“Hi!” She grinned, her green eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I’m Alex.”
“As in…Alexandra?” Leo asked, shaking her hand.
The new arrival cocked her head. “Yup. Why?”
“Just…” Leo stuck his tongue in his cheek. “A bit of a mix-up on my end. I was expectin’ a man.”
“Oh.” Alex wrinkled her nose. “I guess those are the perils of online correspondence, huh?”
“I reckon so,” Leo said, introducing himself and then Olivia.
“Good to meet you.” Alex pumped her hand enthusiastically. The whir of the floatplane’s engine grew louder as it reversed out into the lagoon.
Leo lifted a brow at the departing aircraft, then glanced down at the duffel at Alex’s feet. “I take it you’ll be stayin’ with us for a spell?”
Alex nodded vigorously. It caused her wild mass of hair to bounce around her face. “I’ve got a proposition for you in regards to that,” she said. “But before we go there, I want to show you this.”
She bent to unzip the duffel bag. It appeared to be stuffed haphazardly with all manner of unfolded clothes. Shoes were tossed here and there. Olivia and Leo exchanged a covert glance. This Alex woman might not look like much of an absentminded historian, but her packing skills certainly fit the bill.
“Aha!” she crowed when she located a giant binder. She pulled it out and thrust it at Leo with a flourish just at the floatplane caught air and sailed out over the whitewater frothing up around the underwater reef. Leo took the binder, holding it in front of him like it might be a bomb. Olivia had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Alex huffed. “Open it! To the page marked with the blue sticky note.”
Leo did as instructed, and Olivia craned her head to see what was inside. Huh. It appeared to be a photocopy of an old text. The writing was tiny, smashed together, and didn’t really look like any language she recognized.
“Read that first paragraph,” Alex insisted, nearly vibrating with glee.
Leo slid another covert glance over at Olivia, and she could read his mind. Is this chick nuts, or what? But what he said aloud was, “Um. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to transl—”
“Oh!” Alex hopped, shaking her head. “Sorry. Turn the page. That’s where I’ve typed up my translation.” Leo flipped the page in the binder, and sure enough, on the back was a neatly typed, single-spaced translation. “Go on,” Alex encouraged.
Leo slid his sunglasses onto his head, cleared his throat, and read, “‘This is the account of Captain Quintana…’ That’s the captain of the Santa Cristina’s sister ship, Nuestra Señora de Cádiz,” he said for Olivia’s benefit before going back to reading. “‘Who swears on the holy bible that the followin’ words are true. He and Captain Vargas of the Santa Cristina made the decision to split the armada one hour after sunrise on May twenty-six, the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and twenty-four. He would shelter the Nuestra Señora de Cádiz on the leeward side of Bone Key…’ That’s what they used to call Key West,” he explained, again for Olivia’s benefit, before returning to reading. “‘And Captain Vargas would attempt to sail home to Havana. It was Captain Vargas’s intention that if he could not make his home port, he would take shelter behind the ringed island along the way.’”
Leo stopped, looking expectantly at Alex. “Right. Marquesas Keys. Those are the only islands in the Keys that form a ring. We know that’s where—”
“No.” Alex shook her head, taking the binder from him and tucking it under her arm. It was about as big as she was. “The timing doesn’t make any sense. If the captains decided to split the armada one hour after sunrise and Captain Vargas turned the Santa Cristina for home directly after that, he should have made it much farther than the Marquesas Keys by the time the hurricane hit in late afternoon.”
“But my father found cannons and pieces of eight around Marquesas Keys.” He lifted the coin around his neck as proof.
“Yeah”—Alex frowned, narrowing her eyes—“that’s the part that doesn’t make sense to me. Unless the cannons fell overboard somehow. A rogue wave, maybe? Or else it’s possible the crew of the Santa Cristina tossed them to try to lighten their load in heavy seas.”
Olivia glanced back and forth between the two of them. Feeling the excitement radiating off Alex. Seeing the confusion in Leo’s eyes. Her Leo’s eyes. Holy hell! It felt so good to say that, even if the words were only in her head. Her Leo. Her Leo. Her—
“I don’t get it.” He shook his head, running a hand over his beard stubble and the scar that cut through the dense hair. “Are you sayin’ there’s more than one ringed island in the Keys?”
And now Alex was positively sparkling. She pointed out past the lagoon where waves piled up and swirled atop the underwater reef. “Four hundred years ago, sea levels were lower. Low enough to have that reef line sticking above the water. To anyone looking at Wayfarer Island circa 1624, it would’ve looked like a ring instead of a crescent moon.”
Leo became perfectly still, his hazel eyes zeroed in on the ocean beyond the reef. When he swallowed, Olivia heard his throat stick. Her heart was pounding, the hair all over her body standing straight as she laced her fingers through his. He squeezed her hand and said, his voice hoarse, “A-are you sayin’ you think the Santa Cristina is out there?” He pointed his chin in the direction of the salvage ship and the gently undulating waves beyond.
“That’s exactly what I think,” Alex squealed, biting her lip and clapping. “And I have more to show you as proof if—”
Neither one of them heard what she said after that because they only had eyes for each other. Leo was breathing heavily. So was Olivia. The excitement of the hunt for sunken treasure, combined with the thrill of new love, was almost too much to bear. “I don’t know what you had in mind to do with your time now that you’ve quit the—”
“I hadn’t gotten that far,” she admitted.
“So then what do you say to helping me search for the holy grail of ghost galleons?” he asked her, his deep voice full of awe, full of hope, full of happiness.
And she knew he was asking her more than the question implied. He was asking her to stay. Here. With him. He was asking her to build a life with him and share his dreams. He was asking her for forever. She said the only four words she could. “I say hell yeah!”
He pulled her into his arms, lifting her off her feet, laughing and spinning her around the beach. She laughed with him, sharing in his joy, his delight. And as she hugged him tight, her chin over his shoulder, she glimpsed the edges of his tattoo peeking from the neck of his T-shirt. Not All Treasure Is Silver and Gold. She’d never known truer words. Because she’d found her treasure in a brave, loyal, wonderful man. And the orphan in her had finally, finally found a home…
Epilogue
May 26, 1624…
He was drowning. No, he had drowned. He was sure of it. He had let the raging sea drag him and his beloved Santa Cristina to their watery deaths. But somehow, inexplicably, he was drowning. Again. Drowning still.
Could it be this was the price he was doomed to pay? Had the good Lord considered his final act not one of sacrifice, but one of suicide? Was this hell? Was he condemned to relive his last moments again and—
“Breathe, Captain!” a voice from afar yelled. A hard hand landed on his back with the force of a kicking mule and suddenly…
“Uhhhh!” He dragged in a ragged breath, coughing and hacking up great mouthfuls of seawater when someone pushed him onto his side. For a moment, his whole existence revolved around breathing, sucking in lungfuls of delicious salt-tinged air, expelling the lingering water from his chest and throat. Breathing, coughing, breathing… And then, little by little, the world came back to him. And it was a world of chaos, of madness. A world being ripped apart at the seams.
The wind shrieked like a crazed demon, howling in his ears until he wanted to raise his hands and cover them. The smell of briny water and
stirred-up silt mixed with the sour pungency of sweat and fear on his skin. He opened his eyes to see waves roaring to shore, hurtling themselves over the sand like great frothing beasts. A clump of palm trees near the beach lay over on their sides, struggling to retain their grip on terra firma as el huracán refused to give them quarter. One, then another was ripped from its precarious perch, and they surrendered themselves to the sea, rolling and breaking against the force of the waves.
His coat was missing, as was his dagger. A deep, agonizing burn told him he had sustained a wound to his thigh. A shooting pain when he dragged in another breath made it clear he had cracked a rib. But he was alive. Blessedly alive. Gracias a Dios! And so was Rosario…
He blinked the rain and salt spray from his eyes and saw his brave midshipman bending over him. “How many made the shore?” he yelled. The manic gale grabbed his words and flung them out to sea.
“Thirty-six!” Rosario screamed, pointing.
Bartolome looked in the direction of his finger and saw through the sheets of horizontal rain the small group of men gathered near the tree line. They were bedraggled, bleeding from various wounds sustained during the breakup of the ship and the swim across the cutting coral of the reef. Some of them were so broken they were being carried by the others. But there were thirty-six who had survived the mighty wreck of the Santa Cristina.
Thirty-six…
Which meant 188 had not. And those lives were lost because he had not been prepared to face Mother Ocean’s wrath so early in the season. Because he was arrogant and had not taken shelter sooner. He felt the weight of their deaths like a lodestone on his soul. He should not be alive. He was the captain. He was meant to go down with the ship. All the warmth of his momentary joy at being alive froze solid inside him.
Grabbing the front of Rosario’s shirt, he yanked the man down until they were face-to-face. “Why did you save me?” he bellowed as sand flew around them, stinging exposed skin. “You should have let me die with my ship! With my men!”
“Look, Captain!” Rosario shouted, pointing anew. When Bartolome followed the line of his finger past the frothing lagoon to where huge breakers exploded over the reef, he saw it. The Santa Cristina’s main mast. It jutted from the sea like a triumphant finger, pointing to the heavens as if beckoning to God. “You did it! She can be salvaged! All is not lost!”
And as Bartolome allowed his midshipman to pull him to his feet, satisfaction flickered to life inside the cold stone that was his heart. The great treasure of the Santa Cristina would rise again. For king and country!
Order Julie Ann Walker's next book
in the Black Knights Inc. series
Too Hard to Handle
On sale September 2015
Click here!
Order Julie Ann Walker's next book
in the Black Knights Inc. series
Too Hard to Handle
On sale September 2015
Click here!
Acknowledgments
I have to give major props to my husband, who didn’t bat a lash when I told him we needed to move to Key West for two months so I could do research for my new series. He just smiled, packed his bags, and put his life on hold to support the next step in my career. Thank you for your continuous and unquestioning encouragement, sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you!
A shout-out goes to the Wayward Souls crew—Sean, Whitney, John D., and my own sweet hubby. I said, “I need to know what it’s like to sail around the Caribbean,” and you all gamely hopped on board a rented catamaran for a weeklong adventure of epic proportions. Sunburns were sustained. A foot was broken. And bouts of seasickness were stoically withstood. Thanks, guys! This book is a far richer, far truer account of life at sea than it would have been otherwise.
I have to thank my agent, Nicole Resciniti, who encouraged me to start this series and then worked her ass off to make sure it was as good as it could be. Nic, I’m the luckiest author in the world to have you in my corner, throwing punches when I need you to and taking hits so I don’t have to. You rock!
And thanks to the residents of Key West. For two months at the beginning of 2014, you took me in, eagerly shared your stories and experiences (and boat drinks and chicken wings), and made me feel right at home. Cheers!
About the Author
Julie Ann Walker is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of award-winning romantic suspense. She has won the Book Buyers Best Award and has been nominated for the National Readers Choice Award, the Australian Romance Reader Awards, and the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award. Her latest release was named a Top Ten Romance of 2014 by Booklist. Her books have been described as “alpha, edgy, and downright hot.” Most days you can find Julie on her bicycle along the lakeshore in Chicago or blasting away at her keyboard, trying to wrangle her capricious imagination into submission.
Be sure to sign up for Julie’s occasional newsletter at: www.julieannwalker.com.
And to learn more about Julie, follow her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/jawalkerauthor and/or Twitter: @JAWalkerAuthor.
Thank you for reading!
At Sourcebooks we are always working on something new and exciting, and we don’t want you to miss out.
So sign up now to receive exclusive offers, bonus content, and always be the first to get the scoop on what’s new!
SIGN UP NOW!
Hell or High Water Page 32