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But she wouldn’t let things get to that point. She would keep the gun close and watch the man’s every move. At the first sign of suspect behavior she would send him packing. It sounded like a good plan. But she was already at a disadvantage. The stranger was bigger, stronger and likely craftier than she was. In saving his life, she’d already put herself and Daniel at risk.
Maybe she should have left him under the boat to drown in the tide.
But even as the thought crossed her mind, Sylvie knew she couldn’t have done such a thing. She couldn’t condemn a stranger who had not yet done them any harm. Every life was precious in its own way. How could she presume to judge who was worthy to live?
She could only do what was humane and what was reasonable—and what was prudent, which in this case meant staying on her guard.
“How did you two get here?” He squinted up at her, the sun glaring in his eyes. “You didn’t come out of nowhere.”
“Our cabin’s up there, at the top of the cliff.” She glanced toward the high-water line, where barnacles clustered white against the rocks. “The tide covers this beach when it comes in. You can’t stay here, and we can’t carry you up the trail. That leaves you with three choices—walk, crawl or drown.”
“Well, I don’t think much of the last one.” He shifted, wincing with pain as he struggled to get his legs beneath him. “Mind giving me a hand?”
She reached for his outstretched fingers. Glinting on his sapphire ring, the sun scattered rainbows over the white sand. The powerful hands that closed around hers were smooth and uncallused. Maybe he was a gentleman after all. Or, more likely, a handsome criminal who lived by his wits.
“Ready?” He pulled against her slight weight. Sylvie braced backward as he staggered to his feet. Standing, he was even taller than she’d realized. Swaying like a tree in the wind, he loomed a full head above her.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Just dizzy,” he muttered. “Head hurts some.”
“Here, have some more water.” She handed him the canteen. “If you want to rest awhile, there’s time before the tide comes in.”
“No. Might get worse.” Lifting the canteen, he drank deeply, then returned it to her. “Let’s go now.”
Daniel had been standing to one side, watching wide-eyed. Their father was a small, wiry man, and the boy had seen only a few other adults. To him, this stranger must look like a giant.
“Take the canteen and go on ahead, Daniel,” Sylvie said. “Be careful, now. Wait for us at the top.”
As Daniel scurried toward the trail, she cast around the beach for a scrap of driftwood to serve as a walking stick. Finding a suitable length, she thrust it toward the man she’d named Ishmael. “This will steady you. If you get dizzy, drop to your knees. I’ll be right behind you, but if you fall, you’re on your own. I can’t hold your weight.”
“Understood.” She could feel his eyes taking her measure, perusing every curve and angle. He’d made no move to touch her, but the intimacy of that gaze sent a thread of heat through her body. She lowered her eyes, staring down at her feet. There was a beat of silence in which nothing moved. Then he took the stick from her, tested it in the sand and turned away to follow Daniel up the cliff.
The trail was slippery from last night’s downpour. It was so narrow that in some spots, Ishmael, who was still getting used to his new name, had to turn sideways to fit his shoulders between the cliff and the trail’s sheer edge. He couldn’t recall having been afraid of heights, but looking over the side was enough to make his stomach lurch.
Well ahead of him now, the boy climbed with the easy confidence of a monkey. A prince, the child had called him. It struck Ishmael as an innocent joke. Right now, the last thing he felt like was a prince. He was damp and filthy, with waterlogged boots, salt-stung skin, a bruised body and a throbbing head that couldn’t remember a damn thing worth knowing. So far, all he’d recognized was a name from a book about a white whale and a one-legged captain. He could remember the entire story, but he couldn’t remember reading it.
Call me Ishmael…
It was the name that had triggered his memory. Maybe, given time, more names would spark more memories until they came together like the pieces of a puzzle, to make his mind whole again.
Meanwhile, it was as if he was wandering blindfolded through a maze with nothing to guide his way.
The sapphire ring could be the key to his identity. But so far it meant nothing to him. He’d been startled, in fact, to see it on his finger. Did it mean he was wealthy? Or that he belonged to an important family? Ishmael grimaced, half-amused at such grandiose ideas. He could just as easily be a thief who’d stolen the damn thing. He’d probably been shipwrecked while running from the law.
From the trail behind him came the light sound of breathing and the swish of calico against bare legs. He checked the urge to turn and look at his pretty rescuer. Dizzy as he was, a backward glance could send him pitching off the trail. The temptation wasn’t worth the risk. But that couldn’t stop him from thinking about her.
Was she wearing anything under that calico skirt? He imagined those legs walking, thigh brushing satiny thigh…
Damnation! He couldn’t let himself get distracted by those thoughts when every step took so much concentration. A fine thing that would be, to survive shipwreck only to tumble down a cliff from fantasies about a woman’s skirts. He willed the image away but allowed her eyes to linger in his memory. Framed by thick mahogany lashes, they were the color of a dawn sky in the moment before the sun’s rays touched the clouds.
Sylvie. The name was as innocent and elusive as she was. He liked the sound of it. He liked her. Memory or no memory, it was clear that he had an eye for the ladies. But he’d be a fool to start anything with this one. She was young, not much more than twenty by his reckoning. And she probably had a daddy with a shotgun waiting to blast any man who laid a hand on her. Even if she didn’t, he would keep his proper distance. Trifling with such a creature would be like crushing a butterfly.
Ishmael was surprised to discover that he had a conscience. It was puzzling, given that he had no idea who he’d been before he opened his eyes on the beach. Did he have manners? Principles? Was he honest? Had he been taught to respect women?
He could be married, he realized. He could have a wife and children waiting for him, back wherever he’d come from. All the more reason to keep his distance from the intriguing Miss Sylvie Cragun.
The boy had reached the top of the trail and vanished above the rim. Ishmael willed himself to keep plodding upward. The dizziness seemed to be getting worse. Cold sweat trickled down his face. His breath came in labored gasps, but he pushed himself to keep moving. He hadn’t come this far to die falling off a blasted cliff. Besides, there was something else driving him forward, something urgent, he sensed, that had to be done. If only he could remember what it was.
Questions clamored in his head, beating like black wings. So many questions, all demanding answers.
“Tell me where I am.” He raised his voice to be heard above the rushing waves below. “Does this place have a name?”
“The only name we call it is home,” Sylvie replied. “It’s not any kind of town, just a cabin in the forest. Keep moving, and you’ll see it in a minute.”
“No, I mean where is it? Where are we?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Would I be asking if I did?” His foot slipped on a clump of moss. He jabbed the stick into the trail, legs shaking as he righted himself.
The next time she spoke she was closer, less than a pace behind him. “You’re two days’ wagon ride north of San Francisco. Since the boat we found with you is a small one, I’d guess that’s where you came from. Does that sound right?”
“No more or less than anything else does.”
“You don’t remember San Francisco?”
He raked his memory, using the name as a trigger. San Francisco. Fog, rain and mud. The cry of a fish hawker. The smells of tar, salt and rotting garbage. He groped for more, but the impressions were dimmed, like something from his boyhood. He remembered nothing that made him think he’d been there recently. He shook his head. “It’ll come. Maybe after I’ve rested. What…what date is it?”
“It’s Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of March. Living here, it’s easy to lose track, but I mark off each day on a calendar.”
“What year?”
He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “It’s 1858. You don’t even remember what year it is?”
“I don’t remember anything.”
“Except the name of a character in a book.”
Ishmael had no answer for that. With all that remained of his strength, he dragged himself over the top of the cliff. Breathing like a winded horse, he leaned on his makeshift walking stick and filled his eyes with what he saw.
Close at hand, anchored near the cliff’s edge, was a complex system of pulleys and windlasses attached to what looked like a harness for a horse or mule. Best guess, it was rigged to haul heavy loads up from the beach—most likely wreckage that had washed into the cove. In the near distance a low buck fence surrounded a cabin that was unlike anything his eyes had ever seen—at least, so far as he could remember.
The roof and sides were all of a piece, fashioned of weathered oaken planks that were shaped and sealed to watertight smoothness. Seconds passed before Ishmael realized he was looking at the overturned hull of a schooner, mounted on a low foundation of logs to make a sturdy home. A nearby windmill, for pumping well water, turned in the ocean breeze.
“My father built all this.” Sylvie had come up the path to stand beside him. “He cut a wrecked ship into sections and used pulleys like these to haul them into place. We’ve lived here for almost eight years.”
“That’s quite a piece of engineering.” He willed himself to stand straight and to speak in a coherent way.
“My father is a clever man, and a hard worker. He takes good care of us.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother died before we came here. Daniel’s mother died when he was born.”
“I’d like to meet your father. Is he here?”
Her eyes glanced away. Her fingers tightened around the driftwood club she’d carried up from the beach. “Not right now,” she said, “but we’re expecting him home at any time. He’s probably just coming up the road.”
She didn’t trust him. Even through the haze of his swimming senses, Ishmael could tell that much. But how could he blame her? She and the boy were alone here, and he was a stranger.
Surely she had nothing to fear from him. Only a monster would harm a woman and child. And he wasn’t a monster. At least he didn’t feel like one. But how could be sure, when he had no idea what sort of man he was? He could be a thief, a murderer, the worst kind of criminal, and not even be aware of it.
He raised a hand to his temple, fingering the swollen lump and the crust of dried blood that covered it. Pain throbbed like a drumbeat in his head. He’d suffered one sockdolager of a blow. That would explain his memory loss. But would the damage heal? Would his memory return? For all he knew, he could live the rest of his life without remembering who he was or where he’d come from.
Dizziness hazed Ishmael’s vision. He tried to walk, but stumbled on the first step. Only the stick saved him from falling headlong.
“Are you all right?” Sylvie’s eyes swam before him. She had beautiful eyes, like silvery tide pools, their centers deep and dark. “Can you make it to the house?”
“Try…” The ground seemed to be rolling like a ship’s deck under his feet.
“Let me help you.” She thrust her strength under his arm, her slight body braced against his. Leaning heavily, he staggered forward. Her muscles strained against his side. Ishmael forced himself to keep going. If his legs gave out, he would be dead weight for her to move.
“Just a little farther,” she urged. “Come on, you can make it.”
But she was wrong. He knew it by the time he’d dragged himself a half-dozen steps. His legs wobbled; his gaze was a thickening moiré. As they passed through the gate in the fence, the blackness won the battle. His legs folded and he collapsed, carrying her down with him to the wet grass.
Sylvie felt his legs give way, but she wasn’t strong enough to hold him. Still clutching his side, she went down under his weight. The grass cushioned their fall, but she found herself spread-eagle beneath him, pinned to the ground. For a moment she lay there, damp, exhausted and breathless. His head rested against her shoulder, stubbled chin cradled against her breasts.
She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, hear the rasp of air in and out of his lungs. His eyes were closed, eyelids hooded by inky brows. Black Irish—the term flitted through her memory. She’d heard her father use it, and not in a complimentary way. Was this the sort of man he’d meant?
Whoever he was, he was strangely, compellingly beautiful. But even in his helpless condition Sylvie sensed an aura of danger. A man wouldn’t sail this far up the coast on a pleasure outing. What if some dark intent had brought him this far? Whatever the circumstances, she had to get him up.
Working one arm free, she jabbed a finger at his cheek. “Ishmael? Can you hear me?”
He didn’t answer. Only then did she realize his body was unusually warm beneath his damp clothes. More than warm. Heaven save her, the man was burning up.
Shoving his face away, she began to struggle. His limp frame felt as heavy as a downed elk, but she managed to roll him to one side. As she scrambled free, he sagged onto his back with a low grunt. When she pushed to her knees and bent over him she saw that his eyes were open, but fever-glazed. She’d nursed her father through a couple of bad spells and she knew the signs.
Heavy-lidded, he gazed up at her. “Whatever we were doing down here, it was nice,” he muttered groggily. “Wouldn’t mind a bit more…”
“Hush. You’re ill. We’ve got to get you to bed.” She scanned the yard. Where was her brother? Why was the little imp always disappearing at the wrong time? “Daniel!” she called.
The boy trotted around the corner of the house, followed by the young spotted goat he’d adopted as a pet. “Where have you been?” she scolded him. “I told you to wait for us.”
“Ebenezer was hungry. I was getting his breakfast.”
“Ebenezer’s big enough to eat grass. Give me the canteen. Then go and fetch the flat cart. We need to get this man in the house.”
The canteen was still slung around Daniel’s neck by its woven strap. Slipping it over his head, he tossed it toward her, then scurried off to get the two-wheeled cart their father used for hauling salvage from the cliff top to the shed.
She lifted Ishmael’s head then tilted the canteen to his lips. He drank as greedily as caution would allow, gulping the water down his throat. Lowering the canteen, Sylvie dampened her hand and brushed the moisture over his face. The coolness startled him. He jerked, blinking up at her.
“Can you get to your knees? My brother’s bringing a cart, but we can’t lift you onto it.”
“I can walk.” His voice was slurred. “Just need a little help…”
He began to struggle. Sylvie seized his hands, bracing until he could get his legs beneath his frame. He staggered to his feet, clinging to her for balance. Again she was struck by his height and size. Such a man could be formidable. But right now he was as helpless as a newborn lamb.
Until she knew more about him, it might be smart to keep him that way.
Chapter Three
Sylvie slumped on the bedside stool in her father’s room. Getting the stranger to bed had been all she could do. He’d insisted on walking, but he’d reeled like a drunkard all the way. Only her support had kept him upright. Now he sprawled on the patchwork coverlet where he’d fallen like tall timber under a lumberman’s ax. His sand-encrusted boots dangled over the foot of the too-short mattress.
Now what? Sylvie’s muscles were jelly. Sweat plastered her dress and her muslin chemise against her skin. Uncertainty gnawed at her mind. Letting this man die was out of the question. She would do everything in her power to save him. But how would she deal with him if he survived?
Like a sick and injured wolf, he was helpless now. But once he recovered there was no guarantee he wouldn’t turn on her, with no more gratitude than a wild beast.
If only her father was home. Aaron Cragun understood things that couldn’t be learned from books. He would know how to handle this situation. But until he returned, she was on her own. And her first priority was to make him well again. Worrying about protecting herself from him could wait until then.
“Is he going to die?” Daniel stood in the doorway, his small face sad and puzzled.
“Not if I can help it.” She willed herself to stand. “Keep an eye on him while I put some willow bark tea on to boil. Then we’ll get him out of his wet clothes and under the covers.”
She kept a supply of dried willow bark in an empty coffee tin. Daniel’s mother had taught her there was nothing better for fevers, and Sylvie had made good use of it over the years. Adding some bark strips to a kettle of water, she set it on the stove to boil and hurried back to the bedroom.
She found Daniel at the foot of the bed, straining to pull off one of Ishmael’s waterlogged boots. The boy was leaning backward, about to topple.
“Here, we’ll do it together.” Sylvie reached around her brother to work one stubborn boot loose, then the other. As she peeled the wet woolen stockings off his feet, Sylvie noticed the hole in one toe.
A wife would have mended it… But what was she thinking? Married or single, it was no business of hers. Right now her only concern was saving his life.
“Wash these out in the trough and hang them up where the goats won’t get them,” she said, handing the stockings to Daniel. “Then you can rinse out the boots under the pump and stick them upside down on the fence posts. Make sure they’re in the sun, all right? We don’t want them getting moldy.”
He scampered off to do her bidding. Such a happy little boy, so full of life and mischief. She would die before she let anything happen to him.
But right now there was Ishmael, half out of his mind and soaked to the skin. She needed to get him out of those wet clothes.
His teeth had begun to chatter. Sylvia darted into the kitchen to check on the willow bark. The water was just beginning to simmer. It would need to come to a full boil, then steep for a few minutes before it was strong enough to do any good. That would just give her time to get her patient undressed and under the covers.
Returning to the bedroom, she resolved to start with his shirt. Cutting it off would be the easiest way. But he would need his clothes when—she wouldn’t say if—his condition improved. He was too long of limb to wear anything of her father’s.
His eyes were closed, his breathing a shallow rumble. Pneumonia from the chilly water, most likely, but she couldn’t be sure. She only knew enough to keep him warm, dose him on willow bark and maybe steam him to clear his lungs.
That, and pray.
Her fingers shook as she freed his shirt buttons. The sun had dried the fine linen fabric on the way up the trail, but the woolen undershirt beneath was wet from seawater and sweat. He moaned incoherently, barely aware of her as she worked the garment off him, pulling it over his arms and his dark head. His pale gold skin was nicked with scars, his chest dusted with crisp black hair. But this was no time to pay attention to such things. He was shivering. She needed to get him warm.
