.

Treaded water as she fought for a bearing.

Ian had brought them so far out that the riptide had cast her beyond the reef, north, toward the boot of the island. She wiped the water from her eyes, bobbing. Searching.

“Ian!”

But the raft had vanished, probably in a trough. And Ian, even farther away and caught in the waves, couldn’t possibly hear her.

She tried to swim back toward the limestone cliff, but the current tugged at her.

With the sun turning the ocean to blood, Sierra clutched her life jacket and drifted out to sea.