"I've always called it 'Little Island,' since nobody's ever troubled
giving it a name." She reined in her mare and directed Winston's gaze
toward the atoll that lay a few hundred yards off the coast. The waters
along the shore shimmered a perfect blue in the bright midday sun. "At
low tide, like now, you can wade a horse right through the shallows."
"Does anybody ever come out here?" He drew in his gelding and stared
across the narrow waterway. The island was a curious anomaly; there was
a high rocky peak at its center, the lookout Katherine had described,
and yet the shores were light sand and verdant with palms. Little
Island was less than a quarter mile across and shaped like an egg,
almost as though God had seen fit to set down a tiny replica of
Barbados here off its southern shore. Looking west you could see the
forested coast of the mother island, while to the east there was the
road leading to Oistins and the Atlantic beyond.
"Never. I've ridden out here maybe a dozen times, but there's never
been a soul."