A Warmth in Winter (32 page)

They cruised at a steady pace, riding the waves toward the rising moon, and despite her discomfort Birdie found herself marveling at the beauty and power of the churning sea. A person could get lost out here. This was a world apart, populated by animals and a breed of men she'd been around all her life but had never really understood.

Salt moved to the bow and placed his hands upon the railing, his eyes scanning the sea as the ship slapped down the peaks of the waves. With each dip of the boat a spray of water rained over him, but he seemed not to care that he'd soon be covered in an icy glaze.

What sort of man was this?

Fortunately, the rising moon brightened the night, and after a few moments someone turned on a searchlight that swept the ocean in wide arcs. Then the captain cut the engine, and the empty air filled with dread as the boat floated silently on the choppy sea.

Birdie swallowed as doubts rose in her mind. Why had they stopped? She turned, and through the cabin window saw that Charles Graham had apparently wondered the same thing. He was speaking to the captain, his face a study in worry, his hands rising and falling like the wings of a frantic, wounded bird.

And then she heard the treble sounds of children calling, “Heeeeeeeeeey!”

On her feet in an instant, she rushed to Salt's side. In front and to the right of the ship bobbed the dory, populated with three bundled children. The searchlight found and held them, and in its bright beam Birdie saw Bobby, Brittany, and Georgie, alive and well. Bobby was standing in the boat, holding an oar over his head.

“Thank God,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

A masculine voice rang out through a bullhorn. “Hello, children! Sit still; we'll send a raft to pick you up.”

When Birdie opened her eyes, she saw that Georgie and Brittany were jumping up and down, clapping their hands, and causing the boat to rock. As a wave lifted the boat the kids squealed and gripped the edge, but as soon as the wave relaxed, so did the children. Georgie was leaning over the side now, reaching out and causing the dory to list—

“Sit down!” called the man on the bullhorn. “You must sit still.”

But either the children couldn't hear above the wind or they weren't of a mind to obey, because now Bobby was jumping, too, waving the oar above his head.

“They can't hear,” Birdie whispered. The wind was blowing toward the big boat, carrying the children's voices but working against the man with the bullhorn.

“I've got to get to them,” Salt roared in Birdie's ear. “If a wave catches 'em off balance like that, they'll spill.”

“Children!” the bullhorn voice called again. “Sit down!”

Birdie clung to the railing, grateful for its stability on the shifting sea, but her heart froze when she heard a splash.

Chapter Twenty-three

G
ot to get to the kids. Got to keep them from tipping the boat.
The thoughts rose in Salt's head like the air bubbles thundering past his ears. The briny water filled his nose, the familiar tang carrying him back to places and years long gone. Reflexively he curved his body to rise toward the silvery moon.

He held his breath until his head broke the surface, then he began to swim in what should have been long, sure strokes. As a seasoned sailor he swam like a fish, so why did his arms and legs feel like lead?

The cold. The villainous cold had attacked his limbs, as it would soon attack his lungs and incapacitate every cell in his body. In his urgency to reach the children, he'd underestimated its power on his aging body.

Stroke.
He lowered his head and thrust out an arm, forced it past his benumbed body, but he could see nothing but darkness. Was he horizontal? Was he still swimming toward the dory?

Stroke.
He pulled with the other arm, forced it to sweep back to his side, commanded it to push against the water that felt like stinging alcohol on his skin. He tried to move his other arm, found that he couldn't, and had the presence of mind to turn and float on his back.

An old sailor's trick—the best way to conserve energy. Fill the lungs and float, curling into a ball if you had to, and wait for drowning or hypothermia to overpower you.

“Where'd the old man go?” Charles asked. He and Babette stood at the railing with Birdie now, and she could feel their fear. The searchlight operator hadn't taken the beam off the kids for fear of frightening them, so Salt was swimming in darkness.

Moving with quick, powerful steps, the captain joined them at the rail. Birdie stepped back to ask him a question and frowned when she noticed a white ponytail at the back of his cap. Since when did the Coast Guard allow their members to wear long hair?

She brushed the question aside. The man could have hair down to his knees for all she cared. “Captain,” she touched his arm, “please, how do we get them on board?”

“We get Cap'n Gribbon first,” the officer said, accepting the life preserver another sailor handed him. “The children are dry as long as they're in the boat, but a man can't survive in these waters for long.”

“The old fool,” Charles muttered. “What was he thinking?”

As a rush of defensiveness fired Birdie's blood, she swiveled to face Georgie's father. “The children couldn't hear the bullhorn above the wind. He was afraid they'd fall in.”

“Salt Gribbon,” the captain called, leaning over the bow railing with the life preserver in his hand. “Do you hear me?”

By some miracle, Salt heard. “Aye,” came the weak response.

“I'm going to throw you a life preserver.”

“No.” Salt's wind-borne voice had a haunted quality, but Birdie recognized the stubbornness in it.

“Salt Gribbon, you obey this man!” she yelled into the darkness, leaning over the railing as far as she dared. “For once in your life, don't argue!”

The wind whispered his response: “Get . . . kids . . . first.”

“We can't do that, Cap'n.” The skipper of the rescue ship lifted his head toward the children, and one of the sailors handed him the bullhorn. “Kids?” the captain called. “We're going to have to take the light off you for a moment.”

The children must have heard, for Brittany began to wail. “Noooooooo!”

The captain looked at Birdie. “Please, Miss Wester,” he asked, his eyes at once gentle and powerful. “Will you talk to them?”

Trembling, Birdie took the bullhorn from his hand and leaned over the railing. “Listen, Brittany, we're going to come out and get you in a minute. But first, we've got to use the light to find your grandfather. Do you understand?”

“I don't wanna be in the dark!”

Birdie clutched the railing, her heart torn. She didn't want to plunge the children into darkness, either, but if Salt were to be saved—

Birdie watched, amazed, as Bobby lowered the oar he'd been holding and put his arm around Brittany, then looked up into the light. “It's okay,” he called, his voice distinct and strong for one so young. “We'll be fine. Please save our grandfather.”

The captain didn't hesitate. “Move the light!” he called. Immediately the searchlight shifted from the dory and moved unerringly toward an object floating off the right bow—Salt Gribbon.

The captain expertly drew back his hand and tossed the life preserver, which fell within inches of Salt's limp arms. But the stubborn lighthouse keeper did not move.

“Salt!” Birdie screamed, hysteria rising in her chest. “You take that line and you take it now!” She knew what he was doing, but this was not the time nor the place to punish himself for the children's mishap.

Finding courage from some place deep inside herself, Birdie snatched the bullhorn she'd returned to the captain. “The children are all right,” she called. “They're waiting for you to reach out. Catch the line, Salt. Your grandchildren want you safe.”

And then, while the group at the bow watched, Salt's fingertips appeared against the stark whiteness of the bobbing life preserver. Charles, Babette, and the captain yelled encouragement as he looped his arm through the circle, then the skipper gave the order to pull him in.

As a pair of sailors lowered a rubber raft to go fetch the children, Birdie waited by the railing until Salt was brought aboard and taken to the cabin. She turned her back as a couple of the sailors stripped off Salt's wet clothes and wrapped him in a large towel, then they laid him on a cot and covered him in layers of blankets.

When he had been safely tucked in, she sat beside him and ran her fingers over the soft beard on his cheek. His bleary eyes met hers, and his mouth moved for a moment before sound crossed his lips. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“I'm not,” she answered, placing her hand full against his face. A moment later the cabin door opened and Bobby, Brittany, and Georgie swarmed into the room, accompanied by Babette and Charles, the captain, and a pair of smiling sailors.

“Were you scared?” Babette kept asking, her arms around her son. “We were so worried!”

“We weren't scared at all,” Georgie said, puffing out his chest. “Brittle-knees said that as long as we held up the assistants of God, we'd be okay.”

Babette looked at Birdie, a confused expression on her face.

“The assistants of God?” Birdie asked, looking from Brittany to Bobby. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

Bobby grinned as he looked at the tall, white-haired skipper. “I remembered,” he said simply, “when Moses held up the big stick and won the battle. God told him to hold it up, and when he got tired, his friends helped him.”

“We helped hold it,” Georgie said, flexing his muscles. “We held up that oar for hours!”

Birdie looked at Salt, who closed his eyes. “Thank God,” he said simply, reaching out for Bobby's hand.

“Everybody warm up,” the captain said, walking to the wheel. He glanced at Salt. “Sir, we've tied your boat to the stern and will haul her in for you. Everybody is safe and sound, so our mission is accomplished.”

“God bless the Coast Guard,” Babette whispered, wrapping her arms around her shivering son.

Shifting her gaze from Babette, Birdie saw the white-haired captain smile.

Drifting on a tide of fatigue, Salt floated in and out of consciousness, weighted by a weariness that seemed to drag body and soul into the depths of darkness. In clearer moments he felt himself being lifted, then heard a hum of voices that faded to a silent echo. Some still-functioning part of his brain registered soft sheets, a warm bed, and the faint scent of lilacs.

But none of that mattered. The children were safe, his secret had been revealed, and soon the world would know that he'd stolen his grandchildren and proven himself an unfit guardian. Soon bureaucrats from the State of Maine's Social Services Department would descend upon Heavenly Daze and take the children away.

“You worry too much, Salt Gribbon.”

The voice, powerful and unfamiliar, jerked him from the benumbing darkness. Opening his eyes, Salt turned his head and saw that he was not alone. A man sat in a chair across from the bed—a man dressed all in white, with snowy hair spilling over his shoulders. His eyes were the most piercing shade of blue—

Salt sat up and stared, tongue-tied, when he recognized the fellow. Why had the Coast Guard captain come into his bedroom?

“It's not your bedroom,” the man said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “You're in a guest room at the Baskahegan B&B. The lavender room, Cleta calls it. Rather charming, don't you think?”

Nonplussed, Salt could do little but nod. This had to be a dream. No one could read a man's thoughts.

“It's no dream . . . well, not like any dream you've ever had. Consider this a visualization, if you like. A special gift from the Father.”

Salt felt his mouth go dry. “Whose father?”

“Your Father, the Almighty God.” The man stood, then held out his hand. “Come with me, friend. Don't worry—the Lord will supply the strength you need. You have only to trust.”

Salt clutched at the blanket. What was this, some deranged version of
A Christmas Carol
? Whatever it was, he didn't need it. He was no Ebenezer Scrooge. He was a fair man, an independent man, a man who wanted only to be left alone to do what duty demanded—

A faint smile played at the corners of the stranger's mouth. “God knows who and what you are.”

Salt blinked several times in rapid succession, hoping the man would disappear and prove to be a figment of his imagination. But the image persisted.

“Who—who are you?”

The seaman's smile deepened. “I am a messenger from the Most High God.”

“Not a Coast Guard captain, then. And not a ghost like the Spirit of Christmas Past.”

“I am a captain. I am called Gavriel, but you can call me Gabe.”

As the name registered with his dizzied senses, the being who called himself Gabe stood and gripped the back of Salt's shirt—an odd flannel pajama top at least two sizes too big and decorated with little red fire trucks. Before Salt could protest the strange clothing and the even stranger situation, the room filled with bright light and a whooshing sound. Cleta Lansdown's curtains and doilies and bed ruffles flapped and fluttered in an invisible wind, then the double windows blew open and Gavriel carried Salt out into the night.

Salt blinked in stupefaction as the ground flew away from his feet. Together they rose above the island, its outline dimming and eventually becoming lost in a diorama of lights from the coastlands below.

“Is this dangerous?” Salt gazed around in wonder. “I mean—can't I get radiated or something up here?”

Gabe smiled. “You'll be fine,” he said, his voice reaching Salt's ear despite the sound of rushing wind. “Your body absorbs radiation all the time, both from the world and from your own body. Your cells can usually repair any damage, though. In fact, without the natural background radiation the Lord designed for this planet, your cellular repair mechanisms would become dormant, making you much more vulnerable to sudden bursts of radiation.”