A Hero for Christmas. Jo Brown Ann

to her lips. “Don’t speak of that here. Too many ears could be listening.” She glanced toward the fishermen and then at the houses rising above them on the cliff.

      Jonathan had no idea which houses in the village—maybe only a few or maybe all of them—sheltered smugglers. He looked from Cat to Miss Fenwick, who wore a fearful expression, then nodded. “We will save the discussion for Meriweather Hall. Why don’t you show me how to find mermaid tears?”

      “It is simple.”

      “Then I should be well suited for the task.” His jesting brought smiles back to both women.

      Could finding the tunnel and exposing the route the smugglers took be the way to prove he was a hero? Jonathan discounted that idea immediately. Not a soul along Sanctuary Bay doubted its existence, so uncovering it would not earn him the legitimate title of hero.

      Lord, there must be a way to make this lie into the truth. Please show me how. His steps were lighter as he raised the prayer up. Surely God would not want him to live falsely.

      As he followed Cat south along the curve of the beach, Jonathan stared across the wild waves to the headland where Meriweather Hall stood like the bastion it once had been. Pirates and other raiders had come from the sea and across the moors, and the great house had provided a refuge for nearby farmers and fishermen. Now the sun glinted off the hall’s many windows as if stars had fallen from the sky to take up residence in the walls.

      “Show me what I am supposed to do,” he said.

      “Finding mermaid tears,” Cat replied, pulling off her gloves and dropping them in the bottom of the bucket, “requires you to walk very slowly with your head down while you scan the sand. When you see a sparkle, check to see if it is glass.”

      “Like this one!” Miss Fenwick bent and picked up something from the sand. “Oh, it is only a piece of shell.” She tossed it back to the ground.

      “Where do you want me to look?” he asked.

      Cat pointed to small stones that had been left in a line along the beach. “Why don’t you start there? I will follow the other line of stones closer to the water, and Vera can search next to the cliffs.”

      Even though he would have preferred to walk beside Cat so he could admire her pretty face, Jonathan moved to the strip of stones. “This is a great length of beach,” he called over the rhythmic crash of the waves. “How long do we have before the tide comes in?”

      Cat put her hand to her forehead to shade her eyes. “At least a couple of hours. I can still see the scaurs even though the waves are high.”

      He copied her motion so he could see through the sun’s glare on the waves. “What is a scaur?”

      “That rocky ridge in the harbor, the one the waves are breaking over.” She walked toward him so they did not have to shout. “Papa told me that the word derives from a Viking one for rock. Scaur...” She said the word slowly as if tasting how it felt on her lips.

      He quickly looked away. He should not be thinking of her lips or any woman’s. Not while he clung to his lie. He repeated his prayer silently, hoping he would be shown the right path soon.

      “Found one!” Cat held up a piece of glass no bigger than his smallest fingernail. “A green one.”

      “May I?” asked Jonathan.

      She placed the mermaid tear in his hand. The edges were as smooth as if they had been ground by a machine. Its time in the sea had given it a milky color. When he held it up and looked through it, he could see it had been pitted and scraped by salt and sand.

      “Isn’t it lovely?” Cat asked.

      “I had no idea that glass would look like that after being in the sea.” He dropped the piece in her hand and watched as she put it with care into the bucket. “Are they all that size?”

      “All different sizes.” She motioned along the beach. “And various colors, so don’t assume it is not glass simply because it is white or brown.”

      For the next hour, Jonathan walked along the beach between the two women. He had a difficult time concentrating on his task. Rather than look at the stone-strewn sand, he would prefer to admire Cat. Her cheeks were burnished by the wind, and her laugh lightened his heart. Each time she glanced in his direction, he hurriedly shifted his gaze back to the ground.

      Why hadn’t he told her about his concerns with her embarking on a Season in London? He had had the perfect opportunity when they rode from Meriweather Hall to the vicarage. He should have said something, but he had enjoyed laughing along with her too much to bring up the dreary subject. And what could he have said? Don’t go to London and let the Beau Monde change you as it changed my sister. As it cost me the one woman I loved.

      But it had taught him an important lesson. He would be a cabbage-head to lose his heart again to any woman who was part of the ton. If his heart had half the sense God gave a goose, it would lead him to a sensible woman like Vera Fenwick, who had no aspirations of a Season in London. Or perhaps he should emulate his mentor Lippincott and become a confirmed bachelor.

      He needed to concentrate on the task at hand, but he found himself growing more frustrated. Because he did not find any mermaid tears? Or because he was close to Cat but too far away to chat with her without shouting?

      As if she had heard his thoughts, she called, “Have you found anything?”

      “I think,” he said, “I need to borrow some of the pieces you have found, so I might make a pair of spectacles out of them.” He paused, pretending to be deep in thought before adding, “Though it might not be wise to don what so many call barnacles when yon fishermen are scraping one and the same off their boats.”

      That set both Cat and Miss Fenwick to laughing. Jonathan joined in, but his own laughter was forced. The jokes flowed off his lips without him being able to halt them. He would prefer to speak to Cat of things that mattered to her and to him. Instead, whenever he longed to say something serious to her, a jest burst from him.

      Bowing his head, he continued to walk along the shore. Now he wanted to escape his own weakness, a legacy from the war that no medicine could cure.

      He gave an exultant shout a short time later when, for the first time, he picked up a glittering tidbit and found it was a mermaid tear. Putting it in his pocket, he went on, becoming more adept at determining which pieces were glass and which were broken shells.

      He heard a sharp cry. A gull? He looked up, but did not see any of the sea birds overhead. They still circled around the fishermen, eager for an easy meal.

      Miss Fenwick yelled and pointed at the sea. Shading his eyes again, he looked in that direction. Something dark bobbed on the waves. A seal?

      The cry came again, and he saw arms waving next to the dark spot on the water.

      It was a child!

      Being swept out to sea!

      Jonathan did not hesitate. Here was his chance to prove to God and himself that he was worthy of being called a hero. Shrugging off his coat, he shoved it into Miss Fenwick’s hands as she ran toward him.

      “Don’t dump the glass out of the pockets,” he warned, as he yanked off one boot and then the other.

      He threw them onto the beach and ran toward the water. He heard shouts behind him. The only voice he recognized was Cat’s, but he did not slow. The child might be dragged down by the next wave.

      The icy water froze his toes within seconds, and he gasped with the shock of the cold when he dove beneath the next wave. He fought the water’s pull that tried to send him back to the shore. Cutting as fast as he dared through the water, he heard more shouts. The words were lost to the wind and the sea. He looked up every few strokes to make sure he was headed in the right direction.

      The child was being pulled out to sea faster than Jonathan was swimming. He sliced through the next wave and did not pause to raise his head. Ice seemed