Don't Let Go

by Marliss Melton

  “Oh, God!” Jordan cried, following him on wobbly legs. She could feel the roll of the water beneath her feet. It wreaked havoc on her queasy stomach. “Silas, please!” she cried, collapsing on a padded box. “Sit down.”

  “Go faster!” Silas called, ignoring her to shout up encouragement at his father. To her horror, he ran for the front of the boat to watch the bow cut through the water as they moved forward now, heading for the mouth of the inlet toward the Chesapeake Bay.

  “Silas!” Jordan tried to get up and follow him, but her legs gave out. They were tingling now, as were her hands and feet. Little black spots obstructed her vision. To her horror, she could feel the bile rising inexorably toward her esophagus.

  Oh, help. The waves were getting bigger, and Silas was riding the swells, grinning like a pirate, his hair ruffling in the breeze. He had no idea that he could slip on the deck that was wet from the spray and crack his head open. He was small enough to slide right under the railing, into the swells.

  The instinct to go after him battled her phobia. How big would the waves get? How long could Silas hang on before he was tossed off? With sweating, white-knuckled hands, she clung to her tenuous seat. To her horror, the black spots in her vision spread. Her mouth watered in advance warning that she was going to lose her lunch.

  She had just enough time to lean out over the railing, risking death by drowning, to avoid the humility of having to clean up the deck—or worse, watch Solomon do it.

  With her stomach empty, she prayed for the nausea to pass, but it didn’t. Jordan collapsed back on the box, feeling like a puddle in a life vest, too weak to move or even open her eyes, bathed in a clammy sweat.

  Solomon heard Silas patter up the metal steps to the pilot room. “Careful,” he warned. “Hold the railing.”

  “Mith Jordan is pukin’ her gutths out,” Silas reported.

  Solomon wrested his gaze from the channel markings to Silas’s expectant gaze. He immediately shifted into neutral, sending the houseboat into a gliding standstill. There were no other boats in the inlet to worry about. He left the wheel to assess Jordan’s condition for himself.

  He found her pale-faced, eyes closed, clutching the rail behind her like she would slip bonelessly to the deck if she let go. “Jordan,” he called, patting her clammy cheek.

  Her indigo eyes fluttered open, a colorful contrast to her green complexion. “Bend over and put your head between your knees,” he instructed, recognizing her symptoms. “Silas, go inside and fetch a wet cloth. Walk!” he added, as Silas took off at a run.

  Jordan’s reddish brown hair hid her profile as it hung to the deck. Solomon gathered it in his hands, enjoying the cool, silky glide of it through his fingers as he hunkered down to assess her recovery. “Breathe through your nose, slow and steady.”

  “Why?” she choked out after a minute of steady breathing. “Why did you do this to me? I told you I get seasick!”

  Feeling bad, he delayed an answer as he took the sodden paper towel Silas brought back and wrung it out. “Sit up,” he said, patting her face with it, relieved to see some pink return to her cheeks. “I wanted to prove a point, Jordan,” he admitted, causing her head to jerk back and her eyes to flash.

  “What, that Silas isn’t cooped up? You didn’t have to be so heavy-handed about it.”

  “That wasn’t my only point. I wanted you to know what it means to be helpless because, if my instincts are right, then you still plan to return to Venezuela, regardless of the dangers.”

  She could only stare at him, rigid with outrage, her stomach still roiling.

  “You might reign supreme in your classroom, Miss Bliss,” he continued grimly, “but the real world is a hell of a lot bigger and a hell of a lot scarier than an elementary school. You can’t control it, any more than you can control this body of water.”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes, not wanting to hear it. “You’re wasting your time.”

  “You can’t go back,” he repeated, desperate to convey what dangers awaited her. “The Populists are arresting Americans left and right,” he added, pitching his voice lower so that Silas couldn’t hear him. “If you disappear into a Venezuelan prison, you may never see the light of day again. You have no idea what hell an American woman might have to endure before she’s blessed with the luxury of death,” he added, shaken by the images he’d conjured.

  She fixed him with an obstinate look he’d seen on the faces of junior SEALs. “It doesn’t matter!” she whispered fiercely. “I still have to try. Because if I don’t, and the Populists take over, then I will never see Miguel again. I’d rather die than lose another child!” she added, her voice cracking.

  Another child? Solomon rolled back on his heels. Understanding ran him through, like a knife through his heart. Along with understanding came compassion and concern. His lips firmed with resolve. “Come on,” he said, pushing to his feet and holding a hand out to her.

  She stared at it mistrustfully. “Where are we going?”

  “Up to the pilothouse. You’re going to take us back.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  “You want to venture into the real world, Jordan?” he demanded, showing her no more mercy than he showed his men. “Then you need to know how to think through your fear. The only way we’re returning to the pier is if you take us there.”

  She just looked at him, her face draining of color. “I can’t.”

  “I’ll be with you this time,” he promised, feeling for her. “Let’s go.” He held his hand out, insisting she take it.

  It was her desire to get on dry land that no doubt persuaded her. Jordan slipped a clammy hand into his, and he pulled her to her feet. “You, too, Silas,” he called, shepherding the two of them up the steps to the highest part of the boat, where the bobbing was most evident.

  “I’m going to get sick,” Jordan protested, her knees giving out at the view awaiting them.

  He caught her, coiling an arm around her midsection as he positioned her before the ship’s wheel. “No you’re not. Think, Jordan. Think through your panic. You can trust me,” he added, inhaling the fruity scent of her shampoo as he murmured into her ear. His junior SEALs didn’t get that kind of sweet-talking from him. But she wasn’t a SEAL. She was just your average, thirtysomething female with no survival training whatsoever, who wanted to venture into a war-torn country to wrest a little boy out of the cross fire.

  And now he understood why. Because Miguel was the second child she’d loved and lost. He’d had no idea. Had the loss of that child been the reason for her failed marriage?

  “Here,” he said, unfurling her clenched fists to place them on the steering wheel. “Silas, sit down,” he warned, shifting the throttle into gear.

  With a lurch that brought Jordan’s backside flush against his front, the boat started moving.

  “Oh, God,” she whimpered, sinking against him as her legs gave out again.

  “Stand up,” he urged, pulling her upright. He wished she weren’t wearing the life vest, wished he could enjoy the weight of her breasts on his arm. He put his free hand over one of hers and ordered her to turn the boat around.

  Her breath came in panicky little gasps; nonetheless, she steered them back the way they came.

  They were headed straight toward a crab pot buoy. “Go around it,” he warned. She overcorrected and the boat swung too far, prompting a squeal of fear from her.

  “Relax,” he murmured, bringing Camelot back under control. He reduced their speed to give her more reaction time. “Think with your head and your gut. Don’t listen to your fear, Jordan. Fear is your enemy.”

  All the while that he spoke to her, encouraging in his instructions, his mind raced with deep concern. This was not a false alarm. Jordan was hell-bent on returning to Venezuela, more so than he’d realized. If he interfered in any way, he knew she’d never forgive him.

  He would have to think of something else—some other way to snatch Miguel out of the country. If only he’
d brought the boy with them the first time! It was going to take everything in his power to make up for that mistake.

  “If I can do that,” exclaimed Jordan, throwing herself down on the cushion next to Silas while Solomon disappeared to secure the boat to its moorings, “then you can learn to read.”

  Silas shot her a gamine grin. “Let’s go out again.”

  “Oh, no, not today,” said Jordan weakly. “I have to go help my sister. She’s getting five new horses this afternoon for her therapy ranch.”

  “Real horses?”

  “Really real. Would you like to come out to the ranch and see them next week?” she asked. “You could play with my niece. She’s six, just like you.”

  “A girl?” he scoffed, wrinkling his nose.

  A vibration under her feet drew Jordan’s gaze toward the stairs. Solomon reappeared to press a few more buttons and extract the key from the ignition. “Well, shipmate Bliss,” he said, eyeing her thoughtfully, “you’re not exactly Captain Bligh, but you found your sea legs.”

  “I’d just as soon use them to walk on dry land, thanks,” she retorted, trying to remember who Captain Bligh was. She pushed to her feet, unbuckling her life vest with hands that still shook. “You’re lucky that I’m a forgiving person, Solomon,” she warned, saying his name for the first time, enjoying how it felt on her lips and tongue. “You came pretty darn close to having to look for a new tutor.”

  Tossing the life vest at him, she descended the steps calling, “See you, Silas.”

  “Jordan.”

  She rolled her eyes at Solomon’s peremptory tone and turned around inquiringly. “Yes, Solomon?”

  The grave expression on his face made his eyes seem more gray than silver. “Give me time,” he exhorted, “and I will find a way to get Miguel for you.”

  The offer took her aback. For a moment, she could only stare up at him, nonplussed. How thoughtful of him to make an offer like that! How gallant. How . . . unexpected. But she’d already bought her tickets; her money was spent. Besides, she didn’t have the luxury of time, not with her visa expiring, with Miguel losing ground on his emotional recovery.

  “Will you tutor Silas this weekend?” he added, his tone compelling.

  “Do you want me to?” She could always stand to make more money.

  “Aye,” he said softly, and his sex appeal shot through her like a harpoon.

  Slowly, surely, he was reeling her in. She wasn’t sure whether to fight the tug of attraction or revel in it. After all, he wasn’t a threat to her emotions. And having sexual urges just meant she was whole again, the pain of her divorce truly over. “Well, in that case, I’ll see you in the afternoon on both days. I have to help my sister in the mornings.”

  She didn’t miss the glint of curiosity in his eyes. He wanted to know what she was up to, but she just left him wondering. Their lives might have intersected at this critical time of her life, but in the long run, she’d remain independent—safe from any potential for heartache or crushing disillusionment.

  So long as Miguel was in her life, she’d never be alone.

  Rafe assessed Jillian’s front stoop in the twilight, trying to determine the cause of its sagging as Jillian walked Jordan to her car. The quiet country air was disturbed only by the buzz of insects and the call of a whip-poor-will. The sisters’ conversation came to him distinctly as he bent to examine the foundation on the side of the listing structure.

  “Thank you, Jordan. You still have that special touch with animals. We couldn’t have done it without you, today.”

  “Well, give the horses some credit. They’re remarkably docile.”

  “That’s how therapy horses are supposed to be. Still, thank you. I know you’re busy tutoring that little boy.”

  “Family comes first,” said Jordan. “I’ll be back tomorrow and again on Sunday.”

  From the corner of his eye, Rafe watched the sisters embrace. “Boy, this baby’s growing,” Jordan laughed, laying a hand on Jillian’s belly. “Have you picked out names yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “You’re, what, seven months along? When are you going to pick out names?”

  “When I have the time,” Jillian answered with strain in her voice.

  To Rafe’s relief, Jordan offered her sister a second hug. “I’m right here to help,” she comforted. “At least for a little while.”

  Jillian drew back. “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Jordan answered, glancing at Rafe. “You’re keeping Rafe waiting. Ciao!” She ducked into her car and took off.

  “I should be leaving, too,” Rafe said, as Jillian made her way back to him. In the twilight, her hair shone like platinum as it cascaded over her shoulders, loosed from the ponytail she’d kept it in all day. He experienced a heightening of his senses as she stepped closer, her lavender scent stealing around him. Before she could speak, the front door flew open.

  “Mommy! Can I use this jar to catch fireflies?” Agatha asked, holding up an empty pickle jar.

  “Oh, sure, honey, but hold it by the bottom, so it doesn’t fall and break.”

  “Watch this, Mr. Rafael. I’m going to catch fireflies and make a lamp!” With that, Agatha scampered past them, bearing her jar into the front yard in pursuit of the bugs that sparked here and there in the cooling air.

  Rafe sent Jillian a wry look. “I guess I’d better watch for a while.”

  “Let’s sit on the porch swing,” she invited, with a smile.

  “Will it hold both of us?” He wasn’t so much wary of it collapsing as he was of sitting beside her. That had never been an issue back when she was married.

  “I guess we’ll find out. Everything around this house is falling apart. My father was too busy caring for my mother to keep things up. And then he died two months after she did.”

  “He must have loved her very much.” He held the swing still so she could sit on one end.

  “He did,” she concurred, easing onto the swing with a groan of relief.

  “You’ve been on your feet all day,” he observed, sitting tentatively beside her. The chains creaked but held.

  “That’s nothing new.”

  He knew she should put her feet up. That’s what Teresa had done in her third trimester. He pushed the offer nervously through his throat, afraid of where it might take them. “Why don’t you put your feet up?” he offered, patting his thigh.

  At her quick look of surprise, he was grateful for the shadows that hid his coloration. “A nurse should know better,” he chided, to make the offer seem impersonal.

  “Well, if you’re sure.” She kicked off her garden clogs and swung her knees sideways, lifting her calves up on his thighs. The soft, warm weight of her legs made his breath catch.

  “Put this behind your back,” he suggested, lifting a blanket off the back of the swing. “You must sit out here often,” he added, as she stuffed it behind herself.

  “I do.” Her tired, husky voice washed over him. “I love the quiet of the country. Living in the city wasn’t for me. You can see the stars out here, smell the soil, and hear the leaves rustle on the trees. I missed that in the city.”

  His palms itched to massage her calves, but that wouldn’t be appropriate.

  Jillian gave a groan. “I didn’t realize till now how much my legs ache,” she admitted. “Now they’re tingling.” She tried to lean over her bulging midsection to rub them.

  He had no choice but to help.

  “Oh, thank you,” she breathed, leaning back with a sigh.

  It wasn’t any hardship. Not at all, except that he felt a little out of practice. How long had it been since he’d touched a woman, let alone caressed bare skin, all soft and silky?

  “That feels good,” she admitted with the slightest hint of her own heightened awareness.

  In the twilight, they shared a long, thoughtful look, each one assessing the other in a different light.

  Frightened by the direction of his thoughts, Rafe
moved the conversation into safer waters. “You need to slow down,” he cautioned. “You’re trying to do too much.”

  Her smile was faintly sardonic. “Do you think I have any choice?” she countered. “I can’t start this ranch up with a baby in one arm.”

  He sensed grief welling inside of her. “I’m sorry,” he heard himself say.

  She shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t be sorry. When I married Gary I knew what I was getting into. He needed the danger that went with being on a SWAT team. It made him feel alive, like he was making a difference. I took a chance and loved him anyway. It’s all a part of being real.”

  He couldn’t relate to what she was saying, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Did you ever read a children’s story called The Velveteen Rabbit?”

  “I don’t believe I did,” he answered, searching his memory. Those days of reading bedtime stories seemed so long ago.

  “It’s about a toy rabbit who wants to be real. He’s talking to the old Skin Horse, who says that you can only become real by being loved. Your fur will get worn and your eyes will get loose and jiggly. But once you’re real nothing can take that away from you.”

  The night air seemed suddenly thick, hard to breathe.

  “I was married to Gary for fifteen years. He made me real, and being real hurts sometimes. But I wouldn’t change a thing that happened, except that it happened when my children were still young. At least I was loved.”

  Rafe swallowed hard. She was so much braver than he. Eight years ago he’d come home to a bloodbath. His entire family had been gunned down in retaliation for his work in putting the mob boss, Tarantello, and his right-hand man in jail for life. The night he’d found his family killed, Rafe had cut his bleeding heart from his chest and buried it with his family in the vault at St. Raymond’s cemetery.

  He’d never wanted to be real, to feel, again.

  But what was it she’d just said? Once you’re real nothing can take that away from you.

  He felt suddenly, inexplicably panicked. “I have to go now, Jillian.” He drew his hands regretfully to her ankles.

  She just looked at him for a long, sad moment. “Okay,” she relented. “Good night, Rafael. Thank you so much for coming.” She swung her feet to the porch plank so that Rafe could stand.