forefinger.
Sylvie had to laugh. “All right. But just for a little while. Now, finish your breakfast.”
When breakfast was done and the dishes washed, they set out down the zigzagging cliffside trail. Sylvie carried an empty basket to hold any treasures they might find—delicate shells, chunks of coral, jars and bottles washed up from distant shores. Once, they’d found a brass sextant from a wrecked ship. Another time they’d found a sea chest filled with bolts of soggy cotton fabric, which Sylvie had washed, dried and saved. It troubled her when she thought of it—profiting from shipwrecks in which people had lost their lives. But as her father always said, the things they found would only wash back out to sea and be lost if they left them. How could making use of them be wrong?
His rationale made perfect sense. But there were times when she yearned for a different kind of life—a blessedly ordinary life in a town with friends and neighbors, tree-lined streets, churches, schools and stores. She’d known such a life in the years before her mother died and her father caught gold fever. But now those days seemed as distant as the stars.
Sylvie loved her father and her little brother. And she knew better than to pine for what she couldn’t have. But at times the weight of loneliness threatened to crush her. Most girls her age had friends, relatives and beaux around them. Many of them were even married, with families of their own. Not that she was asking for someone to marry. Not yet, at least. Just to have someone she could talk to—someone real to share her thoughts and dreams—would make all the difference in a world peopled by characters from novels and fairy tales.
As for romantic love, she’d read about it in books, mostly the ones written by her favorite author, Jane Austen. But here, in this isolated spot, the notion seemed as fanciful as the tales she made up for her little brother.
“Hurry, Sylvie!” Daniel called over his shoulder. “I see something down there! It looks like a boat!”
“Stop right there, Daniel Cragun! Wait till I catch up!” Sylvie quickened her pace. The trail was narrow, the sheer cliff more than eighty feet high. Ferns and cascading flowers dotted the rocky face, forming a lush hanging garden. Beyond the black rocks that jutted at the foot of the cliff, a pale crescent of sand, exposed by the low tide, rimmed the cove.
The place was as dangerous as it was beautiful. A fall could mean almost certain death. Daniel was never allowed down the trail without supervision, but the boy always seemed to be testing his limits.
“What did I tell you about running ahead?” Sylvie seized his bony little shoulder. “Do that again, and we’ll go right back to the house.”
“But look, Sylvie! There’s a wrecked boat down there with a big hole in the bottom! Maybe it’s pirates!”
Sylvie peered cautiously over the side of the trail. “It’s just a sailboat, not a pirate ship, silly. But stay behind me until we know what else is down there.”
With Sylvie leading, they wound their way down the trail and over the barnacle-encrusted rocks to the beach. A red crab scuttled beneath a chunk of driftwood. A flock of sandpipers, skimming along the water’s edge, took wing at their approach.
The overturned boat lay on the wet sand. Its hull was smashed along the starboard side, leaving a jagged hole. Since the boat hadn’t been here yesterday, it must have been cast against the rocks in last night’s storm.
Sylvie couldn’t imagine anyone surviving such a wreck. But there were thieves and smugglers operating along the coast, and caution was never a bad idea. Dropping her basket to pick up a hefty stick of driftwood, she approached warily.
Not so Daniel. Pushing ahead of her, he raced around the boat, then stopped as if he’d run into a wall. For the space of a heartbeat he stood frozen. When he turned back to face her, his eyes were dollar-size in his small face.
“Sylvie, there’s someone under the boat,” he whispered. “It’s a man! I can see his legs!”
“Get back here, Daniel! Right now!” Sylvie braced herself for what she was about to find. This wouldn’t be the first body to wash ashore in the cove. But Aaron Cragun had always taken pains to shield his children from the sight of death. He never let them near a wreck until he’d disposed of any remains, either by burial or by rowing out past the point and dumping them where the current would carry them away. Now, with her father absent, Sylvie would be duty-bound to bury this poor drowned soul. But first she wanted to get Daniel away.
“Go up to the garden, find that small shovel and toss it down,” she told her little brother. “Then stay up top and wait for me. Careful on the trail, now. No running.”
He took off like a young goat, agile and confident. “I said no running!” Sylvie shouted after him. He slowed his pace, but she continued to watch until he was safely up. Only then did she turn her attention to the wrecked sailboat.
Daniel’s feet had left prints in the wet sand. Still clutching the driftwood, she followed their trail around the side of the boat. Just as Daniel had said, a pair of muscular legs jutted heels up from under the hull. The trousers were sodden and caked with sand, but Sylvie had learned to recognize fine wool. The waterlogged brown boots were likewise of excellent quality and little worn. Her father, she knew, would expect her to salvage them. But she couldn’t bring herself to rob the dead. She would bury the man clothed, as the sea had left him.
The hull of the wrecked sloop was heavy, but years of hard physical work had left her strong. Grunting with effort, Sylvie managed to lift it by the edge and drag it to one side, exposing the full length of the prone body.
He was tall—much taller than her father. And he appeared younger, too, not much beyond his twenties. His shoulders were broad beneath his tattered white shirt, his haunches taut and muscular. His hair was dark, though not as dark as Daniel’s. A few strands fluttered in the sea breeze, catching the sunlight.
He lay with his head turned to one side. Sylvie’s gaze was drawn to his profile—sun-burnished skin against the pale sand, black lashes crusted with salt, classic features like the pictures of the gods in her book of Greek legends. He appeared far too young and vital to be dead. But the world was a cruel place. Every piece of wreckage the tide swept into the cove was a testament to that cruelty.
Such a man would be missed, she thought. Somewhere he was bound to have family, friends, maybe a wife or sweetheart. If she could find any information on him, a name, an address, she would write a letter and send it with her father the next time he went to San Francisco.
But the stranger had no coat or vest. Whatever he’d worn against the weather, the sea must’ve torn it away. That left his trouser pockets as the only place to look.
Leaving the driftwood chunk within reach, she crouched next to him and worked her fingers into his sodden hip pocket. As she’d feared, it was empty. Groping deeper to make sure, she gasped and drew back. One hand reached for her makeshift weapon. A corpse would be cold and rigid. But her fingers had sensed living flesh.
Trembling, she worked her hand under his collar to touch the hollow alongside his throat. The faintest throb of a pulse ticked against her fingertip. Heaven save her, the man was alive!
“Look out below!” Daniel shouted a warning from the top of the cliff, alerting Sylvie that he was about to fling the shovel down to her.
“No, wait!” she shouted back. “Never mind the shovel. Get some water in the canteen. Close the stopper tight and toss it down.”
“Is he alive?”
She hesitated. “Barely.”
“Can I come down?”
“No. He might be dangerous. Hurry!”
The silence from above told her Daniel had gone to fill the canteen. Turning back to the stranger, she dropped to her knees and scooped the sand out from under his face to give him more air. He was utterly still, no movement, no sound, but the breath from his nostrils warmed her wet fingers.
What now? With effort, she could probably