“More lives in danger.”
Her father picked up the phone. “I’ll call Captain Harris and let him know.”
Emma raked her fingers through her sleep-tousled hair. “Just what he needs. More stress, after everything he’s been through.”
“Don’t start with that, Emma,” her father warned. “He’s a grown man and more than capable of handling the responsibilities of his profession.”
Emma spent the day indoors baking bread, but after the phone call about the missing crewmen, the captain remained in her thoughts constantly. Hours later, when all the loaves were out of the oven, cooling on the counter, and the low-lying clouds had finally parted, she couldn’t resist the burning desire to call Abigail and check in on him. Thankfully, Philip answered the phone and was more forthcoming than Abigail would have been. He revealed that Captain Harris had just left the house to go for a walk on the beach.
Within minutes, Emma was climbing the high dune for a first-class view of North Beach, where she spotted him about a quarter mile away, at the water’s edge, facing the angry ocean. Impetuously, she made her way down the sandy slope, where the crashing thunder of the waves stirred her heart and soul.
It wasn’t long before the captain saw her from the distance. He began walking, to meet her halfway.
“Emma,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” she replied.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s up for debate.”
She looked down at her feet. “Indeed. Are you surviving all this chaos?”
“I’ve had better days.”
“Haven’t we all?”
They turned and stood side by side, facing the stormy horizon. Emma tasted the salty spray on her lips.
“Has there been any news of my men?” Captain Harris asked.
“Not yet.”
He shook his head mournfully.
“All we can do is pray,” Emma suggested. “And try not to lose hope. Sometimes luck is everything.”
“But luck can swing one way or the other. A single unexpected swell from the wrong direction could capsize them.” He gestured with a hand. “Look at that wild ocean out there.”
Emma agreed wholeheartedly. The odds were most certainly against those unfortunate men.
“If that happens,” she said, “I hope you won’t blame yourself. We all tried to stop them.”
“But they were under my command.” A seagull soared in front of them, then hovered low, floating on the wind. Captain Harris kept his eyes fixed on the bird. “They were my responsibility.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that.” Emma faced him. “But how can you take the blame for reckless decisions of foolish men? They disobeyed your orders, and it wasn’t your fault they drank too much whiskey. It was our crew in the staff house who gave it to them.”
“But they should have known better,” he insisted.
“Yes, they all should have, which, again”—she paused and put extra emphasis on her next words—“is not your fault.”
He considered her fiery speech while watching the seagull fly over their heads toward the dunes behind them. Then he turned to her. “You know a lot for someone so young.”
Something fluttered inside her, and she fumbled for words. “I don’t know about that.”
“It’s true. You’re wise beyond your years. Mindful and rational.”
Her cheeks reddened at the compliment, and she kicked at the sand with the toe of her boot. “I’m not used to receiving such high praise.”
He smiled warmly at her. “I doubt that.”
