Helen Brenna - Treasure

“Impossible,” he interrupted. “Historical eyewitness accounts state that all six ships, including the Concha, went down in 1622 in a hurricane off the coast of Florida.”

“If you’d give me a minute, I could explain.”

Jake closed his eyes for a moment and used every ounce of his badly worn patience to speak calmly. “The combined experience involved in laying out this search adds up to more than one hundred and fifty years. Harold here was in the treasure-hunting business before Jacques Cousteau invented scuba equipment. What makes you think you know better?”

“Research.”

Dang, but she riled him. “That the thing ya’ll do with books and them things called computers?”

“Jake…” Harold cautioned.

Jake folded his arms across his chest. “Look, Dr. Annie, research only goes so far, then you’re forced to rely on actual diving experience. Quirky stuff about past wrecks you’ve found. Ocean currents and past storms. The fact the Concha carried a significantly heavier load accounts for why we haven’t found it closer to the other five ships. That alone wouldn’t take it out of this search area.”

“What if the eyewitnesses were wrong?” Her calm green eyes turned animated. Cute little dimples carved excitement onto her cheeks.

She’d gone from frumpy Annie Hall to energized beauty in seconds. He flashed a look at Harold to see if the old man noticed the change. No reaction. Jake had to have imagined it.

“It was a hurricane,” she continued. “They couldn’t see clearly. They saw masses of wood and sails floundering in high winds. In order to appease the Spanish salvage officials, the eyewitnesses told them exactly what they wanted to hear. That the six ships from Veracruz were still together when the hurricane hit.”

“Your archaeologist is jumping to conclusions, Harold. Time-consuming, expensive ones.”

“She has her doctorate in Spanish history.” Harold rested his chin in his hands. “Hear her out.”

“The Concha’s captain was a man named Molinero,” Annie continued. “By all accounts he was a maverick. A man with his own agenda. And a man in dire financial straits. I have copies of letters he sent to his wife back in Spain, explaining he had plans to rectify everything.

“He knows he’ll be traveling during hurricane season. He knows his ship is carrying more treasure than any in Spanish history. He also knows if he makes it back to Spain when no one else in the flotilla does, he gets rewarded. Handsomely. Then again, maybe he planned on hijacking the ship himself. I don’t really know. But if that isn’t enough,” she said, her refined features turning suddenly serious, all trace of her earlier enthusiasm immediately dissipating, “there’s always the curse of the Santidad Cross.”

Jake had never considered himself superstitious. Still, more than once he’d wondered if their inability to find the Concha had anything to do with that cross. Since the day the ship had left the port of Veracruz hundreds of years ago, supposedly with the Santidad Cross aboard, it’d been rumored a curse would forever follow the cross, the Concha and its entire flotilla. Some natives had even claimed the entire country of Spain would go down with that curse.

“You don’t honestly believe that crap?” he said, frowning.

“Whether I believe or not is immaterial.” Her eyes remained carefully shuttered. “What matters is what Molinero thought. If he gave any credence at all to the curse, it may have affected his course of action. He could easily have broken from the flotilla and taken cover from the high winds on the leeward side of any of these islands.” She pointed to the Bahamas.

“None of these islands would have afforded much cover from a hurricane.”

“I have research substantiating the possibility.” She pointed at the stack of papers she’d set on Harold’s desk. “I have copies of documents claiming the Concha sunk with its entire flotilla. They’re sketchy and ambiguous. I also have copies of eyewitness accounts claiming a ship the approximate size and design of the Concha was seen near Andros Island in the Bahamas.”

Jake glanced at the pile of papers and wondered what a Chicago Field Museum curator was doing with this level of maritime research. It didn’t make sense. He reached for the top paper.

In an oddly protective gesture, she put her hand over it. “Don’t worry. It’s all here.”

“Mighty big stack of research. You didn’t put that together in the last three days.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been contemplating this for some time.”

“How long?”

“Long enough.”

Man, she didn’t give much away. “Okay. Let’s assume you’re right. Andros is still the biggest island in the Bahamas. We could spend years surveying the outlying areas. And if the Concha fell off the reef on the east side, into the Tongue of the Ocean, forget it. There’s no point in looking. We’d never find it.”

“Based on historical accounts, I believe the ship stayed on the island’s north side and away from the Tongue. I’ve narrowed our search to the most probable wreck spots. Harold had one of your pilots fly out there and take aerial surveys. I think we should check out these sites, starting with this one.” She pointed at a spot on the photographs.

Jake eyed the location. Even if he had time to pour over her research in order to argue her logic, he couldn’t dispute the possibility in the aerials. “You’ve looked at all of this, Harold? Read all of her research?”

“Only some of it. It would take me weeks to go through all this. Besides, what she says makes sense.”

“It’s already August,” Jake argued. “If this turns out to be a wild-goose chase, I’ll never have time to finish our surveys. Another year goes by without finding the Concha.”

“You check out Andros,” Harold said. “I’ll send out the other three survey ships to pick up where you left off.” Sighing heavily, he leaned way back in his chair. “I can’t help thinking this is a gamble worth taking.”

Jake could almost hear Sam’s deep, lazy voice urging him on. Go for it, man. What have you got to lose?

Dr. Annie turned toward him. “How about you, Jake?”

He stuffed his hands into his shorts’ pockets and fiddled with the seventeenth-century gold coin he carried everywhere. His first real find, the coin had always seemed to help him center and refocus his priorities. Turning the coin over and over between his fingers, he contemplated the aerials and the stack of research she’d accumulated. The idea of a landlocked museum curator putting together pieces of a puzzle that had stumped hundreds of men for hundreds of years was absurd.

She had a secret. He glanced at her face. Eyes that sparkled with mischief. Features that grew prettier every time he looked at them. Most likely, she was another amateur treasure hunter with big dreams who’d somehow managed to tow old Harold along in her wake.

A stranger, an archaeologist, a woman. And those lips… With her fair skin they stood out like fire coral against white Aruba sand. He’d be crazy to bring her onto his boat. Then again, for a chance at the Concha, he’d be crazy not to.

The coin warmed in his hand. This one was for Dad. And Sam. “When can you be ready to head out?”

ANNIE MET Jake’s gaze, scraping together as much nerve as she could muster. False bravado was better than no bravado at all. “I’m ready now. Everything I need is in my car.”

The atmosphere in Harold’s office charged with the static of Jake’s unspoken questions. Mistrust churned in those dark brown eyes of his like a summer storm brewing across a calm lagoon. He knew she was keeping something from him. Too bad.