exactly discovered a lost fortune. And he’d spent most of his time helping Fitz haul old cannons, tin plates, and the occasional charred wooden beam from the ocean floor.
He felt more like a day laborer than an archaeologist.
So you’re like what’s his name —Indiana Jones?
Raina again, and for a second, he let her settle there, remembering her in his arms under a northern moon. The way she ranher fingers through his hair, made him believe that he could be happy in Deep Haven, discovering a life with her.
Slinging the metal detector over his shoulder, he turned it on but kept the headphones around his neck as he trekked back. He swung the detector loosely over the ground, following a tumble of rocks that could have been a stream, perhaps.
Or maybe he was simply afflicted with an overactive imagination. The ability to tell himself a good tale, make himself believe it.
Like the fact that he could have a happily ever after with a woman who clearly saw him as second choice.
See, there she went again, tiptoeing into his brain and perching there.
Yeah, pitiful man that he was, he could admit he still thought about —even cared for —Raina Beaumont. Probably more since he’d escaped the family drama and soaked himself in the sun day after day.
Casper nearly missed the shrieking of the detector as he stepped out of the jungle, fifty feet down the beach from his skiff.
The needle bumped into the red and he dropped the detector, grabbed his shovel.
The sun hung low, an orange fire glowing over the horizon. As the trees slung shadows across the beach, he dug furiously against the onslaught of twilight.
His shovel hit metal. Falling to his knees, he worked out the sand and ran his fingers over what looked like a rusty piece of chain.
For mooring a boat.
Casper sat back, his heart sinking.
Except . . .
He looked closer. The chain seemed hand-hammered, the edges of each link rough and not engineered.
In fact —he pulled the rest of the chain from the earth, found the end. His pulse caught at the sight of an ancient padlock, broken open.
He examined it, his mind turning through his research and landing on the story of Hanes and his third chest of doubloons.
Abandoned under the storm’s onslaught, the chain had broken off.
Casper got up and began to run the detector in a grid around the chain, back into the forest, where the mangroves had taken root.
The detector shrilled and he dropped it, retrieving his shovel and beginning to dig.
The now-milky twilight pressed shadows into the divots of the soil as his hand fastened around plate-size pieces of broken metal. He leaned into the hole and cleared away the sand, his breath short as he touched the rough, rotting top of a box.
Sweat blackened his hands as he cleared away the dirt, trying to lug the box from the sand. It refused to budge. Casper attacked the hole with his shovel, widening it enough to wiggle the box lid free.
What if —?
He crawled his fingers along the edge, hoping to find the bottom of the lid, but as he handled it, the box creaked and the lid broke free, off its hinges.
The archaeologist inside halted him.
But he knew what manner of men haunted these islands. If he left the box here, by tomorrow it would be looted.
As sweat dripped off his chin, saturating his shirt, Casper eased the broken lid open.
Muddy water filled the inside.
He held his breath as he plunged his hand into the murky contents.
Silt sifted between his fingers. He worked them deeper, found the edges, then the bottom, his fingers scraping against wood, then . . . rock.
No.
Oh no. He felt around the hole in the bottom of the box where the elements had bashed it against rock, destroying the wood.
And the storm had washed away any doubloons, any looted spoils from the Spanish ships sacked by the legendary pirates of the Caribbean.
Casper pulled out a handful of gray mud, watching it leach out of his grip.
Around him, bats awoke, blotting out the
He felt more like a day laborer than an archaeologist.
So you’re like what’s his name —Indiana Jones?
Raina again, and for a second, he let her settle there, remembering her in his arms under a northern moon. The way she ranher fingers through his hair, made him believe that he could be happy in Deep Haven, discovering a life with her.
Slinging the metal detector over his shoulder, he turned it on but kept the headphones around his neck as he trekked back. He swung the detector loosely over the ground, following a tumble of rocks that could have been a stream, perhaps.
Or maybe he was simply afflicted with an overactive imagination. The ability to tell himself a good tale, make himself believe it.
Like the fact that he could have a happily ever after with a woman who clearly saw him as second choice.
See, there she went again, tiptoeing into his brain and perching there.
Yeah, pitiful man that he was, he could admit he still thought about —even cared for —Raina Beaumont. Probably more since he’d escaped the family drama and soaked himself in the sun day after day.
Casper nearly missed the shrieking of the detector as he stepped out of the jungle, fifty feet down the beach from his skiff.
The needle bumped into the red and he dropped the detector, grabbed his shovel.
The sun hung low, an orange fire glowing over the horizon. As the trees slung shadows across the beach, he dug furiously against the onslaught of twilight.
His shovel hit metal. Falling to his knees, he worked out the sand and ran his fingers over what looked like a rusty piece of chain.
For mooring a boat.
Casper sat back, his heart sinking.
Except . . .
He looked closer. The chain seemed hand-hammered, the edges of each link rough and not engineered.
In fact —he pulled the rest of the chain from the earth, found the end. His pulse caught at the sight of an ancient padlock, broken open.
He examined it, his mind turning through his research and landing on the story of Hanes and his third chest of doubloons.
Abandoned under the storm’s onslaught, the chain had broken off.
Casper got up and began to run the detector in a grid around the chain, back into the forest, where the mangroves had taken root.
The detector shrilled and he dropped it, retrieving his shovel and beginning to dig.
The now-milky twilight pressed shadows into the divots of the soil as his hand fastened around plate-size pieces of broken metal. He leaned into the hole and cleared away the sand, his breath short as he touched the rough, rotting top of a box.
Sweat blackened his hands as he cleared away the dirt, trying to lug the box from the sand. It refused to budge. Casper attacked the hole with his shovel, widening it enough to wiggle the box lid free.
What if —?
He crawled his fingers along the edge, hoping to find the bottom of the lid, but as he handled it, the box creaked and the lid broke free, off its hinges.
The archaeologist inside halted him.
But he knew what manner of men haunted these islands. If he left the box here, by tomorrow it would be looted.
As sweat dripped off his chin, saturating his shirt, Casper eased the broken lid open.
Muddy water filled the inside.
He held his breath as he plunged his hand into the murky contents.
Silt sifted between his fingers. He worked them deeper, found the edges, then the bottom, his fingers scraping against wood, then . . . rock.
No.
Oh no. He felt around the hole in the bottom of the box where the elements had bashed it against rock, destroying the wood.
And the storm had washed away any doubloons, any looted spoils from the Spanish ships sacked by the legendary pirates of the Caribbean.
Casper pulled out a handful of gray mud, watching it leach out of his grip.
Around him, bats awoke, blotting out the
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