“He’s not arrogant,” her father explained. “He only appears that way because he wants to impress you. And you said yourself that you’rehappy here. Wouldn’t you like to start a family and raise your children on this little slice of heaven?”
Emma didn’t want to get into an argument with her father about the so-called virtues of Sable Island. It was like banging her head against a wall.
She rose to her feet and returned to the sofa. “Please, Papa. I want to go to university. It’s important to me.”
Another powerful blast of wind from the north lashed against the house, and when her father offered no reply, Emma sighed in defeat.
“Maybe we should talk about this another time,” she said, “after you’ve had a chance to think about it.”
He took a breath to respond when the telephone rang in the kitchen. They were both startled by the interruption, and her father rose to answer it.
“Main Station,” he said. He listened for a few seconds and frowned. “Where did you say? The west bar. How far out? I see.” He glanced briefly at Emma. “Sound the alarm at all stations, and get the crews out there with the lifeboats. Every minute counts. I’ll meet you at the boathouse.”
He hung up the phone and crossed the kitchen toward his yellow slicker on the coat-tree by the door.
“There’s a ship grounded on the west bar,” he said.
“Oh, dear Lord.” Emma was instantly engulfed by a sense of panic. “I’ll get dressed and help Mrs. McKenna load the cart. We’ll bring blankets and hot tea.”
With a rush of adrenaline, she dashed up the stairs, leaving all thoughts of her own future behind.
Chapter 2
Leaning into the fierce wind, Emma trudged across the sandy station yard toward the McKennas’ house, where Abigail, the meteorologist’s wife, was hitching the horse to the broad-wheeled wagon.
“I’m here to help!” Emma shouted over the roar of the surf beyond the dunes.
Abigail peered up from beneath the hood of her raincoat. A gust of wind blew the hood back, and her brown hair went wild in all directions. “It took you long enough! Go inside and get my first aid kit and the large thermos on the kitchen table. I’ve already loaded the blankets.” She returned to the task of hooking the leather pull straps to the harness while the horse tossed its head in the driving wind.
Emma quickly went inside and found the items on the table. She picked up the thermos and first aid kit but noticed a full bottle of whiskey on a shelf over the refrigerator. Deciding it might come in handy, she fetched it and stuffed it into the first aid bag, then hurried out the door.
Abigail was seated on the wagon bench, gathering up the reins.
Emma placed the items in the back and shouted, “That’s everything! I’ll saddle Willow and follow you!” She watched the wagon drive off, then ran to the barn.
Beneath the broody, gray sky, Emma rode Willow out of the station yard, across the heath, and eventually onto North Beach, where giant foaming breakers crashed and roared. The horizon had been swallowed whole by dense, dark clouds that rolled and curled in fury. The wind was most ferocious on the beach, but it was the fastest route, so Emma kicked in her heels and urged Willow into a flying gallop toward the western tip of the island. She overtook Abigail on the way.
When at last she reached the rescue operations, she slowed Willow to a halt and took in the situation.
Her father’s Jeep—the only motorized vehicle on the island—was parked at the edge of the high dune. Two horse-drawn boat wagons had been unloaded and the surfboats successfully launched.
Emma’s father stood at the water’s edge with his binoculars, his slicker whipping in the wind as he observed the stranded ship in the distance. It was at least a mile offshore, lying on its side, half-submerged, while violent breakers battered its hull and washed over the bridge. The crews in both lifeboats were rowing hard to reach it, riding up and down massive twenty-foot swells.
Emma dismounted and led Willow across the sand to her father. “Abigail is on her way,” she told him. “She has blankets, hot tea, and her first aid kit. I threw in a bottle of whiskey at the last minute.”
“Good thinking.” He handed the binoculars to her, and she raised them to look.
“Any idea how many souls on board?” she asked.
“Not yet. I only spotted one member of the crew waving at us from the portside rail when we first arrived, but I haven’t seen anyone since. They must be inside, taking shelter.”
Emma refocused the lenses and examined the wreck, which appeared to be a commercial cargo ship. She searched from bow to stern and back again. “I don’t see anyone now.” She swung the binoculars’ field of view to locate the two lifeboat crews still making their way to the wreck. They rode up a giant swell, disappeared over the other side, and reappeared seconds later, ascending the steep slope of another.
Emma handed the binoculars back to her father. “Why didn’t the captain order the launch of their own lifeboats?”
“I believe they tried. A boat washed ashore around Station Number Two with no one in it. That’s what alerted the patrols to a wreck.”
“I hope no one perished trying to make it,” Emma said.
