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The mal de mer that had plagued her since their departure from Antwerp almost a week ago had finally subsided, and though the Uriel continued to roll and pitch, her stomach was steady as she lifted her face into a chilly spray and mused, “Perhaps I shall live after all.”
    Over the course of her illness, Madeline had discovered a great truth. The moralists and philosophers of the age who claimed that a well-regulated mind was essential to happiness were mistaken. After days of nausea, dizziness, and retching, she could unequivocally swear that state of mind and temper depended almost entirely on the condition of one’s digestive organs. For a time there, she’d wished for death.
    That’s when she’d first realized she’d overlooked a potentially serious problem. People died at sea all the time. Illness and disease abounded. Accidents happened. And what about after the Uriel reached America? She’d read James Fenimore Cooper; she could be scalped by a marauding Indian, for goodness’ sake. These unpleasant possibilities led to the question she’d never before thought to ask. If something unfortunate happened to her, what would happen to Rose?
    The worry had become a full-blown fear after the mishap yesterday afternoon. As accidents go, Madeline’s had been minor. It had been foolish of her to leave her stateroom when the seas were so high, but in her muddled state she’d thought a bit of fresh air might help settle her stomach. A high green wave had lunged over the deck, swept her off her feet, and deposited her in the Uriel’s lee scuppers, half drowned, bruised, and miserable. She’d been lucky not to go overboard.
    The frigid seawater had shocked Madeline to her senses, and before she’d climbed to her feet, she’d realized that making provisions for Rose was imperative. An even more frightful thought had occurred to her. As far as anyone aboard the Uriel knew, after herself, Rose’s next of kin was none other than Brazos Sinclair.
    Madeline believed she shivered from the cold, but she couldn’t be certain. Brazos Sinclair as Rose’s father? Absolutely not! She’d decided then and there to immediately investigate the possibilities of arranging guardianship for the baby.
    Over the long night, between bouts of sickness, Madeline debated her options. Although she did consider one or two of the other La Réunion families, the Brunets were the obvious choice.
    Madeline worried whether it would be fair to ask Lillibet to accept the responsibility of another child when her own required so much care. Agreeing to wet-nurse Rose was different from agreeing to assume the obligation for the girl for a lifetime. Plus, Madeline fretted about André. He made no apology for his obvious preference for boys over girls. What kind of father would he make little Rose?
    Unbidden, the vision of a tall, blue-eyed Texan flashed through her mind. Absolutely not! she told herself again.
    Finally, Madeline slept, and after awakening the next morning feeling almost human again, she ventured on deck. The exercise cleared her mind and helped her to think. At the ship’s railing, she paused. Gazing across the water toward the storm building on the western horizon, she made her decision. “I’ll talk to Lil,” she said aloud. She would suggest a temporary agreement until the colonists reached Texas and Madeline could find a more permanent solution. In the meantime, she’d simply have to do her best to stay out of harm’s way.
    With that question settled, Madeline focused her attention on the ocean. The power of the sea excited her and she watched with awe the demonstration of man’s attempt to bend nature’s will to his own. As the timber strained and wind whistled through the rigging, Madeline marveled that man possessed both the skill and the courage to harness such unstable elements. She turned her face into the breeze.
    A tiny fist hit her shoulder startling Madeline so that she gasped an inadvertent “Oh!” She turned to