Chapter 8: Salvage

The sea had given the launch back.

The swell that dragged her under on Wednesday had set her down again on the inner reef, wedged with her stern up and her bow underwater.

Rhys stood on the sand and studied her the way he studied a shipping manifest.

"The cabin's above the waterline," he said. "There were jugs in it. A tarp, a coil of rope, a first aid box."

"And a fisherman's whole toolbox," Abel said from his seat on a driftwood log. "I'd kill for his fishing line."

"Four hours until the tide comes back."

"Take my knife," Abel said, and handed it over.

I stood with my arms crossed.

"I'm coming," I said.

"You've got a ten-week-old."

"Abel has her."

"Abel has a knee."

"Abel," I said, "has a lap."

Abel held up one hand. "I've raised three kids and a pack of terriers. Go."

We waded out together through water that rose to my ribs and dropped to my knees.

The coral was sharp enough to cut through my sandals.

Rhys went first, testing every step.

The cabin was a wet cave of splintered wood and loose gear.

He handed the jugs out to me one at a time.

I passed them to the edge of the reef, where the water was shallow enough to set them down.

He got the tarp.

He got the rope, and the fishing line, and the box with a red cross on the lid.

"Last thing," he said. "The cleat."

"What cleat?"

"There's a steel cleat on the bow with a good ten meters of anchor chain. We could rig a tent frame."

He leaned out over the crumpled bow to unbolt it, and the hull shifted underneath him.

I heard the metal groan before I saw it.

Keep reading free with an account. Start Stranded by My Island Billionaire Husband from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.