The waves battered into the lifeboat, rocked it hard, rattled it against the rock, but the anchor and the trunk chain held the boat in its place.
Hank fell back against the jagged edges of the rock, his breath tight and fast, bloodrush speeding through him. He swiped at his eye again and looked up.
Rain pelted the boat bottom, sounding like shots from the prison Gatling gun. But under the protective cover of the boat, nothing hit them but some sea spray and the foam that swelled between cracks in the rocks.
He turned toward the others, huddled safely down between the rocks. He saw looks of horror on their faces as they stared up at him.
“You’re bleeding!” Smitty shouted, her hand reaching toward him.
Then everything went black.
* * *
Margaret pulledhardon the anchor. It wouldn’t budge. She stared at it, then dropped the chain and wiped her hands on her dress. She didn’t have the strength to loosen the anchor or the trunk line. She crawled back into the crevice where Hank was still unconscious and the children were huddled with the goat.
The storm had stopped sometime earlier, but she had no idea when. She had no concept of time past. All she knew was that she needed to do something. They couldn’t just stay there.
She needed to think.
Lydia was playing with Annabelle. She stopped and looked up. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t move the anchor, so we’re stuck here.” Margaret settled down next to the children and put Hank’s head in her lap.
The children were staring at the small stream of dark blood dribbling from the gash in his forehead. She dabbed at it with the ragged hem of her dress. “I think he’ll wake up soon, then we’ll be fine.” But she was only reassuring the children. She wasn’t sure they would be fine, but at least they were alive. And though Hank was bleeding, he was alive, too.
She watched the heave of his chest just to make certain. The gash ran from one black eyebrow, up his forehead, and disappeared into his hair. The deepest part of the wound was near his hairline. His tanned skin was too dark to be pale, but his lips were grayish and she felt that wasn’t good.
Then he groaned softly.
“Mr. Wyatt?”
Nothing. No response.
“Hank?”
He moaned again.
“Can you hear me?”
He turned his head so his mouth was against her midsection. Through her thin wet dress she could feel the heat of his breath.
She glanced at the children, then back at him. If he was unconscious much longer, she would have to do something. Think of something. “Hank?”
His breathing was slow and even.
She pressed her hem at the trickle of dark blood, then pressed harder, worried that she needed to apply pressure to stop the bleeding.
“I don’t know what your profession is, sweetheart, but you’re sure no Florence Nightingale.” His nose was about three inches below her bosom, and his eyes were locked on the thin white pintucks of her bodice. Her thin cotton dress was the only thing between his face and her skin.
“I was right.” He gave an exaggerated squint. “You can see right through this cotton stuff.” His sly gaze shifted to her face from her bosom, and he winked.
“You have two seconds to move your head.”
“Or what?” He didn’t move but just grinned up at her.
She leaned down a bit closer and whispered, “Or I’ll punch you in the nose.”
“You know what, Smitty? I believe you would, too.” He laughed in that wicked way he had. The sound of it gave her the same sensation she got when she banged her crazy bone.
