Page 111 of In the Pursuit of Haven
“Not much!” I hollered back.
If we wanted to end on a high note, Tinker’s was possibly the worst choice to go since there was no known owner of the island before 1818—I’d searched everywhere, from the internet to museum periodicals. Besides a few greedy pests who’d tried to sue for ownership and lost during Crabb’s time, Haven had no leads.
“We’re going to have to work backwards on this one,” I said, “or just reallyreallyhope for a lucky break when we reach the island.”Like lightning hitting a rock during a storm and just gifting us something as amazing as Dimond’s rattle.
Not likely. The fact that the storm had worked for us last time wasn’t likely either, so it didn’t hurt to hope forsomekind of divine intervention again.
“The first recorded activity here,” I said, “was a Spanish shipwreck of iron in 1786 during a snowstorm.”
Jessie’s brow arched. “1786? The first thing you’ve got is after the Revolution?”
“Yeah, it was the most memorable thing on Tinker’s, I guess. The wreck killed everyone onboard.”
The good people of Marblehead had recovered the bodies and after that, the lighthouse board kept a supply of wood and candles in a small hut to be used by refugees in case of another shipwreck.
“There are a few mentions of sheep pastured here in the early 1800s,” I said, “and then fishing and camping parties who stayed for a few nights.”
“It didn’t say whose sheep?”
“No.” I shook my head. “In 1807, Marblehead tried to claim Tinker’s Island, along with a few other surrounding islands, but even they lost.”
“How about Reverend Small?” Jessie asked. “The guy with the rocks? What about him?”
I hid a smile. Jessie had a soft spot for this reverend. His dad had told him all about the guy who’d named the rocks after those who’d come to visit him here. Of course, that inspired a young Jessie to recruit his little sister into naming the rocks too. I was beginning to realize why Jessie treasured his visit to Tinker’s so much. Good memories with his father were rare.
“That was around 1917,” I said, consulting my notes. “The Methodist minister leased Tinker’s and built a cottage here, but who was that from?” I asked. “There are a few possible owners I found from the 1900s. Some of them have promise, but… I just don’t know how easily we can trace them back to Crabb. I think we’re working a little blind here.”
“What’s new?” Jessie’s voice held a despairing note, but then he rallied himself by grinning over at me. He’d also learned that from growing up under his dad’s thumb. I’d often seen him and Abby laugh after they’d lost everything on a catch. This was no different. “We’re finding something this time.”
Were we?
Despite the waves slapping against our vessel, it was low tide, and so docking on the sandy strip of land was easy. Jessie made sure that he found a more secure holding than the last time we were on an island during a storm.
He’s learned that much since we were teenagers.
Nostalgia hit me as I realized the similarities between then and now. The muscles against Jessie’s back as he secured the knots, his velvety black gaze on me. The guy still made me weak in the knees.
I let out a pensive breath; the coldness carried it a little further than it had earlier in the day. I loved Jessie. Despite the mistakes and frailties we kept revisiting like a racecars on a burning track, there was no one who made me feel more alive and accepted—our relationship was the classic case of “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.”
More than anything, I wanted to make this work.
And we couldn’t have chosen a more picturesque spot to relive the first night we met. In the summer the island was bright with wild roses and raspberries, but now it was a gorgeous, isolated getaway with tempestuous and breathtaking clouds descending over us.
Ripping my gaze away from the coming storm, I headed for the storage container in Jessie’s boat. After too much deliberation, my hand landed on the pack with Haven’s notebooks and the three Shepherd’s Relics inside. I still didn’t trust that modern-day marauders wouldn’t try to steal our loot while our backs were turned.
Throwing the strap over my shoulders, I retreated to the stern of Jessie’s boat to hop out.
“Hold up,” he said. He lunged back off the side and held his hand out to me. I accepted the help, and seconds before my feet hit the sand, he caught me midair, so he could carry me across the threshold.
My hands snapped around his neck. “What are you doing?”
“Bride’s Rock,” he answered simply.
I shrieked out a much-needed laugh as he bore me triumphantly across the sand bar. “You never said what that was.”
“Reverend Smalls was such a romantic that he brought couples he’d just married to stay here at Driftwood Fortress for their honeymoons,” he explained, “and he also made sure that they stood on the Bride’s Rock when they first came.”
And that’s where Jessie was taking me? My stomach erupted into happy little tingles, and I tightened my hold on him. Twisting around, I saw we’d almost reached the highest boulder on the island. As soon as his feet left the shifting sand, he set me down on firm ground.
