Chapter 6 - The Collision in the Storm
The sky over the Gulf of Maine turned from pale slate to bruised purple in the span of ten minutes. A nor'easter was rolling in from the open Atlantic, whipping the coastal pines into violent frenzies and churning the harbor waters into frothing whitecaps.
Grant didn't waste a second.
He took the basket from my hands, set it inside the cottage doorway, and grabbed my two suitcases from the entryway where I had left them.
"We can't take the Range Rover," Grant said, his voice clipped, authoritative, but devoid of the coldness he used in the boardroom. "Julian said they're tracking the transponder. If we take the coastal highway south, we'll run straight into their transport team."
"The harbor," I said, my mind racing as adrenaline surged through my veins. "The cottage has an old boathouse at the base of the bluff. My mother’s cousin kept a 36-foot offshore lobster cruiser docked there. Emily had the fuel tanks topped off last week in case I needed an emergency exit to Nova Scotia."
Grant looked at me, a glimmer of fierce admiration cutting through his tension. "Can you navigate these waters in a storm?"
"My father didn't just design industrial turbines, Grant," I said, pulling my heavy wool coat over my shoulders and buttoning it tightly across my bump. "He built hulls for the Coast Guard. I grew up on the Hudson and the Maine sound. Let's go."
We sprinted down the steep wooden staircase cut into the granite cliffside just as the first heavy drops of freezing rain began to pelt the rocks. Behind us, near the top of the bluff, the faint wail of high-performance sirens echoed through the wind.
Richard’s private security had arrived at the cottage.
We slipped into the weathered boathouse. The smell of cedar, salt brine, and diesel fuel hung thick in the shadowed air. Tied to the slip was the *Sea Witch*, a rugged, low-profile commercial vessel built with a reinforced fiberglass hull designed to withstand North Atlantic gales.
Grant threw the luggage into the cabin and jumped onto the deck, reaching his hand down to guide me aboard. His grip was iron-strong, steadying me as the boat surged against the wooden pilings.
"Cast off the stern lines," I ordered, sliding into the wheelhouse and flipping the heavy master battery switches. The instrument panel glowed amber. I pressed the twin ignition buttons.
The dual Caterpillar diesel engines roared to life with a deep, throaty rumble that reverberated through the hull.
Up on the bluff, three men in dark tactical gear appeared at the top of the stairs, their flashlights cutting through the driving rain. One of them pointed down toward the boathouse and began sprinting down the wooden steps, reaching for his radio.
"Grant! The bow line!" I shouted over the engine roar.
Grant used a heavy marlinspike to flip the thick hemp rope off the cleat, then vaulted back into the cockpit just as the first security operative reached the boathouse landing.
"Hit the throttle!" Grant yelled.
I jammed both levers forward.
The *Sea Witch* surged backward out of the slip, her heavy bronze propellers biting into the churning harbor water. The boat cleared the boathouse doors just as the lead operative reached the dock, shouting into the storm.
I spun the heavy wooden wheel, throwing the throttles into forward. The twin diesels screamed as the bow lifted, smashing through the four-foot harbor chop and carving a foaming white wake toward the open sea.
Behind us, the lights of Silverthorne vanished into the blinding wall of the nor'easter.
Inside the enclosed wheelhouse, the windshield wipers slapped rhythmically against the glass, struggling against the sheets of saltwater crashing over the bow. The boat slammed down into the troughs of the waves, but her heavy keel held true.
Grant stood beside me, his boots braced against the deck, one hand gripping the grab rail and the other hovering protectively behind my waist, ready to catch me if the vessel took a sudden roll.
"You're shaking," he said softly, leaning close to my ear so I could hear him over the thunder of the storm.
"Adrenaline," I muttered, keeping my eyes fixed on the glowing radar display. "And sea spray."
"Clara."
He reached out and gently laid his hand over mine on the wooden throttle levers. His touch was warm, solid, completely grounding.
"Look at me."
I turned my head. In the dim amber glow of the navigation instruments, his dark eyes were luminous with something so fierce it made my breath hitch.
"You don't have to carry the whole world alone anymore," he said, his voice steady despite the howling gale outside. "I am here. And I will burn every dollar, every share, and every legacy my family ever built before I let anyone take you or our child."
A massive wave crashed against the port side, sending a shudder through the hull. I leaned my weight into the wheel, compensating for the drift, but for the first time in four months, the cold, suffocating terror in my chest began to thaw.
"The Canadian border is fourteen miles east," I said, my voice steadying. "Once we cross the Grand Manan Channel, your father’s magistrates have no jurisdiction."
"Good," Grant whispered, his hand sliding slowly from the throttle to rest gently, reverently, against the curve of my stomach through the heavy wool of my coat.
His breath caught as the baby gave a sudden, firm flutter beneath his palm.
May you like
Grant closed his eyes, a single tear cutting through the salt spray on his cheek. "Hello, little one," he whispered into the storm. "Your father is here now."
***
