Page 11 of Let It Snow

“A squall?”

Andy said, “Yes. It should pass within fifteen minutes as far as we can tell.”

“As far as you can tell?” She sounded like a parrot. She didn’t know what she expected from the men in charge, but not this pseudo-certainty.

“What’s your name? You look familiar.”

“Shana George.” She didn’t hesitate to play on whatever notoriety she might have.

“I thought I knew you. Welcome aboard—sorry about the weather.”

The captain said, “Glad to have a pro aboard. Always good to have another cool head in case of an emergency.”

“We’re light on the crew today,” Andy explained.

“I’ll do what I can.” Whatever that was, she wasn’t sure. She could surf and she could swim, but that was as far as her nautical skills went.

“The radio’s cutting in and out, but the coast guard knows we’re out here and they’re watching the weather, watching for other boats for us. We’ll be fine.” He was trying to reassure her and although it might not have been intentional, he sounded patronizing. For the first time in a long time, she missed her law enforcement standing. Hell, technically she didn’t even have her standing as sidekick to Dane-the-damn-Legend to fall back on now. But they didn’t know that and she wasn’t telling them.

The room darkened slightly and she looked past the two men and out the window. A dark wall of water in the form of a massive surging wave roared toward them. The older man turned. He saw it and grabbed the wheel.

“Shit.” He yelled at her, “Make sure that door is secure.”

She turned, but the door slammed open with a wash of seawater. Not good. She’d left the padre down at the railing. Surely he’d have had enough sense to go inside before now.

“Get on that speaker and warn the passengers to stay inside. Reassure them. Calmly,” Andy told her.

The captain yelled into his radio phone. “This is Governor. We’re taking surging waves at ten o’clock. Headway is delayed—” He looked at some monitors. “By at least an hour. Stand by for updates.”

She grabbed the microphone from the hook, flipped the switch, and spoke carefully and with command. “This is a message from the … bridge. All passengers are to remain inside the cabin on the lower deck for the duration of this storm. The storm is expected to last—” She stumbled as the boat tipped steeply. She dropped the microphone when she looked up just in time to see water crashing over the low broad bow and directly at them.

“Hang on.”

No one had to tell her to gab onto the nearest thing that was nailed down. It happened to be the captain’s chair and it swiveled wildly as the boat shook and groaned and clanked more. She held on as the wave crashed over the boat, shook them, and ocean water sprayed inside the bridge again. She stood and wondered how the water got inside. Once she realized it hadn’t broken the window, she let out her breath. The door on the other side of the bridge had banged open. The co captain—or whatever Andy was—had the wheel in a steel grip and struggled to keep the boat on course.

She headed back for the door and was about to leave when Andy stopped her.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m going below—making sure everyone is inside. And I need to get into some dry clothes.”

He shook his head. “Not now. You can’t safely use those exterior stairs. Not while we’re hitting these swells and the winds are high. The biggest danger in high seas is someone getting knocked about or, at the worst, swept overboard by a swell if they’re foolish enough to be outside.”

She felt like saluting him. She felt like she was part of the inadequate crew. But no way was she staying on the bridge all safe and sound while who knew what had happened to Father Pedro. She needed to find him and make sure he was safe inside with the rest of the passengers. Shana darted a glance at the captain before heading for the door while she hung onto the cabinets lining the room. He had the radio in hand and head phones on, hanging onto his chair and looking worried and frustrated.

He looked up at her. “This damn radio keeps crapping out—I don’t think we’re getting through.”

She slipped her cell phone from her pocket and checked the coverage. They were close enough to mainland that she had three bars. Without thinking or hesitation, she pressed number one. Autodial for Dane Blaise.

Dane’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. His first inclination was to ignore it. But in the next second he realized there was only one person left on the planet who would be calling him on Christmas Eve. He pulled it from his pocket, pressing it to life as he put it to his ear.

“Shana—you all right?”

She’d forgotten how powerful his voice was, how hearing it could jolt her and have a monumental, stabilizing effect on her as if he were a mountain under her feet—her mountain.

“I’m fine. Wet.” She didn’t tell him that the shaking had stopped as soon as he spoke to her; that she hadn’t even realized that she’d been shaking until it was over.

“How severe is the storm?”