“Help!” Rory shouted.
Her cry was shrill enough to have carried. Yet the fishermen made no move to come to their aid although by now Zeke could see the way their mouths gaped open, their dumbfounded expressions. A particularly large wave broke over Zeke’s and Rory’s heads, causing them to cough and sputter.
Zeke spit salt water and swore. It figured that when he finally got a miracle, it turned out to be a stupid one.
He shouted again and still got no response from the dinghy. Drawing in one final mighty lungful of air, Zeke raised his voice,letting loose enough curses to turn the gray Atlantic blue, not stopping until his throat was hoarse.
The two men sprang into movement, reaching for their oars. It wouldn’t have astonished Zeke to see the dolts start rowing in the opposite direction. But with his string of imprecations, he seemed to have made some impression on them, like a stranger in a foreign land finally catching on to the lingo.
Pulling in unison, the fishermen drew alongside, the younger one reaching down weather-beaten hands. Zeke saw Rory lifted on board before struggling after her and collapsing on the bottom of the boat.
He lay still for several seconds, numb to every sensation but relief at being alive and having Rory safe by his side. He thought she might have fainted, but she struggled to raise herself to a sitting position.
“The Seamus,” she cried
Her words made no sense. She was shivering, and Zeke thought she must be in shock from being chilled to the bone and half-drowned. He wrapped one arm about her shoulders, but when she gestured with a shaking finger, he realized she was pointing toward the remains of her balloon yet bobbing on the surface of the waves. The bag was deflated, sagging into the sea, growing more distant with each pull the two men took at the oars.
Rory couldn’t be so unreasonable as to expect something to be done about salvaging the blasted thing. A wave washed over the gondola, sweeping it from sight.
He pulled Rory firmly against him, trying to warm her and force her to lie still. But as he gazed down, she was still staring forlornly at the cresting waves, and Zeke had an uncomfortable feeling that all the salt droplets trickling down her face did not come from the sea.
Thirteen
Darkness overtook the shoreline, the sea becoming a mysterious, moving shadow, white-crested fingers clutching at the beach, raking away particles of sand. But beneath the wooden shingles of the fishermen’s shack, the breaking waves were no more than a lulling whisper and Rory felt safe and warm. Wrapped in a blanket, she huddled before the crackling fire kindled on the hearth. She barely remembered the details of her rescue, how she came to be at the cottage; she only felt grateful that she was.
The place was small, but the oil lamps flickering in the tiny parlor beamed a welcome as powerful as that of any lighthouse. The furnishings were sparse but clean—a couple of rocking chairs, a table covered with a checkered cloth, a few scattered stools. Everything smelled of salt, as though the very lifeblood of the sea had seeped within these walls, perhaps even more so into the person of the woman serving as Rory’s hostess.
Rory had never met any female as large as Mrs. Cobbett. Tall with burly arms, she looked almost big enough to heft Zeke over her shoulder, and there had been a point when Rory feared she meant to do so. Although on the verge of collapse when the two fishermen had deposited them on Mrs. Cobbett’s doorstep, Zekehad not taken kindly to the woman’s ministrations, her gruff demand that Zeke strip out of his wet things.
But even the two dour fishermen had stood in awe of this woman, one calling her, “Anchor” Annie, the other calling her, “Ma.” When she had bade them go about their business and tend to gathering up their nets, they had both snapped to do her bidding. Zeke hadn’t had much choice either.
The last Rory had seen of him, Annie had driven him through a door opposite into a chamber the woman, with fierce pride, had termed her guest room. Annie and Zeke could still be battling it out in there for all Rory knew. As for herself, she was too exhausted to do other than was she was told, bask by the fire, trying to get the chill of the sea out of her bones.
When the door opened and Annie returned alone, Rory glanced up anxiously. The woman’s hair was a steely gray that matched the steel in her eyes. Her face had more crags than a rocky stretch of shore, her skin as brown and weather-beaten as driftwood. But despite the formidableness of her appearance, there was a bluff kindliness in her manner that Rory found reassuring.
“Zeke?” Rory asked, rising from her stool. “Is he?—”
“I redid the bandages on your man’s wound,” she said.
Had the woman recognized it as a gunshot wound? Rory hated telling lies, but she could hardly tell Annie the truth, that Zeke had been winged fleeing the law on a charge of murder. At the very least, the woman would fling them both out of her snug cottage with its circle of light and warmth. Rory shuddered at the prospect.
“Well, he—” Rory stammered, trying to come up with some plausible explanation of Zeke’s injury.
“Oh, shush, m’dear,” Annie interrupted. “I’m familiar enough with men folk and their scrapping ways. You don’t need to get all flustered trying to explain to me. Fact is, I oughta beapologizing to you for the behavior of my boy, Joe. I understand he was a little slow coming to your rescue.”
“Yes,” Rory said. “It was rather odd considering we were in danger of drowning.”
“The problem is my Joe never saw one of those balloon things before. He took it to be some kind of sea monster. Joe’s a good fisherman, but he ain’t exactly the brightest one of my boys.
“Now you stay by the fire and keep warm.” Annie placed one large hand on Rory’s shoulder, easing her back down. “Your man is doing fine. A little cantankerous, but I got some of my elixir down him. He’s tucked up and sleeping like a baby.”
Rory could only gape at her. Upon entering the cottage, although dead on his feet, Zeke had been determined to make his way back to New York tonight. He had been demanding a telephone, the distance to the nearest town.
“However did you persuade him to do that?” Rory asked.
Annie chuckled, a deep sound that shook her ample bosom. “Lord A’mighty, honey, I’ve had three husbands and five sons. A woman don’t go through that many men without learning something about how to manage them.”
If she hadn’t been so weary, Rory would have asked the woman to part with her secrets. But Annie bustled about brewing Rory a cup of tea. Rory accepted the steaming hot mug with real gratitude. Annie poured herself a drink into a tin cup. Rory didn’t see what it was, but she would have wagered it wasn’t tea.
