Hunter's Treasure, page 2
Turning my head to the right I spotted an old bookcase against the wall. Books of different heights and thicknesses were crammed in every available space. Romances and beach reads neighbored classics and non-fiction. A small brown lizard rushed across the shelf, its long tail dragging behind, before it quickly disappeared around a large conch shell.
Sitting on top of the bookcase was a stack of identical metal boxes, one of which had a small lock. What was so important about that particular box? Money, perhaps, or important papers and documents were secured inside. Passport. My hands flew to my chest. The lifejacket I’d worn was gone, along with the baggie that held my papers. My jean shorts and shirt were gone too, and I wore an unfamiliar, wrinkled linen shirt instead. Too large. I peeked underneath and breathed a sigh of relief—my green bikini was still on.
A sharp pain of memory sliced through me. Bambi’s eyes before a wave swept her away. My breath caught in my chest as if my lungs had collapsed under the weight. She was dead, had to be. She was a drunken fool and a thief, but still, I’d liked Bambi and her very likely made-up adventure stories. She would start with, “This was interesting…” and then continue telling me something that wasn’t interesting for the first ten minutes. At first they annoyed me but now I would give anything to hear them again.
My heart throbbed in agony, and a raw sob ripped out of me. I should have gone after her right away. I’d had my lifejacket fully secured on me. I might have saved us both. And then the swoop of old sorrow seized my breathing, the weight of another realization so heavy I physically couldn’t bring myself to take the next breath.
“Oh God,” I gasped as if I had come from under the water. My father’s ashes. They were on the boat. Because of my ignorance, I wouldn’t be able to finish honoring his dream. If only I could go back in time and talk myself out of going sailing.
Closing my eyes, I laid my head back on the pillow and cried until I was empty of tears and my throat burned.
After a while, when my breathing normalized, and I convinced myself that crying bore no results, I faced left. An oil lantern and a tired aluminum mug holding a cluster of bright pink and purple tropical flowers sat on a nightstand beside the bed. I reached out and touched the petals, my hand a visual medley of the pain as I noted bruises and dry scratches that hadn’t been there before. I had no recollection of what had happened after my fall overboard. This place didn’t look like a hospital. Leaning on my elbows, I raised myself to survey the rest of the area.
Along with the queen size bed I was in, the room housed a sofa with sagging cushions that had seen better days, and several other mismatched bookcases. Next to the couch was a tall cabinet packed with cans and dry food bags. A table with two chairs divided the space. The room had three glassless but screened windows and a wide-open door.
Pulling myself up, a dull pain pinged in my right thigh. I tugged aside the flat sheet that covered my lower body. Good news: both of my legs were attached. Bad news: my right thigh was bandaged. Just like my arms, large bruises and scrapes coated my legs as if a bobcat had used me as a scratching post.
I scooted to the edge of the bed and slowly swung my legs off. One leg then the other. Through the window lay a tropical jungle. A beautiful vista if I were on vacation—an intimidating and frightening sight now that I wasn’t sure where I was. Under the window stood an antique bureau with a large oil lamp and an open journal atop its unlocked flap. A green gecko, sunbathing to the left of it, stared at me, its eyes turning in a funny way.
Heavy footfalls outside alarmed me, and I froze. A broad-shouldered, bearded man entered, ducking his head through the doorframe. The wood floor creaked in protest under his weight. He stopped when his large blue eyes locked with mine. He had on knee-length beige shorts and wore a shirt similar to mine, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. This must be his place. Did he rescue me?
He studied me for a moment, his long fingers clenched around the cup in his hand, then gave me a friendly smile. “How are you feeling?”
In pain, shitty, and confused. I’d gone sailing for a new beginning, and … Bambi. My heart was back in my throat. Prickly tears filled my eyes, and I wrinkled my nose.
“Don’t be scared,” the man said in a soft tone, his smile fading. “I won’t hurt you. Do you speak English?” He raised an eyebrow. “Est-ce que vous parlez français?”
“What?” I croaked. “Yes, I speak English. Where am I?” I pressed my hand to my head. “I’m sorry … I’m a bit confused.”
“That’s okay. My name is Hunter Holden.”
“Where is my captain, Bambi?”
“I’m sorry.” His brow creased in sympathy. “You’re the only one I found yesterday morning.”
The thought of her drowning squeezed my soul, and tears pooled. I wiped my eyes with the heels of my hands.
“Do you remember your name?” Hunter had a calm and welcoming aura about him, and the earlier tension in my muscles abated and I relaxed in his presence. His sun-bleached hair with slight curls hung over smoldering eyes. He was probably in his thirties, the scruffy beard smoothed what I imagined was a sharp jawline.
I nodded. “Sydney York.”
Hunter went to the hutch, opened a cabinet and retrieved an olive-colored medical box. “I need to look at your leg. You had a cut when you washed up on shore. It wasn’t deep but it did require stitches. So far, it’s healed well. I’ll clean it again, and we’ll leave it open until this evening to breathe.”
He walked closer and offered the mug he still held in his other hand. “Drink some water.”
His left inner forearm had a tattoo in black ink, and the details were stunning. A sea chart with schooner, an old-fashioned compass in the center, and compass rose below. It shouted wanderluster searching for the beginning of a happier life.
Hunter cleared his throat and shook the cup to bring my attention to it.
I hesitated. Accepting a drink from a strange man was a bad idea, but if he wanted to do something sinful to me, he would’ve already done it. Thanking him, I drained it, my thirst only getting worse.
At the table, Hunter poured water from a kettle I hadn’t noticed before into a bowl, then emptied a packet of dry powder into it. After stirring, he approached the bed, holding a small glass bottle filled with liquid, clean gauze, and the bowl.
“Lie down,” he instructed. “I’ll unwrap the bandages and clean your cut. It shouldn’t hurt much.”
I didn’t see any harm in complying.
“Hold these, please.” Hunter handed me the medication. “You can be my helper today.” He smiled, and I returned it automatically, but my body stiffened as soon as his fingers brushed my leg. “Does it hurt?” He met my eyes, concern there.
It wasn’t pain that had caused me to tense. The last time a man touched my leg was a long time ago. Well, technically, three years, two months, and a few weeks, but who was counting? The little magic Phill and I had to begin with had ceased after my mother died. I’d spent so much time at my father’s house, we’d rarely seen each other, and when we had been together, something had changed.
“No,” I admitted.
Hunter began to unwind the gauze. He slowed down when he got to the last layer of the bandage. It was coated with brownish-yellow stains, and Hunter cautiously unpeeled it. The skin near the opening was tender and red, while the rest of my thigh was one large bluish-purple bruise. The wound was at most two inches long, patches of dry blood blotted here and there. With my limited medical expertise (none), it appeared promising-ish.
“Doesn’t look bad at all. No trace of infection,” Hunter said, as if reading my thoughts. “The swelling is down. That’s a good sign. In a few days, you can run a marathon.”
“I don’t do sports,” I said, watching his gentle strokes, as he cleaned the wound and patted the cut dry, not causing too much pain. Then, Hunter took the bottle and applied some liquid on a clean cloth.
“This is a salt mixture to accelerate healing,” he said and then chuckled. “Talk about adding insalt to injury.” His kind gaze met mine before he dabbed the cut. “This may sting a bit.”
By that, he must have meant it would hurt like hell. I flinched, sucking my breath through my clenched teeth.
To keep it together, I focused on Hunter’s forearm flexing as he tended to the wound. Many scars, each the size of a grain of rice were scattered across his tanned arm. The time on his solar Casio watch displayed seventeen thirty-five. The only person I knew who used military time was my neighbor, a retired Navy surgeon.
“Where did you learn to take care of cuts?”
“I’ve had some basic medical training in the last couple of years. During fishing trips, people slip and fall, get minor injuries, and sometimes deep cuts. What happened to you?” Hunter retrieved the bottle from my hand, collected the soiled bandage, and returned to the table.
“I was on a sailboat with Bambi. She’s my captain. Well, was…” I drew in a ragged breath. “The storm was so bad I think it broke our sail in two. She went overboard first, and sometime later, I fell too. The last thing I remember is being dragged underwater, and then pain.”
“It was one of the worst storms I’ve seen.” Hunter slid the medical case onto a shelf and closed the cabinet. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend. Let’s hope she survived and was rescued.”
I nodded, but dreadful doubt seized my heart. Bambi hadn’t fully put on her life jacket. Tears blurred my vision, and I rubbed my eyes on my forearm. I had to report her missing and maybe, just maybe, the recuse team could find her. “Do you have a phone I could use?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
“Do you mind taking me into town? I’m sure I can find a bar or a hotel with one.”
Hunter remained still, his back against the cabinet. He looked past me at the open window, then to me. I had a sinking feeling that I was about to be disappointed by a man once again.
“There’s no town,” he said, a pained expression on his face, his eyebrows furrowing in the center. “I’m the only one who lives on the island.”
And there it was.
I sat up. “Do you mean you live here all by yourself?”
“Correct.”
I smiled to hide my growing alarm. I’d gone out of my way not to be alone with a man during my sailing trip, just to end up with one after all. Deep breaths. It was just for a short time. For a few hours tops. “Could you please ferry me to the next island with a town?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Uncertainty flickered across Hunter’s face, but he quickly erased it. “I don’t have a boat anymore.” He inhaled gradually and exhaled just as slowly, his face calm but serious. “The storm damaged it.”
My heart sank. “And you don’t have another one?”
“I do but regrettably it’s at Avarua.”
Perfect. Rarotonga was the largest of the Cook Islands, and Avarua was the city where Bambi and I had been heading. “Can you take me there?”
His forehead wrinkled, and he mouthed wow. “You must have hit your head hard,” he muttered, pushing off the cabinet. “I don’t have a boat.”
Without meeting my eyes, Hunter walked over to the table and pick up the used bandages and wound them into a loose ball. His calmness, which I found comforting before, now pissed me off. Of course, maybe he wasn’t worried about the fact that we were boatless because he had already called for help. I shouldn’t just assume he wasn’t prepared, like Bambi. Or me.
“Do you have a satellite phone?”
He scrubbed his cheek like his beard bothered him. “The phone is somewhere in the bay.”
My mind exploded with panic. “What about VHF radio? A walkie-talkie? Something to reach other people.”
“A walkie-talkie?” he said, as in are-you-serious? “How about we tie two paper cups with a string and try to reach other people that way.”
Har-har, Hunter was a comedian too.
“So, we’re stuck on this damn island?” I asked with an accusatory tone, as if it was his fault he didn’t have an extra vessel, or that I ended up in his bed, or that he made me go on my trip.
“No,” Hunter said, his voice low. “You are stuck here. I live here.”
A hoot escaped me. This situation was more than I bargained for. I’d been so unqualified for this sailing trip, and much less so for surviving in a jungle. God, I’d been stupid.
“Well, fuck,” I said and slapped my hand over my mouth. “Apologies … except what the actual fuck?” I wanted to laugh and sob at the same time. “Of all the stupidest, idiotic, ridiculous—”
“I hate to interrupt this display of your vocabulary glory, but I must wash and sterilize these.” With a tight smile, Hunter crumpled the dirty dressing in his hands. “You should rest. I’ll check on you when you’ve run out of fucks and adjectives.” And he walked out.
Chapter Three
I sank onto the bed and lay there dumbfounded. “I’m stuck here,” I mumbled.
For how long? Certainly, we couldn’t be that far from other islands for someone not to come by (I ignored the fact that Bambi and I had sailed for days without seeing an inch of dry land or any other boats). We would be okay as long as we had enough supplies to last until rescue came. Hunter lived here, he must have what we needed to survive. Surely anybody who lived on a remote island had the tools and the know-how to fix a boat. Only an idiot came to live on an island unprepared. Of course, some idiots sailed with a drunk captain, not knowing a damn thing about navigation or boats…
Perhaps Hunter and I could build a raft! I smacked my head and then wished I hadn’t, I must have another bruise. All the HGTV shows I’d watched with my dad were no help; all they talked about was how to flip and not flop with a fixer-upper, how to change a faucet, and other crap that was useless in my situation. My head pounded.
Fucking fuck.
Well, it could have been worse. I could have washed up on a deserted island, died a slow, painful death from an infection, or been eaten by a wild pack of squirrels. That said, lucky me, at least Hunter was here. He knew how to handle life on Gilligan’s Island, right?
He’d said this was his home, which seemed odd for a man in his mid-thirties to live alone in the middle of nowhere. Maybe Hunter was on the run, and this was his hiding place! He could be dangerous or mad or—
If I didn’t stop this train of thought, I’d give myself a heart attack. My mom warned me to stay away from men with large tattoos, and she also said I could learn a lot about a person by what was in their house.
Sitting up, I scrutinized the hut. It wasn’t a luxurious bungalow, but the area was clean with a rustic, tropical-hut look. No heads in jars. No weapons on the walls. No obvious red flags. Yet. If I wanted to find out what kind of man Hunter really was, I’d start with the journal. Just three feet away. Yes, I knew it was wrong to read someone else’s diary but in the current situation this was necessary. I wouldn’t read much. Just enough to understand if he had lotion in a basket.
Listening for footsteps to ensure Hunter wasn’t coming back, I planted my feet on the floor and stood. Too quickly. A lightheadedness fogged my mind and my head swam. I grabbed the back of the chair to stabilize myself, and hey, my jeans shorts lay on the cushion, dry and folded. Breathing through my nose I counted to ten and then with slow movements, I carefully put them on.
A green lizard skedaddled across the table and over the journal. Reaching out, I flipped a few pages. The sheets included dates, weather descriptions, tide times, and tidal ranges written in neat, boxy penmanship. The last recorded date was May twenty-first, the day I discovered Bambi had nicked my GPS and satellite phone. My earlier anger yielded to sorrow. She paid for her mistake with her life.
The humid breeze carried the sound of waves and a rattle of pots. I looked out the window at a porch with a drooping hammock. Rows of swaying palm trees, low ferns, and magenta-red blooming bushes separated the hut from the beach. The soft undulation of the ocean and views of emerald water filtered through the palm grove.
The journal told me nothing about who this man was or why he lived here. There must be something to it, or he was simply a recluse. Of course, I’d seen YouTube videos of people in their late twenties selling their homes, quitting their jobs, and going on sailing trips for years. There was not much difference between living alone on a boat or on a remote island. I shouldn’t be too quick to judge Hunter, but that didn’t stop me from poking around more.
Moving at a tortoise’s pace, I staggered to the closest four-shelf bookcase. A topographic map, presumably of this island, hung on the wall above it. At the torn bottom right corner, the map had a stamp, “Teaku.” The name didn’t ring a bell. The scale was missing, so it was hard to say how big the C-shaped island was, but I’d seen enough maps to know this one was close to five or so square miles. Green dominated most of it (jungle), some light brown with steep terrain to the west and north (hills), two blue spots (small lakes), and a flat line on the south side (beach). Tiny holes dotted the map as if someone had previously stuck pins there, or it was used for mini-dart practice, like Tina and I used Phill’s photos.
Unsatisfied with my location assessment, I lowered myself to the floor and examined the bookshelves packed with paperbacks with diverse titles like Fiji Week-by-Week Gardener’s Handbook, The Selected Poetry of Lord Byron, and D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths.
The next row that caught my eye was a series of Julia Quinn novels. I huffed in surprised. Hunter was a romantic. Could a romantic also be a serial killer? Perhaps a woman lived here too. But the room was bare of photos or feminine, homey touches besides the fresh flowers by the bed.
From there my gaze dropped to the lowest shelf holding a stack of Spies and Science magazines. I picked up the top copy with a sun-bleached cover and flipped through it. It was a British publication with articles like “WWII Spies,” “Shaken, Not Stirred,” “Holmes New Discoveries.” Security systems and spy gear advertisements were plastered over nearly every page and looked comical in our modern day of technology. Toward the back the magazine had crosswords, puzzles, and encrypted messages. Judging by the penciled-in scribbles, someone had tried unsuccessfully to solve them. I smiled to myself. My father would’ve loved something like this. He’d been a diehard superheroes and spies fan.
