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  Ain’t life grand?

  She handed him the compass. He didn’t say anything, just stood and turned around, bracing one foot on the plank seat while he bent to secure the lines.

  “Look out!” Smitty screamed.

  Too late he realized she meant him.

  The goat butted him. Hard.

  The compass flew from his hand, and Hank sailed over the side headfirst.

  He swore. Very loudly. Very graphically.

  The worst word in his vocabulary . . . and five more just like it.

  The compass hit the water first. He hit the water second. He surfaced ready to kill the goat. Seeing red and a dead goat, he swam to the lifeboat and climbed inside, cursing the air blue.

  The children cowered in their seats, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open. Smitty pulled the baby closer to her just as he spat his last “Damn that goat to hell!”

  He shook the water from his face and head. Glaring, he reached for the goat, which was innocently chewing on a banana peel.

  “Muck! Muck! Muck!” The baby chanted, then pushed the blanket away from her bright face and repeated, “Muck, muck, muck, ssssi-it!”

  They all stared at little Annabelle, who was grinning proudly.

  “Daaaaamn goat!” she added and clapped her hands There was a full minute of silence.

  “Colorful language, Father,” Smitty said knowingly.

  He looked up at her.

  “Colorful enough to melt those rosary beads.” He clamped his mouth shut on his next curse. She pinned him with a narrowed look. “Just who are you?”

  Chapter 4

  He was no priest.

  Margaret sat there, watching the man’s face for some clue to who or what he was. All she saw was a calculating edge that did little to put her at ease. He’s going to lie to me, she thought. After a long minute of silence she said, “I assume you have something to hide.”

  He laughed at that, loud and cynically, then he sat down on the plank seat behind him and eyed her from a ruthlessly ridged expression that gave nothing away.

  She waited.

  So did he.

  “Who are you?” she repeated.

  “I’m the man who saved you and those kids.”

  She never took her eyes from his, a maneuver her father had taught her. Look people square in the eye, my girl. You’ll be surprised what you’ll find out. She waited a few long and silent seconds in which she realized that from this man’s eyes she would find out little or nothing.

  None of her usual methods worked. He didn’t seem to mind the long lapses of silence that bothered most people into saying something just to fill the awkward moment.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Putting him on the defensive didn’t work either. He said nothing.

  She changed tactics. “I’m supposed to just accept the fact that you are disguised as something you are not and blindly trust you with my life and the lives of these children?”

  “Blind acceptance?” He rested his elbows on the rim of the boat. His mouth quirked slightly. “Sounds good to me.”

  “I want an answer.”

  “Yes,” he shot back.

  “Yes to what?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You can blindly trust me with your lives.”

  “That’s not the question I wanted answered.”

  “Well, sweetheart, that’s the only answer you’re gonna get.” With that he swung his feet over the plank seat in front of her, then dropped them on top of it and crossed his ankles. He gave her a cocky look.

  She stared at his feet for a second. Around both ankles was a strip of skin that was paler than the skin on his tanned feet. She glanced up and caught his gaze as it flashed up from his feet to her face, then narrowed ever so slightly.

  She waited to see if he would say anything. He didn’t, but that cocksure look of his faded ever so slightly.

  “Ankle cuffs,” she said, fishing for information. He returned her stare.

  She hugged the children a little closer. “You’re from that French prison I heard the crew mention before we docked at Dolphin Island.”

  He said nothing.

  “I assume, since you are dressed as a priest, that they didn’t release you.” He continued to stare.

  “The crew said no one had ever escaped from there alive.”

  He laughed, crowed actually, as if what she’d said were a fine joke. “I didn’t escape alive.”

  She frowned, refusing to look away.

  “They thought I was dead.”

  “But you’re not dead.”

  “No, and since your sweet butt’s in this lifeboat instead of bobbing along like shark bait, you should be damn glad I’m not dead.”

  She knew he was trying to get a reaction from her, anger or fear or both, but she wouldn’t react. Because despite his disguise, despite the fact that he was a convict, despite his bitter tone and hard looks, he had saved their lives. It didn’t make sense that he would save them only to turn around and harm them. So very calmly she asked, “How long were you there?”

  “Too long.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “No place else to put me.”

  She tried another angle. “What did you do?” He didn’t answer.

  After a long, tense few seconds that stretched into minutes, she exhaled. “You’re not going to answer me.”

  He just gave her a long and cold stare.

  “Considering our situation”—she gestured to the small lifeboat—“I’d appreciate an answer.”

  “Yeah, well I’d like a million dollars, a steak dinner, and a wagon load of beer, but I’m not gonna get those things anymore than you’re gonna get an answer.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t see why you just won’t tell me. What am I going to do? Turn you in? Notify the authorities?” She glanced out at the dark sea. “Hardly.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you did.” His eyes narrowed, but he wasn’t looking at her. “I won’t go back.”

  “Since you escaped, you’ll get a tougher penalty. It would have been easier to just serve your sentence.”

  He gave a long look she couldn’t read. The silence went on and on. He nodded slowly, then said in a quiet and pensive tone, “Easier.” He glanced out at the black water and didn’t speak. The lifeboat bobbed on the sea, and a small swell slapped against the side of the boat. He turned back to her. “So, Margaret Whatever Smith . . . where are you from?”

  “San Francisco.”

  He didn’t look at her but through her. “I’ve been in San Francisco.” He paused. “Nice place.”

  “I like it.”

  He let his gaze rove over her slowly and assessingly. “Nob Hill, right?”

  “Russian Hill.”

  “Close enough. Nice weather. Great town, San Francisco.” He paused, seemed to let the moment hang there, then asked, “What was that railroad slogan about California?”

  “Take a golden ride to the golden state. The land of plenty.”

  “That’s right. The land of plenty,” he repeated. “Plenty of food. Plenty of water.”

  He wasn’t looking at her. He sat straighter, his look intent, and he rested his elbows on his knees, then slowly moved his face closer to hers. “So you think it would have been easier to serve my sentence?” he asked pointedly, clearly not wanting an answer. The anger on his face became more vivid and a little frightening the closer his face came to hers. “You, a woman from San Francisco, some . . .”—he paused and looked her up and down—“thirty-year-old—”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “A thirty-two-year-old woman from Russian Hill in San Francisco thinks you know what prison is like?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I wonder how long you would last on a chain gang.” His voice was calm, but there was nothing calm about the tension emanating from him. He pinned her with a cold look then. “Have you ever been hungry? Had no food and no water for days?”

  His f
ace was inches from hers. She said nothing. “Ever been locked in filthy black cell, Miss Margaret Whatever Smith, and been afraid to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time? I’d bet you don’t have any idea what a man has to fear in a prison.”

  One of the children edged closer to her, and in reaction she glanced down. His hand shot out, and he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him again.

  “Do you?” He paused, and she could see his scorn. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

  Lydia began to cry.

  He pulled his gaze from hers, then released her chin and shifted back. He gave Lydia a dark look, then glanced toward Theodore. His look didn’t change.

  Margaret hugged both the children a little tighter.

  “When you’re me.” He jabbed his finger against his chest. “Hank Wyatt. And you’ve lived my life. Then you can tell me what the hell is easier.”

  “You’re frightening the children.”

  He gave a caustic laugh. “They’d better learn now what a hard life they’ve got ahead of them.”

  “They’re only children.”

  “They’re orphans,” he said coldly. “The orphanage I grew up in wasn’t much better than that prison.”

  “You are a cruel and bitter man.”

  “Life’s cruel and bitter. They can learn that lesson now while they’re young. No one’s gonna look out for them. Believe me, I know. They’d best grow up damn fast.”

  She looked from the children, whose faces had paled, back at him. “Why did you save us?”

  He wouldn’t look at her. “Don’t ask me that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just might tell you the truth.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me, sweetheart. You don’t want to know.” He wrapped the lines around the sail. After a moment he stopped and looked at her again. “You just worry about those kids.” He turned his back to them.

  Theodore shifted, then stood up and wobbled a little from the motion of the boat. Margaret grabbed his arm to steady him, and in a cracked voice he said, “Mr. Wyatt?”

  The man grunted something.

  “Mr. Wyatt?”

  The man turned around. “I’m just Hank.” Theodore nodded, his small face serious.

  “You said I have to grow up now. Because I’m an orphan.” Margaret covered her mouth with one hand. The convict said nothing.

  Theodore puffed out his bony chest and said very seriously, “Thank you for saving us.”

  Margaret sat powerless as she watched Theodore stand there, trying to be brave in front of this crude and formidable man. A convict.

  The man just looked at him for long seconds, then stared at Theodore’s outstretched hand.

  She held her breath, afraid of what the convict named Hank might say or do to this little boy who’d already seen more pain than any child should have to. She started to reach for Theodore to pull him back. Then she saw his small pale and childish hand covered by a rough, tanned one. She exhaled a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding.

  There was no cockiness in the man’s manner, no cruel look of challenge.

  “That’s okay, kid.” He shrugged and looked up. His gaze met hers over the top of Theodore’s head. She could see nothing in the convict’s expression to give away what he was thinking, but he was tense. He sat more erect. She had seen something he wanted hidden. He dropped Theodore’s hand. His face grew harder and his mouth tight. Theodore stepped back and sat down next to Lydia. They began whispering.

  His back to her, the man tied off the sail lines, then sprawled out in his end of the boat and crossed his feet again. He looked at the kids, then gave her a warning look.

  This time she said nothing.

  He looked away.

  After a moment she quietly said, “Thank you.” They both knew exactly what she was thanking him for.

  “Don’t go getting all gushy, sweetheart. I did what I did because I did it.” He plopped his hat over his face and rested his arms on his chest.

  “Certainly,” she said in a wry tone, staring at the black hat.

  He tilted the hat back and scowled at her from beneath the wide brim.

  She smiled sweetly.

  He nudged the hat back over his face and grunted something.

  She should have had Theodore question him, she thought. The boy might have gotten some answers out of him. She watched this Hank Wyatt person for a long time, then frowned slightly when she realized he was sprawled in the boat like a man who hadn’t a worry in the world. His breathing had evened out like someone who was almost asleep. “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  She looked at the sail, uselessly wrapped around the small mast and tied with the rigging and lines. “Mr. Wyatt?”

  He groaned.

  “I asked you what you were doing.”

  “I’m going to sleep,” he said from beneath his hat. She looked at the dark sea, first left, then right. “But shouldn’t we do . . . something?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Sail somewhere. Do something other than just sit here.”

  “I’m not doing anything until morning.”

  “There’s a map in the tin box. I saw it.” She reached around Lydia and Theodore, who were playing with Annabelle, and pulled out the map, shaking it open with a crackling snap. She shook the creases from it a few times.

  He tilted back his hat and scowled at the map, then her. After a moment he said, “We’ll have to wait till sunrise.”

  “I realize it’s still dark and the print is small. But with the lamplight . . .” She raised the map close to her nose. “I can read it if I hold it very close, like this.”

  “You can read the map,” he repeated as if it were a joke.

  “Yes.” She lowered the map slightly and peered at him over the top.

  He almost smiled.

  “Yes, I have the capacity to read a map.” She raised her chin a notch. “I have a brain.” She snapped the map. “And right here, on this map, it shows east, west, north, and south. And here”—she poked her finger at the map a couple of times—“is the Pacific Ocean.”

  “Well, Smitty—”

  She cringed at that name.

  “—there is one small problem.”

  “What?”

  “Show me where east is.”

  “Here.” She stabbed a finger on the map.

  He shook his head. “No, sweetheart. Not on the map. From our perspective. Where is east?”

  She stared blankly at the ocean around them. There was no moon, no stars, just a dark and cloudy night sky.

  “The compass is gone. Thanks to the goat.” He shot a look down at the goat that should have scared it. But the animal just continued to lie innocently beneath Theodore’s small feet. “That’s why I didn’t open the sail.” Hank looked back at her. Very slowly, very distinctly, as if he were talking to a simpleton, he said, “You cannot use a map if you don’t know where the hell you are.”

  A reference point. She sat there for a full minute, frozen, feeling more than a little stupid, then she folded up the map in neat creases. Of course he was right. She turned and tucked it back in the box, then looked everywhere but at him. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, being wrong, especially in front of this man.

  “I’m going to sleep.”

  She looked up then.

  He had pulled his hat back over his face and again crossed his arms on his chest.

  She sat there feeling uncomfortable and too helpless, things she wasn’t used to feeling.

  “Hey, Smitty!” he said after a few minutes. She looked at the hat again. “What?”

  “You might want to rest that brain of yours.” He laughed obnoxiously.

  She looked away, then jerked a couple of the life vests free and covered them with the blankets. “Lie down here, children, and try to go to sleep.”

  Theodore looked to be already half asleep. Lydia slid under the covers but scooted as cl
ose as she could to the goat, which was curled in a small space near Theodore. The animal shifted slightly, then rested its bearded chin on her narrow shoulder.

  Margaret settled down beside Lydia. She cradled sleeping baby Annabelle into the crook of her arm. She sighed, then stared up at the black night sky where the clouds grew spotty and a thin slip of a new moon shone for a brief instant. Before long, the clouds thickened again.

  She’d been wrong, not something Margaret accepted from herself. She knew how to read a map and should have figured out that they needed a reference point. Her thinking was off, which bothered her because she wondered what else she would misjudge.

  “Smitty?”

  She ignored him and chose to wait silently. So did he.

  Finally she gave in and said, “What?”

  “Wake me up when the sun rises.” He paused for a full minute, then added, “You know . . . in the east.”

  Something poked him in the foot. Hank stirred slightly.

  “Mr. Wyatt?”

  He took a deep breath and grunted a what. “Mr. Wyatt! You said to wake you up.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “The sun’s up.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Mr. Wyatt?”

  He ignored her.

  “Are you awake?”

  After a few minutes he heard her sigh, then mumble something under her breath. She shifted around the boat, banging this and moving that. He blocked out the noise and was just about asleep again when he heard the irritating sound of paper crackling. Over and over.

  He groaned silently. She was at that map again. Rattling it.

  He took a deep breath. Let her play Captain Cook. He’d sleep for a few more minutes.

  Much later, he awoke to the sound of a loud klunk and an even louder goat bleat near his ear. The children began to chatter excitedly, and the boat shifted and rocked as they moved positions.

  “There it is! It’s closer now!”

  He tilted back his hat. The goat stared at him, its muzzle about a foot from his face. He swatted it with his hat and glanced up.

  Bright sunlight almost blinded him. After a sea of flashing stars, he squinted in their direction and his vision cleared.