You're the One That I Want Read online

  Shock.

  He closed his eyes, trying to ride the waves, to calm his heart.

  Trying not to wish he’d called his mother, at least once, before stepping foot on the Wilhelmina. Or further back, that he hadn’t been the guy who so neatly eviscerated everything he’d stood for. Faith. Family.

  Mostly, as he stared at the ceiling in a pitching black sea, he tried not to regret nearly every moment of the past two years.

  Please, God, save us—I promise to fix it if You just save us.

  Scotty hovered above him, her light illuminating the orange of the tent, her beautiful gray-green eyes so fierce, her expression so resolute, that he thought she might have read his miserable mind.

  She pulled off his glove, and he felt her hand grip his, warm, solid. “You’re not going to die, Owen Christiansen.”

  He opened his mouth to disagree, but she put her other hand over it, silencing him. “No one dies tonight.”

  He closed his eyes. “You’re so bossy.”

  “A ‘Yes, sir,’ will do.”

  Don’t panic. Keep your head in the game. Breathe.

  “Are you talking to me?”

  At the sound of Owen’s voice, Scotty lifted her face from where she’d buried it in her up-drawn knees, waiting. Listening to time tick away hope as the waves buffeted the raft. After an hour, someone should have found them, right?

  She flicked on the flashlight, scrounged from the supply box, and let it shine over Owen. In a raft built for twelve, they had plenty of room, but he huddled near the middle, curled nearly in the fetal position. He had his hand lashed to a safety rope on the inside of the raft, holding on for dear life as the waves threw them from one trough to the next.

  She’d never felt so sick.

  And he looked worse. He’d already thrown up once, probably from the pain, although how he’d managed to crawl to the door to empty his gut, she didn’t know. With every minute he seemed to turn more pale.

  I think I broke a rib. Or two. I think I’m bleeding internally.

  Yeah, she’d heard him, but she wished she hadn’t. Because now she had to think about the fact that if the Coast Guard—and surely Red would have called for help—didn’t find them soon, she’d be all alone in this boat.

  Which felt so utterly selfish when she thought of the fact that she wouldn’t even be in the boat if it weren’t for Owen Christiansen diving into the ocean like a fool to save her sorry life.

  That pushed another wedge into her throat, daring her to cry.

  No. Because if they lived through this, she’d never live that down.

  Still, the urge to weep, to shake, to hold on to Owen like he might be her lifeline swept through her, and she shuddered with the longing to . . .

  No.

  “Scotty, are you okay?” Even with his own suffering—she’d heard more than one moan escape in the darkness—his voice emerged gentle, caring.

  Just like it had in her bunk room.

  It didn’t take much imagination to remember the way he looked at her on the boat, a softness—even, perhaps, desire—in his expression. Followed ever so fast by a smile, one she didn’t want to interpret.

  Stupid girl, letting her emotions trickle out like that. Holding on to his shirt like she needed him.

  But now she had her emotions safely tucked back into place, had managed to keep her voice calm, her wits about her as she struggled to hang on in the turbulent waves.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m glad one of us is because I’m not. I’m totally freaked out here.” Then, crazily, Owen grinned at her through the light.

  “If you’re trying to be funny—”

  “Oh, c’mon, Scotty, calm down. We’re going to be fine. Red and the crew are searching for us right now. Have a little faith.”

  Seriously? “I have faith. I have faith in the fact that we are out here alone, in the pitch darkness, and not a soul knows where we are. Red is probably frantic. We’re too far from St. Paul Island for the Coast Guard to just send a chopper, which means they’ll have to send the cutter out first, and that could take hours. How are they going to find us in thousands of miles of ocean? You’re bleeding, probably to death, if hypothermia doesn’t kill you first, and I’m not much better. My arm is killing me, my head aches, and . . .”

  She hadn’t noticed, but he’d moved over toward her and now pressed his hand on her arm. “You forget, Scotty.”

  “What have I forgotten?”

  “You’re with me.” He smiled, white teeth, a sparkle in his eye, and the entire thing felt so absurd that she had to laugh.

  And laugh.

  In fact, something of delirium must have caught her because as she looked at him, sitting there grinning in the wan light as if they were out on a catamaran instead of in the icy ocean on their way to perishing, the entire thing felt ridiculous.

  She of all people, Ms. Safety, thrown overboard. And rescued by some version of Jack Sparrow.

  How could she be laughing? “Forgive me. I didn’t realize you had this all under control.”

  “Under control? I planned this, baby. How else do you think I was going to get you all to myself?”

  Her breath caught. His smile faded.

  Oh, brother. “You can’t seriously be hitting on me in the middle of the North Pacific, in the last hours of our lives,” she said.

  The world decided to conspire with him then because another wave lifted them, threw them across the raft.

  Landing her right in his arms. Or almost, because she braced herself on the rubbery edge and he pulled her to the side, away from his injury, even as he tightened his arm to protect himself.

  But he groaned, and with it, she winced.

  They rode the wave out; then Scotty pushed herself up, looking down at Owen. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Deeply.”

  She stilled.

  “Right here in my broken heart.” He pointed to his chest, a half grin sliding up his face.

  “Listen, Casanova, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I just want to live through this.”

  Owen grimaced. “Me too.” His breath came out choppy. “I was just trying to . . . Well, the thing is, Scotty, you’re so pretty that I totally forgot we were about to die.”

  She didn’t even know how to react to that, to sort out humor from his solemn words, laced with the finest edge of agony. He drew in another pained breath. “I could just stare at you all day long. You have this funny little way of curling your nose up and sneezing when the sun comes out. And yeah, maybe my timing’s off, but I’ve been wanting to ask you out ever since that first day when you made me call you sir.”

  “Which is exactly why I could never go out with you! I’m your skipper—”

  “Relief skipper.”

  “Boss.”

  “Fellow life rafter.”

  “Captain.”

  “Aye, aye.” He winked.

  “Owen—”

  “See, now you’re mad. Not scared. And you haven’t thought of dying once in the last thirty seconds.”

  Darn it, he was right. Jerk.

  “That’s not funny, Owen.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Really? You really want to go out with a girl who knows more about fishing crab than flirting?”

  “You flirt just fine.”

  “I don’t flirt!”

  “Ha. Like when you showed me how to throw out a buoy—which I already knew. You wiggled your hips and stuck out your chin—”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  He grinned, closed his eye again. “I liked it.”

  “Just . . . you . . . sit there and bleed to death, will you?”

  “Maybe.” He gritted his teeth, sucking wind through them.

  Oh. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know.” He opened his eye, sighing. “But I’m getting tired, you know? And cold. I got a lot of water in my suit.”

  “You did? Maybe we should get you out of it, empty it
—hey, stop looking at me like that. I’m not that kind of girl.”

  “Calm down, toots; neither am I. Anymore.”

  “Toots?”

  “Would you rather bunny? Or how about sugarplum?”

  “Scotty’s fine.”

  “Not sir?”

  Oh. Right. “Sir’s better.”

  “Too late.”

  Wow, she wanted to smack him, although that couldn’t help with his injury. And suddenly she did sort of wonder what it might be like to be off this raft and on a real date, somewhere with music playing and candlelight . . .

  Another wave hit and rolled him away.

  She had the urge to grab his hand, keep him from rolling too far. Which probably accounted for why her mouth decided to betray her. “We live through this and I’ll go on that date with you.”

  Silence. The wave righted them.

  “Really?” Owen moved his hand to touch hers.

  Now she felt stupid, her face heating. “Maybe.”

  “Too late.”

  He smiled, and she felt it again, that crazy stirring inside.

  This time, when the wave hit, she braced herself and reached out, holding him as they tumbled around the raft. She didn’t miss the way he groaned.

  “I’m sorry I went overboard,” she said as the wave settled them back against the side.

  “You should be. I had a lot of crab to catch and one of Carpie’s omelets waiting for me.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Make it snappy. I have places to be.”

  “What’s with the eye patch?”

  His smile fading, Owen licked his lips as if thinking through his response.

  “You don’t have to tell me—”

  “I hurt my eye in a fight.”

  Oh. “A bar fight?”

  He shook his head, then pushed off the patch. A spiderweb of scar tissue issued out from his left eye, now cloudy around the blue iris. “A hockey fight.”

  “You played hockey?” Scotty asked.

  “I played for a team in Minnesota. NHL. The St. Paul Blue Ox.”

  “You played in the NHL? I’m a huge Aces fan.”

  “Aces?”

  “They’re a minor league team out of Anchorage. But we watch the Flames and the Canucks. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize you.”

  “I know, great disguise, huh? I only had to lose an eye to pull it off.”

  “I can’t believe you’re joking about this.”

  His expression turned solemn. “Listen, a guy with one good eye can’t afford to spend any time looking over his shoulder. I laugh about it or I cry, and laughing feels better.” He reached up and touched her cheek. “Right?”

  Then he smiled, winding his hand behind her neck.

  “Are you trying to kiss me?”

  “Why? Do you want to kiss me?”

  “I’m not going to kiss you! What is wrong with you? We’re lost at sea.”

  “And dying. Don’t forget I’m dying.”

  “You’re not dying!”

  “I could be. This is all very tragic—sort of a Nicholas Sparks movie.” He sighed.

  “Oh, for pete’s sake. Do you take anything seriously?”

  He dropped his hand. “Yeah. Actually.” But he didn’t continue, and she regretted not letting him pull her closer.

  There it was again, the story lurking behind his eyes. Or eye. “Does it hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Can you see?”

  “It’s fuzzy around the edges, and it’s more distracting than helpful. So I wear the patch.”

  “How very Rooster Cogburn of you.”

  “Rooster—?”

  “It’s Red’s favorite movie. The John Wayne version.”

  Owen frowned as he pulled the patch back down.

  “True Grit?” Scotty said. “Oh, please, it’s a classic.”

  “I spent my childhood at hockey rinks and playing my Game Boy on long trips.”

  “Tragic.”

  “Sometimes.” He didn’t appear to be kidding.

  “Don’t talk to me about tragic until you’ve been snowed in with the complete John Wayne collection on VHS. I can recite The Cowboys on cue.” She sat back, cleared her throat. “‘Now I don’t hold jail against you, but I hate a liar.’”

  “Wow.”

  “Or ‘It’s not how you’re buried; it’s how you’re remembered.’ And Red’s personal favorite: ‘I’m thirty years older than you are. I had my back broke once, and my hip twice. And on my worst day I could beat the bleep out of you.’”

  “Bleep?”

  “That was my aunt Rosemary’s idea. I lived with her and my uncle Gil when Red was out fishing. She wouldn’t allow profanity in the house, so she made my pop bleep all the good parts. Life lessons from Red, courtesy of John Wayne.”

  “I gotta ask, Scotty—why do you call him Red?”

  She let that question settle for a moment, sifting through the easy answers to the truth. “For the same reason he calls me Scotty instead of my given name. My mom named me Elise, but Red thought it sounded weak, too dainty for our life. At least, that’s my guess. He’s been calling me Scotty for as long as I can remember, and he became Red the minute I started sailing with him. That way we don’t get tangled up in the messy father-daughter relationship or admit something absurd, like the fact that we might care about each other.”

  “But you do, don’t you.”

  “He’s my father. Of course I care. But it’s easier for him to keep that all neatly tucked away and forgotten.”

  He frowned, touched her hand, and for a second, she wanted to yank it away. But then he met her eyes. “He’s an idiot. If I had a daughter, I’d never want to forget her. She would be everything to me.”

  He also possessed this crazy way of making everything all right.

  “Yeah, well, I grew up like one of the boys, and you see my world—there’s not much room for a woman on a fishing boat.”

  “I’m sorry I said that.”

  She shrugged. “Any other boat, any other woman, I might agree. But—”

  “You belong at the helm, Scotty. You know how to fish, how to captain.”

  “Actually, I’m a cop.”

  “Really?” He stared at her.

  It had been a test, sort of, because she wanted to see his reaction. A flinch, maybe a scowl, anything to tease out that hint of story.

  But no, instead she netted a wide, embracing grin. “Sea captain and police officer. I definitely think I’m in safe hands. Carry on.”

  “With what?”

  “Rescuing me.”

  If that curl of warmth hadn’t already built to a flame, now it burst into a full-out blaze. She laughed. “Please don’t be a criminal. I would hate to have to arrest you.”

  “Do you arrest a lot of people you know?”

  He didn’t know how his words nicked her heart. But her face must have betrayed it.

  Then, because she felt ridiculously safe despite the fact that they were trapped in the middle of the Bering Sea in the middle of the night . . . “I left the Homer Police Department about six months ago because I had to shoot someone I knew.”

  His smile, his humor, died. Oh no, why had she—?

  “Scotty, I’m so sorry.”

  The softness in his voice raised more stupid, sudden tears. She blinked them back, managed to sound casual. “It’s fine. I mean, I’m fine. It happened on the job, justified, but . . . I’d never shot anyone before. And never want to again.”

  “You can’t be fine,” Owen said. “That leaves scars. And I’m sorry.”

  She lifted a shoulder, wishing she hadn’t given in to the emotional nudge to open up her past because now the silence dragged out between them.

  That frustrating Owen Christiansen and his ability to make her stop thinking, start wrenching open forbidden places.

  “Okay, fine. I promise to behave,” Owen said.

  Huh? She looked up.

  He winked at her.

/>   And just like that, the tension washed away. She found a tentative smile. “That includes not dying on me, Eye Patch.”

  He grinned. “I’ll do my best, honey. But we’ve already established who the hero is here.”

  Had they?

  “Maybe we should send off another flare.” She opened the box, found the flare, fitted it into the gun. “There’s one left after this.”

  Scotty ripped open the Velcro door and leaned out. Night still shrouded the sky, not a hint of sunrise to the east. Spray from the waves sliced at her face. Just for a second, she searched the horizon for any sign of the ship, yet even the stars refused to shine.

  Lost at sea indeed.

  She held the gun out.

  The raft rocked, pitching forward, and Scotty screamed as her weight fell against the edge, tumbling her toward the blackness.

  “Scotty!”

  She grabbed for the edge of the raft even as she felt Owen’s hand on her suit, yanking her back. She landed hard inside the raft as the wave crashed through the door. It filled the bottom of the tent with foamy, frigid water.

  Owen had already struggled to his knees, was wrestling the flap closed, running his hand over the Velcro.

  Scotty grabbed the flap and helped steady it as he finished sealing it.

  Then, as water sloshed around them, Owen fell back. Pain straining his face, he went back to the shallow, panicked breathing.

  They were going to die.

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “It’s okay.” But his voice emerged as if pushed through a sieve.

  “How bad is it?”

  He forced a smile through gritted teeth. “I’ll be okay.”

  Right. She curled up next to him. Didn’t even protest when he took her hand, wove his fingers through hers, chilly though they were.

  For a long while, the waves stirred them. She held on to his hand, trying not to notice how he moaned.

  Finally, quietly, she said, “I dropped the flare gun in the ocean.”

  He held her hand in silence until she finally flicked off the light.

  Don’t panic. Keep your head in the game. Breathe.

  Casper Christiansen would need a miracle if he hoped to locate his kid brother.

  “I don’t know where else to look, Raina,” he yelled into the phone. “I swear, he’s dropped off the planet.”