His Last Defense. Karen Rock

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      “SO YOU’LL GIVE me another chance?” Nolee leaned forward on one of The Outboard’s pub tables the following evening, nearly toppling a couple of the empty beer bottles littering its sticky surface. Restless energy tap-danced in her veins. Made the balls of her feet bounce.

      Rick Dunham, one of Dunham Seafoods’s owners, signaled for another round, then shrugged.

      “I’m considering it.” He raised his voice above the din of the chattering crowd that filled the Kodiak dive favored by local fishermen. He popped a pretzel into his mouth and shot her an assessing look as he crunched. “These are the best quota numbers we’ve ever received and we need to fill them.”

      Over his shoulder, white lights blinked above a long, garland-wrapped bar where bearded men jockeyed for the best spot to watch the Seahawks game. A Christmas tree glowed red then green in the corner. Metal fishing lures dangled from its branches and reflected the light.

      Rick’s partner and younger brother, Sam, whistled. “Four hundred K. That’s a lot of clams, eh?” He elbowed his brother. “Get it?” When Rick only glared at him, he continued. “But is she man enough for the job?”

      “Of course,” Nolee insisted, keeping her voice firm. Squashing her doubts. Captains didn’t second-guess themselves. Her jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. She needed this to happen.

      A waitress appeared and slid three dark ales across the table, foam sloshing down their sides. She pocketed the credit card Rick handed her, then hustled off.

      “Fish and Game gave us special permission to start fishing preseason.” Rick raised his glass and met Nolee’s eyes over the brim. “Now that’s wasted.”

      Regret bit deep, but she kept her face impassive. She tightened her grip around the cool glass to hide the slight tremble in her fingers and the exhaustion she felt after her close call. She hadn’t expected the bout with hypothermia to take so much out of her, but she wasn’t about to back down from a second chance.

      Something too damn rare in her world. “Pacific Dawn needs a lot of work,” Sam said, referring to another boat in their fleet. One in need of repairs, but possibly seaworthy with some elbow grease. He swiped foam off his moustache with the back of his hand while a cheer went up around a nearby pool table.

      “I’m not afraid of hard work.” She swigged back the malt. The smooth, mellow taste dissolved on her tongue. She blinked gritty eyes. Ordered her aching muscles to relax. Moments ago she’d expected an ass-chewing (which she’d gotten, understandably), followed by a kick out the door. Now she might have another shot at her dream. She wouldn’t screw it up.

      Rick gulped more beer, then lowered the half-drained drink to the table. “You’d need to bring her up to code before the regular season starts. That’s only twelve days.”

      “No problem,” she said with more confidence than she felt, given she had no clue how much repairing the vessel needed. No matter what, she’d make it work.

      Please give me this chance.

      Sam jabbed a finger in her direction. “And we need that quota met.”

      As did she. Rick and Sam didn’t need to spell out that her career was done if she mucked this up.

      It was hard enough to become a captain, something she’d only done because Bill had taken her under his wing and taught her when he could. Yet even if she succeeded in getting to captain again, with a bad record she might have trouble getting a crew to sign on to work with her. She had to turn this around. No matter the odds, she had to take the gamble.

      “I’ll top those tanks.”

      “With crab this time, not water,” guffawed Sam, cracking himself up. Suddenly his smile fell and his thick eyebrows knitted. “No more screwups. Our insurance might cover one lost boat. Not two.”

      A waitress bearing a steaming plate of chicken wings passed the table and dropped off their bill. Nolee’s nose twitched at the spicy aroma. How long since she’d eaten? Slept? She was used to the punishing mental and physical demands of each crab season. But the anxiety that’d dogged her every thought since she’d woken in the clinic, minus one ship and plus several unwanted feelings for a certain swimmer, had taken its toll.

      Rick signed the slip and pocketed his pen. The flat line of his mouth suggested he wasn’t crazy about taking another chance on her. She’d be willing to bet he was hard-pressed to find another captain with any experience if he was willing to roll the dice with her.

      “I’ll get my crew and begin work tomorrow.” She stood and extended a hand. Took charge of the situation. What did her Aunt Dai always tell her to do? Lean in? If she angled any farther, she’d topple over.

      Her bosses shoved themselves to their feet. They exchanged a long look and then Rick grasped her hand. Pumped it up and down. “You’ve got yourself a boat.”

      “For now,” Sam interjected, clapping her shoulder, sealing this last-ditch bargain she had to keep.

      She grabbed her fleece off the back of her chair and yanked it on. At the far end of the bar, the live rock band swung into a guitar solo that squealed and whined, the sound blasting from wall-mounted speakers. Some of the milling plaid-and-jeans-clad men and women lifted their drinks and hooted. Their ball-cap-covered heads bobbed approval.

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