You're the One That I Want (7 page)

He just wanted to sleep. But he kept his gaze on the sky, the way the reds bled into the gold, dissipating into one orange glow.

He had no doubt that the Coast Guard would find them
 
—or rather, Scotty
 
—alive.

And that thought made him drill down, unearth the words, because really, it wouldn’t matter. He turned to her, found her eyes shining, her face glowing in the dawn.

“If I go back, you have to come with me,” he whispered.

“Huh?”

“Back to Deep Haven. You know . . . meet my family.” He closed his eyes, the weight too much to hold them open. “You’d
like them. They’re loud, and yeah, we fight, but it’s not unlike being on the boat with Juke and Carpie.”

“Owen . . .”

The tremor in her voice caught him, and he held it in a quiet place, forcing his own tone to stay light, despite the cold hand of truth moving over him. “In fact, since we just spent the night together, I think you should probably do right by me
 
—” he took a breath, then another, gathering his strength
 
—“and marry me.”

He opened his eyes just to catch a glimpse of her face, her gray-green eyes so beautiful as they widened in surprise.

Perfect.

He smiled. Now maybe she’d stop thinking about the fact that he was dying and start arguing with him again. Get worked up enough to hold on until she could get rescued.

Then blackness began to seep over him, blurring his vision, his thoughts.

“Owen!”

Mmm-hmm? “Is that a yes?”

And there went the song again, round and round as he faded into darkness.

“You’re waiting from the back roads by the rivers of my memories, ever smilin’, ever gentle on my mind.”

“Owen?” Scotty ran her knuckles down his sternum. He barely responded with a grunt. “Owen!”

She leaned over, listened to his chest. His breathing sounded garbled at best, rattling. As if his lungs were drowning. In seawater or blood?

“No, you don’t die on me!” She lifted his arm, took his pulse, found it erratic, light.

That’s when she tugged up his T-shirt and discovered his belly and chest had turned purple. Whatever he’d hit had shredded his insides. And he’d been lying here, slowly bleeding to death.

She leaned over him, slapping his cheek. “Wake up.”

But he didn’t even groan, and that had her raising her voice. “Listen, fine. Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you! Yes, do you hear me? But you have to live. You have to
stay alive
.”

He didn’t open his eyes.

He looked, in fact, peaceful, like he might be sleeping, the sun turning his beard to rose gold, his cheekbones high, his hair curly and long around his neck.

She pressed her hand to his chest, feeling it rise and fall. Then she closed her eyes, still, paralyzed.

Now,
right
now, she wished Carpie were here. Because he’d pull out his Bible and thump it a little, and then he’d pray, and if God was really listening, really cared, He’d do something.

Because Carpie believed.

Have a little faith.

Owen’s words, and after hearing his story, it all clicked. She’d seen him hanging out with Carpie when he was reading his Bible, so maybe he’d meant
faith
.

As in the kind that came with looking into the sunrise and knowing that it was created by Someone. And believing that Someone cared. Watched over. Intervened.

Scotty sat beside Owen, wishing her hand could warm his body, wishing he hadn’t told her about his life because she could see it
 
—his devastated mother, wondering why he’d never called,
and his siblings, white-faced. His brother Casper regretting a stupid fight over a woman.

Have a little faith.

“How could you have a family and not . . .” She shook her head. “You’re right, Owen. You’re a jerk. First you save me; then you flirt with me; then you make me hungry
 
—I’d love a chocolate chip cookie right now, thank you so much. And then you, what
 
—propose? Of course you do. Because you know you’re dying, and it won’t matter. Well, listen up, bub: you’re not getting out of that proposal so easy. You’d better live because I say
yes
.” She leaned over him, her voice in his ear, so close she could kiss him. “Do you hear me? Yes.”

Oh, she wanted to kiss him. The crazy urge just about made her touch her lips to his. She didn’t know how he’d managed to crawl under her defenses so quickly
 
—except it hadn’t exactly been quick, had it? Because she’d watched him with a keen eye since that first day.

Had wondered, yes, what it might be like to be in his arms.

And for a moment last night
 
—only hours ago
 
—she’d discovered herself there in his embrace, feeling all those solid planes of his body, muscles wrought from hard work and hours at sea. If she’d been a smart girl instead of a proud girl, she might have wrapped her arms around his neck, held on. Given the pirate a chance before life threw them overboard.

She checked his breathing again. Slight, ragged.

Slowing.

Scotty sat back, wiped her hand across her face. “You better not die on me because I want a wedding. Flowers and a dress.” Not really
 
—what would that look like? While she deserved to wear
white, she hadn’t worn a dress, well, ever. Because she wasn’t the kind of girl who believed in dating or true love or happy endings.

Have a little faith.

She took his hand, folded it between both of her own. Clutched it to her chest. “Do not leave me, Owen. Do not leave me in this boat by myself.”

His hand tightened. Or maybe just a spasm, but she searched his face for life.

Please. Oh . . .

She didn’t care that her eyes filled or that she’d begun to shake.
Have a little
 
—

“Fine! Please, God. If You exist, if You’re up there at all . . . if You see us, if You care in the tiniest bit, keep him breathing. Just keep him breathing.”

Owen’s hand spasmed again, and she held it to her face, her voice cut thin, bare. “Just keep him breathing.”

The ocean had calmed and Scotty rode the gentle waves, watching the sunrise bleed out into perfect blue skies. Owen refused to rouse, but his chest kept moving. Up, down, up
 
—

And then she heard it. A humming, a
whap-whap-whap
, then a horn.

A helicopter. Searching the sea. She leaped up, stood under the porthole, waving her arms outside.

She saw nothing, but she could hear the rotary blades chopping the air.

A flare. Except without the gun . . .

She ducked back inside, found the supply case, and opened it, taking out the last stick flare inside.

She stood up again, aiming the flare through the porthole.

Please work.
Please.

She broke the flare and it lit, a shiny, bright signal. It burned in her hand, and she waved it, hoping to catch a mirror or binoculars or whatever they might be using.

“Help! Help!” Probably expending her breath wasn’t wise, but it seemed the right accompaniment to her frenetic waving.

The stick burned, and as she threw it in the water, she listened for the chopper.

Gone. No hammering of the air, no drone of an engine.

She sank back inside, listening to her heartbeat rage in her chest. Then she crept over to Owen. “It’s going to be okay. They’ll find us.”

She settled her hand back on his chest.

It was still. “No . . . Owen, no!” She jammed two fingers against his carotid artery. Nothing. She cupped her hand over his mouth. No breathing.

Silence.

“Owen!” She rose above him, began to pump his chest. One, two . . . all the way to thirty, just like she’d been trained.

C’mon, Owen . . .

She leaned in, listening for breath sounds. Gave two strong breaths, then more chest compressions. Her stomach clenched with the exertion but
 
—

Outside, again she heard the chopper.

Breaths.

Compressions.

It seemed louder as if the chopper might have looped back. She braced herself so the waves wouldn’t dislodge her.

Breaths. She stared at Owen’s face. He looked pinker, maybe.

The helicopter sound droned louder still.

Please, God. Please.
She might have even started begging aloud.

Compressions.

The rotors chopped the air, the raft walls beginning to ripple.

Breaths.

Then a voice. “Hello, the life raft. If you’re in there, please acknowledge.” The rotors chopped the air.

Compressions. “Owen!”

She stared at him, saw his color had definitely improved, but he stayed still, no life.

“I’m sorry
 
—I’m so sorry.” She jumped up and stuck her head through the porthole. “I’m here! We’re in here! Help! I need help!”

Above her, a beautiful black-nosed, white-and-orange MH-60 Jayhawk chopper hovered over the water. She wanted to weep with the sight of it but turned away, back to Owen, as a rescue diver clad all in orange dropped into the sea.

Breaths.

Compressions.

Hurry.

She heard the Velcro door separating, then the diver opening the hatch. “Hello?”

Breaths.

He climbed inside.

Scotty moved back to compressions, her face wet. “Help me. Please help me.”

“Ma’am, I need to evacuate you
 
—”

“Not without Owen.”

“Ma’am, we’ll take over.”

“Listen, he saved my life, and I’m not leaving until you have oxygen on him and his heart is pumping, so either help me or get out!”

The diver radioed the chopper.

“Breathe, Owen. Please.” She added breaths.

The diver moved alongside her, started compressions.

Another diver appeared, this time with a medical kit. He climbed inside the raft. “We got this, ma’am.”

Breaths. “I’m not stopping!”

The medic opened his kit, pulled out a rebreather, cupped it over Owen’s face. “We’ve got him.”

“He’s been bleeding for hours. Into his gut, but maybe into his lungs too.”

The medic checked Owen’s pulse, then pulled out a stethoscope. “It looks like a hemothorax. Get her in the basket. I need to relieve the pressure and maybe we can get his heart beating again.”

“Ma’am
 
—” The first diver took her arm.

She yanked it away. “I’m not leaving him.”

“The sooner we get you in the chopper, the sooner we can send down the basket for your friend.”

The medic doused Owen’s bare chest with antiseptic and pulled out a large-bore needle.

“Ma’am, let’s go now.” The diver stood at the door, gripping the edge of a basket lowered next to the raft. He grabbed her suit.

She couldn’t take her eyes off Owen. “He has to live, do you hear me? Owen, you have to live!”

“We’re doing our best.”

The medic had inserted the needle, and dark, thick blood began to drain into a bag. He glanced at Scotty. “Please. The faster we get him on board the Coast Guard cutter, the better his chances.”

She climbed into the basket. Held on as the chopper winched her aloft.

Another diver strapped her into the chopper and she watched, not breathing herself, as they finally loaded Owen into the basket,
pulling him up. He wore the oxygen mask, two black patches on his chest where they’d probably shocked his heart.

Once Owen was loaded in beside Scotty, the medic closed the door. “His heart’s beating, for now.”

Then probably hers could too.

As the chopper headed away from the raft, she peered down at it, their nest in the middle of the inky-blue ocean.

Then she reached down and clasped Owen’s hand. Looking again at the medic, she shouted over the noise of the chopper, “You can’t let him die because I’m going to marry him!”

S
COTTY KNEW
O
WEN
couldn’t have been serious about the proposal. Nor, really, did she intend to marry him.

The lie just became so convenient as it grew, took on life, significance.

“Ma’am, if you’d like to go into the ICU, you can visit for a few minutes.”

Scotty got up from where she’d stretched out on the sofa in the family waiting room of the Providence Alaska Medical Center in Anchorage. A chill still embedded her bones despite the hypothermia treatment. They’d warmed her with blankets, finally let her shower, given her scrubs to wear, then released her to pace the halls as Owen underwent surgery.

She’d gotten ahold of Red and the crew. Listened to her old man’s tight voice. “Glad you made it in.”

She told him to finish hauling in the pots, but with half their crew gone, she doubted they’d finish, at least not before their delivery deadline.

But she couldn’t think about anything beyond Owen.

Her fiancé.

She’d thrown that word around like it belonged to her, and when she sat next to his bed in the ICU, the machines beeping, the oxygen hissing, she took his hand as if they might be high school sweethearts.

“Owen. Hon.” She didn’t even glance at the nurse, clad in friendly pink, examining his IV tube and taking his pulse. “You have to wake up. I’m so worried.”

The nurse touched her shoulder. “He’s in serious condition, but his blood pressure is holding strong. You’re marrying a toughie.”

She nodded and for a second could admit she longed for that outrageous, impossible happy ending.

Married to Owen Christiansen.

A man she barely knew. And she should get her head around that. Twelve hours in a raft didn’t mean they were soul mates.

Crewmates. Survivors. Not engaged.

The nurse left, and Scotty pitched her voice low. “Listen, if you’re freaking out about what I said in the boat, don’t. I know you weren’t serious about the proposal. You were trying to make me laugh or maybe stop me from thinking you were dying and going to abandon me on the high seas.”

And he would have, too, if it hadn’t been for . . . Well, she wouldn’t call it God. Maybe fate. Luck.

She didn’t know quite how to name it because now that she had land under her feet, she didn’t want to think about faith. She just wanted to think about the fact that they’d lived.

“And don’t worry; I haven’t picked out a dress or anything, so you can wake up. Hear me? You can wake up, Owen.”

He looked thinner, beat up, in the late-afternoon sun. Not like the man who’d jumped into a raging sea to save her. Or even the man who’d flirted with her, laughing, hiding his pain.

“You’re such a jerk. Yeah, that’s right, because guess what? You got me thinking about what it might be like to be married to you. And how annoying you’d be, all fun and games, not a serious bone in your body.”

Except he had gotten serious
 
—enough to tell her about his life. His family. His mistakes.

She blinked back the burn in her eyes. Stupid Eye Patch, almost making her cry.

“I mean, we don’t know each other. Not really.” Even if he was the kind of man a girl might want to marry
 
—his wide shoulders, blond hair, the way he looked up occasionally to find her watching him, to flash her a smile.

How she loved that smile.

And to discover that it came with a laugh that made her feel seen, even pretty . . . If she was going to marry anyone, ever, it might have been Owen Christiansen.

For a moment, she let herself linger there. Married to Owen
 
—what would that be like? To have a family. More, to have a man who didn’t see her as a fellow deckhand or, worse, a boss. One of the guys.

They might build a life together, get a house, have children
 
—little towheaded charmers like Owen and dark-haired spitfires like herself. Be a family.

Wow, that vision filled her, and she had to shake it away.

She had a life to get back to here in Alaska. And Owen . . . he just had to live.

She held his hand, ran her thumb over the IV. “So here’s what I was thinking. You wake up
 
—we start with that
 
—and then maybe we don’t get married, but we . . . we go to Deep Haven.” She looked up, hoping for a response. “Don’t be such a chicken. If your family is anything like what you described, they’ll be overjoyed to see you. And if it helps, I can lie a little and tell them you were brave.”

Please, Owen.
She pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Even if he didn’t wake up, she planned on bringing him home. He deserved that much.

“Ma’am, your visitation is over.” The nurse, sneaking in behind her.

Scotty lifted her head, nodded, then leaned over and kissed Owen’s forehead. “Wake up, honey. Wake up.”

She walked out of the ICU, back to the waiting room. Settled on the sofa, closed her eyes.

“Coffee?”

The voice woke her and she opened her eyes, rubbed them. Carpie stood over her holding a steaming cup of joe from the cafeteria. He appeared wrung out, eyes bloodshot.

“Carp.” She stood as he put the coffee down and pulled her into his arms. She hung on, breathing in the solid warmth of him. “Where’s Red?”

“Aw, he’s outside in the truck. Smoking. You scared him pretty good. Needs to get his legs under him.”

“That’s Red for you. Mr. Emotional. He’ll be in when he knows everyone’s in the clear. Probably yell at me for making you guys work shorthanded.”

“Yeah, well, he seemed pretty emotional when he dropped the gear.”

“What?”

“All the pots, the rest of the line
 
—still sitting at the bottom of the Bering Sea. I think he’s going to let the
Alaska King
pull it in, maybe give them half the take.”

“We’ll lose the boat!”

“We searched for you all night. He’d mobilized the fleet to find you, and when the Coast Guard radioed in that they’d grabbed you, he simply took off for Dutch Harbor at thirty knots. I swore we were going to die.”

“Sorry.”

“Took the first flight out of Dutch Harbor, left Juke and Greenie to unload, picked up his truck in Homer, and drove like a maniac only to sit in the parking lot for the last hour. I finally left him to stew.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I’ve never seen him so shaken up, Scotty.”

“Serves him right for nearly making me watch him die.”

Carpie made a face at the reminder of her helming the ship in a January storm as her father collapsed on the floor of the pilothouse. Maybe she didn’t want to remember either.

She and Red might not be close, but they were all they had.

Carpie shook his head. “You two are cut from the same cloth. I remember you threatening all the way to harbor that if he died, you’d follow behind and kill him again.”

She lifted the edge of her mouth, added a shrug.

“So how’s Owen?” Carpie sat next to her on the sofa.

“He broke a couple ribs when the wave hit, and they caused internal bleeding. His heart finally stopped and he nearly drowned in his own blood, but they were able to save him.”

“All I could do was pray. Just pray, for twelve hours.” He took
her hand, squeezed, his voice suddenly wrecked. “I love you like you were one of my girls, Scotty. Don’t you do that to me again.”

A surge of warmth crested over her at his words, and she leaned in, wrapped her hand around his arm. “Bossy.”

“A ‘Yes, sir,’ will do.”

She grinned.

“I still can’t believe it happened,” Carpie said, reaching up to run a thumb under his eye. “One second I’m gulping in seawater; the next I look up and there Owen is diving into the ocean like he might be a superhero. Juke yelled at us to throw out the life raft and Greenie grabbed it, opened it to inflate it as it lifted off the boat. We tried to keep our light on it, but it vanished, just like Owen.” He cupped her hand on his arm. “Just like you.”

“He found me. If it wasn’t for Owen, I would be dead.”

She let that sit there a moment.

The door opened and the nurse popped her head in. “Ma’am, your fiancé is starting to wake up. If you’d like to go in and see him, you may.”

Next to her, Carp stilled.

“Thank you,” Scotty said, affecting a smile.

The nurse left. Scotty found her feet. “Not a word, Carp. It’s just
 
—”

“You’re engaged? After twelve hours on the raft?” He pulled off his cap, ran a hand over his head. “Engaged. Wait until Red
 
—”

“Not a word to Red.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s just . . . pretend, okay? Yeah, he proposed, but he didn’t mean it
 
—”

“He proposed to you? And you said yes?”

Technically . . . She nodded.

“Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind? What happened in that raft?”

“Nothing!”

“Then you can’t marry Owen Christiansen.”

She stared at him. “Why not? You don’t think I’m marriage material?”

His face said it. The way his lips tightened into a revealing knot.

“You don’t!”

“Scotty
 
—”

“What, you think I’m too . . . tough? Not tender enough?”

“Of course not. It’s just
 
—Scotty, marriage isn’t something you try out. It’s for life. It’s all in, committed. And you’re . . .”

“You’re saying I’m not the marrying type. Thanks. Thanks for that.”

“I love you, Scotty. And by God’s grace you survived what most people never would. I’m not saying that you weren’t made for the sea, but you have to decide what life you want. Marriage, family? I’m all for that. But yesterday I was trying to talk you out of picking up your shield again. And now you’re engaged? What’s going on?”

She sucked in a breath, his words hitting her like a slap. “I don’t know, okay?” She pressed a hand to her head. “You’re right. I’m all messed up. Maybe I’m not marriage material.” She sank back onto the sofa. “I admit I’m a little tired of arresting people I know. But we’re clearly losing the boat, so what else do I have?”

Carpie shook his head. “I don’t know, honey, but I don’t think it includes marriage to a guy you hardly know.”

“A girl would be lucky to be married to Owen Christiansen. I think.”

Maybe that was simply hope talking, because yeah, Carpie was most definitely right. She’d lost her mind in a swirl of emotions that she squarely blamed on Owen “I-am-charming-even-when-dying” Christiansen. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to marry him.”

Carpie blew out a breath, his voice softening as if he were talking to his thirteen-year-old. “Good. Listen, you were dead set on returning to the force. If you want to do that, maybe stop by the Anchorage police station, see if you can start early. I know you’re not due to report for a couple weeks, but maybe they have a position available now. Will you do that before you run off to Vegas?”

She let a smile leak out. “Calm down. I bet he can’t even remember proposing.”

“Of course he remembers.” Carpie winked. “A guy never forgets proposing to a pretty girl.”

Sweet.

“I gotta go. I don’t want him to wake up without me.”

But as she stood, Carpie took her arm. “Scotty. Are you in love with him?”

She stiffened. Frowned. Stepped away. “No. Of course not.”

His expression fell. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“Just . . . don’t let him break your heart.”

She made a noise of dismissal, chased it with a laugh. “I’m one of the guys, Carpie. And a crab fisherman. I got a tough hide. Just like Old Red.” Bending down, she popped a kiss on his weathered cheek. “Go home and say hi to the girls for me.”

She chewed over his words as she headed toward Owen’s room.
Are you in love with him?

Maybe a little, if love felt like the pounding of her heart when he looked at her and the sense of panic thinking he might die.

If she let her emotions speak for her, then maybe her
yes
had really meant . . .
yes
.

She took a breath, pushed open the door to his room.

A man stood at Owen’s bedside, dressed in a leather jacket,
flannel shirt, and jeans, his dark-brown hair curling just behind his ears. He folded his arms across his chest, his jaw tight.

Maybe he was a surgeon, checking in one last time before he headed home.

Owen, for his part, did seem to be stirring. Scotty glanced at the man, then walked over and took Owen’s hand. “It’s time to wake up . . . honey.” Just in case the doctor started to flex his visitation-rules muscles.

Owen’s eyes moved under his lids. She put her hand on his cheek. “That’s right. C’mon. Come back to me.”

“Excuse me,” the doctor said, his voice quiet. “Who are you?”

See, this was why she had clung to the lie, why she’d stepped into it, embraced it. For moments like this, when Owen was returning from the dead and some overzealous doctor wanted to kick her out of the room. Family only.

Right now she was all the family he had. She glanced at the doctor, affecting her skipper’s voice. “Me? I’m sorry; we haven’t met yet.” She held out her hand across the bed. “I’m his fiancée.”