by Karen Rock
“Bait!” hollered Tyler, one of the more experienced on deck. Which wasn’t saying a lot. Unlike all but Flint and the relief captain, Stu, he’d at least been on a crab-fishing boat before. He and Jo, a long, lanky woman with a mop of black curly hair and serious eyes, guided the steel trap toward the launcher. It dangled from a blue crane operated by their engineer, Wesley.
“Coming up!” Dylan shouted and propelled a green-faced Tim to the ice chest, which held stacks of thirty-pound cod and fifty-pound frozen bait blocks used in their setups. “You’re on,” he shouted above the roaring engine.
Tim wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his slicker and stumbled away.
Dylan swerved back to the rails to oversee the important first launch. Green-and-yellow-raingear-clad crew gathered there, skidding feet encased in black rubber boots, hoods pulled up over ball caps, the men’s faces shrouded in dripping beards. With only three weeks to fish and a large quota to make, they had to get this right.
“Keep an eye out,” he barked when a swinging pot nearly decapitated an approaching Tim. Headless carcasses dangled from each hand as he trudged across the angling deck. Like the other greenhorns, he struggled to find his footing as he tried going one way and the boat pushed him in the opposite direction. It’d be a miracle if he wasn’t washed overboard on his first day.
Dylan swore under his breath. One newbie was dangerous enough, but a crew full of them? Suicide. A huge gamble. One he wouldn’t let Nolee take alone. Crab fishing was one of the deadliest jobs in the world. A huge payoff coupled with greater risk. It tempted the inexperienced to give it a shot, but few could hang with the Bering Sea. How would their fledgling crew perform? This first day would tell the tale.
“Let’s see what you’re made of!” bawled Flint.
“Off the rails!” came Nolee’s order over the PA and they scrambled backward as a tall wave pelted them. Tyler grabbed the crane and pulled his feet up and out of the way. Jo and Flint looped their arms through tethered cages. Tim nearly toppled and Dylan steadied the kid as the arctic water doused them.
“That was a curler,” boomed Stu, hooting with the rest of the group as the dragging water receded. He was bearded and paunchy, a short, stout man with humorous eyes.
Tim shoved himself backward inside the loaded pot, hooked the two cod in the center and scuttled out.
“After a hundred pots today, that won’t be a bad workout,” drawled Flint, a limp cigarette clamped between his pale lips.
“Okay guys,” came Nolee’s voice over the PA system. “First pot of this opi season. Let her go!”
The crew whooped while Jo and Tyler secured the trapdoor. An impromptu dance broke out, Flint leading the way as he pinched his fingers together overhead and shuffled left then right.
“Do the crabby dance, Tim!” yelled a red-faced Tyler as he did some kind of jig that made even stoic Jo smile.
“For good luck!” Flint snapped a hand beneath the boy’s nose.
“Nah,” Tim said, shaking his head, his face leached of color.
The Pacific Dawn tilted again, and the boat groaned as another swell rose and smacked them straight across the chins.
“You just got sea-kissed,” guffawed Flint as Tim blinked blindly through the water streaming off his brow.
“We’re naming this set ‘Tim’s puke string’ for good luck,” added Stu. He tugged the last knot on the pot door tight, then turned. “Let’s see if it gets us a little somethin’ somethin’.”
Stu signaled to Wesley, who now manned the hydraulics, and the launcher tilted toward the ocean with a mechanical whine. The steel trap toppled, splatted into the choppy ocean, then disappeared below the agitated murk.
Dylan snatched the attached red buoy and white marker and hurled them after the disappearing pot.
Bring us some crab, he thought, sending that silent wish down to the depths with it.
“Rig the pots. Next launch in three minutes,” Dylan ordered as Nolee steamed ahead.
“If that wheel ain’t turnin’ then we ain’t earnin’,” added Stu with a wink.
“Gotta fill the tank to put money in the bank,” Flint mumbled as he cupped his hand around his mouth and tried relighting his cigarette for the third time, the brisk wind snatching the flame away.
“Let’s go, boys!” Dylan called, “and gal,” and the group raced to launch the next pot.
Eight hours later, Dylan poured himself a cup of coffee in the cramped galley and turned, nearly bumping into a freshly showered Nolee. Any lethargy he’d felt earlier vanished at the sight of her. Dark tendrils of hair clung to her dusky cheeks. Wet spiky lashes framed her beautiful brown eyes. The scent of her shampoo rose from her damp head and he shoved his hands into his pockets, willing himself not to reach for her.
The rich, creamy smell of Flint’s clam chowder filled the small space, dominated by overflowing cabinets and a small, built-in seating area that held five of the seven crew members. They clutched the table, which was clamped to the floor, arms shooting out to stop salt, pepper or mugs sliding off. The floor hummed with an almost constant vibration, the engine noise juddering below their feet.
Nolee’s eyes, when they met Dylan’s, were raw and red-rimmed from exhaustion. The temptation to haul her upstairs to her quarters and wipe away her fatigue in the most pleasurable way possible seized him. He wanted to still her nervous hands and shifting feet with a kiss that would render her senseless. He settled for grabbing her a cup of coffee, wondering what had gotten into him that he was pursuing a woman who was exactly all wrong for him.
“Thank you,” she said, her husky voice rough with strain. She’d worked eighteen hours straight, but no one would know it from her rigid back and set chin unless they looked closely, the way he was.
“You’re welcome.” He sank his eyes into hers.
Their fingertips grazed, a light touch that reminded him he hadn’t gotten to do half the things he wanted to do with her the other night. When he closed his eyes, he saw her flushed, passionate face. The arch of her neck when he’d buried himself inside her. Her throaty cries in his ear. The sweet smell of her breath as she’d fallen asleep in his arms like she belonged there.
She sidled by, grabbed a bowl and ladled herself some chowder. After snagging a spoon from the drawer, she turned and leaned against the cabinets, her gaze sweeping over the hunched crew.
“Good job, boys.” And then, with a tired smile, she added, “Better get some shut-eye. We’ll be hauling ’em back out in six.”
Flint’s dark frown snuffed out the greenhorns’ groans. “Nice work yourself, Captain.”
She crumbled oyster crackers into her soup. “How are you feeling, Tim?”
Dylan watched the crew member closely. Tim struggled to sit straighter, gave up and winced, holding the ribs Dylan had taped a couple of hours ago after two fifty-pound blocks of frozen cod fell on him in the freezer. “Okay, I guess.”
No wheezing or difficulty breathing. Not a punctured lung. It could have been far, far worse.
“Hydro, magic,” guffawed Tyler and the rest of the table burst out laughing at the reference to the painkiller. “We’ll have you hooking and sorting tomorrow.”
“We’ll see,” mused Nolee, her expression thoughtful. “If he’s not better, you’ll be working a five-man deck.”
The boat’s back-and-forth motion sent a bottle of hot sauce spinning off the table.
“Agreed. I’ll reevaluate before the shift,” Dylan interjected, snatching the jar before it hit the laminate floor. As a level-one EMT, he could spot a major complication, like pneumothorax, before it put the crew member in jeopardy.
“We’ll handle it,” Stu put in as he clomped inside the wheelhouse to take the next shift at the wheel for Nolee. He shed his oilskin, bringing with him the cold, damp air, his face shining with sea spray.
Dylan’s eyes met Nolee’s and then her lashes dropped, her gaze sliding away. She leaned an arm on a stack of plates as the boat rocked. He didn’t have to read her mind to know what she thought. What they both thought.
A six-man crew full of rookies was hard enough. Down an extra man and their already difficult task became near to impossible. Yet he’d push on as he knew Nolee would. They were in it together, he silently communicated to her bent head.
Dylan rose as Nolee headed outside. He donned a coat, shoved down the latch and emerged onto the unlit deck.
The bitter fresh air assailed him, and he could feel the briny scent float into his nose. Tasted the salt on his lips. Heard the ceaseless waves churning the vast black sea.
At last he spied Nolee leaning against the far end of the pilothouse. Her hair had fallen across her face, half concealing a worried frown as she stared out at the seagulls swooping alongside the ship. She glanced up at him sharply when he joined her.
He raised his voice above the thumping and grinding engines and said, “Great job today.”
She shook her head before releasing a long breath. “Do you think we’ll need to take Tim back to port for an X-ray?”
He thought of the tens of thousands of dollars she stood to lose if they had to head back now. “Can’t say yet. But it’s possible,” he said, then added, “There are real consequences to consider, for other people beyond yourself, when taking big risks...” He wondered if perhaps he also meant himself.
When she looked at him, the full force of her concern hit him square on. “You think I don’t care about the crew?”
Do you care about me? he nearly asked, but clamped his lips shut. He tried hard to keep his breath steady in his chest. “You said I didn’t know you. Let me know you again.”
Above them, in the Alaskan sky, the stars glittered like ballroom lights, bathing the seas with silver. Unable to keep his distance any longer, he pushed back her hood and slid a hand down her cheek before he hauled her up against him. The feel of her pressed to him didn’t compare with the sexy gasp from her lips. The sound tripped down his spine like a lover’s fingertip.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Craig?”
Her lids lifted. Eyes flared and she stiffened. Pulled back. “It’s not my fault if you make snap decisions about people...rushing to judgment and turning your back on them.”
Stunned, he stared at her. So their split was now his fault?
Tense silence crackled between them, broken only by the sound of the sea and the boat cutting a white swath through the ocean. A strangled noise escaped her and with an anguished look, she shoved him away and escaped back inside.
He stared into the black night. Breathed out, bracing himself against the movement of the ship. Turned into the arctic wind blasting from the north.
Had he broken Nolee’s heart? All these years he’d thought himself the wounded party. Betrayed. How would his life be different if he’d taken the time to understand instead of running from the first sign of rejection from someone he loved?
And would he want his life to be different? The thumping and banging of his heart answered.
He stared out at the diamond-freckled sky, the white foam trailing through inky waters.
He hadn’t thought he had regrets.
But now he wondered.
If she hadn’t made the choice for him, would he have been happy staying with her in Kodiak?
Doubt slipped in like an eel. He shoved it back. His feelings were irrelevant. His life was set.
Nolee hadn’t wanted him. Still didn’t, given her about-face after they’d made love.
No matter how much a part of him might wish otherwise.
9
“WE’VE GOT A hundred pots to pull and good weather to do it,” Nolee instructed the bleary-eyed crew the next morning. “But don’t let the calm fool you. It’s still deadly out there. Be careful on the rail and keep your footing.”
Twenty-four hours had passed since she’d set her first string. Time to bring the traps aboard and see if her gamble to fish in this distant spot paid off. Nerves rippled in her stomach. Concentric, nauseating rings.
Please, please, give us a big haul.
Dylan leaned against the galley’s small double sink. There was a current of sexual tension that caused their eyes to keep meeting and sliding away, then meeting again. Nolee’s skin flushed warm and she felt a heightened awareness of everything: the smells of coffee and bacon, the edge of his thermal shirt against the bronzed skin of his neck, her own hand reaching for the sugar.
With his fitted, long-sleeved shirt accentuating ridges and rises in all the right places, dark scruff on his lean jaw, his cropped curls tousled, Dylan had that just-rolled-out-of-bed, rumpled, sexy-as-hell look. Her heartbeat pounded loudly in her ears, the memory of that hard male body pressed up against her still tormenting her every waking minute.
For a moment she let herself fantasize about staying inside today. Locking herself in her private quarters with the powerful, compelling swimmer. Having him all to herself. The room was 90 percent bed and what she wanted to do to him on it... A bolt of desire hit her right between the thighs. Looking into his heated eyes, she imagined he was thinking the same thing, and it was all she could do to keep herself from flushing scarlet.
Keep your head in the game.
Eye on the prize.
Dylan was a momentary fling, she told herself. Something she could fantasize about but never have again. She had to focus on her job, her life, and especially her heart, which could all too easily fall for Dylan again if she wasn’t careful.
“Let’s do it!” Flint shouted, fired up. He smacked rough weathered hands together in a loud clap.
“What about Tim?” asked Jo as she emerged, dressed, from the shower, rubbing her long wet hair with a towel. Wesley dropped his bacon slice and stared at her, mouth open, until Tyler nudged him and guffawed.
Dylan finished his oatmeal and turned to the sink. “He’s staying in the rack today,” he said over his shoulder.
“I believe he’s feeling a bit better,” Wesley put in, looking a bit recovered, the tips of his ears a bright pink. His eyes hadn’t left Jo.
“A bruised rib. Possibly a hairline fracture. Another day of rest and he’ll be good to go,” Dylan said, his commanding baritone filling the room as easily as his brawny body.
Nolee had been so relieved when Dylan gave her Tim’s update a half hour ago, her knees had turned to jelly. He was stable, but she’d erred on the side of caution and given him the day to recuperate, even though it’d slow her down and cost more time...
And money.
Would the reduced crew be able to pull off this demanding day?
Flint and Wesley swapped an uneasy look. Resolve fired through her. Hesitation, fear, second-guessing—they had no place in crab fishing. Not with the margin of error, the price of your livelihood, your life, razor thin. It was time to talk tough.
“Stay on board and just run,” she directed, squaring her jaw and raising her chin. Her gaze swept over the crew, keeping eye contact until they each nodded at her. Sat up straighter. “That’s all you have to do. Good luck. Stay safe.”
Dylan stowed his dish and turned to the crew. “Green light!” he barked. The galvanized group scrambled. They grabbed their raingear from hooks by the portal and bolted outside.
He was good with the crew, she mused. After yesterday’s grueling slog, the newbies could have woken sullen, in pain and unmotivated. Yet they’d responded well to her and Dylan. No matter the tensions and secrets between them, they still made a damn good team. Could she have done this without him?
No, came the swift, unsettling answer. She swatted it away. She wouldn’t be dependent on Dylan. Or anyone.
“Just remember. Fishing isn’t life-or-death...”
He drew close, placed a calloused finger under her chin and tipped it up so that she met his warm eyes. Awareness skittered down her spine to pool at its base and tingle through her hips.
“...it’s more important,” she finished for him, breathless. She couldn’t stop her mouth from quirking at the corny saying Captain Bill used when they’d fished with him on the Easy Rider.
They’d thought it crazy then, but now, in light of everything...it didn’t sound so nuts.
Dylan’s eyes lingered on her lips, then rose. The slow drag of his gaze set her alight. He stroked a fingertip up the side of her neck and watched her as she shivered in response to the feathery caress. The musky scent of his soap tempted her, making her knees weak with the urge to wrap herself around him.
Right here. Right now.
The rest of the world be damned.
Her smile faded and Dylan gathered her hands in his. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, and she nearly died at the sexy promise in his eyes. The heat they’d ignited last week simmered again, reminding her it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
“Kick ass, Nolee,” he said, his voice tender. Gruff. Deep.
Blinking, she tried to ignore the hedonistic wants of her body to make sense of his words.
“Same, asshole,” she murmured shakily, another of their old exchanges from easier times...when life and love hadn’t become so damn complicated.
His eyes gleamed and then, with a wink, he squeezed her hands, turned and followed the fishermen out the door. She stared at the closed portal and shivered at the blast of cold, damp air that’d curled inside before he shut the door.
Move it, girl.
She gave herself a little shake, grabbed another cup of coffee and headed upstairs. A moment later, she dropped into her captain’s chair, blew on her steaming coffee and set it beside her radar screen. Around her, the dials and maps of the pilothouse stared back mutely, oblivious of the day’s significance. A clockwise sweeping band updated the monitor.