page 3 - Sailor's Delight

Suspicion is a like a blast from a stinkbug. Long after the critter's gone, the reek still lingers on so you just can't forget it. I didn't believe Pedro. I couldn't, but his words still hung over me even as I walked up to Miguel. Needing reassurance, I looked at him. He seemed the same: his hair, longish and curling at the tips; the way his eyes crinkled at their weathered corners whenever he saw me; that brief lift of those firm lips. I touched his arm. Under his black silk sleeve, his biceps rippled as he took my hand in his, then lifted it to his lips. That brief kiss, the secret flick of tongue over my knuckle so that my knees suddenly weakened. Cripes. Can you tell a murderer by their kiss? I couldn't. Miguel felt the same. Hadn't changed a bit. He was the same person, wasn't he? He even sounded the same when he said, "Major Wolfe, Hillinger. You have already met my Nikita, but permit me to introduce her to you under her new name. Gentlemen, my wife - Doctora Dona Cabrillo."

Oh. That was me. It would take a little while to get used to. If you live so long, whispered a voice inside me. My knees knocked together but I managed a stiff curtsey, the skirts rustling around me. I ignored Hillinger's smirk, Wolfe's sly greeting.

Miguel turned to me. "The major has brought news of the ship."

"Sunk," said Wolfe. "Unrecoverable. No salvage. A complete loss. A pity." His tight smile made it seem as if he didn't feel sorry. In fact, he didn't seem to give a flip about the lost ship.

"I do not care about the Marlin," said Miguel impatiently. "My men?"

"Your men. How quaint." Wolfe flicked some invisible lint from his sleeve, his eyes gleaming with a strange and secret satisfaction. He seemed pleased to have information that Miguel wanted, and even more pleased to make Miguel wait. Almost casually, he said, "The Confederate raiders picked up the survivors. Put them to shore."

Relief rushed through me. "So the lifeboats made it. All of them!"

"No. All except the last two," said Hillinger. "The explosion caught them before they were a'weigh. Some of those men were rescued. Your first mate, a few others ..."

We fell silent for a moment, Miguel's hand gripping mine. I sympathetically squeezed him back. "A few ... well, that's some good news. I'm sorry about the others, Miguel. We'll have to see to their families. And ... anyone else?"

"Buckner, a Confederate bodyguard." Then Hillinger gave a smile so oily that you could fry a bushel of potatoes in it. Twice over at least. "Oh, and the remains of someone. We believe it was Hamilton. What's left of him, that is."

"Shark," I murmured, feeling the fear well up all over again. My stomach turned all queasy. It would be a long, long time before I'd ever go into the water again. "And what about Madeline Calhoun? She was on that same lifeboat with Hamilton."

Hillinger and the major exchanged a look. "No sign," said Wolfe. "Not a trace. The men say she didn't make it. Not even to the Confederate raider. She wouldn't survive long in those waters. Under those conditions. A pity really."

"Yes, it's terrible," I said, remembering that gaping wide mouth rushing towards us, the dozens of sharp tearing teeth, stained with Miguel's blood, with Hamilton's, hers ... So she'd ended up as fish food. I'd hated Madeline, but I hadn't wished that fate on her. No one in the right mind would.

"The Confederate ringleader dead like that," continued Wolfe. He stared disdainfully at us as if it were all our fault. "Such a waste really. She was more valuable to us alive. We could have recruited her. Think of all the information we could have extracted."

"There's rumors about General Lee. Useful rumors that he might be of a certain persuasion. We brought down James Buchanan. We could do the same with old Robert E. Lee." Hillinger tittered behind his hand.

"Yes, scandal has its purposes. He could be turned. Bring an early end to the war. That could be useful. Make a note of that, Sergeant." Thoughtfully, Major Wolfe fell silent again as if he were a miser, picking over his next few words. Then at last, when it seemed he had decided, he saluted us with his glass, his mouth pulling back into a mockery of a grin. "To the bride and groom. Married in haste. May they not repent in leisure." He drank, then inclined his head.

Miguel didn't move, said nothing, and yet the air around him tensed suddenly as if he were on verge of pulling a gun. He slowly slightly lifted his head like he was testing the wind. He looked the major up, then down again. At last, he quietly said, "I am sure you mean to wish us well."

"Certainly," the major replied. "After all, you might say I was the matchmaker. Of course, it was all Nikita's enterprise. Quite the initiative, my dear. You surprise me. I thoroughly salute you. And you, Don Miguel. Now perhaps you can secure that heir so your lands will be safe from those American courts. They haven't been so kind to the Californios lately. Didn't Vallejo lose more than half his land? But of course, you need that son first. Just a girl won't do."

Hillinger looked insolently at me over his glass. He sniffed. "Wide hips. Big feet. She looks like a breeder."

What would you know about that, Miss Greggy? I thought crossly. Out loud, I said, "That's right. Big feet. Good for kicking." I smiled sweetly at him. "Well, that's that. Shall we, Miguel?"

"No," said Wolfe abruptly. "Where's the gold? I want it."

"For you? Or for the Union?" I asked.

Wolfe's smile tightened into a rictus. I'd seen that same look before on a man, dying of lockjaw. Neither was a pleasant sight. "My dear, dear child," he said at last. "Don't be rash like your father. Never ask questions unless you're absolutely prepared for the answers. They could get you in trouble. A whole lot of trouble."

Miguel drew me to him. "The matter ends here."

"It ends when I say so. If I say so. No sooner." replied Wolfe silkily.

"No. Her freedom for the gold. I will tell you where it is. You let Nikita go. She no longer works for you. And I ... quit."

Wolfe's eyes turned carefully blank. His lips pursed.

"You're our best agent. You can't leave," gasped Hillinger.

Miguel turned his stare on to the sergeant. "I can. Watch me. I help you, but you do not own me."

"No, we don't," said Wolfe at last. "But Nikita's a different story. She's useful in her own way. As a doctor, she has access to the most interesting confidences. And more so now that she's connected to you. Now she can penetrate the upper classes of society that she never could before. Why, yes. It's perfect. You played it perfectly. For me, that is. How can I ever thank you? I don't think I'll ever be letting her go. Because now she's a useful lever. To control ... you. Maybe you're not as free an agent as you think. Women have always been your downfall. Remember Elena, you know."

Miguel's mouth tightened into a thin vermilion line. He nodded to Xi, who had mysteriously appeared behind the major and was beginning to lead the men away. Miguel bowed slightly. "My wife and I bid you good night. This is your last chance. Reconsider, gentlemen. It might be ... healthier."

###

At long last, we were alone in our bedroom. The sounds of intense revelry still drifted from the salon and down through the hallway. Between Walter, Monte and my not-so-retiring aunt, it was a three-ring circus with no ringmaster, no closing time, not until the last bottle had been emptied. Even Xi had brought out his moon guitar and played some beautiful haunting music. Enough plum wine and he might even start singing, Lin-Fong said. The ruckus didn't bother me as long as they didn't bust through our door. I didn't think they would. Miguel fastened the lock just in case.Snick.

He turned, a small smile playing around his lips. Then he walked towards me. I watched that slight roll and dip of his shoulders, his smooth muscular stride, barely a hitch in his step as if he'd never been injured. My pulse raced a little faster. Anticipation? Longing? Fear? No, I wasn't fearful. Foolish, maybe, but not frightened. Maybe I should be, locked in with a murderer. But he wasn't. He couldn't be. And I was locked in with only Miguel. Just Miguel. My husband. How did this miracle happen? The wonder of it made my mouth dry, my head light.

Miguel walked behind me, then stopped, the tips of his shoes brushing my skirt. He removed the fillet from my head, and my hair tumbled down my back. Then he reached around me and picked up my old wooden brush from the bedside table. Gently, carefully, he brushed out my hair. Each patient stroke melted another little tense knot in my neck and shoulders until one by one, the muscles relaxed. It felt very soothing. Another skill, another side of him. Miguel was always surprising me.

He paused, lifting a strand. He kissed my nape, then a little higher. "Better?"

"Mmmm." My head lolled backwards until it rested against his.

"You looked like you had a headache."

"Yes, I did. A major-sized headache. How did you know about my troubles with Wolfe? He's blackmailing me. There's nothing I can do. Did Monte tell you?"

A sound rumbled through Miguel's chest. "Si. He did. But you should have told me."

"All right, all right. You got me there. I should have told you. But since when are you all buddy-buddy with Monte? Is this one of those secret pact between males? I get it. A let's-protect-Nikita-from-herself kind of pact. Well, no thanks. I don't need that."

"I disagree."

"Now see here ..."

"I protect my own. I will do anything ... anything to protect you," he said lowly, fiercely. Every inch of him looked like the indomitable Don.

And when he looked like that, I was afraid what Pedro said might very well be true. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Nothing stands in his way. How far Miguel would take that vow? He could get himself into real trouble. He might cross some line, a line of no return. Maybe he already had. The thought frightened me, and only doubled my determination to watch out for him whether he liked it or not. He was stuck. We both were. "Well, it's not just me. Listen, mister, you're the one that needs protecting. You're the one making crazy promises. Trying to buy off Wolfe with the gold. You can't even get the gold. It's at the bottom of the Pacific."

Miguel hesitated for a moment. "No. It is not. We off-loaded it before we even left the harbor. The gold is in ..."

"The infirmary. The boxes in the foyer. Is that it? Judas!" I felt shocked. I couldn't imagine what a million dollars looked like, and here I had walked past that much money without knowing it. Heck. I'd even sat on top of those crates. My butt on a pile of gold! "What will you do with it all?"

"I thought ... to buy your release. And now?" He shrugged as if it were pocket change. Maybe to him, it was.

"Hmmm. Well, maybe you can put it into good works. Real people need it more than any old government. Real people like my patients. The ones who can't afford care but need it. In fact ..."

He put a finger over my lips. "Later," he murmured. "How is your headache?"

"Oh, that. You made me better. Much better. Go ahead, mister. Hang up your shingle. Run me out of business, willya?"

"I had ... my reasons. Selfish reasons," Miguel whispered into my ear.

"No. Nuh uh. You may be the capitán on the ship, but on land, forget it. No maritime law here. You're just a civvy to me. You're under my jurisdiction. I order you to rest."

"Order? Me? You can try, niña." His arms wrapped around me. He laughed softly. Each merry little puff of air caressed my already sensitized skin.

Jeez, he didn't listen to his wife any more than he listened to his doctor. We definitely needed to work on this obeying business. I don't know why on earth I thought a ceremony would change anything. While he was busy kissing me behind my ear, I took the brush from his hand. Tossed it on to the table. "Did you do this for Elena?"

His lips paused. Lifted. He stepped back, turning me so that we faced each other. His hands only lightly touched my arms now; giving us both more space, some distance. "No."

I waited for him to say something more, but he didn't. No surprise there. But this time - of all times - I wasn't go to let this one go. I had to know. "Why not?"

"She would never have allowed it. She wouldn't let me ... touch her."

She must have been nuts, I thought, my body already reminding me of some very personal reactions to his touch. Was it a spell? Just a word, a glance could trigger an avalanche of such amazing heat. It had to be magic. It sure wasn't science. At least, not the kind of science they taught us in medical school. And I wasn't (unfortunately) the only one who thought that. Even before I knew who Don Miguel was, I certainly heard about his reputation from all the Golden Lily girls. Mucho hombre, they'd said. He was legendary. And Elena hadn't wanted him. Go figure. "Tell me about her."

"She was my novio. Arranged since we were children. It was expected of us. She was my uncle's ward."

"And she loved someone else."

Miguel nodded.

For some reason, I thought about the portraits on the family altar. Elena had looked so serious, rather like Miguel. It seemed like a perfect match. But maybe she'd been too much like him. Or maybe deep down inside, she hadn't been really like that at all. Maybe she'd been completely different and that had been the whole problem for the little señorita with the red rose. And now, all that was left of her was a little girl and a portrait. No one talked of her. Those memories were silenced, and if the dead weren't remembered by the living, then they didn't exist at all except for the brief holiday when the pictures graced the family altar. And so for Dia de los Muertos, Elena made her brief appearance, sitting next to Diego. Those two pictures, side by side. Grouped together in death as they hadn't been in life. What had Miguel said? There was someone else, And that someone had been very much in the family. "Then it was Diego."

"Yes. They were lovers. I found out too late. Much too late."

"And Diego was a singer, wasn't he? A singer like his daughter is now. So he ... he is Adana's father. But everyone thinks it is you."

Again, Miguel nodded. "Does it matter? I ... am her father in every way that counts. And it is time I start acting like it. You taught me that. And for that, I thank you." His lips twitched as he solemnly regarded me. I could see amusement, exasperation, and love. Definitely love. "You have this way, querida. You push yourself into my life. My secrets. Perhaps you ... have a secret for me? No? You are shaking your head. Then, what about this?" He reached into the seam pocket of my dress and before I could stop him, he nimbly pulled out the miniature of me. I tried to grab it back, but he held it just out of reach. Chuckling, he angled it so he could examine it. "A gift for your esposo? Did Pedro paint this? He's talented. It looks like you. Defiant. Adorable. I like it."

"Well, you won't like this. You won't like hearing where I found it. It was on your altar for the dead."

His breath sucked in. "Only the dead ..."

"... belong there. Yeah, yeah. I know. Pedro put it there. As a warning for me. He said ..." I swallowed, not sure if I could finish. It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. Even harder than mopping up a busted appendix. I took another breath, and made myself do it. These things needed to be said. No matter what. "Pedro said that you mean to kill me like you killed Diego. And Elena."

"Of course. As I killed them. Jealous. I killed Diego. Then Elena. Not an accident. Hushed up. And you believe that. Those rumors," was all he said before he fell silent again. His eyes cooled into chips of green ice like the floes in the Arctic Sea: translucent but dense, unapproachable; and still chilling no matter how far away. It was as if the ever-winter winds howled across the bleak white plains of his soul, over the broken coast, and across the frozen sea to warn me off: Go back. Nothing lives here. Nothing can. Not a man any longer. A wasteland.

No, I thought firmly,He's human. And hurting. No one can live this way. Not forever. And even though he stood still, he already seemed to have moved away from me. He was moving further away each silent second: more distant, dark, and chilly. In another minute, he might vanish altogether from view and I wouldn't be able to see him any longer. If I wasn't careful, I wouldn't be able to reach him at all any more. I'd lose him all together.

"Of course, I don't," I said stoutly. "I don't believe it at all. What I do believe is you. I believe in you. Don't you see? That's what love is. I meant what I said on the boat. Did you?"

His head whipped around to look at me. There was a spark. A sputter. Then a flame of hope. "Yes."

"Well, okay then. Then that's done."

"No, it is far from done." And with that, he left me.

"Miguel! Wait."

He didn't pause. Three steps to the door, one flick of his wrist, and it was unlocked. I saw the long line of his black back disappear over the threshold. Then the door closed. He was gone.

I had to find him. Again.

###

Where was Miguel? I looked everywhere. Not in his darkened study or the spotless kitchen, where the leftovers from the wedding dinner had already been put away. The dining room was empty. Lifting my skirts, I ran down the hall and into the grandee salon. Everyone seemed to be there except for the one person I was looking for. Lily and Walter were curled up on the couch and sleeping off another bender. The usually silent Xi snored loudly, cradling an open bottle of plum wine to his chest as if it were a baby. And Monte was sprawled on the floor, one shoe off and one shoe on. An accordion lay draped over his belly. His lid cracked open, revealing one very bloodshot conjunctiva. And his sclera. Jeez. He'd really tied one over this time. "Hey, sis. What'samatter? Lost your groom already? You should ... tie a bell on him. Yup. That should do it." He grinned drunkenly.

"Shut up. Just shut up. I don't have time for games. Deal it to me straight. Have you seen him?"

Groaning, Monte hitched himself up on his elbows. "Stop talking so fast, darlin'. You're making my head whirl. Oh, baby Jesus. That plum wine. Now there's a real anaesthetic. I think my ears are numb. And my teeth. I can't feel my teeth." He sat up and covered his face with his hands. From somewhere underneath them, he muttered, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Nothing, my ass. Sure as loaded dice, something's wrong. This is your honeymoon for Christ'ssake. You should be naked and picking those darn blackberries by now with your Don, or Miguel isn't half the Don I thought he was."

"Whatever. That's not funny." I didn't have time for his nonsense. I glanced around the room. No open windows or doors. No clues at all. That left only upstairs or outside. Which? I started running to the French doors. On the way, my skirts jarred the side the altar, and a candle fell over. Wax spilled across the table like thick white blood that dripped, then puddled on to the floor. Cursing, I stopped and righted the candle before any of the tissue paper cut-outs caught on fire. I'd knocked over the figurines and a few of the daguerreotypes too. No time to fix that. Then something caught my eye. There were two new additions: a picture of Madeline. And Miguel's miniature. And all of a sudden, I felt dread. Cold dread. For someone had slashed right through Miguel's face. The canvas was rent. Threads and chips of oil paint were missing. Someone had done this. Someone vicious. Someone who had nothing left to hide.

"Where's Pedro?"

"Huh? Why-a looking for him? He's not your husband. You got the wrong guy, darlin'."

"Where's ..."

"All right, all right. Don't get your stockings all twisted. He went upstairs. Probably to that fool workshop of his."

I grabbed my brother's lapels and shook him once, twice. "Listen to me. For once in your life, listen up and listen good. Miguel's in trouble. Real trouble. Go outside and find him. Help me. Please. Pedro's going to kill him. I've got to stop this."

"Sis."

"What?" I called over my shoulder. I was already running out of the room.

"Be careful," said Monte.

###

Those stairs. Just one flight. One measly flight, damn it. One foot up, then the next. Concentrate. Keep going. I can do it. Just two more steps, one more. There. Don't look down. Straight ahead. Good. My sweaty hands clutched the banister. I still felt shaky as I quietly ran down the hall and into Pedro's studio. One gaslight was still on so that the room seemed half light, half shadow. The eyes from half-finished portraits stared at me as I passed by them. Sheafs of colored rice paper hung like giant shrouds from the ceiling. There was Li-Chu's box kite. And the giant red rectangular kite was propped against the wall, next to a bundle of split bamboo. But there was no sign of Pedro. Not one.

I stood there, thinking furiously, when I heard the rice paper rustle. A soft wind blew back a few strands of my hair. Sou'east. I turned. Behind the paintings, a door was half-opened. I ran across the room and stepped over the threshold. And the next thing I knew, I stood on a small balcony overlooking a dark secluded garden.

The moon was a pale sickle hanging in the sky, and the crisp winds had blown the fog in from the bay. The mist caught on the bare branches of the trees. It was chilly. Damnably chilly. And so dark that I could barely make out the two figures standing below me. Two tall slim men, almost identical. Almost. But not quite. One I knew as well as I knew myself. The other ... was his cousin who I had never really known at all. I had never known Pedro could be capable of this: threatening, holding a gun, harming the man I loved.

Miguel lifted his hands, palms out. "There are options. Listen."

"Oh, oh, oh. The Don speaks. Everyone stops. Everyone listens. All the señors. All the señoritas. All the time. The great good Don Miguel Samuelle Cabrillo. My legendary cousin. What can a legend possibly do for me? There's nothing you can do now, cousin. Nothing."

"You are wrong. I can take care of this. I can take care of everything. Just like the last time when you shot Diego. I know ... you did not mean for the gun to go off. It was an accident. You thought it was one of your toys. Like your pretend guns. And your kites. You get confused. You always do. It is all right," said Miguel gently. "I can arrange passage somewhere. Some place new. A new life. You will be taken care of. I promise."

"No, no, no. Taken care of? I don't want that. I want what is mine. Rightfully mine. You can't give me what already belongs to me. It always did. It was my birthright. I should have been Don. Not you. Never you." Pedro smiled, but this time his cherubic face was lit with malice, not innocence. "Yes, yes. I can see what you're thinking. I can always see it in people's faces: Poor Pedro. Such a child. Not capable. I've heard it all my life when they think I'm not listening or they think I can't understand. But I'm not an idiot. I'm a lot cleverer than you think. Diego was no accident. I shot him ... on purpose."

"And you poisoned me," said Miguel softly.

"Oh, yes. Until your Nikita put a stop to that. Her and her stupid hardboiled eggs. But that's not all, cousin. There's more. A lot more. Guess what? All those little mornings at Cassam Shipping. 'Let's keep Pedro busy'. I was busy, busy, busy all right. Busy stealing the money. Money that should have been mine in the first place. All mine. And I signaled the raiders. Every time I heard that you were shipping Union gold, I flew my kite. My big red kite to signal them. And they got you. Every time. Well, except twice. Once Adana broke my kite. And this time, when it was the wrong ship. The Marlin. I didn't know that it was already Confederate gold. I thought it was the usual shipment. And I couldn't know that Madeline was on that ship. And now she's dead. My Madeline. The only señora who saw me as I really am. A man. Not a child. She knew I could do this. She loved me, and now she's gone. Gone forever. It was all your fault. You killed her. You."

The men stared at each other for a long time. Pedro's chest heaved with undisguised hatred and grief. And Miguel remained calm and watchful as always. The branches scritch-scratched against each other, and the leaves lifted and skittered around their legs. Beneath the balcony, the bushes rustled. Pedro wheeled around. He stepped back, his face paling. "No, no, no. It's just your spirit. You're only walking tonight because it is the day of the dead. Your day. It can't be you. Really you."

"But it is me. Really me," drawled a shadow, separating slowly from the other shadows.

"Querida?" Shock melted into a sick joy that spread quickly through Pedro's face. He crossed himself." My Magdalene. Si. It is you. Alive. Do not worry, my darling. I will take care of Miguelito once and for all. I will take care of everything."

"Like you took care of the ship? What a fine, fine mess you made of that. No, Pedro. Y'all have failed me for the last time. The very last time. There are no second chances with me.Buenas noches, darling." Madeline suddenly lifted her hand. Something exploded. One, two, three white flashes in the night, and Pedro's arms flew up, his body jerking. He fell backwards to the ground. And there was the thick smell of blood ... and honeysuckle.

###

There was a strange bitter smile on Madeline's face. Regret? Sorrow? Or a vague annoyance that she'd been force to do all the work herself. I couldn't tell what she was thinking as she slowly sashayed to where Pedro had fallen. Madeline nudged him with her foot. He flopped back. His eyes were open and unseeing, his mouth still frozen in a happy grin. A black puddle formed on his chest. She blew him one last fatal kiss. "Sleep well."

Eventually Madeline turned from her lover to Miguel. "And so here we are, darling. Alone at last. Such a pity - a very great pity - you never accepted my original offer. Your ship would have been saved. And even poor Pedro. Why, he would still be alive. Planning, they say, is everything. Planning and foresight. And a little Dixie ingenuity. You know, you have been a formidable opponent. Quite formidable." She examined Miguel thoroughly, letting her gaze rest on his broad shoulders, his slim hips. Almost casually, she let the tip of her gun rest against her lips. "I have really truly enjoyed myself. I can't rightly recollect a time when I have been more thoroughly stimulated. I don't suppose you'd care to join ... forces? Now we both have the benefit of time ... and experience. It could be even better. Much better than before. Oh my, my, my. That's right. Silly ole me. I do believe you just up and got yourself married to that strange lady doctor. I suppose she's a curiosity to you. Now let me give you a piece of advice, Miguel. Novelty may be fun between the sheets, but it never really lasts. No sirree. But you're a thinking man. You're a man of deep perspicacity. So what do you think about the long-term? Do tell me. Can we come to some agreement?"

"No. I do not like the way you end things." Miguel dropped his hands to his hips, pulling back the sides of his evening coat just so. Warily he watched her.

Madeline pouted. "And I don't like long drawn-out fare-thee-well's. It's better to be final. Very final. Then there's no questions. No recriminations afterwards. Why, my mother always used to say, 'Madeline LaRue. You are the tidiest little thing in the whole wide world'. And you know, Mother was right. She always was. Now be a good boy and make the right choice, Miguel. Be very, very sure. There are no second chances as our poor, poor Pedro discovered. Are you sure, darling?"

"Yes," he replied softly.

"Hmpf! Men! Such sentimental stubborn fools. The younger they are, the more stubborn. Just pure through-and-through stubborn. You can sure lead them to water, but you cannot make them drink it. Really! I am very, very disappointed in y'all. Severely disappointed." Her arm once again swung upwards in that penultimate arc.

No! I screamed silently, ignoring the way my stomach pitched as I gazed down. Everything spun around me, but I didn't care. I grabbed the balcony rail and vaulted over into nothing.

###

The air shrieked past me as I fell down, down, down through the night. Madeline looked up. I saw her startled face, one outflung arm as if she could ward me off. Then metal suddenly blurred near Miguel's hip. Gunpowder exploded. Something silver glinted in the moonlight as I landed on top of her. I grabbed her head. My knees caught her shoulderblades. Her torso bent backwards as the rest of her fell forwards. Then Kr-r-r-rack. Something snapped like a dried branch breaking. It sounded dreadful. Irrevocable. I felt something give in my hands as we tumbled together on to the ground, rolling over and over the leaves and mud.

Oof. For one stunned second, my diaphragm hitched and I couldn't breathe at all. I couldn't see. I was blind. No. It was hair. My hair. And Madeline's. Hastily I shoved it aside, and the first thing I saw was Miguel's face anxiously staring down at mine. Then Monte's. Someone lifted a terrible weight off me.

"Jesus, what the hell were you doing? Pulling that flying banshee act again? Are you looney-tunes? You are really pushing the odds, sis. That was a hell of a longshot. I almost got you there with my blade."

My right side burned. I touched it carefully. "I think you did get me. You and your stupid knife trick. Why didn't you throw it earlier? What were you waiting for? The second coming?" I lifted my hand. It was wet. "Uh oh. Look at this. Lily's gonna be real mad at you, mister. All that blood. You ruined her wedding dress. Is it ...? Ow. Stop it, Miguel. That hurts. I swear." He was checking my limbs, pushing into my belly. Maybe I was wrong, but I think he was enjoying himself at my expense. "Stop it. You're an amateur. No deep palpation is required. Nothing's wrong with my spleen."

"Awwww. Don't be such a baby. Really. You dish it out all the time and you can't even take it. Hypocrite," said my brother, helping me to my feet.

I was still a little wobbly. Miguel put an arm around my shoulder. Silently he kissed my brow, then handed me his handkerchief. "Your hands."

I stared down at my fingers. They looked inky black in the moonlight. "Oh, what a mess. Well, I can stand to lose some. I have a couple of pints to spare."

"Not just yours," said Monte grimly.

"Whose?" I asked, feeling a little queasy already. My head felt lighter. Delayed reaction, I guess. I turned to Miguel. "Not yours? Did you pop some of your stitches? We'll have to let Walter sleep it off before he can do your repairs."

Miguel shook his head.

"Then ..." My eyes followed Monte's to where Madeline LaRue Calhoun lay in repose. "Is she ...?" But I didn't need to wait for their answer. I already knew. I already recognized that strange waxy look, that utter stillness of the dead. Nothing else looked like that. Not even the deepest of sleep. My mouth worked soundlessly as the nausea refluxed up, down like the caldera of a volcano. "Judas Iscariot! Not again. This can't be happening again. I ... I killed her."

"You did not. I shot her," said Miguel. "And Monte's knife hit her."

"No. No! I broke her neck. Hangman's fracture. Clean. Just like that drunk."

"So what?" said my brother. "You were defending Miguel. You saved his life. Just like you saved mine."

I stared from one man to the other. They didn't seem to understand. But I did. All too well. It didn't matter what they said. And it didn't matter why. The ends never justified the means. Once again, my hands had dealt out death instead of relief. And it felt like this one sin had just washed away all the good work I had done over the years. Horrified, I examined the front and back of my stained hands. I turned them over and over as if they belonged to a stranger, as if I was looking for something - anything familiar about them.

Cursing softly, Miguel grabbed them. He roughly scrubbed the blood off. But even after the last stain was gone; even after he held me, pressing my trembling face into his shoulder, I could see the blood on my hands as if it were still there. It would always be there.

###

Epilogue Three Weeks Later

Drat these ribbons. They were limply silky, impossible to tie. Not like some good catgut. Some surgeon I was! I couldn't even tie up my nightgown. I fumbled foolishly in the dressing room for another minute then gave up. Tried to readjust the bodice, which felt tighter across my chest than it used to. Oh well. Things didn't fit so well lately. Lily always said that women in love gained weight. Maybe that was true. I wasn't crying about it. I hated these negligees anyway. What was the point? Knowing him, he'd have it off in a minute anyway. It was just one of those weird nightly rituals. Not that I was complaining.

"Come to bed ... niña." Miguel almost stumbled over the last endearment. Even from where I stood in the dressing room, I could hear his hesitation. Dollars to donuts, he'd almost said "querida" but stopped just in time. I couldn't bear to hear that word any more. I didn't think he could either. It was far too painful for both of us, just another reminder of the man we'd buried on the day after our wedding. Except for those feelings, there were no other repercussions. A sympathetic judge had quietly ruled "death by mishap," and Thaddeus B. Calhoun had seemed obviously relieved by his newfound freedom. Therese was the leading candidate for the new Missus Calhoun although she had yet to be persuaded to give up her independence.

And me? I suppose I was doing better since the shock had worn off. Sure I felt sorry. But I didn't regret what I'd done. How could I? After all, what Monte had said was true. Because of my actions, Miguel was still alive. Still vital. Maddening as ever. He frustrated me every day, and relieved me every night. Like now, for instance. As soon as I walked into the bedroom, Miguel turned slightly and welcomed me with a private soft smile that was special. Just for me. Only for me. It was his rare unguarded look that was mi esposo. Not the capitán. Not the Don. Just Miguel, my man. He lay under the covers. One foot dangled out. I took a moment to admire those long elegant toes, which I'd come to appreciate. Goodness knows they were remarkably talented. Except for them, I couldn't see much else of him but I knew he was naked. He never slept in any night clothes. I wondered how he did it. Didn't his armpits stick together? Generally, I couldn't stand that. But the few times he'd persuaded me to try it, I admit that I'd managed to forget all about it. He had that effect on me. The Miguel effect.

His eyes twinkled as they surveyed me. "Only one negligee this time?"

I blushed to the roots of my hair. "Yes. I figured it's okay. I mean, we're married now, right? But you'll have to let me know who made these. I'm talking to that seamstress. Every one of them is chopped up. They're all made wrong."

"They look ... right to me. Very right," said Miguel softly. "What are you carrying?"

"Oh, nothing. Just an idea of mine." Dropping my bundle on the ground, I sat down on the edge of the bed. I lifted the cover.

"Niña. Come." His voice sounded smoky as he reached out and touched my hair.

"So how's your leg?"

His hand froze, then fell away so that it covered his eyes. He grimaced slightly. Laughed once. "Just ... like you."

"Well, of course," I said, throwing back the cover. "Just because I change my name doesn't mean I change. Are you nuts?" I probed the edges of his wound. No redness. No sign of pus. But it gaped at the bottom. Hmmm. Still swollen and tender. When I pressed lightly, he didn't say anything but his mouth tightened as if he were surpressing a sound. I clucked my tongue. "All right, all right. You can stop that ironman face. I'm done poking. Looks pretty good, all things considered. I was worried about you last night. You yelled when I rolled over you. I thought I hurt you."

He looked vaguely affronted. "I was not hurt. That was for another reason all together."

"Oh. My mistake. Well, whatever. But it is too bad those bottom stitches popped out. Now this has to heal by secondary intention. That ulceration's still tender. You're going to have a righteous scar. A real beaut', all right."

"I do not care. As long it works. I need to be ... functional."

"Lucky you," I muttered, drawing the cover back down again.

"Lucky for both of us. Now ..."

"Now we have something we need to do."

"I agree." He lifted his hand so I could see him, all of him. There it was. That intense cannonball look, aimed right at me with ten pounds of gunpowder packed right behind it so that Pow! it hit me, square in the chest. Got me every damn time.

I folded my hands in my lap. Stared right back at him. How many times had we done this? How many more times would he try to evade me? It took a lot of willpower, but I didn't fall into his arms just like that. I only shook my head, ignoring his little smile, the lift of his brow. I steeled myself against all the feelings he was swirling inside of me by just being near. What a nuisance. A dreadful nuisance. Not at a time like this. I needed to concentrate. Clearly the negligee had been a tactical mistake but I couldn't bear to wear that new dress he'd given me any longer. I'd been dying inside of it, worrying if I was going to muck up that watered silk while I saw patients all day. I sure hoped iodine washed out. I had a sinking feeling it wouldn't. I had taken off that darn outfit as soon as I'd walked through our bedroom door. Perhaps Miguel had mistaken my haste for ... something else. Oops.

Well, I was about to correct that impression. Taking a deep breath, I said, "We need to talk."

He glowered at me. "No. Enough talk tonight. That is not what I had in mind."

I glanced down at the bedcover. No kidding. Did he ever think about anything else? "Listen, mister. Get real. You need rest. You're middle-aged now. You need to take better care of yourself. It's not like you're fifteen any more and you can just rebound like that." I snapped my fingers.

"There are some things ... that are better when you are not fifteen. With age comes knowledge. Skill. Shall I show you?" One finger traced a figure-of-eight on my thigh, then drifted inwards and lifted the hem of my gown.

"Miguel!" I scooted away from his wandering hand.

He sighed. "So?"

I walked past him to the other side of the room. I tied one end of the hammock to the wall hook. The other end hitched easily to the back of his big leather chair. I sat down on the sling. It held.

"Nikita ..."

"What?" I laid back in it. Pretty comfy. I stretched out, sighing. I'd spent my entire childhood sleeping in these things.

"I do not think that is a good idea."

"Why?"

"Cristo! Why do you think? Because of my leg. I appreciate your confidence, niña, but I do not think even I could ... manage on that. Maybe later. When I am better."

"Oh. You think ... well, my goodness. I suppose. Yes, it has possibilities. But you're right. It's far too strenuous. Don't worry. It's just a temporary sleeping arrangement. Until you feel better. I don't want to hurt you anymore."

Ignoring his sputtering, I sat up again, then walked back to the bed. When he saw me approach, he smiled up at me. But it turned quickly into a frown as soon as I took a pillow and the top quilt from the bed. I only took two steps away before something gripped the back of my gown. I heard the seams threaten to rip. I glanced over my shoulder. He held a fistful of my gown - at least, what there was of it. Maybe nudity had its advantages. On second thought, definitely. The untied negligee finally slipped off my shoulders and gave way. He lost his grip and fell backwards on to the bed. I tumbled forward, then sideways, missing him just in time. Half-laughing, I tried to roll away, but he caught my ankle. His hand skimmed upward over my calf, behind my knee, hamstrings, then teasingly inward for one heart-stopping second. He paused, smiling. Then he pulled me over him so that my legs fell to either side. And even though he lay under me, his hands resting gently on my hips, I felt like he was in control the whole time. Passive? Like hell, he wasn't. There wasn't a passive bone in his body. He was all quiet action: ready, muscled and tensed, about to spring. He shifted slightly, giving me another hint. Subtle but obvious. My eyes closed, my hips answering on their own.

"Well," I said, "Don't sacrifice yourself on my account."

"No ... sacrifice. Not at all. Just be gentle with me."

"What? Why should I do that? Because you're the walking wounded?"

"No. Because I am going to be a new father. I will need my rest."

"A new ... Wait a moment. Now wait a gosh-darned moment here, mister. How did you know? Who told you?" Surprised, my eyes flew open again. He looked remarkably calm. His gaze looked soft and glossy and tender like spring grass: all new and hopeful.

"You did. Your body did," he said. He brushed his knuckles against my cheek, then the top of my breasts. "You're changing all ready. Was that what you wanted to talk about, doctora?"

"Maybe," I grumbled. "Although what's the point? You seem to know everything all the time anyway. Cripes. It's like living with a fortune-teller. Pretty soon there won't be any secrets at all. You'll know all my mysteries."

"Oh no. There you are wrong. Come show me your sweetest mystery of all."

And so I did. And after a very long delicious time, we eventually solved it to our mutual satisfaction.

###

Three Months Later

Thank God the water closets were brand new. When the shiny white basins were installed in the infirmary yesterday, I didn't think I would have so many reasons to appreciate it today. Groaning, my head still leaned weakly against the cold porcelain bowl. Something threatened, but then settled back down again. Jeez. This fourth month was turning to be a real doozy. My first trimester had been a cruise. I'd been deceived. Completely deceived. Maybe Mother Nature decided to teach me a thing or two about personal limitations. Well, she could quit now. I think I got the point. I heard the bathroom door open, then footsteps cross the threshold. I sat up, got to my knees. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're right, Pursie Mae. Only don't tell Miguel."

Two hands much stronger than Pursie Mae's lifted me as if I were a feather instead of a woman with a flour sack for a belly. Uh oh. Without even seeing him, I could feel Miguel's waves of disapproval, radiating like heat from a steam boiler. He was stoked. Just stoked. I bet he was giving me that Don's glower: brows drawn together, brooding eyes, lips almost disappearing into that thin grim line. Yup. The whole bit. Duly noted.

At last he spoke. "Tell me what?"

"Oh nothing," I said cheerily, turning on the tap and splashing water on to my face. He wet his handkerchief and sponged off my forehead, my neck. I endured it. Really. I wished he would go before I totally humiliated myself by puking all over his nice boots. Fortitude only carried you so far. A woman had her limits. Sighing, I took some hard tack out of my pinafore pocket and sucked on it. That seemed to help.

Miguel put one arm around my shoulder and steered me out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and past the waiting room which looked unusually empty. Only a veiled woman in red sat by herself. Who was that? Somebody new.

"Hey, hey. Slow down. No need to ship me express. I'm not some cargo about to go bad," I said as he pushed me into my consultation office.

Miguel didn't even bother to close the door. He took my cloak and hat off the hook. "Let's go."

I batted them away. "Forget it. I have patients to see. There's Mrs. MacGillicuddy with her gout, the Sanchez kids ... Oh, hi, Adana. Tell your father how busy we are today."

Adana walked into my office, clutching a baby against her starched white smock. "Buenas tardes, Papa. Pursie Mae rescheduled all the patients just like you asked. Except for that new lady. A Mrs. D'Angelo. She has to be seen today. She insisted."

Miguel towered over me. "How long have you been like this?"

"It's no big deal, you know. I'm not sick. I'm just pregnant."

"How long?" he repeated firmly.

"Okay already. Just this week. I'm fine as long as I don't eat too much."

"Or anything," piped in Adana. She shifted the baby over her shoulder. Then she expertly rocked him to and fro, crooning a little song to him. "Remember? You skipped dinner. Worked right through it. Papa is right. You don't sleep enough. You barely eat enough. And you have a baby to think about now. You need to take care of my sister."

"You're sure it's a girl," I muttered, feeling hectored on all sides.

Adana nodded seriously. "Oh, yes. Lin-Fong held that coin on a string over your belly. It spun clockwise."

"After it spun the other direction. Twice backwards, once forwards. Could be a boy, you know. Indecisive. That's the problem with superstition. It's not an exact science." Or maybe that coin was very exact. Too exact. Maybe it was just confirming my recent suspicion that I was carrying more than one baby. I was already showing so early. And heck, I was a twin. Those things ran in families. Maybe it was running in ours too. God help us. I imagined two little Monte's, chattering a blue streak. A real mean blue streak. I'd go deaf in a week. Groaning inwardly, I returned my hat to its hook.

"It's not a boy," said Adana confidently.

"Hmmm. You never can tell." I glanced from the pair of serious brown eyes to the fierce green ones. I didn't think they were going to let me get away with this. Well, maybe not this time. And maybe they were right. Maybe I wasn't taking such good care of myself. That was ingrained, I supposed. Doctors took care of everyone else except themselves. It was dangerously easy to do. Miguel pushed a leatherback chair towards me until it hit my calves. I eased myself into it, the cushions hissing underneath me. I sighed with them. Felt good. Better than good to get a load off my feet.

He held up his index finger. "One more patient. Just one. Then I am taking you home."

"Miguel!"

"Home," he repeated.

"Oh, all right. You win this round. But don't think all these hormones are just making me into a pushover or something. You can just forget that."

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. "I will be in my office, closing that railroad deal with Monte ..."

"What?!?" I sat up straighter. My hands clutched the arms of the chair. "You're nuts! He's no investor. He's a gambler."

Miguel's lips twitched. "They are much the same. Have a little faith in your brother. His proposal has merit. I will finish my work. Now you finish yours. I will be back."

"Why does that sound like a threat?"

"Not a threat. A promise." He kissed my mouth firmly once, twice. Then he left.

###

Some women are born plain, ordinary and right-handed. And some are just plain mysterious. Helen D'Angelo was the latter. She sat there, a clear study in contradictions. She looked serious but she chattered like a brook: merry and shallow. She claimed she was newly widowed and yet her ring finger didn't show a band of paler skin. And when she finally removed her veil, I could see that deep down under the artful coils of her blonde hair were slightly darker roots. Whoever Mrs. D'Angelo really was, she wasn't who she claimed to be. It made me feel uneasy. Something about her troubled me. I listened patiently to her litany of odd unrelated complaints for a few minutes, and tried to fit the pieces together but I couldn't. She was more than a diagnostic dilemma. She was a complete cipher. The only thing I could figure was that she had some other reason for being here today. And the only reason I could think of made me feel uncomfortable. Real uncomfortable. My hands slipped over my swollen abdomen. Why her? Why now?

When her speech finally wound down, I said, "What do you think is going on?"

"What do you mean?" she asked a little breathlessly, her doe-like brown eyes widening. "Don't you think anything's wrong?"

"Well, actually I think you look remarkably well ... for a dead person, Mrs. D'Angelo. Or should I say 'Mrs. Samuelle'? You are Elena Samuelle?" I felt sick saying it, much sicker than even my recent bouts with all-day morning sickness.

"My. I haven't been called that in a long, long time. But it's funny. It doesn't really belong to me any longer. Not really. Kind of like an old dress you've outgrown, have no use for any more. Yes. It's kind of like that. Tell me. How did you know?"

"I never forget a face. I recognized you from your portrait."

"Oh. I didn't think we'd met before." Smiling, she cocked her head. "You're not what I expected for Miguelito."

"Really?" I bristled. Cripes. What did she want from us? What was I going to do? Especially now that I was carrying Miguel's child. No. Make that plural. Miguel's children.

"Oh dear. I've offended you. I only meant that I thought he'd want someone quiet, subservient. You know. Someone who'd just snap to his orders and say 'aye, aye, sir'. More like a first mate than a wife. You seem to make him ... well, angry. He almost ... shouted at you. I've never seen him so aggravated with anyone. It's wonderful. It makes him come alive. And here I always thought that he was a dry old stick." She giggled behind her hand. "Please don't take me wrong. I've always been fond of Miguelito. After all, this was his idea. To be conveniently dead. I rather like being dead. Elena Samuelle was a bore. And now, if I had to be Dona Samuelle Cabrillo? Even worse! You couldn't pay me to do it. Why, I'd never be able to sing on stage anymore. I do so love to sing."

"Like Adana."

"Yes." Elena's eyes glowed with pride and regret. "I heard her. What a beautiful voice. She's why I came back. Just to see her. Not to interfere, mind you. I just have ... to see her periodically. From time to time. You're going to be a mother. Surely you can understand. Will you ... tell me about her? Please."

"Yes," I said, taking her hand. "I will."

###

Three Years Later

It was just another day in paradise. The trade winds were soft and warm as a baby's cheek. They carried the rich perfume of orchids and wild ginger and coffee from the sloped volcanic shore of Hawai'i to where we were moored in the gentle turquoise green bay. Tomorrow the paniolo cowboys would drive their cattle from Parker Ranch to the pier, tie them to the rowboats, and guide them to the hold of our ship. Tomorrow the work would resume, another voyage begin. But today we could still play together as a family. And so we did. We sat on the poopdeck after our afternoon swim. The sun dried the salt into fine white powder that dusted on our skins. Adana was learning a little guitar called a ukelele. And I read the boys a story. Sam and Spencer sat peacefully on my lap; russet head crammed next to black curly head as they pored over the pictures.

I turned the page, read a little ahead - just enough to give me a start. Jeez. I didn't remember how gruesome these fairy tales were. Clearing my throat, I improvised, "And then the evil queen said, 'Here is a box'."

"No, no, Mama. Nuh uh. You got it wrong. All wrong," corrected Spence, his gray eyes boring into mine. "She said, 'Kill Snow White. Stick her heart in this box. Show me she is dead, dead, dead'. Then she wanted the gizzard and the guts and both eyeballs 'cuz she was a cannibal and she was real real hungry. She ate toes for snacks instead of crackers. Munch, munch, crunch. Eeee-yew."

Unlike most little boys, Sam didn't get stirred up by brother's gruesome stories. Instead, his green gaze remained calm and strangely adult. Eventually Sam's thumb popped out of his mouth. He quietly regarded his brother. "No," he said at last. "Just the heart."

"Nuh uh. Is that right, Mama? No changing the story. No short-cuts."

"Uh ... I ummmm ..." I appealed to Miguel, who was reading his correspondence. He only looked up, shrugged, then returned to his messages. Thanks a lot, mister. What a big help. There he sat, all unconcerned, tanned and handsome in his fawn breeches and his white linen shirt with the first few buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled up so that I could see how the sun had lightened the hair on his arms. Jeez. What did he think he was? Just a bunch of window-dressing? The least he could do was bail me out with the kids. But no. As usual, any comments he kept to himself. My Mister Silent Man kept reading. Hello-o-o-o. I thought about throwing the storybook at him, but I decided against it. After all, I should set a good example. I settled for clearing my throat instead. "Anything interesting there?"

"Telegram from Monte. Railroad's doing well. And there's a message for you from Father Damien. He wants you to bring more medicine when you visit the leper colony on Molokai again. You will be careful."

"Aye aye, my capitán." I said demurely.

"Nikita. Seriously. You should not go."

"But I will. They could use my help. Besides I miss it. We've been on this trip for four months. I can't wait to get back to the infirmary. Hope Walter's doing okay. Anything else?" I asked, wondering about the third slip of paper that Miguel held.

"There's a telegram from the major," he admitted reluctantly.

"Oh?"

Spence yelped. "Mama, you're squishing me."

"Sorry." I rubbed his little tanned arm, then kissed the sore spot to make amends. "What about?"

"He says that you are released. He understands ... the value of discretion." Miguel's eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

Good. Paul Wolfe hadn't bothered us until recently, and then we'd been forced to remind him that we knew all about his liaison with Miss Greggy Hillinger. Felt slimy to stoop to extortion but sometimes you need to think and act like a snake to deal with a snake. I mean, I didn't care who slept with who as long as they were fair about it. And any man who brought down the president of the United States on charges of "unnatural acts" should expect the same treatment. Blackmail. One size fits all. And it fit Major Wolfe all right. To the "T." He had no reason to squawk. "That old hypocrite."

"What's a hippy-crit? Is that like a hippy-potamus?" asked Spence.

Oops. I had to watch my mouth around these guys. Bad enough that they went around repeating their uncle half the time. And our daughter was no better. In fact she was worse. Far worse. Hoping to distract them, I turned the controversial page in the story book. "Where's Ana? I thought she was with you."

"No," Miguel said. We exchanged a look: me worried, him calm as usual. Where was Ana? I wracked my brains. No splash. She couldn't be overboard. The galley sounded quiet. The rest of the crew were about their work. No shouts or cries of "Watch out!" With Ana, silence was an unfailingly ominous sign. How could someone so little get into so much trouble? It was a talent. A real talent. And our daughter had it in spades. Big time. The more the seconds ticked by, the more worried I became. I was about to dump the boys and round up a search party when we finally heard her. It was not from the direction we expected.

"Mama. Mamamamamamama. Hi, hi, hi. Lookit me. Lookit!" she called out from somewhere overhead. I glanced up. She was forty feet up on the main rigging, nimbly climbing up like the little monkey that she was. When Ana saw that she had my undivided attention, she let go with both hands so that she fell backwards in a perfect death-drop, holding on with only her legs. Her little head bounced against the rigging.

My heart simply stopped. I was too scared to scream. I couldn't even breathe because now my bat-child just hung there, her blonde hair shooting out like the rays of a sun. Her face was completely beet red from all the blood rushing into it, and her sky blue eyes bugged out. She laughed. Loudly. With complete and utter abandon. She waved upside-down to us.

"Ooooh," said the boys. Impressed? Envious? I couldn't tell which.

"Oh, baby," I whispered weakly, feeling faint. I pressed my hand over my mouth as I watched Miguel get her. It was easy. Quick. Over in a second. But inside I shook for hours afterwards.

###

It was later that day, and Miguel said he had a plan. I had no idea what it was. He was still big on secrets. Real big.

"It was nice of the Parkers to take the kids. One last shebang before we pull anchor. How come we weren't invited?"

Miguel smiled enigmatically for the umpity-umpteenth time. And that was all he did.

"Come on, come on. Give me a hint. I'm dying to know. Why am I getting dressed up? We're not going anywhere. I'd rather wear my split skirts. Much more comfortable," I said, presenting the back of my dress to him. He deftly hooked it up while I fastened the tiny Ni'ihau shell earrings. "Well? Will I do?"

He nodded. Holding my hand, he led me out of our family quarters, up the stairs and on to the deck. It was still pleasantly warm and balmy, so different than our chilly San Francisco evenings. The sky was changing colors in the west: orange and salmon and the deepest rose red. And the sun had turned dark gold like an old coin, slowly sinking behind the streaks of clouds until its rim just hovered over the horizon.

The ship seemed empty, the deck curiously cleared. There was no one on watch. How strange. "Where is everyone?"

"Shore leave. Last time."

"Hmmm. That's nice of you." A tingle of anticipation shot through me. It had been a long, long time since we'd been completely alone together. Too long. Work and family filled our lives. There were no gaps left for just us. I always felt like we were stealing time. Like now. We were strolling slowly across the gently rocking deck. I liked how he still held my hand, his thumb rubbing mine. It felt comforting. And vaguely intimate. "You know, Miguel. I've been thinking ..."

"Hmmm?"

"This last thing with Ana. This has to stop. We have to do something about it. It's dangerous."

"I agree. You must change."

"Me?" I looked blankly at him. What the hell was he talking about? I wasn't the problem. It was our daredevil crazy-making daughter. The good Lord hadn't given her a lick of caution. Or sense. She never seemed to learn from her mistakes. Thank goodness she was so hard-headed. And resilient. "You can't mean me."

"Yes, I do. You. Your fear of heights. You are effecting the children. Infecting them with your fears. Samuel will not even climb anything."

"But he's just a baby."

"He is not. He is three. And he needs to grow up. So do you. Your childish fear. You need to be cured. Once and for all."

My hand jerked inside his. What was he talking about? He was a madman. An absolute madman. I wrenched away from him. "You're kidding. You've got to be kidding. What cure? And what's the big deal? Everyone has a little something that bugs them. Look at you. You won't eat mushrooms any more."

Miguel grunted. "But your fear has become a phobia. It changes what you will do. You will not even climb the stairs any longer. You frighten the children. This must end, niña."

"What are you talking about? Don't think for a moment that you'll lay a hand on me."

"A hand?" He almost looked as if he were going to smile. "I've laid more than just a hand. Considerably more."

"Forget it, mister. Just forget it." I retreated as quickly as I could, but he still walked relentlessly towards me. I skirted around the rigging, inched backwards, until I had reached the far end of the poop deck. The rail banged against me. "I won't let you. I won't ..."

And then he swooped me up in his arms and tossed me over one shoulder. Upside down, my head dangled somewhere near the curve of his butt. "Cripes. Put me down. I mean it. So help me. Oh Lord!" I felt the first swaying deep in the pit of my belly as he started climbing the rigging. I swallowed hard as the deck retreated, growing smaller by the second. "Miguel. I'm going to be sick."

"Go ahead," he said calmly, not even breathing hard from his exertion. He climbed onward, carrying me as if I weighed nothing. We went higher. Then higher still. The barrels on deck looked like little brown dots.

"Oh my God." I moaned, pressing my cheek into the soft lawn of his shirt. "I can't look. I can't."

"Then don't," he said simply.

It took forever to get there. I swear it did. The eternal ascent. My eyes were jammed tight until my lids ached. I clung to him like a limpet until he climbed into the crow's nest. He gently set me down. My knees crumpled against the soft velvet cushions. I buried my face in my hands. "You are insane," I muttered.

"Quite possible." Wire twisted, cork squeaked as it rubbed against something. There was a pop, fizz, then the festive sound of liquid pouring, bubbling into two glasses. He pressed the glass into my hand, then guided it to my lips. "Drink," he said.

Humoring him, I took one begrudging sip. It was chilled to perfection. Dry. Not too sweet. Just the way he liked it. My eyes flashed open. "Hey, mister. This champagne was already here. Cold. And the glasses. These pillows. What the hell are they doing here? You ... you planned this. Already."

"Of course," his look said.

"Well, don't think you can just get me loopy and do whatever you want with me. Because that won't cut it. It won't ... even ..." My words died on an uneven gasp when his hands swept over me with a devastating thoroughness. He traced a trail from button to trembling button, then unending delicate patterns over the fine print of my skirt; pressing here, there, then under. Fabric whispered upwards, inch by torturous inch. Murmuring, he replaced the silk of my dress with the silk of his hair above me, the cushions below me, then the hot wet silk of his mouth.

"Don't think," he said, his chin resting at my apex, his lips brushing the jut of my hip. "Don't think. Just feel. This. And this."

I arched into his words. Then arched even higher: reaching, reaching for what he promised, what he held out to me ... just a second, a heartbeat beyond.

"Miguel."

His thumb skimmed over my stockings, worrying over the tops and along the sensitive skin of my thighs to where everything verged, twisted. And still he teased me, withholding what I wanted, blowing softly. He stopped.

Just stopped. Hovering there. Right there. And me, right there too. How could he? My pelvis tilted, but he didn't take the hint. I swear. I was going to kill him. Absolutely kill him. Right now. My hands fisted his hair. I looked down, and I could see his ferocious eyes staring past my rucked skirts and up at me. One brow lifted.

"Please," I whispered.

"Ah. The magic word." And then, smiling, he showed me some magic of his own. The barest sleight of hand, and I levitated. His breath became the wind, carrying me out of my body, away from the ship and up, up, high into the sky. I flew. And as I sailed like a bird, vertigo was the furthest thing from my mind. I was full of Miguel. Only Miguel.

###

The polished wood felt cold and slick under my cheek. Don't remember when I landed or how, but I slowly returned to myself. I could feel the oak floor, silk tassels, the rougher silk of his beard and hair. And around us was the intoxicating perfume of tropical flowers, champagne ... and us. Our scent. I was half-sprawled, half sitting against the wall.

Miguel lay over me, his head propped on one hand. "Hello." He looked up, sliding over me. His hand brushed the hair off my face. "No drawers. Why?"

"Huh?" I blinked, feeling drugged. My voice sounded drunk. He was intoxicating. Perfectly intoxicating. Straight to my head. Worse than Pisco punch. "No. Didn't make sense. Too ... hot."

"Yes. Very hot," he laughed softly against my lips before kissing me, showing me how much hotter it could be. Beyond degrees. Beyond measurement. I felt like I was falling, falling into the sun itself; taking him with me. We were burning up together. Suddenly he lifted me so that I was standing, my hand gripping the rail in front of me, his muscular strength - all of it - behind me and between me: moving, supporting, ingressing. I heard paper rip, then the soft squeak of rubber.

"No. We don't need this." I reached backwards, adjusting him, feeling him move to my touch, his impatience building until it equaled my own. Then eventually his hand stilled mine and he muttered, "Stop."

No. Now, said my body. I opened, accepting, feeling his slow easy glide, facilitated by my moisture, by his. Judas. What was heaven, if not this? And if this were hell, I'd gladly stay here with him. Stay until all the seas ran dry. I braced my legs, pushing back, smiling when I heard his low sounds of approval. Miguel murmured his love, his encouragement as the crow's nest swayed. He pushed. We moved together, sailing on the momentum; riding it forward, backwards, then side to delicious side.

He reached around me and laid his hands over mine so that we both gripped the rail. "Open your eyes, niña. Look. See," his voice gritted into my ear. "See the water. Land. The whole world's before you. At your feet. You're on top ... of the world. Here. With me. If we go, we go together. I am with you. Always."

I curved my back so that I could lean into his kiss. We connected above and below. And for the first time, when I looked down from the heights, something other than terror gripped my heart. Something else made me senseless. Totally senseless. Miguel. Always.

The waves rocked our ship, and our passion rocked me. Our rhythm and the sea's rhythm matched, mated, built. We moved faster, surer, racing towards that place where the sky meets the sea, where two souls meet and become one. The beginning and the ending. Infinite. Unending delight shot from nerve to nerve as I watched the ocean swallow the sun, and I felt Miguel shout into me.

Shuddering, he rested against me. His lips touched my back. He kissed my shoulderblade. "Madre de Dios," he muttered.

"No," I said. "Not her. Just me. And our kids are little devils. Not you-know-who."

"Yes," he said, helping me down again. He sat down, and cradled me between his arms and legs. He stroked sweaty strands of hair off my forehead, cheeks. "Little devils. They take after you."

"Me? Well, maybe. All right, all right. Yes. You're right. You're actually right."

His eyebrows shot skyward so that they almost disappeared into his hairline. He looked suspiciously at me. "Why ... are you agreeing? You only agree when ..." His breath paused.

I smiled, drawing his hands over my belly. Our fingers interlaced. "They may be like me, but five will get you ten that the next one be more like you."

His hand stilled. I could feel his smile against my cheek. "Promise?" he breathed.

"I think so. I'll give you long odds. We'll find out in another nine months or so. Do you mind? Too bad if you do, Capitán." I settled back into his arms, which tightened comfortably around me. Then realization suddenly struck. I jerked, gasping. "Judas! I didn't get an attack. Your treatment worked. No vertigo. I didn't puke all over the place."

"I am glad you did not throw up in my arms," he said solemnly.

I elbowed him. "Get out of here. I'm serious. You may have fixed me. Only ..."

"Only what?"

"It may not be permanent. It may be one of those short-term fixes, you know. And that could be a problem. A real problem. What if I have to go upstairs to the kids' bedroom, and then wham-o, bam-o, I freeze. Right there. Can't move. Can't do anything. You may need to give me a booster. Every now and then. If you don't mind."

"I do not mind."

"Good. Well, I'm glad. I wouldn't want it to wear off. I'm game if you are."

He didn't say anything. He seldom did. But his kiss, his look was the only answer I ever needed. It was just right. It always would be.

Fin

Author's Notes

Ironclads were the beginning of the modern navy. These wooden ships had hulls encased in iron, and were first developed by the French in 1859. Two years later, the first American ironclad gunboats fought in the Civil War. Two Confederate-owned boats were retrofitted with iron hulls and were supposed to invade and capture the San Francisco Bay, but the war ended before the plan could be implemented. The wreck of the Marlin was based on true accounts of Civil War naval battles.

URL for the Confederate raider that attacked Don Miguel's ship: http://www.ironclads.com/battle/pictures/prebattle.html

Shark, great white: The "Red Triangle" supposedly has the greatest number of great white shark attacks in the world (although other sources cite Australia). On coast of California, the "Red Triangle" stretches some 100 miles or so from Bodega Bay, north of San Francisco; to Ano Nuevo Island near Santa Cruz; to the famous Farallon Islands. The great white will attack seals and seal-looking objects (like surfers or divers in nice black wetsuits).

I am indebted to the San Francisco Historical Society, the Bancroft Library, and the Civil War re-enactors. Their information laid the groundwork for these stories.

As always, for Mister Bo. Muchas gracias, mi querido.

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