You're the One That I Want (3 page)

She’d probably been up with the skipper
 
—her old man, Red
 
—charting the lines, reading the weather.

Owen watched as Greenie flexed his hands. “I can’t close them all the way,” the kid said, looking wan and ragged.

An old memory surfaced about practicing so long he could no
longer hold his hockey stick. But Owen took a sip of coffee, shaking the story away. No one knew about his life before he signed on to the F/V
Wilhelmina
, and he meant to keep it that way.

Scotty had shucked off her jacket, wore a sweatshirt and a baseball hat, her long black ponytail trailing out the back. Now she opened the fridge, stared long into it, then finally closed it and headed into her private bunk area, the one concession to having a female on board.

“I can’t wait to get home,” Carpie said, getting up. A polar bear of a man, he wore his white hair long, his beard in a thick white goatee.

Home.
The word settled over the crew, and an ache swept through Owen.

“My mom’s already ordered my ticket. Eight hundred bucks, straight from Anchorage to Des Moines,” Greenie said, sounding puny, not at all like the cocky redneck he pretended to be.

Des Moines, just a few hours south of Minnesota. Where Owen should probably go after they docked.

Or maybe he should keep moving. It wasn’t like anyone really missed him after what he’d done.

Juke and Greenie got up, headed to their bunks. Owen dumped the coffee sludge into the sink, then rinsed his cup and set it on the sideboard.

He had turned toward the bunk area when he heard a moan behind him, coming from beyond Scotty’s curtain.

Owen paused, his heart thumping. But he heard it again, short, low, but enough that, without thinking, he swept open the curtain.

Scotty looked up, her eyes wide, frozen in the act of taking off her sweatshirt. She’d pulled her hat off, freeing her thick sable hair to cascade over her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re . . . moaning.” That sounded awkward, and now he wanted to back away before anyone got hurt.

Or maybe not, because he saw the tiniest hint of pain around her eyes. He’d been an athlete long enough to know when someone was hiding an injury.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” He stepped into the room. “Shut up and let me help.”

Her mouth tightened into a knot of annoyance, but she let him take the arm of her sweatshirt and pull as she eased out of it.

One of her eyes closed in a wince and she cradled her arm to her body.

Dropping the sweatshirt on the bunk behind her, Owen was aware suddenly of how her T-shirt clung to the curves she hid beneath her bulky layers. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, so quit saying that and let me see.” He gave the overhead light a tug and illumination splashed over them. He gently took her arm, seeing now where an ugly bruise knotted in her upper arm.

“This happened when we slammed against the rail, didn’t it?”

“It’s no biggie.” She made to pull her arm away, but he pressed his hand over the injury. Her arm radiated heat; his cool hand acted like an ice pack.

“You probably bruised the muscle, maybe even the bone the way the blood is pooling here. You could use some ice and some rest.”

“We have work to do. My father is exhausted, and I told him I’d spell him.” But she didn’t pull her arm away, just let his hand cradle it, cooling the muscle.

She had such soft, smooth skin. And the way she caught her bottom lip in her teeth . . .

Yeah, maybe he should leave because her bunk room seemed to have shrunk around them. In fact, if the boat lurched the wrong direction
 
—

A creak and Owen found himself off-balance as the
Wilhelmina
betrayed him, keeling over with the chop of the ocean. He braced himself on her upper bunk before he pitched into Scotty.

But she’d grabbed ahold of his shirt to keep herself from falling back. His hand left her arm, curled around her waist, caught her up to him.

And in that second, he caught a whiff of her skin, some sweet scent that slammed into him like a sharp check into the boards. Good grief, how long had it been since he’d held a woman in his arms?

He knew exactly how long. Remembered every sordid, regrettable detail. But this was different.
He
was different
 
—or trying to be.

Then the boat rocked back and Scotty fell against him. Owen caught her wrist, helping her right herself. The pulse there thundered, matching his own.

A smile slid up his face. Well, well. So perhaps he should plan dinner . . . maybe even dancing?

Clearly his thoughts showed on his face because she yanked her wrist away. “Get out.”

“Scotty
 
—”

“‘Yes, sir,’ is the right answer.”

He didn’t know what to name the emotion that shot through him. Frustration? Tenderness? Maybe a combination of both as he tamped down the hot flare of desire. “C’mon, Scotty . . .”

She untangled herself from his grasp, not looking at him. “Go. Before anyone starts getting ideas.”

His lips tightened. “Yes,
sir
.”

She shot him a look, and he instantly regretted his tone. Owen softened his voice. “At least go easy on that arm. Get some ice on it.”

He might need some himself, actually.

“I’m fine. You just take care of yourself.”

He knew how to do that real well and, frankly, was tired of it.

Owen let the curtain fall behind him, his heart still hammering, pretty sure he should turn around, barge his way back in, and figure out what might be out there for them, if either of them had the guts to reach for it.

But the memory of being that guy before, cajoling his way into a woman’s life, leaving her heart in shambles, tasted raw and sour.

So he stumbled back to his bunk, climbed in, and fought the ever-lingering memory of his brother, his best friend, connecting with a right hook to his face.

A right hook he’d deserved, even if it had taken him nearly a year to admit it.

Owen pulled his sleeping bag over him and huddled in the chill, praying for sleep. Because there, in his dreams, he could make everything right.

He could go home.

“Red, it’s my watch. Give me the helm before you land in the hospital again.”

Scotty stood in the doorway to the wheelhouse, thick with smoke from her father’s flattened pack of Winstons, fatigue a blurry memory after tossing in her bunk for an hour.

Thank you oh so much, Owen Christiansen, for stirring up feelings forbidden on a crab boat, feelings she’d spent a decade learning how to avoid.

Mr. Eye Patch wasn’t the first good-looking, muscle-built drifter they’d hired aboard the
Wilhelmina
. Just the first one with manners. And a smile that did crazy things to her pulse.

The way he’d held her arm, soft, like a caress . . . “Pop, really
 
—”

“Not
Pop
, not here.” Red tamped out the cigarette in his ashtray, overflowing now. Evidence of the weather rolling in. Two computer screens lit up the room with Doppler, and over the radio, other crab boats called in positions and updates.

Right. Not
Pop
. She knew better. “You haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. Let me skipper, just for an hour.”

It felt like arguing with a grizzly, and she treaded around the edges, not wanting to provoke him. He possessed the ability to take her
 
—and any of his crew
 
—down with a string of salty words that could curdle a pirate’s blood. And in a raspy, deep-throated voice that sounded like the motor on his low-riding Harley Fat Bob.

“We’re heading into a mess. Everything changes when you get weather
 
—I need to stay put. You get some shut-eye
 
—”

“I’m fine, and I’ve skippered this boat through worse, if you remember.”

He shot her a look, and she didn’t care that she’d dredged up the past, made him take a look at his pride, his fears. Someone had to keep them both alive. Still, even in that glance, the old man looked haggard, lines drawn down his face, his brown eyes bagged with fatigue. He’d gained weight despite the doctor’s orders, a result of Scotty taking over his hands-on duties, maybe, or his onshore diet that consisted too often of the special down at the Moosehead Tavern
 
—wings, chips, and the double-decker jalapeño burger.

But what did she expect? Red McFlynn had the skin of an old snow crab, tough and impenetrable. He ran his boat with a steel hand, demanding as much from himself as he did his crew.

In fact, he spent more time on deck, hauling in pots, throwing in line, chopping bait, than any skipper she knew, an old-school captain who abided by his rule to know every inch of his boat, the shortcuts of his crew.

Scotty had learned everything she knew about fishing from Old Red. Everything about life, really.

Shoot straight. Pay your debts. Expect no compromise.

Trust few.

And most importantly, no crying.

She had, however, also learned how to wrestle the helm away from his steel-clawed grip.

“We’ll need you later, when the wind’s blowing forty-five and we have thirty-five-foot swells. I can’t hold the boat in that weather.”

A lie because she knew exactly how to sail the
Willie
. Knew exactly how to pilot the single-screw into four-story swells, the delicate dance of throttle and jog stick that feathered a fishing boat into a wave. Knew how to judge the weight, whether the boat was heavy with crab or corky in the water. Knew how to make the waves work for her, instead of fighting them.

She knew not to take a wave on the starboard side, where her guys worked the pots and the lower rail meant a wave could wash them right over. But take too many waves on the port side and it would jerk them off course.

And she knew how to recognize “slack tank,” or partially filled crab tanks, and the dangerous rhythm of water sloshing inside the boat that could roll it over, send it to the bottom.

In short, she understood the delicate physics it took to keep
them alive, swell after swell, in fifty-knot winds, blinding sleet, and the unpredictable roll of the icy black water that had entombed so many of their friends.

She picked up his crumpled pack of Winstons, handed it to him. “I can’t sleep anyway, and they’ll need me down there if you’re right about the weather, so get in your rack and get some sleep. Just an hour. Please.”

She added a softness at the end of her sentence, let it linger long enough for Red to sigh.

“Just an hour. Wake me when we reach the tip of the string.” He slid off the chair, lumbered into the nearby captain’s room, and shut the door. She heard a groan, followed by the creak of the bunk as he settled into it.

One hour to make sure they stayed on course, to batten down the ship in case the gale turned lethal. Scotty took the captain’s chair, already checking the weather, the maps. They were moving at 10.3 knots, 1600 RPM, and the radar showed three other ships in their vicinity and moving south, toward port.

Which maybe they should be doing.

She throttled back as the
Wilhelmina
dipped into a trough, not wanting to ram the bow into the crest of the next wave. Or bury the bow in the trough, raising the propeller out of the water.

In her worst nightmares, the boat yawed to one side and breached or even pitchpoled, flipping end over end.

She’d seen it happen once, or rather, been on the rescue end of trying to locate survivors.

She throttled back even more, glancing at Red’s cabin. Right now, they’d be safer slowing down to bare steerage and cutting through the waves at forty-five degrees, riding the swells as they tacked their way north. Sure, it might slow their trip, but they’d live.

Red had already set their course, plugged it into the VMS, and she kept her eyes on the radar, the navigation, a green hue washing the wooden cabin.

“I figured you were at the helm.” Carpie edged into the wheelhouse. “The ship slowed, and I don’t feel quite so ill.”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“Naw. Praying, mostly.”

Carpie, always the religious one. Maybe that’s why Red kept him on, twenty years now, a fixture on the
Willie
. The connection to whoever might be up there.

“Whatever floats your boat, Carp.”

A wave splashed over the bow, jarring the boat, and Scotty wrestled to slow their speed into the trough.

“It’s what keeps us all afloat, Scotty. God’s with us, always.”

“Right. Why don’t you get some sleep
 
—”

“Not yet. I got this itch, honey, that says something’s going to happen tonight, and I can’t let it go down without talking to you.”

Ah, no. Their yearly “Jesus loves you” talk. “I’m too old, seen too much to believe in the great Santa Claus in the sky. Save your breath, Carp. Better yet, go preach to Greenie. Or maybe Owen. He seems like he might be carrying around some baggage.”

“Something in his eyes, isn’t it? Like he’s looking over his shoulder.” Carpie reached over to grab the ashtray, emptied it in the trash. “There’s something okay about that boy, though. I feel it.”