by Karen Rock
Nolee peered through her salt-crusted pilot window at the calm blue sea, her belly anything but settled. Last night, she’d tossed and turned, her tumbling thoughts making her dizzy and a little sick as she’d replayed her conversation with Dylan. How much longer could she avoid telling him the truth about their breakup?
She’d seduced him rather than discuss her real reasons for not setting him straight about Craig. But it’d gone too far. Their night of decadent pleasure now left her aching for him, craving more. Yet she couldn’t be that emotionally vulnerable with him. Wouldn’t go down that painful road again.
The more he questioned, the more she questioned herself.
Dylan’s tall, sleek frame appeared below. The sun came out from behind a cloud and she had to squint to see him properly. The tight knit cap he’d donned accentuated his gorgeous angular face. His hearty laugh boomed through her speaker. Long strides carried him effortlessly across the sea-washed deck as he pointed this way and that to the scuttling crew. They hurried to obey his every order.
God, she wanted him. That hadn’t changed. Nor had her regrets.
Had she been wrong to let him think she’d been cheating with Craig? She’d been furious at his quick assumption back then, but she couldn’t level all the blame on Dylan.
Deep down, she’d feared he might tempt her to leave. Her mother’s observation that Nolee had other reasons for refusing to move away returned to her. Could some of that be fear of the unknown? A dread for moving from house to house as she had growing up, never one space, one home, to call her own?
She shoved open a porthole. Time to clear her head. Focus.
Crisp sea air wafted inside the wheelhouse. Seagulls shrieked and dive-bombed the low-breaking crests. She blinked stinging eyes and studied the bustling crew. Behind them, the skies were clearing to a bright, vivid blue, the sea becalmed. It was the kind of sight that filled the heart with optimism. Yet Nolee couldn’t feel settled with so much in question.
And right now, besides her resurging feelings for Dylan, the biggest question mark was today’s catch.
She read the GPS coordinates she’d noted in her logbook yesterday and scanned her monitor. Closing in. They’d arrive at the start of the string in a couple of minutes.
She pulled down her gooseneck mic. “Ready crew. Coming up on our first pot.”
Dylan turned and gave her a thumbs-up, his killer smile flashing beneath the heartbreaking blue of the sky. “Roger, Captain.”
Her breath caught at the sun dancing on his handsome face, the sparkle in his eyes. He was in his element here. Rugged. Untamed. Proud. He might not think of himself as a product of Alaska, but he was. Every gorgeous inch of him.
Wesley scrambled to the winch while Tyler lit a cigarette with a welding torch before passing it to Flint. Jo paused to speak to Wesley a moment, the two briefly touching hands before she headed to the rail.
Nolee’s adrenaline surged. The first red-and-white marker appeared off her starboard side. She slowed her engine speed and maneuvered over the pot. Their first haul had the potential to set the emotional tone for the crew for the entire trip. Full, and they’d be hyped up and excited; empty, and they’d be anxious and discouraged.
Come on. Come on...
Dylan grabbed a grapple hook and she guided the Pacific Dawn closer, working with the current, the wind. Forty feet out. Thirty. Twisting at the waist, he let loose, hurling it toward the drifting line.
“Hooked it!” shouted Flint and she grinned, euphoria glowing so bright inside it made her blink fast. Dylan had always been the best thrower she knew; he hadn’t let her down.
She waited, breathless, as he reeled it in, hand over hand, until he had enough line to pass to Flint.
The older sailor threaded the dripping rope into the winch’s spinning gears and the unmistakable click, click, click rattled through her PA system. She eyed the ship’s edge and waited for a glimpse of this all-important first pot.
Let it be filled...
More grinding. It sounded heavy.
“Let’s see what we got, boys!” she hollered into the PA.
“Come on, Krabby Patty!” shouted Tyler, jumping up and down from both excitement and cold, Nolee guessed.
Her heart drummed.
The top of the cage appeared and her breath seized.
“Here we go!” Jo called.
“Survey says...” Flint thundered.
She stared intently as the pot rose over the starboard side, dripping, seaweed dangling from it, half full.
Half full!
“YeeeeeeAAH!” roared the group.
“That’s what’s up!”
“Yes, it is.”
The exalting crew began shoveling the waving, squirming gray crab out of the pot and onto the sorting table. All but Dylan cheered.
“All I’m seeing is dollar bills!”
“First pot of the opi season—how ’bout that!”
She labored to keep the boat in position, waiting to see if the haul was good enough for them to set the pot back in the same spot. Cautious excitement built, but she kept it in check. She closely watched the inexperienced crew. A large haul and a good haul weren’t always the same thing.
The sorting table would tell the tale.
The cheers faded as they hooked the metal table to the tank chute.
“What’s it look like?” she asked anxiously.
Dylan shook his head, disappointment weighing down his sculpted features. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Mostly juvenile males. Some females.”
The reality walloped her like a punch, and she swore through gritted teeth. The worst possible catch. If they hadn’t found a school of legals, then a thankless day stretched ahead full of backbreaking work, unloading crab they couldn’t keep.
“Tim!” Flint hollered. “Your puke string sucks!”
Within minutes they’d sorted the catch. Illegals, undersized males or any size females were tossed into the wastebin and dumped overboard. The rest were flung into the tank.
“How many?” she asked wearily.
Dylan held up three fingers, then made a circle with his hand.
“Thirty?” she repeated dully, just to be sure of the dismal number. Her stomach base jumped and splatted somewhere near her feet. She needed to average two hundred a pot to meet her quota.
Dylan nodded slowly and she averted her gaze. Noted the number in her logbook. She didn’t have to see his face to know the expression he wore. It must mirror her own feelings. Concern. Disappointment...and maybe...justifiably for him...a bit of an I-told-you-so.
“Don’t set it back.” She scribbled the dismal number in her logbook then drove the boat to the next marker as Dylan turned back to the crew.
He’d advised her to ask for help in locating the schools. She hadn’t wanted anyone else’s advice or guidance, though.
Why? came the swift question.
Her old childhood feeling of helplessness, powerlessness arose. A dark specter.
She’d always considered independence an asset. Relying on people put you at their mercy, your life theirs to control. Yet now she wondered if her determination to go it alone could also be a liability. Did she actually need others like Captain Bill? Dylan even?
And was it safe?
She liked having Dylan on board. He was a natural. Clearly, he belonged here and she wished he belonged to her, too... But he’d be gone soon, his dislike of Kodiak as bone-deep as her love of this place. Given his transfer plans, and her resolve to stay, they could never work. She wouldn’t waste time trying to change his mind.
No matter how sorely Dylan Holt tempted her.
* * *
“COME ON, BUD. One more bottle. Drink until it hurts.”
Dylan sat up in his bu
nk at the sound of Nolee’s voice coming through the wall a few days later. The ship swayed, the engines burbled and his roommates slept on heavily. He peered at the battery-operated alarm clock. Hours left until dawn. No one should be awake except for the relief captain, Stu, who helmed the boat now. Especially Nolee. She’d just finished another fifteen-hour shift driving them back to fishing grounds after meeting their first offload date in Dutch Harbor.
And it’d been a dismal, disappointing one at that. Their low count and meager payout from the seafood processing plant had kept her on the phone most of the afternoon, reassuring her bosses. When he tried taking her aside, she’d dodged the attempt as she had the past few days.
So who was she talking to now?
He slid out of his bunk and padded silently into the pitch-dark galley. Light spilled from the berth beside his. Stu’s bunk was empty. Jo snored softly on a top bunk. Tyler twisted atop his bed frame, holding his calf, face contorted.
Leg cramps.
Dehydration.
Dylan swore beneath his breath. He should have noticed signs. They’d all been preoccupied as they’d hustled to ready pots ahead of another grinding day tomorrow. Though that was no excuse for anyone getting sick on his watch.
The fact that a heavy-lidded Nolee, who’d chatted and cracked jokes with the crew at dinner despite her evident exhaustion, had spotted the problem, caught him off guard. Kept his bare feet rooted to the floor as he stood silent witness to this unexpected exchange.
She was dressed, as always, in her sexy tough-guy gear that did nothing to conceal her shape. Her body was the kind men went stupid over. Lush high breasts filled out a black tank top that accentuated her muscular arms. Low-riding camouflage pants cupped the sweet curve of her ass and revealed a mouthwatering glimpse of toned stomach. The top of her anchor tattoo peeked above the waistband. Her long black hair was all over the place, a tangled mass that tumbled past her shoulders.
She shoved a jar of green liquid into Tyler’s hand.
A rueful grin spread across Dylan’s face. Pickle juice. A fisherman’s remedy for muscle cramps.
“Come on,” she urged. “Down the hatch.”
Tyler lurched upright, grabbed the drink and sipped. When he tried handing it back to Nolee, she shook her head, her mouth set in that firm way he recognized all too well. She was a tough cookie. But she had her tender side, too.
And an intoxicating, wanton nature that exhilarated him. Kept him on a high state of alert. And ready.
Semper Paratus.
His groin tightened.
He was always ready for her.
“All of it,” Nolee urged, tipping her beautiful face. The artificial light gleamed on her cheekbones. Cast shadows beneath her dark, magnetic eyes.
Tyler finished it off then flopped back on his pillow. The jar tumbled from his fingers. Green liquid trickled onto his brown coverlet. He shoved his hands behind his head and screwed his eyes shut.
“Better?”
Tyler’s nod swerved into a head shake. “I want to quit.”
Nolee froze, halfway to standing, then perched back on the bunk. Dylan’s heart thudded. They couldn’t lose more crew. Tim still worked at limited capacity with his rib injury. And who the hell knew when another newbie might get hurt or worse? Even an experienced hand like himself?
Shit happened.
Dylan waited for a classic Nolee ass chewing, already feeling sorry for the greenhorn. What she said next, however, made his mouth drop.
“Me, too, sometimes.”
Tyler’s eyes cracked open. “No way.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“Nah. It’s just. You’re Captain Arnauyq.”
“And you’re Tyler Sanders. A Bering Sea badass. One of us now, dude.”
His lids rose further and a snort-laugh escaped him. “An ass maybe. I couldn’t hook more than a couple of pots all week. Dylan had to do almost all of ’em.”
Reflexively, Dylan rubbed his sore biceps and nearly strode in to assure Tyler. He was doing great for his level of experience and fitness. He shouldn’t compare himself to Dylan.
As a Coast Guard swimmer, he was trained for numbing endurance work. He needed it, in fact. It was why he worked out four to six hours a day until his body became a highly efficient instrument, designed for arduous life-and-death rescues. A civilian and a rescuer weren’t in the same league. But Tyler’s mental toughness was half the battle. He needed to know that.
But out of respect for Nolee, Dylan waited to see what she said next.
She shrugged. “So you’ll get it tomorrow. Or the next day. You think anyone gets anything perfectly on the first try?”
“Some do.”
She blew a dangling strand of hair out of her face and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well. We hate those people.”
Tyler laughed and Dylan bit back his own chuckle. Yes. He and Nolee had bonded over their mutual dislike of people who had it easy.
When he’d opened up about his favored brother, confided about his hypercritical oppressive father, the man who’d called Dylan a waste of space, she’d listened.
Commiserated.
Urged him to stop living in others’ shadows and pursue his own path. Even if it carried him away from her.
She lifted her chin and eyed Tyler down her strong nose. “You’ve got what it takes.”
His heart twisted at her encouragement. She’d had faith in him like that when no one, except his uncle, had... And how had he repaid that support? With distrust. Withdrawal. Blame without even once stopping to ask for her side of the story.
He’d always assumed life would dish him out the worst. It might be an ideal mindset for a high-stakes rescuer who needed to anticipate every scenario. But it’d let him down when it came to Nolee. No. He’d let himself down. Then and now.
He’d jumped to conclusions.
Hadn’t asked the right questions. Hadn’t asked any questions.
He’d stopped persisting with them now, too.
But that ended tonight. He would seek Nolee out and get to the bottom of it. More important than getting answers, though, was what he needed to give her.
An apology.
“You think so?” Tyler rubbed his eyes hard.
“No one else had the guts to sign on with me after the ship went down.”
“Except Flint and Stu.”
“Stu’s a stubborn cuss and Flint’s just plain crazy.”
Tyler’s laugh was huge. Walloping. Nolee joined him, the sexy sound of her merriment teasing awake Dylan’s senses. Heat rushed over his skin.
He’d forgotten how funny she could be. Caring, despite the fierce independence that hid her softer side.
And so damn hot.
Suddenly Tyler sat up and lifted his calf. Turned it. “Hey. My leg doesn’t hurt.”
Nolee’s eyes lit from within and her mouth curved. “Good, because I’m putting you on the grapple hook again this week.”
Tyler ducked his head. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure.”
His eyes rolled up to meet hers. “You think maybe I got what it takes to—uh—be a captain someday?”
Nolee angled her head and studied him a minute, as if taking his measure. Tyler’s clenched hands bunched the blanket fabric. He seemed not to breathe. Neither did Dylan.
At last she nodded. “Someone once told me something I’ve never forgotten.”
Tyler’s eyes widened and he nodded for her to continue.
“Never, never, NEVER give up.”
Nolee.
Those words.
Brow scrunched, Tyler eyed her. Skeptical. “Uh. Okay.”
“Winston Churchill said that.”
And me, Dylan thought. He’d
quoted that to Nolee when they’d battled through a particularly rough run their first year together as greenhorns. She’d been ready to quit, and he’d just realized how much he’d needed her to stay.
She hadn’t forgotten.
And nor should he.
He’d given up. Quit on her. Remorse swamped him but surging feelings pushed it back. He didn’t have a lot of time left in Kodiak, but he wouldn’t waste another moment of it without Nolee.
“’Night, Captain.”
She stood and Dylan slunk back in the shadows, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping on Tyler’s personal moment. It would humiliate the guy.
He held his breath as Nolee swerved to the wheelhouse entrance and jogged up the stairs without seeing him.
He shifted his weight from one foot to another. His thoughts chugged as hard as the gears thrumming beneath the floorboards.
Tyler’s lights flicked off and Dylan crept up the passage after Nolee. His blood pounded through his veins with a near-audible swish.
He was done waiting.
Time for answers.
And no distractions.
In fact, if anyone did the distracting...this time, it’d be him.
10
NOLEE KICKED OFF her work boots and camo pants, flopped back on her captain’s bunk and scooched up until her head sank into her thick pillow. The small, triangle-shaped stateroom bobbed gently with the motion of the sea. Lulling her. She breathed in the briny, woody smell of the slanted walls and a long exhale fluttered her lips as she stared up at the stars visible through her skylight.
What a long, arduous, thankless week.
It’d been humiliating and damn discouraging to offload such a meager haul yesterday. Word of their arrival in Dutch Harbor spread the moment they’d tossed their first line. Her bosses’ phone call shouldn’t have surprised her. For a moment, she’d contemplated sending them straight to voice mail. Avoid the lecture completely, just as she’d steered clear of a stern-faced Dylan. She didn’t need their dire warnings, threats and reminders to fill the quota, or else.
And she especially wanted to avoid overly cautious Dylan’s I-told-you-so. He’d never understand why she needed to take these risks and prove that she could do this on her own.