Waiting for the Moon

She stepped closer to the edge of the rock.

And suddenly he knew what she was going to do. ?Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,? he whispered.

She brought her hands to her throat, and in seconds the cape was free, twisting and dropping through the sky, buffeted by the wind before it landed in a bubbled heap on the turbulent surface of the water. Then it was gone.

"Miss!" he screamed with all his might, but it was useless. The wind erased his feeble, old man's voice, swallowed it as easily as the sea had taken her cloak. She moved closer to the edge and ripped off her silly white cap, tossing it into the air. Her hair tumbled down, whipped out behind her. And she jumped.

Horror washed through him in a wave so cold, so all-encompassing, that for a second he couldn't move, couldn't even breathe.

She wanted to die. The truth hit him like a cold, hard slap . . . and he had helped her do it.

He jerked around and tore for the dory, diving in. Pain shot up his knees as he hit the plank seat and yanked his oars into place. Furiously he rowed into the surf and spun the long, narrow craft around. Two old lobster traps slid into one another with a thumping scrape and plopped into the water, sinking. Cold water smacked the side of the boat, splashed his face, stung

his eyes.

"I'm coming, miss," he yelled. With strong, sure strokes, he powered through the two-foot swells,

6

searching frantically until he saw her. A dark shadow on the surface of the water.

He fought the tide and forced the dory forward. She lay there, facedown, floating on the swell like a broken doll. He flung the oars into the center of the boat and twisted around, reaching down into the icy, swirling water. He grabbed a handful of her hair, wrapping the long, wet mass around his knuckles. Breathing deeply, gathering his old man's strength, he pulled her into the boat.

She lay as if dead, her hair and throat veined with slimy, yellow-green kelp, her arms limp and flung out from her body.

Gently he peeled the curtain of hair and seaweed from her face. Oh, Jesus . . .

A roiling knot of nausea clutched his gut. Her beautiful face was unrecognizable. Blood trickled from her left ear, puddling beneath her head in a bright red pool. It was horribly red next to the pale blue-whiteness of her skin. The whole left side of her face was bruised and bloodied and scraped, as if she'd hit a submerged rock with her head.

With shaking hands, he leaned down to her, listened for the whisper of her breath.

She was breathing. Shallowly, desperately, but it was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. She gagged and spit up seawater.

He let out a huge sigh of relief. Moving slightly, he twisted around and slipped a hand behind her head, positioning her more securely on the plank seat. She gagged, her body spasming slightly at the movement.

When he drew his hand back, it was covered in blood.

His whole body started to shake. He wrenched off his shirt and tied it around her head as tightly as he could manage to stem the bleeding.

7

"What now?" he cried to God, to the sea, to himself.

What now?

Old Doc Mather couldn't handle a case like this.

Who could? Her skull was cracked and she was probably going to die. No one could save her ... no one could make this crazy, beautiful woman whole again.

Crazy-

The word was a gift from the God he'd prayed to for

seventy-one years.

He knew where she belonged.

Chapter One