Hooked (A Romance on the Edge Novel) (13 page)

“I know how to tie up a skiff, Sonya.”

“You weren’t in a hurry? Distracted?” Had Lana been around and caught his attention? The boy only had half a brain when a girl was around.

“No.” He scowled and folded his arms across his chest.

“Let’s focus on finding the skiff,” Gramps interjected.

Placing blame wasn’t helping the situation. There’d be time for that later. Sonya concentrated on piloting the boat while looking for the gray aluminum skiff among an ocean of gray waves. The tide was headed out fast to a minus two. If they didn’t locate the skiff soon, it would probably be on its way to Japan. They’d be down to one skiff for the season. That wouldn’t do. Not to mention the cost to replace it would eat up all their profits and then some.

“I’m heading on deck.” Wes covered another yawn as he left the pilot house and positioned himself at the bow.

“So am I.” Peter followed Wes, and Sonya knew he would be dissing her to him.

“You were a bit hard on the boy,” Gramps said, still searching through the binoculars.

“Fishing’s a hard business. He’s got to learn to pay attention to every detail.”

“Sonya, we all understand the seriousness of losing the skiff. Don’t let the pressure of this season cloud your reasoning. People make mistakes.” He lowered the binoculars and met her eyes. “The measure of a good captain is how she deals with those mistakes.”

He was right. She shouldn’t have automatically assumed Peter was being lax in his job. There were many reasons the skiff could have come loose. The painter’s line might have broken or worked its way free in the tossing surf. Things like that happened. Not often, but they did happen.

“Thanks, Gramps.”

He raised the binoculars. “Just trying to help.”

Wes pointed southwest and Sonya quickly made the corrections. There it was, bobbing in the waves without a care in the world. She felt, rather than heard, her crew sigh with relief.

She brought the boat alongside the skiff, sliding the engine into neutral, while Wes hooked the skiff with the long boat hook and Peter jumped into it. Wes threw him a rope to tie the skiff to the
Double Dippin’.
Peter’s movements were fast and sure as he secured the bow first and then the stern.

Sonya cut the engine and joined Gramps and Wes on deck.

The sun broke through the clouds and she lowered her ball cap over her eyes as the aluminum boats reflected the bright light. “How’s she look?” From this distance, Sonya couldn’t see any damage.

Peter went to the bow and fished the painter’s line, where it hung off the side into the water, and held it up for everyone to see.

The line had been cut.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

“That’s two acts of criminal mischief,” Peter said, sliding his empty plate forward and planting his elbows on the table. “First the hydraulic lines and now the skiff.”

They’d just finished the warmed-up breakfast Grams had kept for them and were sitting around the table trying to come up with a game plan.

“‘Criminal mischief?’” Sonya parroted. “You’ve been watching too many cop shows.”

“What would you call it, Sonya?” Peter nailed her with his idealistic stare. Peter never saw gray. Everything fell neatly into black and white slots for him. “Be in denial all you want, but we have a problem.”

She frowned. “I’m not in denial.”

“Yeah, you’d just like to lay the blame on me.”

“That’s not fair. I apologized for thinking you’d been lax.”

“All right, enough,” Gramps said, bringing the bickering to a stop. Peter sat back and folded his arms. “Arguing isn’t getting us anywhere. It’s obvious that we’ve made some enemies—”

“I wonder how
we
did that.” Peter looked at Sonya. It was clear he laid blame for this situation right at Sonya’s door. She considered it her due as she’d been so quick to accuse Peter for the runaway skiff. “Corking off Kendrick might not have been the best of moves, in hindsight. Ya think?”

“Not helping, Peter.” Grams settled her hand on his shoulder. Peter instantly seemed to calm. Sonya wished she had that ability. She’d raised Peter from the age of two and yet Grams was the mothering force.

“The way I see it, we’re going to have to be extra vigilant,” Wes added, his level tone soothing the ruffled feathers in the room. “If this continues, and I don’t see why it won’t, we should take turns keeping watch.”

Sonya added, “Someone will need to stay on the
Double Dippin’
at all times. Since I’m her captain, that will fall to me.”

“We’ll take turns when you get stir-crazy.” Gramps nodded. “I agree that we need to keep watch, but we don’t need to be paranoid.” He narrowed his look on Peter. “No need to be armed or camping out at the sites.”

Peter held up his hand. “I want it on record that I voted for arms.”

“We got it.” Sonya rubbed at the headache brewing in her temples. She needed some sleep and a half dozen Tylenols.

“There’s one other thing I suggest we do.” Everyone turned to Wes and he continued, “We should contact Garrett and inform him of what’s going on.”

“I don’t think we need to go that far,” Sonya was quick to interject. The last confrontation she’d had with Garrett had almost landed the two of them horizontal. She didn’t trust herself enough to guarantee their next meeting wouldn’t actually end up that way.

“We’ll need a paper trail if this continues,” Wes said. “It’s the smart thing and the right thing.”

“I agree with him, Sonya.” Gramps leveled his concerned eyes on her.

“Me too,” Grams added. “Informing Garrett will add another person to help keep watch.”

Sonya stared at Peter. “You have an opinion?”

Peter unfolded his arms and leaned on the table. “If we can’t be armed, we might as well have someone watching our backs who is.”

The last thing Sonya wanted to do was call Garrett.

She sat on a rock having walked down to the beach after their late breakfast. The
Double Dippin’,
and both skiffs, sat dry with the tide out. Cliffs towered above her, and there was just enough of a breeze to keep the mosquitoes and noseeums from feasting on her. Wisps of hair worked free from her ponytail and she tried to secure them under her ball cap. Not that it did any good. The sun played a losing game of keep away with the ever present storm clouds. It was quiet. Most of the fishermen were probably taking advantage of the minus tide and catching up on sleep, which was exactly what she should be doing.

An eagle screeched overhead. She raised her face to the sky and watched, mesmerized, as the majestic bird soared high above her.

Had the eagle seen who’d cut the painter’s line to the skiff? What else had it seen?

She picked at the tear in the knee of her jeans. Why had someone decided to mess with her? So what if she was drifting and set netting. In the scheme of things, who really cared? Okay, someone did. Who?

Chuck Kendrick? He loved to cause trouble. She didn’t doubt that he got off on it. Other than corking him off the other day, she usually stayed clear of him. The man scared her, though she blustered her way through it every time she was within a few feet of him. If he knew she quaked around him there’d be no telling how far he’d take that tidbit of information.

Kendrick was her bogeyman. Corking him off the other day had been an accident. She sure as hell hadn’t planned it.

Could Aidan be pulling these pranks? That thought upset her more than thinking Kendrick had her in his sights. She’d loved Aidan, probably still did in some locked corner of her heart.

Don’t go there.

She’d dealt with all that. Aidan didn’t deserve her love. Would he mess with her? She didn’t like the idea of a man she’d shared herself with, wanting to cause her grief. She couldn’t have misjudged his character that much, could she?

Idiot. Black eye, remember. You hadn’t seen that coming.

No, she couldn’t discount Aidan, which meant she might have an enemy living right next door. She surveyed the Hartes’ camp across the creek. They’d shared this section of beach for a long time. Her dad and Earl had actually been friends until her mother had come into the picture. Both men had been enamored with Kyra the summer she’d hired on as a cannery worker, but Mikhail Savonski had won her heart.

A sharp pang of loss intruded—how she missed her parents and her sister. Two halves of one egg, she and Sasha had been inseparable. Sometimes she missed Sasha so much she couldn’t breathe. Losing her had been like losing a limb. She’d never be completely whole again.

As far as Sonya knew, she could have pissed off anyone out here. Most kept to themselves, others liked to mess it up. She’d definitely caught someone’s attention. Which brought her right back to contacting Garrett.

How did one go about contacting a fish cop anyway? They were always around when you didn’t want them, but when you needed them, poof, nowhere in sight. She’d be damned if she’d radio the
Calypso
. It wasn’t like you could have a private conversation on the VHF. If she got on the radio, every fishermen out in the bay would know she was contacting the trooper.

She’d have more trouble than she already had if she did that.

So that left her to hunt down Garrett. It wasn’t like she could sneak up on the
Calypso
without anyone noticing. Except someone had boarded the
Double Dippin’
without anyone being aware.

Nope. She wasn’t about to seek Garrett out. Not going to happen. She’d have to take her chances. Be on her guard, and if Garrett happened across her path then she’d mention the problems they’d been having. Besides, they were on top of things. The chance of more mishaps, now that they were being vigilant, was unlikely.

So much for vigilance.

They’d fished the set net sites during the night tide, returning to camp in the wee hours of the morning. Sonya had anchored the
Double Dippin’
in front of camp, right at the end of the running line. She hadn’t gotten any sleep because she’d felt the need to constantly check the boats every half hour. A lot of good that did.

Someone had still gotten by her.

The Fish and Game had closed fishing for the next twenty-four hours to increase salmon escapement up the river, which gave the fishermen a much needed rest before drifting tomorrow.

Not that her crew would get any.

Sonya clenched her fists and wanted to punch someone, preferably the asshole messing with them. They were down a skiff again, but this one hadn’t been cut adrift.

It was left tied to the running line and sinking to the bottom of the damn ocean.

She reached for the mic to radio the cabin, and then set it back on its clip. The first thing her crew was going to ask her was if she’d contacted Garrett. Of course, she hadn’t and she’d been fortunate not to have run into him.

Or unfortunate as the case now seemed to be.

There wasn’t anything anyone could do for the skiff. It was dead in the water until the tide went back out.

She picked the mic back up and changed to channel sixteen, the trooper’s station on the VHF.