Love and Dreams: The Coltrane Saga, Book 6 by Patricia Hagan Page A
Authors: Patricia Hagan
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fresh air, then was slapped in the face by yet another wave, once more knocked below. The sea had not given up its fight.
She continued to struggle as she was tossed easily in the rise and fall of the taunting waves and breakers. She caught a glimpse of the ship, bobbing up and down in the distance like a toy in the wake of a child’s gleeful bathtub splashing. It was slipping farther and farther away. She dared to scream for help, the sound, as she’d feared, lost in the wind and the crashing of the water. How long could she stay afloat? And for what reason did she want to? Eventually, she was going to drown. No one on the ship was going to see her or come after her. She was lost. Why not simply give up and end the misery, let the sea have its way?
Something struck her shoulder, and she cried out in pain, then saw a large wooden object just as she was dragged below again. When she bobbed to the surface, she saw deck chairs dancing in the water, angrily realized that the thing that had hit her was the very crate that had washed her overboard…and killed Colt.
It was being carried away in the rough currents, and she screamed out in protest, began to swim toward it. For each stroke she took, she was knocked sideways several feet. Up. Down. Under. Above. The sea enjoyed its fiendish game of torture. Each time she came close enough to the bobbing crate, another wave would explode to send it still farther from her reach, while she was dragged into the cold, swirling depths for another glimpse of waiting death.
Then, as though by a giant unseen hand, Jade felt herself being propelled upward as the biggest wave yet swelled from within the very bowels of the ocean. The crate was also caught in the tidal surge, along with the deck chairs that had fallen out. Jade felt as though terror alone would smother and crush the life from her fearfully pounding heart.
Then, so gradually Jade did not realize at first it was happening, the wave’s fury relented. She was allowed to breathe, was finally released from its paralyzing grip.
At last she was able to reach the bobbing crate. Hysteria took over as she began to beat at it with her fists, screaming, “Damn you, damn you, damn you…!”
The sight of her own blood oozing from her splintered flesh brought her out of her frenzy. Sobbing, weary, she mustered what strength remained to pull herself up and onto the crate.
A gray mist rose from the swirling waters to take her into blessed oblivion and, for a time, away from the hellish nightmare of her life.
Back on the deck, Colt’s body slid about as lifelessly as a fish washed ashore, in a mixture of sea water and his own blood.
Behind him and beyond, Lorena struggled to make her way inside the cabin from the inner corridor, but she could hardly stand amidst the tumbling debris about her and the tossing of the ship. She saw Colt and screamed. A crewman coming down the hall heard and responded. Looking through the open door, he saw the reason for her horror. Pushing her toward the bed, he commanded her to grab something and hang on, lest she be washed overboard.
He made his way to Colt, slipping and falling several times, but was finally able to drag him inside the cabin and close the door against the storm.
He bent over him in a hasty examination.
Lorena watched, biting her lip until she tasted blood, clenching her fists until her nails cut flesh, her stomach heaving with terror as she waited.
Finally, the crewman looked up at her, eyes grim. “Sorry, ma’am…but it looks like your husband’s dead.”
Chapter Nine
A golden sun broke free upon the horizon. The sky was cloaked in brilliant cerulean, not a cloud in sight. Warm breezes whirled from within the Gulf Stream. A beautiful day, the kind poets envision heaven enjoys constantly.
Bryan Stevens stood above the pointed bow of his yacht, the Marnia . It was a large vessel, ninety-four feet overall with a 26.5-foot beam, and had a draft of only five feet two
She continued to struggle as she was tossed easily in the rise and fall of the taunting waves and breakers. She caught a glimpse of the ship, bobbing up and down in the distance like a toy in the wake of a child’s gleeful bathtub splashing. It was slipping farther and farther away. She dared to scream for help, the sound, as she’d feared, lost in the wind and the crashing of the water. How long could she stay afloat? And for what reason did she want to? Eventually, she was going to drown. No one on the ship was going to see her or come after her. She was lost. Why not simply give up and end the misery, let the sea have its way?
Something struck her shoulder, and she cried out in pain, then saw a large wooden object just as she was dragged below again. When she bobbed to the surface, she saw deck chairs dancing in the water, angrily realized that the thing that had hit her was the very crate that had washed her overboard…and killed Colt.
It was being carried away in the rough currents, and she screamed out in protest, began to swim toward it. For each stroke she took, she was knocked sideways several feet. Up. Down. Under. Above. The sea enjoyed its fiendish game of torture. Each time she came close enough to the bobbing crate, another wave would explode to send it still farther from her reach, while she was dragged into the cold, swirling depths for another glimpse of waiting death.
Then, as though by a giant unseen hand, Jade felt herself being propelled upward as the biggest wave yet swelled from within the very bowels of the ocean. The crate was also caught in the tidal surge, along with the deck chairs that had fallen out. Jade felt as though terror alone would smother and crush the life from her fearfully pounding heart.
Then, so gradually Jade did not realize at first it was happening, the wave’s fury relented. She was allowed to breathe, was finally released from its paralyzing grip.
At last she was able to reach the bobbing crate. Hysteria took over as she began to beat at it with her fists, screaming, “Damn you, damn you, damn you…!”
The sight of her own blood oozing from her splintered flesh brought her out of her frenzy. Sobbing, weary, she mustered what strength remained to pull herself up and onto the crate.
A gray mist rose from the swirling waters to take her into blessed oblivion and, for a time, away from the hellish nightmare of her life.
Back on the deck, Colt’s body slid about as lifelessly as a fish washed ashore, in a mixture of sea water and his own blood.
Behind him and beyond, Lorena struggled to make her way inside the cabin from the inner corridor, but she could hardly stand amidst the tumbling debris about her and the tossing of the ship. She saw Colt and screamed. A crewman coming down the hall heard and responded. Looking through the open door, he saw the reason for her horror. Pushing her toward the bed, he commanded her to grab something and hang on, lest she be washed overboard.
He made his way to Colt, slipping and falling several times, but was finally able to drag him inside the cabin and close the door against the storm.
He bent over him in a hasty examination.
Lorena watched, biting her lip until she tasted blood, clenching her fists until her nails cut flesh, her stomach heaving with terror as she waited.
Finally, the crewman looked up at her, eyes grim. “Sorry, ma’am…but it looks like your husband’s dead.”
Chapter Nine
A golden sun broke free upon the horizon. The sky was cloaked in brilliant cerulean, not a cloud in sight. Warm breezes whirled from within the Gulf Stream. A beautiful day, the kind poets envision heaven enjoys constantly.
Bryan Stevens stood above the pointed bow of his yacht, the Marnia . It was a large vessel, ninety-four feet overall with a 26.5-foot beam, and had a draft of only five feet two
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