Fathom by L. Standage (spanish books to read .TXT) 📕

of like a motorhome with portholes instead of windows. There were benches on either side, a small sink, a two-burner stove, a table, and two open doors with one leading to a tiny bathroom and the other leading to a bedroom of sorts with bunk beds built onto the sides of the walls.

The boat pitched again and I clutched my stomach.

“Still no sign of Natasha,” said Walter from outside. “I don’t like just leaving her.”

“She knows we can’t wait here forever,” said Uther. “She also knows where to go if we get separated and she has money to get there.”

Calder appeared on the ladder to the cabin.

“Is Natasha going to be okay?” I asked.

“We’ve been separated before. Uther’s right.” He came around us, opened a cupboard in the galley, and pulled out a large plastic case with a red cross on it. He passed me to go back out on deck, touching my shoulder as he went. “Go get changed and try not to worry.”

I looked at Sam, still worried despite Calder’s reassurance. She, however, stared at me, half surprised and half…proud?

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said, but with a lingering smile in her eyes. She turned and headed through the galley and toward the sleeping area. I followed her so I could finally change.

The motor of the Imbali purred underneath me. The roll of the sea made my stomach turn. I lay on one of the lower bunks, clutching my middle and holding my mouth with my other hand. I curled into a ball, dressed warm in a pair of jeans, thick socks, and a sweatshirt—clothing more suited for a winter afternoon than a boat cruise in the Pacific, but at least I wasn’t cold anymore.

The door to the cabin opened and Calder poked his head in.

“Are you sick?”

I groaned. “Going to be, I think.”

“I’m sorry. You should have had some meds hours ago.” He stepped into the cabin, holding a bottle of water, a white plastic bottle of pills, and a small cellophane bag. He set the bag and the water on the bed, then popped open the pill bottle and palmed two white tablets. He knelt down beside me. “Take these. They should help.”

“What are they?” I looked at the bottle.

“Meclizine. For motion sickness.” He gave me the pills, then reached for the bottle of water. I sat up.

“Thanks, Mr. Pharmacist.”

He gave a low chuckle. I swallowed the pills down with the water, then lay back down, trying not to wince at the nausea.

“How long do they take to work?”

“A while,” he replied with a sympathetic air. “In the meantime, try some mango.” He grabbed the cellophane bag, opened it up, and held it out to me. I looked at the shriveled orange things. They smelled amazing, but I wasn’t sure.

“I don’t think I should.” I hiccupped. “It might end up all over the floor.”

“Give it a try. It’ll help.”

Skeptical, I humored him and reached into the bag. Almost the second I tasted the fruit, my queasiness began to subside. I chewed, swallowed, and reached for another, and continued to feel better.

“Huh…that’s amazing.”

“Yeah. I figured it out on my first boat ride. I was sick as a dog until I saw the package of mangoes on the table. It was the only thing I felt like eating. It took the sickness away, sharpish. If you’re still feeling sick in another hour, we can try something else.”

“Thanks.”

He smiled a little. I sat up, bending my head because of the cramped space between the top and bottom bunks.

“Is Eamon all right?” I asked.

“All patched up.”

I reached for another piece of mango and he handed me the bag.

“You can have the lot. I’ve got more.”

“Thanks. Now that I don’t feel like I’m going to spew everywhere, at least I can put something on these welts.” I got up from the bed and moved over to a mirror bolted to the door of a closet. “Do you have anything I could put on this?” I asked, but Calder had already walked out. I lifted my sweatshirt to examine the damage. Spots of blood stained my tee shirt from the worst of it. I turned around to look at the stripe of missing skin on my back and sucked in a hissing breath through my teeth.

“Can I help?” Calder asked from the door. Startled at his reappearance, I pulled my sweatshirt down into place. He came toward me, holding the same first aid kit he’d gotten out of the galley cupboard. He knelt and put the case on the floor, then took out rubbing alcohol, a tube of ointment, and a roll of medical gauze. He turned his face up at me. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“N-no, not at all.” I lifted my sweatshirt again and held it around my waist. He examined the strip of irritated skin and bleeding welts. I looked down at his hair and had a sudden longing to run my fingers through it. I pressed my lips into a hard line and took a slow breath.

“This is going to sting a little,” he said, looking up at me again. I nodded. He cut off a piece of gauze, tipped some rubbing alcohol on it, and dabbed it onto my wounds. I gasped as the alcohol seared my skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Biochemist and all. I can’t bring myself to dress a dirty wound.”

“I didn’t roll in the dirt after ripping the costume off,” I said, gasping again.

“I know it hurts. I’m almost done.” His gentle touch sent goose bumps prickling all over my stomach. A sudden tilt in the boat made me stumble backward, but he caught me around the waist as I grabbed his shoulders for balance.

“Whoops,” I said, not at all sorry for almost falling.

“Haven’t found your sea legs yet.”

“I guess not.”

I swallowed, took my hands off his shoulders, and held my sweatshirt away from my hips again. He took out the ointment and daubed it onto the welts. Then he took the