Westman took her hand again and helped her forward, and though she would never have said so aloud, Josie was grateful. She, who had resented it when men offered to help poor little her, resented it when men offered protection, resented it when men treated her as anything less than an equal, was once again glad to have a man here to take care of her.
Not just any man. Westman. She was glad it was he. She could trust him, did trust him. She wanted to laugh again. She, Josephine Hale, trusted a man. Amazing.
The strip of sand they’d been walking on ended, and Stephen had to release her hand as they went, single file, around a jutting rock. Westman went first, keeping his hand on hers for as long as possible, and when his feet were out of sight, Josie followed.
Her boots sloshed in the freezing water, and the toes she had thought were numb, screamed in protest. But she slogged through, keeping her scraped fingers on the rock below her shoulder. The jut of rock was about five feet in length, about three times that in height, and about a quarter of the way across it, the wind began to die down, so that when Josie stepped back onto sandy beach, there was barely any wind at all.
Looking around, she saw that they had stepped into what appeared to be a bowl in the rock. It was deep enough to fit a small cottage and large enough to accommodate sixty men or more.
Best of all, inside there was a respite from the wind and waves. Here the water only lapped at the extended beach, and the light breeze didn’t bite and chill.
With an exhausted sigh, Josie went to Westman, who had moved toward the center of the bowl, and put her hand on his shoulder. “What now? There’s no way out of here, and we can’t see—”
But Westman shook his head, silencing her. She frowned then noticed he was staring intently at the sea. She followed his gaze, and then her hand tightened. About a quarter of a mile offshore, slightly to their right, were three huge rocks protruding from the water. They stood like sentinels guarding the small cove, and the ocean waves crashed mightily against them, so that they took the brunt of the force and the cove was left in relative peace.
Westman held out a hand. “Do you have the map?”
Josie shook her head. “I thought you—”
“It’s in my coat pocket.”
“Oh.” She fumbled through his coat, her fingers so cold that she could hardly control them, and then she grasped the paper and pulled it out.
She held it out to Westman, careful not to let go until he had a firm grip on it. Even in the cove, there was still a stiff breeze, and Westman held the map tightly. He pieced the two sections together, and Josie watched as all the landmarks fell into place. She studied the three rocks at the end of the cove and then their representation on the map. Directly across from the rocks was a large X.
As one, Josie and Westman turned and looked behind them. Her eyes scanned the towering granite rocks, looking for any sign of a hiding place. But she saw nothing but rocks. No caves, no openings of any sort.
“Do you think they buried the treasure?” Josie asked, digging the heel of her boot into the soft sand.
“It’s a possibility,” Westman acknowledged. “It’s also a possibility that we’re missing something. It’s too dark in here to see properly.”
He was right. The clouds had come in, and only intermittent light shone from the moon.
“Should we wait until morning?” she asked, excited by the prospect of seeing the place in the light, and yet hoping Westman would not agree to the scheme. The inn was calling to her, and not even treasure seemed to matter as much as a fire and a hot cup of tea.
To her relief, Westman shook his head. “We still don’t know where our friends from London are. Let’s go back and plan a strategy. Then we can decide when to return and with what supplies.”
Josie sighed. “So back the way we came?” She was so tired that even her hair felt exhausted.
“You know the way, madam.”
She did, and, unfortunately, it was a long, long way.
STEPHEN MADE JOSIE wait until dusk before they returned to the cove. He’d gone out in the afternoon, purchased lanterns, shovels, rope, and two pistols. If their friends returned, he’d be ready.
The trek back to the cove had been easier in the late afternoon light, but by the time they’d reached the hidden spot, the sun was once again abed. They lit the lanterns and used the dying rays of day to search. Stephen looked out at the water frequently, comparing the location of the rocks to his position.
He tried to imagine the best place to anchor a ship offshore. Where would his grandfather have stood on deck? What would he have seen? What memories would he have taken back with him, relied on as he drew the map months later?
Josie had begun her search at the far end of the cove. This morning, she had stared at the map for hours. Her theory was that the treasure was buried, and the strokes of pen on the map indicated the number of footsteps she should take to reach the spot. Personally, Stephen thought she was sleep deprived and had read one too many novels, but he kept his mouth shut.
What did he know? Besides, she was out of his way.
He’d decided to investigate the rock surrounding the cove, to search for hidden entrances to caves or passageways. He’d done his own extensive staring at the map, and he didn’t think the X indicated the beach. There were a thousand beaches. Why choose this one to bury treasure? The real appeal of this spot was the granite cliffs.
They’d been searching for perhaps an hour, Josie walking and counting, confusing her numbers, and starting over. Westman watching her, while running his hands along the rock, climbing up partway and then back down again in disappointment. Each of them carried a lantern, several more lit the small cove, and the shovels and picks were waiting to be used.
And still they’d found nothing.
