Taylor’s head fell back, the weight of uncertainty gone. “In his phone, it said Kelly Wetmore. Jake just said to call Kelly.”
Kelly nodded through the whole time Taylor talked. “Men. What are you gonna do? Simon’s the same way. Simon Wetmore—my husband. But I’m in the family business, so I’ve been working with Jake, but from New York, because Dad’s in the hospital. Dad’s going home tomorrow.”
Kelly bounced from thought to thought so fast her words couldn’t quite keep up. Taylor smiled and found her voice. “Jake told me he had a sister, but I never knew your name.”
Kelly laughed. “That’s Jake. I’m the family geek. What I do is mostly legal. I’ll share my data—my legal data—with the police in the morning. Dad and Jake know that. It’s how we operate.”
Dan and A.J. delivered more coffee and said goodnight right after Taylor told them Kelly was Jake’s sister. At one-thirty the following morning, the doctors allowed them into SICU. Taylor’s over-caffeinated nerves wanted to jump out of her skin.
A nurse walked them back. “Mr. Solomon lost more than two pints of blood, but he hung on. His heart and his spirit are strong. His vitals are good. Not strong yet, but on the way. The next twelve, twenty-four hours will be crucial. If he doesn’t crash, he should pull through fine, but he’ll be weak for a bit.”
“He’ll be up and strong before you think he will.” Kelly’s comment earned her a look of reproach from the nurse, and Kelly responded with a sweet smile. Taylor liked her even more.
“You might be right about him being up soon. He’s quite feisty.”
Kelly let out a belly laugh and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”
Taylor couldn’t stop smiling.
The nurse led them to a bed across from a bank of monitors and several rolling chairs. The three of them moved to Jake’s side.
Taylor touched his shoulder. “It’s me, Jake. I told you I’d be here.”
He smiled and mumbled so softly she couldn’t understand. She bent down. “Tell me again.”
“I love you. I got you down to my level on purpose.”
She smiled and touched his face. “I love you, too.”
“Can you stay?”
“No. They’ll be kicking us out in a few minutes. In the morning, I have to give a statement to the police, but I’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll be sitting up by then. After I get out of here, a long R&R in Charleston would do me good.”
“Come for Coast Guard Day. I’ll be back from patrol. I’ll take leave . . . for some up close and personal time.”
Jake smiled. “Good.”
“Kelly’s here. Want to talk to her?”
He nodded. “Stay.”
“I will.” She motioned for Kelly.
Kelly went to the other side of the bed. “Hey, Slick. You told me you were going to stay out of trouble.”
“I lied. This was my plan to introduce you to Taylor. Whatcha think?”
Taylor and Kelly both laughed.
Kelly touched his cheek, gave it a soft pat. “You did good, bro.”
“Thanks, Kelly Jane.”
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? Don’t you ever listen?”
“No.”
Kelly glanced at Taylor and shook her head. “He’s like that.”
Taylor smiled at Jake. “I’m getting an evil glare from the nurse. I think it’s time to go.” She kissed his lips.
He kissed her back. “I’m the luckiest man in the universe.” His words were a low growl, meant only for her.
THE END
The Point Whitebanks mentioned in Solomon’s Compass is fictional, but the 82-foot U.S. Coast Guard Point Class boats that served in Vietnam were real—all twenty-six of them. The boats were grouped into three divisions that comprised Squadron One, in country from 1965-1970. The Point Whitebanks is an amalgamation of all the Point boats in the campaign, a combination of the names of two of the actual boats—the Point White and the Point Banks. You can learn more about the Point Class boats here:
The official U.S. Coast Guard site, with much information:
http://www.uscg.mil/history/uscghist/VietnamPhotoIndex_A.asp
http://www.warboats.org/wpb.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Point_class_cutter
Learning about the Point boats was only the beginning. The entire writing of Solomon's Compass was a unique experience that included dealing with a cast of rebellious characters. And Jake Solomon was the worst of all. He is one insistent man!
Despite the complications, Taylor and Jake's story finally came together, but not without the help of others. I owe each of the following people a huge thank you.
First to Capt. Anne T. Ewalt, USCG, Retired, for her frank answers to my questions about women in the Coast Guard, their concerns, and the problems they face. Taylor Campbell is not Captain Ewalt, unless we share a cosmic connection I know nothing about. But because of Captain Ewalt's help, Taylor became the woman and Coast Guard officer she is.
I owe another thanks to Captain Ewalt for introducing me to Bob Hurst, a retired Coast Guard officer and lifelong sailor. I've never sailed a catamaran, and when I yelled for help, Bob stepped up. Anything I got wrong is all on me. Thank you, Bob, for being the best technical advisor ever!
Thanks to my critique partners, Jan Christensen and Rita Toews, who love making me work. And to Alison Dasho, editor extraordinaire . . . thank you for everything. I learned so much.
Thanks also go to Christine LePorte for her copy editing and proofing skills—and especially for helping me solve a last-minute dilemma. To Lisa DeSpain for making it possible for you to read this on your e-reader or in a paperback by making it look good and work properly. And to Derek Murphy for another outstanding cover.
Saving the best for last, thanks to my own special Coast Guard husband. He's my lighthouse, my compass, and my hero. I love him more than words can express. He is Semper Paratus personified . . . and he grills a mean steak.
Carol Kilgore is the wife of a now-retired U.S. Coast Guard officer. They've lived in many locations up and down the East Coast, on the Gulf Coast, on a river in the Heartland, and even the mountains of New Mexico. Don't ask. She won't tell.
She's now back in her native Texas, and lives with her hero and two herding dogs in a suburb of San Antonio. She spends her days writing and playing dodge dog. Evenings are a different story.
Solomon’s Compass is Carol’s second novel. Her first, In Name Only, is also set on the Texas Gulf Coast and is available at Amazon. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime. Learn more about her and follow her here:
Blog: http://www.underthetikihut.blogspot.com
Website: http://www.carolkilgore.net
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/carolkilgore.author
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/#!/carol_kilgore
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6094110.Carol_Kilgore
Amazon Author Page:
https://www.amazon.com/author/ckilgore
Excerpt from
IN NAME ONLY
by
Carol Kilgore
Summer Newcombe's nose twitched. Smoke. Nasty smoke, not the tantalizing kind from some south-of-the-border concoction in the Pink Tortilla's kitchen. The acrid tang that made her eyes water meant fire. She took stock of the customers as she balanced the chips and salsa tray, and none appeared to notice. She sniffed again. Definitely smoke. Something was burning, and she had no intention of getting her fanny scorched in a run-down Texas beach dive.
As she slapped two menus in front of a young couple, a woman's scream tore through the happy Friday night sounds. Summer turned. A narrow lick of flame teased the creaky floorboards at the rear corner. A second flame erupted.
People jammed the small Upper Padre Island eatery, all eager to get an early start on the weekend. Fifty, at least, plus staff. The twenty or so in h
er section crowded toward the exit. Screams and shouts of “Hurry!” and “Get out!” drowned the shuffle of feet on the wooden floor.
For a couple of seconds she couldn't move, as if someone had nailed her feet to the floor. Then real time slammed into her, and she jumped on a chair. Across the central bar area, people fled from a second dining area.
Fire had consumed the entire back corner and danced outward, twenty feet away at most. Its heat warmed her body, and smoke clotted in her throat. “Everybody, don't panic. Two by two through the archway into the main room. That's it. I'll be the last out. Don't leave me flopping on the floor if I fall off this chair. Go!” She hopped down but kept directing them.
Summer stole a glance behind her. Flames, hungry for more fuel, burned inches from the chair she'd stood on. Damn. She fought the urge to push everyone out of the way and rush to the exit. “Move it, people. No time to chitchat.”
Her throat burned. In the bar area, the air immediately cooled, but not enough. Sweat rolled down her back, and smoke curled along the ceiling in long, black ringlets searching for a way out.
On her left, a woman tugged on the tray of a high chair while the toddler in the seat banged a spoon on the top. A little girl cried and clung to the woman's leg.
Summer moved the woman aside. “Here, let me.” The new high chairs had arrived just that morning. Charlie Duran, the restaurant owner, had demonstrated how they worked. The tray slid off on her first try.
The woman hugged her. “Gracias.” She scooped her baby into her arms, then pried her daughter's arms from her leg and grabbed her hand.
The lights blinked off. Screams tore through the blackness. The emergency beacons flicked on, and with them Summer's hackles rose. The glow reminded her the smoke alarms hadn't gone off.
She turned her attention to the others at the table, a man handing his little boy to a woman in a wheelchair. Tears stained the woman's face, and rosary beads dangled from one of her hands.
Summer directed her words to the father. “Push the wheelchair. I'll hold your son's hand.”
The little boy clambered down and took her hand.
“Okay, everybody, let's boogie.”
Her eyes burned more than her throat. The emergency lights became distant moons shrouded in heavy fog. She ushered her charges out the front door and returned the little boy to his parents.
A server rushed by, and she grabbed his arm. “Is everyone out?”
“I think so.” A dazed expression filled his face.
A string of coughs racked her body, and for a second she couldn't catch her breath. Her eyes watered. After the last cough, she inhaled without a problem. Salt air filled her lungs.
She had time to go back and retrieve the cash register. Charlie had been good to her. Hired her for his eatery sight unseen. He must have wondered about her story, but he'd never asked. This was her chance to return the favor. It would take five seconds. But Charlie wasn't the only reason she went back.
Her ring was inside. The stone had come loose in the setting, and Charlie had placed it in the cash register for safekeeping. She wasn't leaving it. Her dad had given it to her, and it was all she had left of him. While sirens screamed nearby, she retraced her steps.
Inside, smoke, thicker than when she left, ravaged her eyes and throat. Another tongue of flame caressed one of the pillars at the end of the bar. Fire whooshed and sighed. Mixed with its breathing, crackles of burning wood became bursts of mad laughter.
She tore her gaze from the flame and grabbed a bar cloth to protect her hands. The cash register stood on the counter. It weighed only a few pounds, but she had to yank the cord to free the plug. She collected the lockbox Charlie kept on the shelf beneath the counter, too, setting it atop the register keys.
The fire's breath kissed her skin with a fevered touch. A shadow moved by the kitchen, but she blinked it away as nonsense. No one else could be inside. If she was seeing things, it was past time to get out.
The room spun. Too much smoke had entered her lungs even though she'd taken shallow breaths. She crouched, set the cash register in front of her on the wood floor, and dropped to her hands and knees.
Greedy for space, swirls of smoke reached in every direction, dipping into cracks, filling her nose, her mouth, her eyes. She pushed the register ahead of her and crawled toward the door, a million miles away.
It was too far. She'd never make it. Don't go there. This fire wouldn't beat her. She wouldn't die in here. She wouldn't. The bastard who killed her parents hadn't killed her, and neither would this damn fire. Shove the register. Crawl. Again.
The room grew darker, but she reached the entrance. One last shove. The register tumbled through the opening, and the lockbox toppled off the keys and landed upside down. A beam crashed to the floor in slow motion and landed two feet from her head. Flying embers waved at her until fingers of darkness closed over her eyes.
Something covered Summer’s face, but she couldn’t push it away. Her eyes wouldn’t open either. She coughed. The more she coughed, the harder it was to breathe.
Firm hands grabbed her wrists. “Glad to see you back with us, ma’am. My name’s Ana. You’re all right.”
She needed to tell her she couldn’t breathe, but when she tried, she broke into another coughing fit.
“Don’t talk. You have a little smoke in your lungs. But your color’s good, and the last mucus you coughed up was clear. Give the oxygen a few more minutes. We washed your eyes to get the smoke out. I’m taking the gauze pads off now, but your eyes still need to rest. Leave them closed while the oxygen works.”
Her words and confident manner gave Summer comfort. She nodded to show she understood and concentrated on breathing. In. Out. Whoosh. Sigh. Like the fire. Panic jangled her nerves. But she breathed through it, and the fire in her mind faded.
Ana’s footsteps moved away, and Summer’s hands found her fanny pack. The outer compartment held her tip money and a tube of lipstick. The section next to her body held the important things. She opened the zipper and felt inside. Driver’s license, keys, cell phone. All there. Along with her Beretta Tomcat.
Her ring! Memory flooded back. When she noticed the loose stone, she slipped the ring into her fanny pack. The second time she unzipped the outer pocket to add a tip, her ring almost went to the floor. The other section was out of the running. She’d fashioned a slit in the seam large enough for her finger to slide through and hook around the Beretta’s trigger. So she took her ring straight to Charlie, who put it in the bottom of the cash register for her.
Shouts from firefighters rose above the deep rumble of fire engines. She had done all she could. The pros were here now, and the fire was their baby. She turned her head in the direction of the loudest noise and opened her eyes enough to peer through her lashes. Christ, she was lying in the middle of the parking lot. She might as well have a target painted on her chest. As soon as Ana untethered her from the oxygen supply she was out of here.
A pair of firefighter boots stepped from behind her head and blocked her view. They continued past and stopped in front of Ana. Summer’s gaze traveled up from the boots and fixed on the back of a helmet. Ana’s lips moved, but she spoke too softly for her to hear. Infuriating.
A mosquito buzzed her ear, and she brushed it away. Someone else could be its dinner. For now, no one paid her much attention, at least not from this direction. Flames lit the sky, joined by knotty fingers of black smoke against the royal blue of early night. Firefighters worked everywhere pulling yellow hoses that slithered across the parking lot.
She hadn’t coughed in at least a full minute, so Ana should remove the oxygen mask before long. Soot covered her arms. Probably her face, too. What a mess. The black soot had covered her eyes and lungs. She tasted it in her throat. Too bad the firemen couldn’t hose her down, inside and out.
The familiar apathy returned. She hated it, wanted to kick it away, drown it in the sea. But no matter what she tried, it remained. Short-lived panic jumped up from
time to time, but fear, love, anger—she hadn’t felt any of them since she killed the man who murdered her father.
She wanted nothing more than to feel again. Really feel. Anything. To care beyond surface sensibilities and sexual desire. To lose herself in emotion, have it wash over her and carry her away. Instead, a black hole sucked at her humanity and left her an empty shell.
Ana broke away from the fireman and walked toward her. “Let’s see how you do.” She bent and removed the mask.
Summer inhaled smoke-tinged air.
“If you’re all right in about five minutes, you’re good to go. If the cough returns or you get hoarse or have shortness of breath, see your doctor. Same if you notice any headache or confusion, or if your eyes go haywire.”
She sat up. “Got it.” Her voice sounded almost normal, just a little rough around the edges. Better to sit and see than lie flat and be exposed.
“Here. Scoot back. Lean against this old palm for a few minutes. You’ll be fine.”
The tree at her back was even better. No news crews had arrived yet, but they would. At least the goo provided a little camouflage. While Ana packed her gear, the other firefighter crouched in front of Summer.
Good God! What a hunk. Better than the photos on the firefighter calendar one of her girlfriends had given her, back when she still had a real life. His face was all planes and angles, with a straight nose and the sexiest brown eyes she’d ever seen.
“Ms. Newcombe, I understand you’re the hero of the day. I’m Captain Duran.”
“Duran? Like Charlie?” The name couldn’t be a coincidence.
Ana stood. “See you back at the station, Cap.”
The firefighter nodded. “Charlie Duran’s my father. I’d like to talk to you about tonight, if you feel up to it.”
She would talk to him any day. “Hero might be a little out there. More like fool. I thought I had time to retrieve Charlie’s cash register.”
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