Troubled Waters

by Susan May Warren

  He swallowed, leaned his head back, stared outside. The sky had cleared to a light, wispy blue.

  “I wish I had your faith,” he said quietly.

  “You can. The first step of faith is a choice. A choice to believe God loves you. A choice not to live in fear. A choice to trust God. You can choose to take everything that’s happened and walk away and fend for yourself. Or . . . well, I think you should take a look at all the times God has given you a divine offer to trust him. Look what happened when you prayed—you found this island.”

  “I found you.” He caught her gaze then. “I found you alive.”

  She smiled then, and it touched her hazel-green eyes, lit them up. “Yeah. And last night, God lit up the sky, showed us the way to this cave.”

  He had, hadn’t he?

  “Choose faith, Ian. We’re going to get off this island and go home. Together.”

  Together. “I love you. And don’t deserve you.”

  She leaned over to him, her lips inches from his. “Nope.”

  Then she kissed him, sweetly. But an ache rose through him to sweep her up, to hold on to her and never let her go. He slid his hand around her neck, his thumb caressing her cheek, and tried to tame the wild roll of emotion.

  She pressed her hands on his chest, and when she pulled away, she met his eyes.

  Only then did he realize his were wet. “Wow,” he said softly. “I need you, Sierra. Please don’t ever leave me.”

  He knew that sounded desperate, but . . . “I can’t lose another person I love.”

  “You’re not going to lose me.”

  He drew in a breath. Choose faith, not fear.

  I’m trying, God. I’m trying.

  “Let’s see if we can find the raft, or anything left of our camp,” he said.

  “I’m thirsty. Maybe the cooler wasn’t washed out to sea.”

  Water, yes. “Or the flares.”

  He got up and leaned down to pick her up, but she stopped him. “I can walk.”

  Barely. But he nodded and put his arm around her waist. She hung on to him as they worked through the tangle of forest, past downed palm trees, the wind-stripped ferns, and elephant ear plants. The spongy ground seated his feet deep into muck, and once he had to pull Sierra free. He cajoled her onto his back, and she hung on as he fought the debris.

  He finally found their campsite, the fallen palm tree, the dugout where he’d created the fire. He put her down.

  Their supplies had been scattered. He spotted the cooler slammed on its side and pushed into a tree, the contents emptied onto the beach. “I found a water bottle,” he said, prying it from the sand.

  “Here’s a flare,” Sierra said. “I don’t know if it’s any good.”

  “If it hasn’t been damaged, it will probably still light.” Ian came over, crouching next to her. He took the canister and grimaced. “It’s cracked. And waterlogged.” He held it open, and water dripped from it.

  “We’ll find another one,” she said, getting up. He watched her limp around the campsite, kicking leaves and other litter. “Here’s the MRE!” She picked up the dripping packet. “It looks unopened.” She grinned at him. “See? Oh—and there’s the raft!”

  He followed her pointed finger and spied the crumpled remains of the raft, now completely deflated and wrapped around a tangle of sea grapes.

  Ian ran over and worked it free, dragging it out into the open. For the first time, he got a good look at the harbor. Despite the protection of the reef, the ocean had dug into the sand, scraping out a wall, leaving a line of seaweed and foam.

  They might be able to dry and eat the seaweed—he made a mental note as he carried the raft out to a sandy dune and settled it on the sea oats to examine it. “It has a couple tears, but I think the repair kit is still in the pocket.”

  He got on his knees to examine one of the rips but then he heard Sierra’s shout.

  Turned.

  She had followed him out to the shoreline, and now stood, her hand cupped over her eyes. “Ian—there’s a person out there!” She was pointing to the rocky alcove where, just yesterday, he’d held Sierra in his arms.

  He got up and walked toward her, squinting, not seeing—

  He started running, his feet finding purchase in the wet sand as he raced to the crumpled body.

  Maybe . . . please . . .

  A man. He lay facedown in the sand, practically wedged into the rocky alcove, as if he’d huddled there for protection. Dirt and sand caked his blond hair, and he wore a white shirt and ripped brown linen pants.

  One leg appeared grotesquely angled and bloody.

  Ian landed on his knees next to him, his hand to his back. Leaned down to examine the man’s face.

  Sierra ran up behind him. “Is it—”

  “Yeah,” Ian said thickly. “It’s Dex.”

  Sierra stood over Dex, unable to move, staring at his leg. The bone protruded from just below his knee, and his foot was gray and lifeless.

  “His leg,” she said.

  “I know.” Ian pressed two fingers to the carotid artery at Dex’s neck.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to hold back the tremble that wanted to work its way out. “Is he—”

  “He’s alive,” Ian said. His voice shook too. “Listen, you hold his neck steady and I’ll turn him over.”

  She knelt beside Ian, her hands on either side of Dex’s head. “Okay, ready.”

  Ian crouched over Dex, put his arms around him, and gently rolled him onto his back.

  Dex emitted a groan, but his eyes remained closed.

  “He’s badly sunburned,” she said, looking at the blistering on his nose, his lips. “I’ll bet he’s dehydrated.” She got up. “I’ll get water.”

  She wiped a hand across her eyes as she ran over to the cooler, found their bottle of seltzer water.

  She brought it back to Ian, who was assessing Dex’s condition—running his hand down his arms, his other leg. He put a hand on his chest. “Shallow breathing, but it seems steady.”

  Another groan.

  “Dex, buddy,” Ian said. “Wake up. You’re on shore, man.”

  She stood over Ian, blocking the sun, creating a shadow over Dex’s face. He frowned. Blinked.

  Groaned.

  “C’mon, Dex.” Ian slipped his hand under Dex’s neck, held the bottle to his mouth. “Open your mouth, I have water.” He dribbled it over Dex’s swollen lips.

  Dex choked, coughed, curled over. Ian didn’t let him go. “Bud, you need more.”

  Dex opened his eyes, and for a second, a feral, confused expression crossed his damaged face. His eyes raked over Ian, then to Sierra. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing emerged.

  “Water, bro,” Ian said, and this time Dex nodded, let Ian hold the bottle to his mouth.

  He closed his eyes as he drank the dribbles Ian washed into his mouth. Arched for more when Ian pulled the bottle away.

  “I’m so thirsty,” he said, his voice reedy. He leaned back into the sand, his gaze going back to Sierra. And then, to her horror, his hand went over his face and his breath hiccupped.

  Dex?

  He began to sob. Just rolled over onto his side, his body wracking.

  Ian capped the bottle, his face a wreck as he watched Dex lose it.

  Sierra crouched behind Dex and, not knowing what else to do, wrapped her arms around him. “You’re okay, Dex. You’re safe.”

  She glanced at Ian, but he’d looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as if fighting his own wave of emotion.

  Dex’s hand curled around hers. Squeezed. “Sorry,” he said, his breath jagged. “I’m just . . . I’m so tired.”

  “I know. But you’re safe now.”

  He looked up at her then. “How did you survive? I lost you when the wave hit.” His expression was wrecked when he turned to Ian. “I saw you, standing on the raft. I tried to get to you, but the second wave hit.”

  Silence as the horror of the trage
dy sank into them.

  Ian spoke first. “How did you survive?”

  “A Jet Ski. I found one floating in the water.” He struggled to sit up, groaning. “I was able to right it, but I couldn’t get it started. I was bleeding, and I was afraid to get in the water, so I just hung on, hoping I might find land.”

  His voice turned raspy again, and he reached out for the bottle. Ian surrendered it, watched Dex gulp it down.

  “Easy, bro. That’s all we have.”

  Dex nodded, handed it back. “Sorry.”

  Ian capped it.

  “I hung on to that Jet Ski for two days, and then I found the island. I came ashore last night before the storm hit, crawled over here.”

  Ian stood up, as if searching the harbor.

  “Your leg, Dex,” Sierra said. “It’s bad.”

  “I know.” He ran his hand across his cheekbone. “The good news is that I can’t feel it anymore.” His mouth pinched into a tight line.

  Sierra swallowed. Looked at Ian.

  He wore a terrible expression, one that told her that he’d come to the same conclusion she had. If they didn’t get Dex some help, he might lose more than his leg.

  “Sierra, c’mere.” Ian gestured her away from Dex.

  She followed him across the sand toward the beach. He seemed to be searching out to sea.

  “What, do you see a boat?”

  He shook his head. “But we know there is a shipping lane out there. And if we can repair the raft—”

  “You said we couldn’t get over the reef.”

  “I haven’t figured that part out yet.” He glanced behind her. “But Dex is going to die if we don’t get him off this island.”

  She gave him a grim, agreeing nod.

  “What about the signal fires?”

  “We need to scour the island for the other flares. But we should probably make some sort of signal, even without a fire. A set of three bamboo poles with some of that ripped life raft tenting fabric should work. But we’ll have to hope a plane flies over or a yacht comes close because that lane is too far away for anyone to see our signal. If we can’t make a fire, then we need to get out to them.”

  “We can’t go out there in a patched-up raft, Ian. It could sink before someone finds us.” She wrapped her arms around herself, glanced back to where they’d left Dex. “What are we going to do?” she whispered.

  “I’m going to start by searching the shore and see if the Jet Ski is still around here somewhere.”

  “You think you can get it started?”

  “Once upon a time, I was an engineer, so maybe. We can attach the raft to it and motor out to that shipping lane.”

  “I don’t know, Ian.”

  “I can’t just sit here waiting, Sierra.” He turned, caught her shoulders. “Maybe you need to choose faith too. Faith in me.” His voice gentled. “And yeah, God. Because you live in fear too, babe. Fear that you’ll be left behind. Forgotten. Fear that you aren’t important.” He focused his gaze into hers. “You are the most important thing to me. And I will get you off this island.”

  Maybe it was sand whisking into her eyes, but they burned and watered.

  He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her mouth.

  Never had she loved him as much as she did when he touched his forehead to hers. “Weren’t you the one who said that we’re going to get off this island and go home? Together?”

  She nodded.

  “Then trust me.”

  She drew in a long breath. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “That’s my girl.” He kissed her forehead. “I need you to keep Dex hydrated. Figure out how to splint his leg. And find the fabric, maybe set up a signal. A set of three—that’s the international signal for help. Can you do that?”

  “Yeah. And I’ll look for the flares too.”

  “Perfect. See, we still make a good team.”

  A team. She nodded, whisked her hands across her cheekbones. “Let’s save Dex.”

  14

  MAYBE YOU NEED to choose faith too. Faith in me.

  Ian’s own words thundered in his head along with the surf as he scoured the shoreline for the Jet Ski. Not in the harbor, not tangled in the mangroves as he’d hoped. Now, with the sun long into the morning, burning his shoulders, he climbed the shoreline toward the boot of the island. Beyond the harbor, the coral and jagged limestone flattened out into a shelf under the water as the rest of the island rose above him, steep, inaccessible.

  “You are the most important thing to me. And I will get you off this island.”

  His words to Sierra galvanized him.

  Yes, a signal fire might work. But he couldn’t bear the helplessness of waiting for rescue.

  Not when it meant watching Dex die.

  Waves crashed into the caves, digging out pockets in the cliff wall, foamy water pooling around the entrances. Ian crept along the shallows, but he was already up to his knees, and the farther he went, the stronger the current, the deeper the water.

  A wave slammed into him. He lost his footing and careened into the limestone wall. Its teeth sliced his skin, razors against his burned flesh. He bit back a word, bounced back, and held himself away with his scraped palms.

  Okay, maybe the sea had simply consumed the Jet Ski.

  Except he made out a distinct, low thumping, the hull of something hitting rock.

  The ski might be caught under the jutting of rock, in one of the caves. He braced himself as the next wave hit, bathing him up to his shoulders in gritty, salty water. When it receded, he worked his way along the shelf. The water rose to his waist. But the thumping deepened. He ducked his head as another wave hit.

  The salt filled his eyes, blinded him, and he shook the water away, coughing.

  However, as the wave fell back, he spotted it—the whitened hull of the Jet Ski wedged into a cavern ten or so feet away.

  To access it, he’d have to dive in and swim.

  Ian blew out a breath as he dug his hands into the limestone, searching for a grip, working his way along the shelf. The sea level rose to his shoulders, and he held his breath as another wave hit.

  He slammed against the limestone with such force that it nearly unlatched his fingers from the rock. He hung on as the wave tried to yank him away, the flesh in his fingertips tearing.

  However, he’d reached the edge of the cavern. As the water shallowed with the trough of the wave, he lunged for the hull of the craft.

  Wrapping his hands around the edge of the foothold, he took a breath as the ocean crested over him. The wave filled the cavern, tried to unseat him, but he refused to let go.

  The water slunk back. As he shook the grit from his eyes, he got a good look at the entrapment. The limestone gripped the nose of the machine, which was floating hull side up in the water. If he could get in front of it, keep it from being slammed into the wall, then push off with the current of the gathering wave . . .

  Ian worked his way to the front of the ski and wedged his feet against the rock.

  The next wave was a fist, hitting him so hard it slammed his head against the dark bowels of the cavern.

  The ski slid in and pinned him.

  Underwater. His head spun, his air cutting out. He scrabbled for the surface, but the water soaked the cavern.

  The Jet Ski wouldn’t budge.

  His lungs turned to fire, ready to explode. Why had he thought he could save them when he couldn’t even save himself?

  Light flashed behind his eyes and he longed to open his mouth, to breathe—

  Help!

  He turned, set his feet against the rock, his back to the ski, and tried to push. But the world had started to blacken. The primal need to breathe rumbled up through him, clawing for air—

  The ski moved, and the trough of the wave sucked it away from the cavern’s vise grip. Ian pushed, helping the sea extract the ski.

  Grabbing the edge of the ski with a death grip, he smacked his head on the top of the cave but gulped sweet, salty air as finally, mi
raculously, the ski ripped loose from the cavern out into the open.

  For a beautiful, glorious moment, he floated in the crystalline water.

  Then it hit him—whatever current had freed him probably foreshadowed a wave that would destroy him.

  Ian maneuvered around to the side of the ski and had just enough time to haul himself over the hull and grab the far edge when the wave hit.

  He expected to plunge back into the cave. But the current had dragged the ski out past the lip, and the force of the wave scooped him up.

  Turned the ski upright.

  Ian simply hung on and found himself clinging to the foot wells. The wave tried to bash him into the limestone wall, but he worked his way to the back and pulled himself up onto the seat.

  He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath and now leaned over the handlebars, breathing hard, not sure how he’d survived that.

  Choose faith.

  Maybe.

  Now to get the machine started. Thankfully, the ignition key remained fixed in place. Without the safety kill switch key fob, however, the ski wouldn’t turn over. One problem at a time. First to check the engine.

  Ian stood up and pulled the seat cover off. He’d expected standing water in the compartment, but the seat seal had held. The inside seemed dry.

  Which meant he just needed to figure out how to start the craft without the safety kill switch key fob. He replaced the cover just as the next wave hit.

  Without the key fob, he’d need to bypass the relay and supply wires and close the circuit. That entailed yanking the wires, stripping them, and twisting them together.

  And if they got wet, his entire experiment would fail.

  He’d have to pull the machine to the shallower shelf and protect it from the waves while he worked.

  Kicking off from the limestone, this time he angled the machine out. He grabbed ahold of the limestone and turned the machine with his legs.

  The wave did the rest of the work, wedging him against the rock. But when the water receded, it freed the craft into the ocean to maneuver. Ian gritted his teeth against the tearing in his hands and pulled the Jet Ski along the rock, across the mouth of the cavern, holding it steady with the next crash of waves, then finally toward the shelf.