Again the ship pitched forward, but that was not nearly as alarming as Aunt Virginia’s news. If Mother and Father approved of Mr. Finch, she would never be rid of the man.
Aunt Virginia pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. “I do wish this were over.”
“Mr. Buetsch indicated we might well arrive in Key West by morning.”
“Morning! We’ll be dead by morning thanks to this terrible storm.”
Elizabeth rose, irritated at the thought of facing Mr. Finch again. “It’s just an autumn squall.”
“Like four years ago? That was no squall, was it?”
The painful memory of that day came back as vividly as if it had just occurred. Once she’d reached her brother, she’d tried to wake him, had held up his head as the waters rose, but she could neither rouse him nor pry his legs from under the heavy piece of roof. The water had risen higher and higher until it lapped against Charlie’s shoulders. She’d given up hope. Then out of the mists Rourke had appeared, strong and valiant, like a knight of King Arthur’s court.
“That wasn’t a squall,” she whispered. “It was a hurricane.”
That hurricane had ripped apart the island and their lives. Only a handful of buildings had survived unscathed. Their house had lost its roof, and many of their belongings had washed away. But the greatest damage could not be measured in missing boards or rotted clothing.
After depositing Elizabeth on high ground, Rourke had gone back to get her brother. Though she clung to the mangrove trees through the night and into the next morning, neither one returned. Only when the clouds retreated and the full devastation could be seen did she learn he’d taken Charlie to the now-roofless Marine Hospital. There doctors saved his life but not the use of his legs.
The ship lurched again, this time with a grinding crunch, but Elizabeth barely felt it. Her aunt’s mouth moved, but she didn’t hear it. She heard only the sobbing of her mother as she’d held Charlie’s motionless hand.
“Why would he have gone to the harbor in such weather?” Mother had cried.
Elizabeth had stood silent, unable to admit her guilt. The seconds had stretched on, broken only by the whistle of wind and muted sobs. She tried to confess but could not bring the words to her lips.
Then Rourke answered. “He came to see me.”
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. Rourke had taken the blame, and she’d let him. She drew in a ragged breath and blinked fast to keep back the tears.
At first she’d felt relief. Then the repercussions had begun. Father directed his anger at Rourke. Mother spent her days nursing her son back to life. Elizabeth sailed to Charleston as planned. She’d gone gladly rather than face the truth of her choices.
Now the truth waited for her, poised like an eel ready to strike.
Yet as she felt water soak through her cloth slippers and heard the hull creak ominously, she wondered if she’d ever have to face it.
“Fool,” Rourke O’Malley muttered, spyglass to his eye. “They’re heading straight for the reef.”
Either the schooner’s master hadn’t hired a pilot, or he’d secured an incompetent one. Any seaman familiar with these waters knew better than to set that course in heavy weather. The schooner was large enough to carry both passengers and cargo. Against the backdrop of the last gasps of light along the western horizon, he could make out that her sails were tattered. The foremast had snapped off, and the vessel was sitting low. Either her holds were filled with heavy cargo, or she was taking on water.
He tensed with the familiar rush of fear and exhilaration. A wrecked vessel could bring riches to the wreck master—the first to reach the foundered ship—but it also brought danger. Many a wrecker had perished salvaging a ship. Some slipped overboard and were crushed between the two vessels. Divers drowned when the wreck shifted and pinned them in the submerged holds.
An active wrecker’s career was short, and Rourke had already spent over a decade in the trade. He needed just one good award to set up as a merchant and ship owner, where the most profit could be earned. One valuable wreck would give him enough to build his own warehouse. Then he would collect the fees, rather than hand them over to the men who currently controlled the wharves and commerce in Key West.
“She be sittin’ low,” called out John Malley, his longtime chief mate from back home in the Bahamas. Upon emancipation, John had taken a shortened form of Rourke’s family name rather than that of the master who’d cruelly abused him. “Prob’ly holed.”