"I used to spend summers in the Smoky Mountains when I was a teenager. One of my stepfathers was a congressman from a fairly rural district, and his biggest supporter made his money from the sale of illegal whiskey. Someone suggested his son teach me how to drive."
"He did a good job," Michael said. "What else did he teach you?"
She glanced at him, startled. "Not as much as he wanted to. I was seventeen, but I was strong-minded."
"I can believe you. What next?"
She glanced around her, at the water lapping up around them. With a resigned sigh she climbed out into the hip-deep water. "I need to push this thing out of the water. You stay put while I see what I can do…"
But he'd already unfastened the seat belt and climbed out the other side. "You can't do it alone."
"But you're in no shape…"
"One and a half people are better than one," he said flatly. "And I'm in no shape to spend hours sitting in a Jeep in the middle of the ocean. Let's go."
She knew it would have been a waste of time to argue. The moon had risen sometime during their wild flight, and the silvery color danced off the ocean waves, gilding his pale face. He was right; she needed to get him warm and in bed as fast as possible. But they couldn't leave Daniel's Jeep in the middle of Martinus Bay. Not without checking what had happened to the brakes.
It was easier than she would have thought, given the push of the water against the Jeep. By the time they rolled it onto the rocky beach, water was pouring out of the engine, and a group of people from the nearby village had joined them, helping push.
She was in the midst of explanations to her curious helpers when her eyes sought out Michael. He was off to one side, talking to a man she'd never seen before, a huge black man who looked more like a football linebacker than the fishermen on St. Anne who'd come to her rescue.
Michael's instincts were lightning fast. His eyes met hers, seconds after she glanced his way, and he started toward her, leaning heavily on his cane. "I've got us a ride home."
"This is a small island—most of the villagers don't own cars. You did get a ride in a car, didn't you? I can't say I fancy a ride on a motorbike. Or a mule."
"Sort of a car," he temporized. "A delivery truck, to be exact. Cecil has offered his services." He gestured toward the linebacker, who smiled and nodded, flashing his white teeth in the moonlight.
"Who is he? I've never seen him before."
"Neither have I," Michael said wearily. "Do you know everyone from around here?"
Francey couldn't fight her guilt. Here she was quibbling over strangers when Michael was almost dead on his feet. "Of course not," she murmured. "I just thought I would have noticed him if I'd seen him before. He's awfully big."
"Shall we take the ride or not?" Michael swayed slightly, and his color had bleached back to a sickly white.
"We'll take the ride," she said, taking his arm in hers and helping him over the uneven rock-strewn beach. She could feel him tremble slightly from the exertion, and she held his arm more tightly against her, close to the side of her breast. He was harder, more muscular, then she would have thought beneath the baggy suit. At one point in his life, before the car accident, he must have been a fairly strong, well-built man.
The delivery truck was a silver Ford in surprisingly good shape. The three of them squeezed into the front seat—no mean feat, considering the sheer size of Michael's new acquaintance, Cecil, but apparently the back was padlocked and filled with whatever it was Cecil delivered. There was no identifying sign painted on the truck, and somehow Francey couldn't figure out a polite way of asking. Reaction was beginning to set in. Her own limbs were trembling when she climbed into the front of the track, and for the time being all she wanted to do was crawl into bed. Once she made sure Michael was comfortably settled, she reminded herself.
She felt very tiny, squashed between Cecil's impressive bulk and Michael's bony frame. Leaning her head back, she shut her eyes, waiting to be transported home. When nothing happened, she opened them again.
"Where do you live?" Cecil asked in a pleasant voice with just a trace of island hit. He must have spent most of his life off-island. Playing football?
"Sorry," she said briefly, giving him directions. St. Anne was a small, social island—everyone knew everyone's business outside the rush of tourist trade. Cecil should have known where she lived, just as she should have been able to identify him.
It didn't matter, she thought, closing her eyes again. She'd been through too much in the past couple of hours to make sense of anything. In the calm, clear light of day, after a good night's sleep, she would be able to place him and these nagging inconsistencies would make sense.