Looking for a Hero [NOOK Book]

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I had a dream which was not all a dream.

LORD BYRON, DARKNESS

Into the present ...

A monstrous wave rose from the belly of the ocean, churning and foaming as it sped toward the strand. The teeming water crashed into the shore, tossing a bedraggled body mercilessly onto the beach. Salt water swirled over and around the man's legs, chest, and head, and slowly his limp, nearly lifeless fingers reached out and clawed at the sand to keep him from being dragged back into the cruel sea.

Black Heart gasped for air, crawling inch by inch up the familiar beach as he fought the pull of the ocean and the push of the hurricane winds which wanted to claim his last ounce of breath. But he refused to give up.

Stabbing the cutlass he hadn't relinquished to the sea into the sand for leverage, he struggled further from the water, then used the sword as a crutch to pull his weary body up from the ground. His legs wobbled beneath his weight. He'd exhausted most all his strength fighting for life in the raging Atlantic. He had little energy left to make it to shelter, but he'd find the power somewhere.

The wind blasted him from all sides as he pressed against the storm. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he could make out the grove of palms where he'd sought refuge many years before. Further inland was the fortress of rock, shell, and mud secluded in an oasis of moss-draped cypress, wind-twisted pines, and palmetto palms. If he could just make it to his hideaway, he could rest. There was rum stashed inside which would quench his thirst. If he drank enough, it might also numb thethrobbing ache in his head and force him to sleep.

When he reached the palms that bent as easily as blades of grass in the wind, he wrapped his arms around a prickly trunk. Resting his cheek a against the surface, he waited for the howling storm to calm. He prayed for just one moment of peace, one minute of rest.

Instead, nausea overwhelmed him and a dizzymg array of colors swirled before his eyes as the earth spun around and around. Pain pulsed at his temple. He didn't need to reach up and touch the spot. He could easily envision the swollen, bloodclotted gash beneath his hair. The wound should have killed him. Hell, he should have drowned in the angry sea, but he was too stubborn to die. And he'd be damned if he'd meet his Maker, or the Devil himself, before wreaking revenge on Thomas Low.

'Twas that vengeance that drove him onward. Taking a deep breath, he pushed away from the tree and stumbled as he fought the wind, the bite of drifting, pelting sand, and the palm fronds and cypress branches that flew helter-skelter through the air.

Suddenly he halted. The pain in his body swept to the center of his heart as he surveyed the ravages before him. Dear God Almighty. Like the rest of his life, his home had been destroyed. Portions of the roof were gone and the walls looked as if they'd been blasted by cannonballs. The place where he'd hidden from his enemies was now just a skeleton, only a meager frame of the stronghold he'd built with his own two hands.

He raised his fist and his eyes to the darkened sky. "I won't let this defeat me. I swore revenge and I mean to get it, no matter what obstacles You or the Devil shove in my way."

Thunder bellowed, and a heavy sheet of rain crashed down from the clouds.