SCOTTY KNEW OWEN couldn’t have been serious about the proposal. Nor, really, did she intend to marry him.
The lie just became so convenient as it grew, took on life, significance.
“Ma’am, if you’d like to go into the ICU, you can visit for a few minutes.”
Scotty got up from where she’d stretched out on the sofa in the family waiting room of the Providence Alaska Medical Center in Anchorage. A chill still embedded her bones despite the hypothermia treatment. They’d warmed her with blankets, finally let her shower, given her scrubs to wear, then released her to pace the halls as Owen underwent surgery.
She’d gotten ahold of Red and the crew. Listened to her old man’s tight voice. “Glad you made it in.”
She told him to finish hauling in the pots, but with half their crew gone, she doubted they’d finish, at least not before their delivery deadline.
But she couldn’t think about anything beyond Owen.
Her fiancé.
She’d thrown that word around like it belonged to her, and when she sat next to his bed in the ICU, the machines beeping, the oxygen hissing, she took his hand as if they might be high school sweethearts.
“Owen. Hon.” She didn’t even glance at the nurse, clad in friendly pink, examining his IV tube and taking his pulse. “You have to wake up. I’m so worried.”
The nurse touched her shoulder. “He’s in serious condition, but his blood pressure is holding strong. You’re marrying a toughie.”
She nodded and for a second could admit she longed for that outrageous, impossible happy ending.
Married to Owen Christiansen.
A man she barely knew. And she should get her head around that. Twelve hours in a raft didn’t mean they were soul mates.
Crewmates. Survivors. Not engaged.
The nurse left, and Scotty pitched her voice low. “Listen, if you’re freaking out about what I said in the boat, don’t. I know you weren’t serious about the proposal. You were trying to make me laugh or maybe stop me from thinking you were dying and going to abandon me on the high seas.”
And he would have, too, if it hadn’t been for . . . Well, she wouldn’t call it God. Maybe fate. Luck.
She didn’t know quite how to name it because now that she had land under her feet, she didn’t want to think about faith. She just wanted to think about the fact that they’d lived.
“And don’t worry; I haven’t picked out a dress or anything, so you can wake up. Hear me? You can wake up, Owen.”
He looked thinner, beat up, in the late-afternoon sun. Not like the man who’d jumped into a raging sea to save her. Or even the man who’d flirted with her, laughing, hiding his pain.
“You’re such a jerk. Yeah, that’s right, because guess what? You got me thinking about what it might be like to be married to you. And how annoying you’d be, all fun and games, not a serious bone in your body.”
Except he had gotten serious—enough to tell her about his life. His family. His mistakes.
She blinked back the burn in her eyes. Stupid Eye Patch, almost making her cry.
“I mean, we don’t know each other. Not really.” Even if he was the kind of man a girl might want to marry—his wide shoulders, blond hair, the way he looked up occasionally to find her watching him, to flash her a smile.
How she loved that smile.
And to discover that it came with a laugh that made her feel seen, even pretty . . . If she was going to marry anyone, ever, it might have been Owen Christiansen.
For a moment, she let herself linger there. Married to Owen—what would that be like? To have a family. More, to have a man who didn’t see her as a fellow deckhand or, worse, a boss. One of the guys.
They might build a life together, get a house, have children—little towheaded charmers like Owen and dark-haired spitfires like herself. Be a family.
Wow, that vision filled her, and she had to shake it away.
She had a life to get back to here in Alaska. And Owen . . . he just had to live.
She held his hand, ran her thumb over the IV. “So here’s what I was thinking. You wake up—we start with that—and then maybe we don’t get married, but we . . . we go to Deep Haven.” She looked up, hoping for a response. “Don’t be such a chicken. If your family is anything like what you described, they’ll be overjoyed to see you. And if it helps, I can lie a little and tell them you were brave.”
Please, Owen. She pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Even if he didn’t wake up, she planned on bringing him home. He deserved that much.
“Ma’am, your visitation is over.” The nurse, sneaking in behind her.
Scotty lifted her head, nodded, then leaned over and kissed Owen’s forehead. “Wake up, honey. Wake up.”
She walked out of the ICU, back to the waiting room. Settled on the sofa, closed her eyes.
“Coffee?”
The voice woke her and she opened her eyes, rubbed them. Carpie stood over her holding a steaming cup of joe from the cafeteria. He appeared wrung out, eyes bloodshot.
“Carp.” She stood as he put the coffee down and pulled her into his arms. She hung on, breathing in the solid warmth of him. “Where’s Red?”
“Aw, he’s outside in the truck. Smoking. You scared him pretty good. Needs to get his legs under him.”
“That’s Red for you. Mr. Emotional. He’ll be in when he knows everyone’s in the clear. Probably yell at me for making you guys work shorthanded.”
“Yeah, well, he seemed pretty emotional when he dropped the gear.”
“What?”
“All the pots, the rest of the line—still sitting at the bottom of the Bering Sea. I think he’s going to let the Alaska King pull it in, maybe give them half the take.”
“We’ll lose the boat!”
“We searched for you all night. He’d mobilized the fleet to find you, and when the Coast Guard radioed in that they’d grabbed you, he simply took off for Dutch Harbor at thirty knots. I swore we were going to die.”
“Sorry.”
“Took the first flight out of Dutch Harbor, left Juke and Greenie to unload, picked up his truck in Homer, and drove like a maniac only to sit in the parking lot for the last hour. I finally left him to stew.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I’ve never seen him so shaken up, Scotty.”
“Serves him right for nearly making me watch him die.”
Carpie made a face at the reminder of her helming the ship in a January storm as her father collapsed on the floor of the pilothouse. Maybe she didn’t want to remember either.
She and Red might not be close, but they were all they had.
Carpie shook his head. “You two are cut from the same cloth. I remember you threatening all the way to harbor that if he died, you’d follow behind and kill him again.”
She lifted the edge of her mouth, added a shrug.
“So how’s Owen?” Carpie sat next to her on the sofa.
“He broke a couple ribs when the wave hit, and they caused internal bleeding. His heart finally stopped and he nearly drowned in his own blood, but they were able to save him.”
“All I could do was pray. Just pray, for twelve hours.” He took her hand, squeezed, his voice suddenly wrecked. “I love you like you were one of my girls, Scotty. Don’t you do that to me again.”
A surge of warmth crested over her at his words, and she leaned in, wrapped her hand around his arm. “Bossy.”
“A ‘Yes, sir,’ will do.”
She grinned.
“I still can’t believe it happened,” Carpie said, reaching up to run a thumb under his eye. “One second I’m gulping in seawater; the next I look up and there Owen is diving into the ocean like he might be a superhero. Juke yelled at us to throw out the life raft and Greenie grabbed it, opened it to inflate it as it lifted off the boat. We tried to keep our light on it, but it vanished, just like Owen.” He cupped her hand on his arm. “Just like you.”
>
“He found me. If it wasn’t for Owen, I would be dead.”
She let that sit there a moment.
The door opened and the nurse popped her head in. “Ma’am, your fiancé is starting to wake up. If you’d like to go in and see him, you may.”
Next to her, Carp stilled.
“Thank you,” Scotty said, affecting a smile.
The nurse left. Scotty found her feet. “Not a word, Carp. It’s just—”
“You’re engaged? After twelve hours on the raft?” He pulled off his cap, ran a hand over his head. “Engaged. Wait until Red—”
“Not a word to Red.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s just . . . pretend, okay? Yeah, he proposed, but he didn’t mean it—”
“He proposed to you? And you said yes?”
Technically . . . She nodded.
“Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind? What happened in that raft?”
“Nothing!”
“Then you can’t marry Owen Christiansen.”
She stared at him. “Why not? You don’t think I’m marriage material?”
His face said it. The way his lips tightened into a revealing knot.
“You don’t!”
“Scotty—”
“What, you think I’m too . . . tough? Not tender enough?”
“Of course not. It’s just—Scotty, marriage isn’t something you try out. It’s for life. It’s all in, committed. And you’re . . .”
“You’re saying I’m not the marrying type. Thanks. Thanks for that.”
“I love you, Scotty. And by God’s grace you survived what most people never would. I’m not saying that you weren’t made for the sea, but you have to decide what life you want. Marriage, family? I’m all for that. But yesterday I was trying to talk you out of picking up your shield again. And now you’re engaged? What’s going on?”
She sucked in a breath, his words hitting her like a slap. “I don’t know, okay?” She pressed a hand to her head. “You’re right. I’m all messed up. Maybe I’m not marriage material.” She sank back onto the sofa. “I admit I’m a little tired of arresting people I know. But we’re clearly losing the boat, so what else do I have?”
Carpie shook his head. “I don’t know, honey, but I don’t think it includes marriage to a guy you hardly know.”
“A girl would be lucky to be married to Owen Christiansen. I think.”
Maybe that was simply hope talking, because yeah, Carpie was most definitely right. She’d lost her mind in a swirl of emotions that she squarely blamed on Owen “I-am-charming-even-when-dying” Christiansen. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to marry him.”
Carpie blew out a breath, his voice softening as if he were talking to his thirteen-year-old. “Good. Listen, you were dead set on returning to the force. If you want to do that, maybe stop by the Anchorage police station, see if you can start early. I know you’re not due to report for a couple weeks, but maybe they have a position available now. Will you do that before you run off to Vegas?”
She let a smile leak out. “Calm down. I bet he can’t even remember proposing.”
“Of course he remembers.” Carpie winked. “A guy never forgets proposing to a pretty girl.”
Sweet.
“I gotta go. I don’t want him to wake up without me.”
But as she stood, Carpie took her arm. “Scotty. Are you in love with him?”
She stiffened. Frowned. Stepped away. “No. Of course not.”
His expression fell. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Just . . . don’t let him break your heart.”
She made a noise of dismissal, chased it with a laugh. “I’m one of the guys, Carpie. And a crab fisherman. I got a tough hide. Just like Old Red.” Bending down, she popped a kiss on his weathered cheek. “Go home and say hi to the girls for me.”
She chewed over his words as she headed toward Owen’s room. Are you in love with him?
Maybe a little, if love felt like the pounding of her heart when he looked at her and the sense of panic thinking he might die.
If she let her emotions speak for her, then maybe her yes had really meant . . . yes.
She took a breath, pushed open the door to his room.
A man stood at Owen’s bedside, dressed in a leather jacket, flannel shirt, and jeans, his dark-brown hair curling just behind his ears. He folded his arms across his chest, his jaw tight.
Maybe he was a surgeon, checking in one last time before he headed home.
Owen, for his part, did seem to be stirring. Scotty glanced at the man, then walked over and took Owen’s hand. “It’s time to wake up . . . honey.” Just in case the doctor started to flex his visitation-rules muscles.
Owen’s eyes moved under his lids. She put her hand on his cheek. “That’s right. C’mon. Come back to me.”
“Excuse me,” the doctor said, his voice quiet. “Who are you?”
See, this was why she had clung to the lie, why she’d stepped into it, embraced it. For moments like this, when Owen was returning from the dead and some overzealous doctor wanted to kick her out of the room. Family only.
Right now she was all the family he had. She glanced at the doctor, affecting her skipper’s voice. “Me? I’m sorry; we haven’t met yet.” She held out her hand across the bed. “I’m his fiancée.”
The man took her hand, one eyebrow raised.
And then she heard it—Owen’s voice, muffled under the oxygen mask. She leaned over. “Sweetheart, I’m here.”
His gaze landed on her a moment, and questions filled his expression. Then suddenly warmth entered his blue eyes as, hopefully, it all rushed back to him.
She smiled. “You’re back.”
He nodded, but his gaze ranged past her, to the doctor.
And everything darkened. His eyes, his expression. It broke in a moment to a frown, confusion.
He reached up as if to grab his mask, but she caught his hand. “What is it?”
He spoke, but she couldn’t make it out, so she moved his mask aside. “What’s the matter, Owen?”
His focus stayed on the doctor, still unmoving beside the bed. “What are you doing here?”
“Swept overboard.” The man shook his head. “How epic.” He lifted his hand as if shaping the headline. “‘Former Hockey Player Lost at Sea.’ You could have died, Owen, and no one would have known. Mom would spend the rest of her years wondering—hoping you’d call. Waiting for nothing. Is that how you wanted to play this? Punish us all forever?”
Huh?
Owen swallowed, then looked at Scotty, such confusion on his face that she wanted to lean over him in a full-out body block and order this jerk from the room.
In fact . . . “Listen, mister, I don’t know who you are, but he’s been through enough. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
The man turned his gaze on her.
Wait. Mom, he had said. And in truth, if she put the two men side by side, they had the same high cheekbones, chiseled lips, a tightness to the jawline that could only be a genetic arrogance.
And then, as if Owen had the ability to crawl inside her thoughts and had been slightly conscious during all her visitation sessions, he stirred from his stillness, back to reality, and played along with their charade. “Honey, I want you to meet my brother, everyone’s sweetheart, Casper Christiansen.”
A guy just returning from the dead should have a few seconds to catch up. To ask questions.
Like . . . they’d lived? Apparently yes, based on the deep ache in Owen’s chest, the hiss of oxygen under his nose, his dry-as-ice mouth, and the way his heart monitor reminded him, with each beep, to hit his knees in gratitude.
He hadn’t died. And it got better because surely God had heard his prayers if he’d not only come out alive but had beautiful Scotty McFlynn sitting beside his bed, holding his hand, looking at him like she might cry?
In fact, he might have convinced himself he was still sleeping if it weren’t for the shocking sigh
t of Casper, in all his glory, rocking him back to the sins he couldn’t escape.
Which led to . . . what was Casper doing here?
“Everyone’s sweetheart. That’s rich, coming from the guy who’s most likely left a trail of broken hearts from one end of the country to the other,” Casper said.
Broken hearts? Owen glanced at Scotty, back to Casper, wanting to shut him up fast. Not that he’d hidden his past from Scotty, but he didn’t exactly want to hash out his torrid months of trying to work the grief out of his system.
“How’d you find me?” Owen said, his voice sounding as if he’d done hard time as a two-packs-a-day smoker. He cleared his throat.
“Why? Hoping to stay lost?” Casper said.
“Maybe.” He wished for a little more oomph, something that didn’t make him sound like a man on his deathbed. “But if I remember correctly, I wasn’t the only one who left without a forwarding address, so don’t get righteous on me.” Owen’s voice faded and he licked his lips.
Scotty glanced at him, frowning. And in her glance he saw the quiet, hardworking guy he’d cultivated over the past months dissolve into the angry has-been athlete he’d been trying to outrun.
Shoot.
Casper’s other eyebrow rose. “If I’d stayed, it would have ended badly.”
“For you maybe.” Aw, he wanted to wince at his own words. What was it about his brother—?
Scotty had grabbed his water. Now she angled the straw toward him and leaned close. “Your brother is here. Right here. And you nearly died. Be nice.”
Yes. Of course. But he couldn’t shake away the sense of being dressed down.
Casper shifted as if debating his words. “I came back. On my own. No one had to hunt me down.”
“Are you looking for some kind of thank-you? I don’t need my big brother to drag me by the ear back home.”
“Prove it.”
There it was, the condescension, the sense of competition between them that simmered right below the surface. The sense that Casper was always egging him on to be better, stronger.
Well, he had been, thank you. Who was the one who’d played professional hockey while the other brother talked about hoboing around the world hunting for lost treasure?
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