She grinned and picked him up. ‘Yes, we will,’ she told him. ‘Rocky, I’m very glad I have you.’
He was all she had.
She’d been totally isolated when she’d left Sydney. There’d been people in the firm she’d thought were her friends, but she’d been contacted by no one. The whispers had been vicious, and who wanted to be stained by association?
Enough.
She closed her eyes and hugged her little dog. ‘Choc chip cookies for me and doggy treats for you,’ she told him. ‘Friends stick together, and that’s you and me. That’s what this six months is all about. Learning that we need nobody else.’
* * *
The wind swept in from the south—a wind so fierce that it took the meteorologists by surprise. It took Tasmania’s fishing fleet by surprise, and it stretched the emergency services to the limit. To say it took Raoul’s unprepared little yacht by surprise was an understatement.
Raoul was an excellent yachtsman. What his skills needed, though, was a thoroughly seaworthy boat to match them.
He didn’t have one.
For a while he used the storm jib, trying to use the wind to keep some semblance of control. Then a massive wave crested and broke right over him, rolling the boat as if it was tumbleweed. The little boat self-righted. Raoul had clipped on lifelines. He was safe—for now—but the sail was shredded.
And that was the end of his illusion of control.
He was tossed wherever the wind and the sea dictated. All he could do was hold on and wait for the weather to abate. And hope it did so before Rosebud disintegrated and left him to the mercy of the sea.
TWO DAYS INTO the worst storm to have hit the island since the start of her stay Claire was going stir-crazy. She hadn’t been able to step outside once. The wind was so strong that a couple of times she’d seriously worried that the whole house might be picked up.
‘You and me, Rocky,’ she’d told him, when he’d whimpered at the sound of the wind roaring across the island. ‘Like Dorothy and Toto. When we fly, we’ll fly together.’
Thankfully they hadn’t flown, and finally the wind was starting to settle. The sun was starting to peep through the clouds and she thought she might just venture out and see the damage.
She quite liked a good storm—as long as it didn’t threaten to carry her into the Antarctic.
So she rugged up, and made Rocky wear the dinky little dog coat that he hated but she thought looked cute, and they headed out together.
As soon as she opened the door she thought about retreating, but Rocky was tearing out into the wind, joyful at being allowed outside, heading for his favourite place in the world. The beach.
The sea would look fantastic. She just had to get close enough to the beach to see it. The sea mist was so heavy she could scarcely see through it—or was it foam blasted up by the wind? She could scarcely push against it.
But she was outside. The wind wasn’t so strong that it was hurling stones. She could put her head down and fight it.
Below the house was a tiny cove—a swimming beach in decent weather. She headed there now, expecting to see massive damage, expecting to see...
A boat?
Or part of a boat.
She stopped, so appalled she almost forgot to breathe. A boat was smashed and part submerged on the rocks just past the headland.
The boat wasn’t big. A weekend sailor? It must have been trying to reach the relative safety of the beach, manoeuvring into the narrow channel of deep water, but the seas would have been overwhelming, driving it onto the rocks.
Dear God, was there anyone...?
And almost as soon as she thought it she saw a flash of yellow in the water, far out, between the rocks and the beach. A figure was struggling through the waves breaking around the rocks.
Whoa.
Claire knew these waters, even thoughtshe’d never swum here. She’d skimmed stones and watched the tide in calm weather. She knew there was a rip, starting from the beach and swinging outward.
The swimmer was headed straight into it. If he was to have any chance he had to swim sideways, towards the edge of the cove, then turn and swim beside the rip rather than in it.
But he was too far away to hear if she yelled. The wind was still howling across the clifftops, drowning any hope of her being heard.
Was she a heroine?
‘I’m not,’ she said out loud. But some things weren’t negotiable. She couldn’t watch him drown—not when she knew the water. And she was a decent swimmer.
‘You know where the dog food is, and the back door’s open,’ she told Rocky as she hauled off her coat and kicked off her boots. ‘If I disappear just chew a hole in the sack. Tell ’em I died trying.’
But she had no intention of dying. She’d stick within reach of the rocks, where the current was weakest. She was not a heroine.
Her jeans hit the clothes pile, and then her windcheater. Okay, then—ready, set, go.
* * *
He was making no headway. The current was hauling him out faster than he could swim.
Raoul had been born tough and trained tougher. He hadn’t reached where he was in the army without survival skills being piled on to survival skills. He couldn’t outswim the current, so he knew he had to let it carry him out until it weakened—and then he had to figure out a way back in again.
The problem was, he was past exhaustion.
By the time he’d reached this island the yacht had been little more than a floating tub. The torn sails were useless. He’d used the motor to try and find some place to land, but the motor hadn’t had the strength to fight the surf. Then a wave, bigger than the rest, had hit him broadside.
The boat had landed upside down on the rocks. He’d hit his head. It had taken him too long to get free of the wreck and now the water was freezing.
If he let the current carry him out, would he have the strength to get back in again?
He had no choice. He forced his body to relax and felt the rip take him. For the first time he stopped trying to swim. He raised his head, looking hopelessly towards the shore. He was being carried out again.
There was someone on the beach.
Someone who could help?
Or not.
The figure was slight—a boy? No, it was a woman, her shoulder-length curls flying out around her shoulders
