Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady) (27 page)

Lyle bent close to the face of the woman in his arms, checking again that she was still breathing.

She’d been staying at the Holiday Inn last year. Lyle had been there too, on the same floor, staying at the hotel and visiting Robyn twice daily in the nearby Vancouver General Hospital.

A small blond woman, perhaps in her late twenties, full of lively energy and confidence, with a hint of the vulnerability he’d sensed behind the smiles and the laughter.

She’d had one white streak of hair at her temple. He’d pondered that lock of white hair interrupting the blond. It had the stylish look of a hairdresser’s salon, yet he couldn’t see those lively blue eyes belonging to a woman who needed the vanity of an artificial dye job.

They’d passed in the hallways. He’d said hello and she’d responded. Friendly enough, but her eyes and her voice had acknowledged his attraction to her and rejected it.

A brief fantasy. Ships that passed in the night. He’d laughed at himself then, for dreaming dreams and thinking in clichés. The reality had been Lyle and Robyn returning to this lighthouse haven, Robyn recovering from yet another surgical invasion on her body.

The reality had been Cynthia McLeod, a rather futile attempt to find romance where none existed. In some unfortunate way, Cynthia had reminded him too much of Hazel.

Lyle stared down at the unconscious woman.

How had she come to be here, a victim of shipwreck on his island? He’d thought her a restless city girl, far too civilized for the high seas.

The coveralls had protected her, preserved some of her body warmth.

What other injuries? A gash on her face testified that she had been battered against something – a rock, a log? As the lighthouse beam swept over her, Lyle found evidence that more than her face had taken a beating. The suit was torn in several places.

What damage had he done to her, roughly yanking her into the dinghy?

He couldn’t tell, but he would have to move her again, to carry her across the rocks, put her into the back of the tractor.

There was a frightening, awkward moment as Lyle passed the unconscious woman to Russ. A wave pulled the dinghy away from shore. Lyle started to lose his balance. Russ caught at the woman and somehow lifted her out of Lyle’s arms just in time.

Then he jumped out of the dinghy himself and got her in his arms again, carried her over the rocks and laid her gently down in the trailer.

“I’ve got to warm her up!” he shouted to his brother as he started the tractor. “Get word to coastguard – the boat was the
Lady Harriet;
I found a life ring – then see if you can spot any other survivors— oh, but tell the coastguard we need a doctor on the radio!”

If only there was a doctor here!

Don’t move an accident victim. Call for the doctor, the ambulance. She might have broken ribs, perhaps internal injuries.

Hypothermia kills. He had to get her warm.

He put her on his bed, stripped off the padded nylon suit and the clothes below, cursing himself for his masculine reaction to her small, beautifully formed body, the unexpectedly full thrust of her naked breasts, the woman’s curve of hip and buttocks.

He found his fingers lingering on the full curve of her torso, the thrust of her hip.

Stop fantasizing!

He took his hands from her body, but couldn’t stop his mind. From the first time he’d seen her, he’d been able to imagine this woman in his arms, their bodies twisted together in a dance of love. She’d be warm, passionate. Right now she was motionless as death, but he knew she was a warm, passionate, loving kind of woman.

A woman who belonged to another man.

On her left hand she wore a broad gold wedding band.

He should have expected that. How could a woman like this be free, not claimed by some lucky man? He wouldn’t be the only man who had felt this way about her.

Without even knowing her.

Crazy, that’s what he was! A crazy lightkeeper.

“Where’d she come from?” whispered a small voice behind him as he lowered the unconscious woman into the warm water of the bathtub.

“The water,” he answered absently.

“How’d she get in the water?” He glanced up and found Robyn standing beside him, idly rubbing her weak leg with the palm of her hand.

“Her boat smashed on Grey Islet.”

“There’s blood on her. Is she dead?”

“No… No!”

She must have been swept up against the rocks at one point. Her leg had a deep gash that was starting to bleed in the warm water. There was a big scrape on her side that might mean broken ribs, and a cut on her face that would be painful healing.

If only she would open her eyes!

Chapter 2

The warmth came slowly, like pain returning with wakefulness. With the warmth came the dreams. George shifted, rolling, trying to escape the voices that echoed both inside and outside the dream.

Scott’s voice, firm and sure and loving.

No, that was wrong. Not Scott. She’d been sailing, hadn’t she? Alone?

Collections of odd words isolated from reality.

“…issued a notice to mariners, but with the storm and the dark… gale warning, building to a storm. No letup…”

“…no identification on her. No idea… must have been others on board… still unconscious… hypothermia and lord knows what else! …don’t think any actual broken bones, unless the ribs…”

“…vital signs… breathing better…”

Men’s voices. Who were they talking about? Her?

No, she was dreaming. She had been sailing, but she was at anchor now, dreaming the voices.

She felt the water surging under
Lady Harriet
, sweeping her away from the pain.

Today… Funny, mixing up the days. Today was… Prince Rupert this morning. A fisherman warning her, “Storm coming. Southeaster.”

She’d laughed, shaking her short blond curls. “There’s no storm forecast.”

“Gales in Chatham Sound before night,” he’d insisted.

She hadn’t told him that she didn’t really care if there was a gale.

A ferry had passed her in the harbor entrance. Someone on the bridge had looked down at her small sailboat, hailing her with a friendly greeting.

“You’re looking pretty down there,
Lady Harriet
!”

The ferry had turned south. George had sailed her little ship off to the north once she was clear of the dangers.

It had been one of the better days, with the sun high in a cloudy sky and the water blue and exciting. Scott’s memory was a gentle sadness, not paining her.

Sailing alone was hard work; it had kept her from thinking.

When the wind had freshened and the clouds drew together, she’d scrambled out on deck to take down the Genoa, putting up a smaller sail in its place, hanging on desperately as the deck heaved violently underfoot.

She’d crawled back to the cockpit, scared, but feeling a wild surge of triumph that she’d managed a difficult job alone.

When the wind picked up even more she was singing, riding wild, north to Alaska…

“Wake up! Hey, sweetheart, you must wake… have to know about…”

The pain surged back, covering her until she could hardly hear the voice trying to pull her back. Not Scott’s voice.

Silence.

She rested, letting her body sag against the mattress. In her mind, she heard music. She let the hurt seep away, drifting until the bright light penetrated her eyelids.

She moved her head, trying to escape the brilliance. Waves of pain from her chest shocked her into immobility.

Something on her head. She lifted a weak hand, felt some barrier of metal.

Hands on her hair.

She opened her eyes, saw headphones in small hands. A light voice whispered, “You’re ‘wake now?”

A small girl, long blond hair floating around her shoulders, pale blue eyes staring.

A dream?

Where was this?

…sailing, riding the waves as the wind freshened to a storm, then…

“Did you like the music?”

“Music?” She focused on the girl. How old? Nine? Ten?

“It’s my Walkman.” She held a disk player cradled carefully in her hands. “I like the music when I don’ feel good.”

Talking seemed so complicated. She nodded. Her face hurt.

Where was she?
Lady Harriet
?

The girl bounced slightly on the bed. George tried not to wince at the motion.

“What’s your name? I’m Robyn.”

What had happened to her? She felt as if she’d fallen down a flight of stairs.

“Your name?” asked the girl again.

“George.” Her tongue was swollen, her throat scratchy.

“That’s a boy’s name.”

George smiled and found that even her lips hurt.

When she closed her eyes, the pain receded.

The next time she opened her eyes, the light from the ceiling seemed dimmer. The little girl was gone. In her place, two men were standing at the foot of her bed. They were both fair and broad, both wearing orange Mustang jackets, and both staring down at her.

She tried to resolve the image into something that made sense.

“Delirious,” she muttered.

It was all dreams…
Lady Harriet…
the girl… the music. She’d wake up soon. Scott would be there.

“Wake up… George, wake up!”

Hands on her shoulders, a rough gentleness. The voice from the dream. She rolled her head in protest, but the voice went on.

“Wake up!”

“I’m dizzy,” she croaked. “There’s two of you.”

The voice laughed, a pleasing, husky rumble. Something familiar about that voice. Oh, yes. The dream.

“There really are two of us, George. Is your name really George? You’ve got to answer some questions.”

She didn’t have answers. Just keep moving, keep running, so it doesn’t catch up with you.

She drifted on a tide of dizziness, escaping the insistent voice, drifting back to Scott, back to the good times.

Lady Harriet.

Scott.

They’d found the boat tied to a float in Alaska, a
For Sale
sign pasted in her window.

They were on holiday, enjoying new sights, Scott tolerantly letting George speculate on everything they saw… should they buy a house here and move north to Alaska? …no, perhaps not, but what about another holiday in Alaska next year? Or perhaps…

George came to an abrupt stop in front of a thirty foot sailboat, her arm jerking tight as Scott walked on, still holding her hand.

“Scott, isn’t it beautiful? And it’s for sale.”

He’d laughed down at her, his warm, brown eyes not taking her seriously.

“Georgina, I don’t think—”

“Scott, remember what fun we had sailing in Tahiti? It doesn’t hurt to look.”

They had looked. Why had Scott decided to offer for the boat? Had he caught her enthusiasm? Or was it just another of the things he had done for love of her?

A new coat of paint. Plans and charts and sailing guides.

Their sailing trip. A dream trip.

Scott arranged to hand over most of his work to his partner, take a couple years for their cruise.

Dreams…

“How many on board?” the voice was demanding, intruding. Scott dissolved and there was only the question. “How many?”

She opened her eyes, stared up at the face bent over hers. Reddish hair in tousled disarray, deep blue eyes blazing into hers. Her eyes got caught in a hypnotic tracing of the deep lines of his face.

“On board?” she repeated stupidly.

His voice lowered, said slowly, “You were on a boat.
Lady Harriet
. You remember that, don’t you?” She nodded. “Who else was on the boat with you?”

He looked like a determined man. Stubborn. Tough. With dreamer’s eyes.

She smiled, wondering which had the upper hand – the dreamer in his eyes? Or the tough realist?

“Don’t go back to sleep! Come on! Open your eyes. Look at me.”

“You need a haircut,” she mumbled.

His eyes had changed. Harder. More determined.

“Tired,” she muttered heavily.

She stared at his lips as they moved in meaningless speech. “…how many people were aboard that boat?”

Jenny last year… Scott… Scott standing behind her, arms around her, helping her steer… kissing the back of her neck. Scott setting the anchor, taking her hand and leading her down below, to their stateroom with the big double berth.

“How many?”

She shook her head, blinked helplessly as tears filled her eyes. The dreamer-man’s hands came to her shoulders, shaking her gently.

“Who was aboard? You and your husband? Anyone else?”

Her husband! Scott…

If the crying started, it might never stop.

“Just me,” she whispered, then she caught at the drifting darkness and escaped his questions.