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  “As needed.”

  This couldn’t be happening. She looked away, over the rippling river. The whole water thing was bad enough, without the prospect of hours alone with Beckett. He’d always set her on edge, even before the incident with Jade. Through high school he’d gone out of his way to ignore her, as if she carried some rare disease. And then after that night in her sophomore year, things had become even more strained.

  He crossed his arms. “What’s it going to be?”

  His back was up. Maybe from her phone call a couple weeks ago. Maybe from her reluctance today. Maybe both. Still, he was right about one thing. It was going to take all summer to get ready for the regatta. And she would be ready for the regatta.

  “Fine.” She eyed the boat. It was bigger than she’d expected. “Are you sure this is the right boat?”

  “What kind did you expect?”

  “I—I don’t know. Is learning to sail one boat just like any other?”

  “Not exactly. There are single rigs, divided rigs, different types of boats in each category.”

  “Rigs . . .”

  He looked skyward in a move just short of an eye roll. “What are you looking to sail, exactly?”

  “I have a twenty-five-foot Folkboat.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I—it’s not ready yet.”

  “Then this sloop will work fine.”

  She hated to admit it, but one sailboat looked just like another to her. She’d have to take his word. He was a capable sailor, after all, perfectly qualified. He’d even won the regatta several years back.

  He tilted his head and gestured her aboard.

  She gave a mock salute. Aye, aye, Cap’n.

  The boat rocked under her feet. She sat and gripped the warm railing. Her heart beat like a drum, pounding out a syncopated rhythm.

  He showed her how to untie the ropes, then stepped aboard and tossed her a life vest, which she caught against her chest.

  The wind pulled at her hair as she buckled the vest. She should’ve put her hair up, but it was too late now. Besides, that was the least of her worries. She listened as Beckett explained how to start the boat, trying hard to commit his instructions to memory.

  But as he moved the boat from the slip, out of the marina, it was hard to focus on anything but the water, deepening each second, rippling under the wind.

  You can do this, Madison. You’re a McKinley. Made of tough stock.

  She continued the pep talk until they were in the open river. He eased off the throttle, and as their forward momentum slowed, the boat began to pitch in the water.

  “You gonna sit there all day, or you want to learn how to hoist the sails?”

  She lifted her chin, loosened her grip on the rail, and slowly navigated to where he stood, her legs shaky on the moving boat.

  When she reached his side, she gripped the nearest rail.

  “Both the strength and direction of the wind are important in setting the sails and controlling the boat. You can basically sail any direction except directly into the wind—that’s called ‘in irons.’”

  He went into the difference between true wind and apparent wind and started talking about positions.

  It was all Madison could do to hang on to his words. That same choking fear she’d experienced on her first-grade field trip rose into her chest, swelling and heavy like a lead balloon.

  She wanted off the lurching boat, wanted to plant her feet on still, dry ground. Come on. You can do this.

  “You’re not listening,” Beckett said.

  “Yes, I am,” she said automatically.

  “What did I just say?”

  She rewound the tape in her head. Nothing. She went back to the last subject she remembered. “You were . . . talking about broad reach . . . and running.”

  “That was five minutes ago.”

  “Well, pardon me for dozing off during your scintillating lecture. Are we going to get the sails up or what?”

  His lips flattened. “Fine.” He approached the mast and began working. After a minute he stopped suddenly, turning. “You coming?”

  Madison forced herself to leave the rail. She clutched every handhold in her path as she made her way toward him.

  His movements were jerky as he worked the doohickey. A frown furrowed between his brows, and the line of his jaw was tight. It was more obvious by the minute he didn’t want to be here.

  Well, that made two of them.

  “Got it?” he asked after he finished his explanation.

  She should be used to him. In high school his gruff behavior had hurt her feelings—even scared her a little, given his reputation for trouble. And though she was now past the petty teenage drama, her nerves had had about all they could take.

  “Look,” she said, “I’m not happy about this either. I bid on lessons with Evan Higgins, not you. But I need to learn to sail and race, and I paid fair and square, so maybe you can just put on your big boy pants and teach me.”

  “Maybe if you let go of your white-knuckle grip on the shroud I would.”

  She automatically loosened her fingers. They ached from clenching them so long.

  “Look, this is pointless,” he said. “You can’t be out here trying to control a four-thousand-pound boat when you’re scared to death of water.”

  So much for hiding it. “I’m going to do this. I have to learn.”

  “You’re gonna hurt yourself or someone else. You lose concentration for one second, that boom’ll come flying across the boat, and you’re a goner.”

  “I get it. I do. I’ll—I’ll get over my . . . my trepidation.” Fear was such a strong word.

  He gestured toward her death grip. “I can’t teach you like this.”

  Her fingers had curled right back around the shroud. And she couldn’t seem to let go. Especially when a passing motorboat sent their boat rocking from side to side. Her breath caught in her throat and her arms stiffened, holding her steady, even as her heart rocked as wildly as the boat.

  He turned, undoing everything he’d just done, suddenly all business.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking us back.”

  “But what about my lesson?”

  “It’s over.”

  She thought of the nightmares, more frequent the last year, waking her in a cold sweat, making her exhausted. She thought of the regatta. Of Michael and his dream, already dashed once. She wasn’t going to have it dashed again. She’d promised herself she was going to do this.

  “Fine. I’ll wait for Evan.”

  “Nobody can teach you under these conditions, lady. Evan will tell you the same thing.”

  She let loose of the shroud long enough to grab him as he passed. His arm was rock solid, his lips a hard line.

  “Please. I have to sail in the regatta. I have to.” For Michael. For herself. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Beckett that. She didn’t want his pity. Just his help. She needed it. Her eyes stung and watered. Stupid wind. She blinked back the dampness, hating how vulnerable it made her feel.

  His eyes softened, but the frown between his brows remained.

  “Learning to sail is the least of your worries, Madison. You need to get over your fear of water, and that takes time. And winning . . . do you know how many experienced sailors will be there, the kind of boats you’ll be racing against?”

  “But it’s a handicapped race—”

  “Aim for next year—”

  “No!” She let go of his arm, taking hold of the shroud again. “This year. It has to be this year.”

  Before their twenty-seventh birthday. Besides, she couldn’t go another year with this gaping hole in her chest. Another year of nightmares, of this awful . . . disquiet inside her. How many years would his loss haunt her? No, she was going to soothe the pain once and for all.

  Not the tears. Beckett looked away, clenched his jaw. Tears, any woman’s tears, made him feel helpless. But Madison’s . . . they were like a sucker punch to the gut
. He looked back at her and wished he hadn’t. A tear trembled on those thick lashes, and he clenched his fist before he could brush it away.

  “I can do it, I know I can. I just need help.”

  Her voice, all quivery, so unlike the strong Madison he knew and—

  Cut it out, O’Reilly. Think. You owe her. You know you do.

  But he couldn’t help her out here, that much was certain. He wasn’t kidding about the danger. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her.

  He knew a little about fear of water. He was renowned for teaching his grandpa how to swim. At age sixty-two, Grandpa O’Reilly had decided he’d been fearful long enough. It was the summer of Beckett’s junior year of high school, and he soon had the older man swimming laps—just a year before his grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

  “I’ll do anything,” Madison was saying now. “Just tell me what to do.”

  He was helpless against those wet brown eyes. Not fair, God. A man can only take so much.

  She looked up at him, hopeful. She was placing her hope in him. What a mistake. And yet, the heady feeling it evoked made something pleasant swell inside. He wanted to live up to her expectations—wanted it bad. Besides, he owed her big. He could never repay the debt, but he could try.

  He covered the sail and moved away, passing her.

  “Beckett?” she called to his back, a hint of desperation edging her voice.

  He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth. He was going to regret this tomorrow. Shoot, he regretted it now.

  “Be at Boulder Creek next Saturday, off Trailview Lane. There’s a turnout there. Know the spot?”

  “Boulder Creek?”

  He relaxed his features before he turned. “If I’m going to teach you to sail, you’re gonna learn to swim first.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MADISON COULDN’T FIND IT. SHE HUNTED FRANTICALLY through the cluttered room. Rain pummeled the roof. No—that was Michael, pounding on the windowpane. He wore his white sailing cap, and he was calling her name. She couldn’t hear him, could only read his lips. His face was pale and strained through the glass.

  She had to find it before the storm came. But the room was so messy. She looked under a table, in drawers, under a chair. Where was it?

  Rain pounded the roof now.

  “Hurry! It’s coming!” She read her brother’s lips.

  Tears slid down the window, all but blocking Michael’s face.

  Fire shot through her veins as she scanned the room. She’d never find it in this mess. She could hear it coming now, loud and hungry. A roaring wall of water.

  “Help!” she screamed, but Michael couldn’t hear her. No one could hear her. Her mouth was stuffed with something like cotton, choking her. Panic surged through her like electricity.

  “Help!”

  Madison’s eyes flew open to darkness. Her heart thudded against the mattress. Her breaths came in shallow puffs. She closed her eyes and ran her hand over her damp forehead. Not again.

  When would it stop? The same thing, over and over. What was she looking for? It made no sense. Make it stop, God. Please make it stop.

  Just as quickly as the prayer surfaced, she pulled it back. He was the cause of this. He could’ve stopped it all if He’d wanted to. But He hadn’t.

  She rolled over and pushed the covers down, welcoming the cool air. On the floor beside her, Lulu, her border collie, let out a soft snore. She was glad somebody was able to sleep.

  Madison didn’t even own a bathing suit. Hadn’t stepped foot in anything deeper than the tub since she was twelve. So as she made her way through the thick copse of evergreens the next Saturday, it was no surprise that her heart kicked into high gear, that her legs felt as wobbly as a newborn pup’s. Dead ahead, the pool of water glistened in the afternoon sun.

  Rather than fight her trembling legs, she dropped her towel and sank onto the grass a good ten feet from the bank. Evan had called earlier in the week to find out how her first lesson had gone. She’d explained the slight delay, and he’d told her to call when she was ready to resume lessons.

  She looked at the sun-dappled water, her nerves firing off warning flares. Why was she here? More importantly, why was Beckett doing this? The question had rolled around her head all week. This went way beyond the package she’d won at auction. Way beyond helping out a buddy with an overloaded work schedule.

  She could figure only one motive behind Beckett’s offer: guilt. Whatever he’d done to Jade, he at least had the decency to feel guilty about it. Madison wondered for the hundredth time where her sister was, how she was making her way, if she’d found a job.

  She stifled a yawn. The nightmare had kept her awake for hours. Sleepy, but terrified of the dream returning, she’d gotten up and watched TV, finished a tub of butter pecan ice cream.

  Madison pulled her knees to her chest, wondering how deep it was in the middle, how it would feel to be surrounded by water, to sink under it and feel it pressing in on all sides. She shuddered.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to swim before. Her dad had tried to teach her when she was little, and then Michael had tried again when they were twelve.

  She could still see him now, coaxing her from the creek’s shoreline. “Come on, Madders. It’s not even deep.”

  She had followed him in, hating the way the water licked her ankles, then her calves. But she forced herself forward, up to her knees, then her hips. It had rained the day before, stirring up the mud. She couldn’t see the bottom, couldn’t even see her knees.

  “I don’t want to do this.” The anxiety was illogical, she knew that. But recognition didn’t make it go away.

  He’d taken her trembling hand. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

  It was over ninety degrees that day, and somewhere in her subconscious she knew he was right.

  “Come on,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen.”

  He’d always been her protector. At school, with their siblings. He was her brother, her twin, a part of her. But the panic she felt was stronger than reality.

  She pulled away, turning toward dry land. “I can’t. I just can’t.” She splashed toward the shoreline, eager for the familiar feel of solid ground instead of the mucky mud. Onshore, she grabbed her jean shorts, struggling to get them over her wet hips. She didn’t even look at her brother as he stepped up on the bank.

  “It’s okay, Madders. We’ll try again another time.”

  The hum of a vehicle broke through her thoughts. The memory had made her nerves spark to life. She picked at the fray of her cutoffs, her eyes returning to the water. Upstream she could hear it rippling over rocks, surging forward to this spot, where it funneled into a wide, bowl-shaped pool. A concave cliff wall formed the other side of the bowl, trapping the liquid, a clear blue broth. At the other end, boulders forced the water into a narrow stream that trickled forward to the river.

  She was seconds from bolting when she heard Beckett’s footsteps on the bed of pine needles behind her. Too late.

  “Hey,” he said, passing her, dropping a towel at the bank.

  She frowned at his jeans and work shoes. In all her imaginings of these lessons, he’d been in the water with her. As scary as that thought was, being in the water alone was worse.

  “You’re—you’re not getting in?”

  “Came from work.” He pulled his shoes and socks off, then off came his jeans. She turned her head, feeling heat that had nothing to do with the sun overhead burning her cheeks.

  When he sank onto the grassy bank, she dared to look again. He wore black trunks and a white T-shirt. He stuck his feet in the water and patted the spot beside him.

  Madison stood, slid off her sandals, and lowered herself onto the ledge a safe few feet away.

  “We’ll take it slow,” he said. He was being nice today, and that made her suspicious.

  She dipped her feet into the water up to her ankles. There. That wasn’t so bad. The water was only a foot or so deep here. S
he could see the sandy bottom. See the little tadpoles flickering around. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

  Pine. Loamy earth. Some manly, musky smell.

  “I’m impressed. It took me three lessons to get my grandpa this far.”

  “Really?” He was probably just trying to boost her confidence.

  “You’ll be swimming in no time.”

  She huffed. He had no idea what he was working with here. No idea how many times she’d tried.

  “How’s the clinic doing? Been busy?”

  She saw through the ploy to distract her but grabbed at the chance like a lifeline. “Not bad. Helps that it’s the only one in town. Haven’t seen Rigsby in a while. He must be due for his shots.”

  “Probably. Almost brought him with me today. He loves the water but—”

  She gave a wry smile. Rigsby was an exuberant young male; think bull in a china shop. “Yeah, not the best of ideas.”

  “My grandpa’s nurse said you brought him a cat this week.”

  Madison took an animal from the shelter to the Countryside Manor one evening a week. The elderly folk lit up when they saw a friendly canine or feline face, and the animals needed the attention too.

  “He likes the dogs—the cats, not so much.”

  “He had a basset hound for years. Grandpa may not remember me all the time, but some part of him remembers Bosco.”

  Beckett’s grandpa had more or less raised him and Layla, their own dad in and out of jail, usually for petty stuff. Beckett had come by the rebel gene naturally. You didn’t live in a town as small as Chapel Springs and not know these things.

  “Alzheimer’s must be tough,” she said.

  “On everyone.” He stood in the water and removed his shirt.

  Madison looked away, but not before she saw the rippling muscles of his stomach. His shirt hit the grass beside her.

  He took a few steps out, the water wetting the legs of his trunks. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a narrow waist, his skin coppery under the sun.

  “Feel like standing?”

  She looked down. The water would be over her calves here, the ground sloping into deeper water. Uh, no, she didn’t feel like standing.