and GPS trackers had batteries that ran out. Charlie ran a regular schedule of checking, because it was sensible, but also, if any marine inspector found a charter boat without a working GPS beacon, or a radio with a flat battery, he’d be down on them like a ton of bricks.
But if such an inspector had come...say, last week...and Charlie had panicked and realised one of the sets was flat...
Why not grab the set from Bertha’s bag? Bertha wasn’t being used for charters. She wouldn’t be checked.
All these things were flying through her head like shrapnel. Her head felt as if it might explode. For one awful moment she thought she might be sick.
And then Matt’s hand was on her head. He was leaning forward, propelling her downward.
‘Head between your knees until it passes,’ he said. ‘And there’s no need to panic. We’re safe. One step at a time, Meg.’
She had no choice but to obey. She ducked her head and started counting breaths. It was a trick her grandpa had taught her after her parents had been killed.
When all else fails, just feel your breath on your lips, lass. That’s all that matters. One breath after another.
It felt wimpy. It felt as if she’d handed total responsibility to a stranger but she put her head down and counted.
She was up to about a hundred and twenty before she heard Henry, his thin little voice piping up from the back. ‘Where are we going?’
She should answer. She should...
‘We’re going over to that big rock you see in front of you.’ And Matt sounded totally in control, as if he were stranded at sea after fire every day of his life.
‘Is that Grandma’s island?’
‘Nope.’ Matt’s voice sounded almost cheerful. ‘We’re going to this island first. Garnett Island’s a bit far away for us to get there in this little boat.’
‘But how will we get to Grandma’s?’
Good question, Meg thought. Right now she didn’t have an answer. Luckily Matt did.
‘We might have to wait awhile,’ he conceded. ‘But I’ve been checking this interesting bag our skipper’s brought with us. Apart from muesli bars and bags of nuts and sultanas, there are some cool things that look like flares. When you light flares you can be seen for miles. So my guess is that we’ll land on this island, we’ll eat our muesli bars and our sultanas, and we’ll wait for Meg’s boss to realise she’s no longer in radio contact. I imagine they’ll send a helicopter to find us. If we need to, we’ll light our flares to help him find us and then we’ll all be rescued. Even Boof. Is that a good plan?’
‘We might need a drink,’ Henry said cautiously.
‘There’s a water carton under the seat you’re sitting on,’ Meg managed and then turned and checked herself. All the tenders carried fresh water. At least that was there.
‘And what if it gets dark?’ Henry quavered.
‘I’d imagine Meg’s boss will send help before that, but if he doesn’t then we’ll build a fire with driftwood. I can see matches in Meg’s Marvellous Bag. We’ll sing songs and tell each other stories and then we’ll lie on these...yep, thermal blankets...and we’ll wait until they come. Is that okay with you, Henry?’
‘I...guess...’
It was okay with Meg, too. It sounded like a workable plan—the only hiccup being...
Charlie.
We’ll wait for Meg’s boss to realise she’s no longer in radio contact...
Charlie’s charter boats were supposed to check in every hour, acknowledging to Charlie that boats and punters were safe. Meg couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Charlie monitor those calls. The calls were made—most of his skippers were punctilious—but they were made to an empty control room.
Charlie was always on the pier, chatting to the locals. He watched his boats come in every night. If Meg was due in tonight and didn’t show, Charlie would notice. The trouble was, Meg wasn’t due back tonight. Or tomorrow.
She closed her eyes.
‘Bad?’ Matt asked sympathetically.
And she thought, He’s not going to be sympathetic when I tell him I work for one of the world’s shonkiest charter companies.
But it was no use telling him now, especially not when he’d just reassured Henry.
‘I’m okay,’ she muttered and lowered her head again. It must be the smoke still making her feel sick. ‘We’ll all be okay. Eventually.’
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER they reached their destination.
The combination of medication and salt air had worked their magic. Meg’s lungs felt almost clear.
She still wasn’t in control, though. Matt had taken over. The letterhead on the documents she’d read had been embossed with the words McLellan Corporation. Matt’s name? Her first impression had been wealth and command, and she was now adding skill to the mix. Wherever he’d learned it, he’d acquired knowledge of the sea and small boats. He was now in charge, and the feeling was almost overwhelming.
How long had it been since anyone had taken charge of her world? Not since her grandpa had got sick. Even as a child Meg had learned to be leaned on. Her grandparents had been gutted when her parents had been killed. If she cried, they couldn’t handle it. She’d had to act cheerful even when things were dire.
When she was sixteen her gran had died, too, and Grandpa had pretty much fallen to pieces. That was when she’d decided to quit school and go fishing with him. She’d cajoled him back to enjoying life.
It was only when he was gone that she realised how restricted her own life had become. She could heave craypots. She could count punters in and out of charter boats and she could cope with boats in heavy seas.
Was that what she wanted for the rest of her life?
At twenty-eight, what other choices did she have?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, why was she thinking that now? They’d reached the outcrop. Matt was steering carefully—because the boat was inflatable and the rubber could rip on any one of these sharp rocks—into the tiny cove. There was a stony beach.
She needed to stop thinking of the complications of her life. More immediately, she needed to stop thinking how good it was to let this guy take over—and how good he looked while he did it—and start being useful.
She hauled up the legs of her jeans, checked the bottom and jumped out into knee-deep water. Beaching the tender wasn’t an option on these sharp stones.
The
