Her mouth fell open and her eyes narrowed.
He didn’t smile, though he wanted to. She was angry. He stared out at the sea. “Don’t go and get your knickers in a knot there, Smitty. Women have their uses.”
She grew angrier. Her knuckles were white, and her lips thinned. But he had to give her credit; she didn’t snap at his bait. He could see her thinking.
She glanced at the children who had been watching their exchange with avid interest and leery eyes. Then she stared out at the sea for a minute. When she turned back toward him, she appeared to be biting back a smile.
Not the reaction he expected.
A second later she began to laugh, honestly and clearly, which surprised him, although he didn’t show it.
She stopped laughing after a minute or two. “Now I understand you.”
“Think so?”
“Yes.” She paused, then beat her fist against her chest and lowered her voice to deep tone. “Man hunt! Ugh! Woman cook!”
He stared at her, then rubbed his beard. “I’d say that about covers it.”
She gave him a look that said she wasn’t fooled or angry. “Does that tactic work often for you?”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. She did have a brain. He watched her for a minute. “You are quick, Smitty.” He paused. “For a woman.”
“As you said.” She gave him a sugary smile. “We do have our uses.”
5
“Hey, Smitty! Make yourself useful and hand me that can of water.”
Margaret slowly looked up from bouncing the baby—an attempt to keep her happy. Annabelle didn’t want to be held. She didn’t want to play. She wanted to crawl all over the boat. She wanted to throw handfuls of soda crackers. She wanted to do anything but sit still.
Lydia and Theodore had had two arguments over who got to sit by the goat, another about who had asked first, one about who was hogging the other’s space, and three more about who touched who. Now Lydia was pouting, and the goat brayed with obnoxious regularity.
It was hot, and Margaret was sweating. The air was thick enough to swim through, and her head ached from the heat of the sun. She had draped a tarp over her head and over the children to block out the sun.
Her sweat-damp hair hung in her face, and she had Annabelle’s soda crackers crumbled all over her. In her mind, they were hopelessly lost and His Majesty, king of his little monarchy, wished her to hand him the can of water.
He had stripped off the black tunic and was lounging in his end of the boat in what must have been his prison clothes: a pair of filthy cotton pants with a rope belt and a cotton shirt with only one button left. The shirt gaped open and showed his tanned chest and washboard-flat stomach, both of which were covered with black curly hair.
At one time—perhaps a year ago—his clothing had most likely been white. Now it was gray. He held the sail lines in one rough hand; the other hand was tapping an irritating tune on the rim of the boat.
His hat cast a shadow over his face. She couldn’t see it until he tilted the hat back, stretched, and gave a jaw-cracking yawn, then scratched his hairy, tanned stomach. Next he jutted his chin out and scratched his beard and neck with such vigor she was surprised he didn’t use his foot
She watched him, completely amazed.
After a minute he looked at her expectantly.
She smiled innocently.
“Well...”
“Hmm? Did you want something?”
“The water. Hand me the water.”
“Oh, certainly.” She clamped one arm around Annabelle and grabbed a tin cup from behind her. “Let me pour it for you.”
He frowned at the cup. “Where’d you get that?”
