Heart pounding, Elizabeth hurried her pace over the coral gravel. One foot landed in a puddle, drenching her kid leather shoe. The closer they drew to the harbor, the more water pooled on the ground. Soon wet feet could not be avoided. The skies loosed again. Elizabeth squinted into the windblown rain, trying to make out the warehouses that had been so clear moments before.
The wind shoved each breath back into her chest, which was already aching from the stays she’d insisted Anabelle cinch particularly tight. Only when they reached the lee of Tift’s warehouse could she take in enough air. Though this warehouse was built solidly, the old one nearby creaked and moaned. Charlie pointed fearfully at its roof, which had already lost a few shingles.
Elizabeth could not be deterred by a shaky old building.
She pulled Charlie around the corner and into the full force of the wind. The seas, whipped up by the northeast gale, crashed over the piers and sprayed high into the air. The water, ordinarily several feet below the docks at high tide, now overran them. Charlie’s tiny skiff, once moored with the other dinghies at the base of the nearest pier, was gone. The few vessels left in the harbor strained against their anchor lines, barely visible in the howling mists. With the water so high, they looked as if they could sail straight onto Duval Street.
Charlie’s hand gripped hers even more tightly. Perhaps he’d been right.
She couldn’t see Rourke’s sloop through the rain and sea spray. He must have left with those who chose to weather the storm at sea. All her preparations had been for naught. If he did not return once the storm passed, she had no choice but to sail for Charleston. He would return. He had to return.
“We’ll go home,” she shouted, but the wind carried her words away.
Charlie clung to her. Terror danced in his eyes.
She motioned back toward the way they’d come. This had been a bad idea. Best return while they could. But before she could move, a terrible blast of wind caught her voluminous skirts and shoved her to the ground. She lost hold of Charlie, and the slight boy fell to his knees.
She reached for him, but her fingers brushed just short of his hand. “Charlie!”
He could not hear.
She tried to rise, but the wind pressed her down. It suffocated like a blanket pressed over her face. Only by lowering her mouth to the crook of her elbow could she draw in a breath.
Her brother struggled to his feet only to tumble farther away.
She crawled toward him. The rough coral rock ripped at her lace and bows, and sand ground into the fine muslin gown.
Then she saw the waves. They’d crested the wharves and rolled toward her, turning the land into a shallow sea. The first wave dampened her hands and knees. The next rolled in deeper. She tried again to stand, to get to Charlie.
He stared at her, his eyes wide. He could not swim, had refused to learn.
Oh, that she had not donned six petticoats and a bustle. In the murky water, the garments tangled around her legs and weighed her down. Oh, that she’d listened to Anabelle and stayed home where she belonged. If anything happened . . .
Elizabeth could not allow doom to seize a toehold. This moment required courage.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “I’m coming for you!”
Charlie showed no sign he’d heard her.
With all her strength she rose to her hands and knees and inched toward her brother. He’d reached high ground near the old warehouse and was safely out of the water. If he could get into the lee of the building, he could stand. If he had the strength. If the water didn’t rise higher.
Again she attempted to stand. The swirling water knocked her down. She cried out. Seawater filled her mouth. She gagged on the brine and coughed it out. When she’d regained her balance, she noticed the surging sea had carried her even farther from her brother.
Despair knocked, but she could not let it take hold. She must reach her brother, but how? Another wave rolled past, and she struggled to hold her ground.
The sea! Rather than fighting the waves, she could use them to her advantage. If she allowed each one to push her forward and angled toward the warehouse, she could reach her brother and bring him to safety.
Crack!
The sharp report came from above. Looking up, she saw with horror that the warehouse roof heaved up and down. Shingles swirled like a maddened flock of gulls. A piano-sized section tilted upward, a giant flap of heavy wood, and then a gust ripped it free. For one agonizing moment the chunk hung in midair. Then it began to spin. Down, down, down.
“Charlie!”
He did not hear.
She waved her arms.
He did not see. The section of roof struck him on the back of the legs. He flopped to the ground like a rag doll.
“Charlie!” This cry proved as useless as the first, for he did not move so much as a finger.
Fear drove her limbs through the churning waters. He could not be dead. God would not let an innocent boy die. Charlie hadn’t even wanted to come to the wharf. She’d talked him into it.
Please, God. Let him live.
She hoped her fervent plea would be enough to capture divine attention. Yet as she drew near and saw the pallor of her brother’s face, she knew that her words had blown away on the wind.
1
Four Years Later
Off the Florida Keys