bad. If that wound isn’t treated with antibiotics, the pelican will get an infection and die. It’s happened before.”
“Poor thing’s scared to death,” Bridger muttered “Look at its eyes.” The round, glassy eyes rolled in their sockets as the bird struggled futilely to free itself.
Fingers flying, Bridger unbuttoned his long-sleeved plaid shirt. Beneath it was a white T-shirt, dripping wet like the rest of his clothes. Without saying anything, he wrapped his plaid shirt around the pelican’s head, right over the net. For a long moment he held his hands steady on the bird’s body. That seemed to calm it.
“Gotta think what to do,” Frankie murmured. “I should get this bird to the animal rescue people right away, but I don’t want to spoil our day….”
For a moment Frankie stayed silent as Jack and Ashley exchanged looks. Then, looking up suddenly, Frankie asked, “Bridger, how old are you?”
“Fifteen in three more months.”
Frankie studied Bridger, who was struggling to pull off his wet T-shirt so he could wring it out. “I think you’re a boy who takes a hard look before he leaps,” she said. “But you also react fast in emergencies. That’s good. So here’s what I’m considering. I’ll take you kids over to the Watson Place—”
Ashley gave a sharp little gasp. No one except Jack noticed it. “It’s not too far from here. There’s a picnic table where you can spread out the lunch I brought, and then you can fish from the dock while I take this pelican back to Everglades City. If I go like blazes, I can get there and be back in an hour and 40 minutes, two hours at the outside. While I’m gone, Bridger will be in charge.”
Jack felt a pang of resentment. “Why Bridger? Anyway, Ashley and I don’t need a baby-sitter, Frankie.”
“I’m the skipper here,” Frankie declared, her voice stern, “and I say Bridger’s the first mate while I’m gone. Got it?”
Reluctantly, Jack nodded, resisting the urge to say “aye, aye” and salute.
“Now, Bridger,” Frankie went on, “I’m going to move the boat fast, so I think it’ll be good if you hold your hands on the pelican like you did before, to calm it as much as possible. The engine noise is going to scare it something awful.”
As the boat picked up speed, Frankie shouted to be heard over the sound. “Couple of rules, here, kids. Stay in the clearing around the Watson Place. Don’t—repeat, don’t—go into the mangrove forest. These mangrove forests grow so dense that even folks who are used to these parts get lost in ’em.”
Frankie took one hand off the steering wheel to wave at the masses of trees growing on each side of the waterway passage, forests so impenetrable they looked like the tufts of a plush green carpet. Above the waterline, tangles of roots wove together like wicker cages, reaching down into water turned brown by tannic acid from the trees.
“One more reason to stay out of the mangroves—that’s where the mosquitoes are really bad. They can suck you dry.”
Frankie stayed silent for a moment, slowing the boat so that it was easier to hear her. “Bridger, I said I’d tell you what ‘peccadillo’ means. It means ‘foolish mistake.’ Gene and I sometimes wondered if we were foolish to work here where mistakes can be deadly. Tropical storms, snakebites, mosquitoes that swarm so thickly after dark they can suffocate you—out here, if you guess wrong, bad things happen. But in spite of the risks, we decided it was worth it. This is where we wanted to be.”
Bridger nodded. “I understand, ma’am. My dad would understand, too.”
“So I’m trusting you,” she went on, “to make good decisions. Now look, over there on the right, up ahead. That’s the Watson Place.”
They’d been moving fast enough that the breeze, plus the heat, had nearly dried Bridger’s T-shirt. His arms were already starting to turn red from the sun, but he refused the sunscreen Ashley offered him. Why did Frankie think Bridger was so responsible, Jack wondered, when he did dumb things such as letting himself fry?
They eased the boat next to a rickety dock made of weathered planks; the dock stretched into a walkway that butted against a narrow shore of silty mud. Beyond that, Jack saw a clearing, filled with grass and ringed in a thicket of mangrove trees. Two picnic tables hunkered near the shoreline. Near them, on a pole, was a brown sign that said “Watson Place,” and beneath that, a warning: “No Campfires,” with a red circle and a line through it. The sign reflected upside down in the glassy water.
“OK, Jack, hop out and pull ’er close to the dock. Bridger, you’ll need that cooler in case you get hungry or thirsty while I’m gone. Ashley, you start unloading the fishing gear. I’m going to try and secure this pelican.”
The four didn’t talk as they busied themselves with their jobs. Frankie managed to knot one of the shirt sleeves to the pedestal at the base of the pilot’s chair, which kept the pelican tethered. On the dock, the gear was lined up in a neat row alongside the stacked-up life jackets; the green cooler sat next to them. Jack’s muscles strained to keep the boat wedged against the dock until Frankie gave the signal for him to throw in the line.
A moment later, as the Pescadillo accelerated, Frankie turned and cupped her hands to shout, “I’ll be back in an hour and 40 or so. Stay put.”
“We will, Captain,” Bridger called back.
The three of them waved until the boat disappeared around a mangrove bend. Then Ashley glanced nervously over her shoulder, her lips pressed into a tight line.
Bridger smoothed the rim of his cowboy hat before pushing it firmly on his head. He’d already pulled on his socks and boots, and except for the missing plaid shirt, he looked exactly as he’d looked earlier. “I want to scout around the Watson Place before I start to fish,” he announced. “Want to come, Jack?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, wait, I’m not staying here on this dock by myself,” Ashley protested.
Bridger rolled back on the heels of his boots. “I figured you wouldn’t want to check the island out, seeing as how jumpy you are.”
“That’s because…you don’t know….”
“Don’t know what?” Bridger pressed.
“Nothing,” Ashley muttered, setting her jaw in a way that meant she wasn’t going to talk anymore. From experience, Jack knew that if something was bothering her it would come out sooner or later. It was best to let Ashley settle things in her own mind. Whatever it was, she’d reveal it soon enough.
After they stepped off the dock and onto the shore, they headed for the ring of trees huddled around the edge of the clearing. Some of the trees were different from the ever-present mangroves, and Jack guessed someone must have planted other varieties to break up the monotony of the mangroves’ black, gnarled limbs and webbed roots. Or maybe these were exotic trees, as he’d heard them called, that didn’t belong there, that had washed in from the Gulf and threatened to take over the native trees.
As they walked, tall grass brushed against Jack’s bare shins like thousands of fingers. He tried not to let himself think that snakes might be crawling in the dense underbrush. Bridger didn’t seem bothered by the thought of bugs or reptiles; maybe it was because his boots would
