With the slightest glance down the road in each direction, Jarret strode across the street. He just wouldn’t reply to her. She’d think he was a jerk. They’d see each other in school and she’d say something to him about it, something snide. He’d come back with a rude, flirtatious remark. Then something would start between them. What could he do to avoid it? He needed a do-over. He never should’ve given her his number. Never should’ve invited Kyle and the gang over; he knew they’d cause trouble.
Jarret stepped through the sliding doors of the ER and into the crowded waiting area. He had no strength to resist this stuff. He needed to feel the presence of the Lord again.
CHAPTER 11
Stomach rumbling and a headache threatening, Keefe headed back from his third trip for firewood. He’d gone so far that he could no longer hear the waterfall. No, wait...
A soft sound of rushing water rose above other night noises. He’d kept the river in view the whole time, remaining close to it as he’d searched for fallen branches at the edge of the woods.
Sticking to the river to avoid getting lost made him think of the wisdom of staying close to the Blessed Mother. She wouldn’t let him stray from the truth, from Jesus. As he’d walked along, the thought inspired him to pray the Rosary, though he hadn’t brought his black beads. Didn’t even have his scapular. He hadn’t brought anything. But he had ten fingers, so he’d counted off the ten Hail Marys on them. Ten, eleven, or twelve. With an armful of branches, it proved a challenge.
Keefe shifted his load. Branches dug into his hands and even his arms through the jacket. He’d gathered more on this trip than on the first two, but the air had grown cooler as the sun set, and he didn’t want to shiver all night. Would the cave be warmer? Probably not. He didn’t like the idea of sleeping in there anyway. Too dark. But he would have to go in for the lighter. He should get the fire started soon.
The trees parted and gave way to the riverbank. Keefe emerged from the woods at the top of a steep slope, his fire ring and pile of branches not too far below. He stood taking in the view for a moment. Shadows had shrouded almost everything in the woods, leaving only a few slivers of light, but he hadn’t expected to find the sky this dark when he left the woods.
Tired of walking and heart pounding from all his hard work, Keefe decided to take his chances and climb down the slope. He looked for a good place to descend, then took a cautious step. Good, so far. His next step didn’t work out so well. He tipped forward and took two more steps to keep from falling. The momentum forced him to jog the rest of the way down, his feet tingling with every step.
As he reached the rocky riverbank, his load of branches lurched, several sticks escaping his grip. He carried the rest to his woodpile. Instead of placing them on the pile, as he had with the other loads, he opened his arms and let them clatter onto the pile and tumble to the ground. Catching his breath, he brushed his hands on his jeans. His gaze locked onto the canvas sack—his bread and water. His stomach growled and mouth watered just looking at it. But he needed to get the fire going first.
Stars twinkled overhead in a sky just shy of midnight blue. He couldn’t find the moon—clouds might have hidden it. And the waterfall, so pretty and blue in the evening light... He glanced at the crude stack of branches, then back at the rushing water. He’d better get in there and find Peter’s lighter before he lost the last trace of sunlight.
Feeling a measure of urgency, he wrestled the flashlight from his bag and jogged the few yards to the point of the riverbank closest to the fall. He studied the stepping stones jutting from the river, waves lapping over them. He could get to the waterfall in a few steps. He had nothing to worry about; the river was shallow most of the way. Lifting his gaze, he tried locating the thinnest section of the waterfall. Peter had said the water fell sporadically at one point.
A section of water, between two thicker downpours, fell with a rhythmic pattern. That must be it.
Keefe sucked in a breath and took a step. The first few rocks felt firm under his sneaker. The next rock wobbled. And the next—he misjudged the distance or the size of the rock. His sneaker splashed down, his heart leaping to his throat, and his arms flying out.
The flashlight sailed from his hand.
He jerked his leg back up and made a futile glance at the turbulent water, knowing he would not see his flashlight. Then he strained to glimpse the next rock, but the falls agitated the dark water, disguising the rocks as waves.
About to lose his balance, he sent up a prayer and took a chance. His foot landed on something solid. Two more steps, two more chances, and he found himself pelted by stray drops of water. Out of the corner of his eye—he couldn’t risk turning his head—he glimpsed a section of water falling in spurts. So he reached a leg out and found rock, good solid rock. Timing it right, he lunged forward between sheets of water. Shuddering a sigh of relief, he reached out and touched the wall of rock. Then he shuffled along a narrow ledge until darkness deepened before him and his hands slipped off the rock and to nothingness. He’d found the opening of the cave.
Sucking in air too quickly, he stumbled into the dark cave. A shiver ran through him, ending in a groan that he couldn’t control. One hand to the cold wall, he shuffled to the back of the cave. The waterfall formed a loud blue-gray wall behind him, providing hazy light that revealed little more than odd shapes he couldn’t identify. He couldn’t see the rock table or the two tree stumps that Peter used as chairs. Peter had probably left the lighter on the table.
Keefe squinted into the darkness. Even his depth perception felt off. He wished he were back on the riverbank, but he’d have to go through the waterfall again to get there. And try to make out the stepping stones again.
Goosebumps popped out on his arms and the hair on his arms stood up. With hands cold as ice, Keefe zipped his hooded sweat jacket up to this neck. He should’ve worn something warmer. How would he make it through the night? A campfire would help. He needed that lighter.
Renewed in his mission, Keefe shuffled along the perimeter, one frozen hand to the rough wall, the other waving in front of him. He bumped something loose on the wall. Hoping to identify it, he reached out to touch it.
It crashed at his feet with the sound of breaking glass that the roar of the waterfall soon swallowed. Must’ve been one of the candle holders.
He continued, his next step crunching on broken glass. A few steps later, the toe of his shoe slammed into something, and he lost his balance. He planted his foot forward to steady himself and cracked his leg into something. A jolt of pain shot up his leg and dropped him to his knees. One knee bumped something—the log stump? Thank God.
The thought that he could offer up his pain—unite it to the cross of Christ—flitted through his mind, but he just wanted that lighter.
Feeling around, reaching gingerly this time, he identified the stump and sat on it, then he found the rock table. He slid his hands across the cold gritty surface until he found something smooth and rectangular. The lighter! And another one too. He stuffed them both into his jeans front pocket and got up to leave. The darkness in the cave had him looking over his shoulder.
Still not trusting his depth perception and afraid of falling in the pool behind the waterfall, he put a hand to the cave wall again. His fingertips smarted from scraping along its rough surface by the time he reached the ledge. Drawing near to the icy gray curtain, he put up his hood, sucked in a few breaths, and prepared to push through.
Wait! Not here. He had to leave the cave first and move a few steps to where the water fell in spurts.
He took another breath and rested his hands on the edge of the cave wall. Drops of water hit his face and made him blink. He’d stayed relatively dry so far. He could do this.
Clinging to the wall, he shuffled out of the cave and around the corner. Head turned, he glimpsed the thinner water falling in sheets, two heartbeats between them. He turned a bit so he could find the stepping stones. Should’ve been right there. No? His gaze snapped to
various points in the river, his heart rate quickening. He couldn’t see them.
Wait... The water didn’t move the same in one spot two feet away from him. Had to be the first stepping stone. And the other stones were spaced one long stretch apart, except for a few. Which ones?
Keefe glanced at the starry sky, the silhouettes of trees on either side of the river, and the shore which appeared dark mottled blue. The sooner he did this, the sooner he could get a fire going and warm up.
Tentatively, Keefe reached out with his foot. He exhaled. He’d found the first stone. A tingling sensation rushed through him as he shifted his weight to his foot on the stone.
He sized up the waves, guessing at the distance of the next stone. Finding an odd shadow, he took a chance. Found the next stone. Relief shuddered through him. Transferring his weight again, he searched for the next one.
Four stepping-stones later, rather than land on something solid, his sneaker went down, down, down. Ugh! Panic rose inside. The world shifted. Stomach leaping up, Keefe sailed down. Icy water engulfed him.
JARRET FOLLOWED NATE and his parents from the ER, keeping his distance. Nate’s parents had arrived twenty minutes after Jarret had gone inside. They’d spotted him and Sherman in the waiting room but hadn’t come up to them. After piercing Jarret with a sharp glare, they’d gone to a nurse and then straight back through the doors. When they’d reemerged two hours later, Mrs. Lynch had stabbed Jarret with another icy glare. He’d waited all that time and no one had told him a thing. Nate must’ve confessed to the beer.
Oh well. Nate walked out on his own, so he must’ve been fine.
Sherman hadn’t stuck around. Soon after the Lynches arrived, he’d stood up and messed with his spiky hair while staring at his reflection in a dark window. Gaze flicking to the doors, he’d leaned towards Jarret. “His parents are here, so I’m taking off.”
“Walking?” Irked by Sherman’s lack of concern, Jarret had cocked a brow to challenge him. He had no intention of leaving until he knew Nate was fine.
“No, Kyle’s coming to get me. I’ll wait outside.”
Jarret unlocked his car remotely as he strode across the street. His cherry red Chrysler 300 waited under a streetlight. It had always soothed him to see it shining in the light.
Taking the last steps to his car, he sucked in a breath of cool late summer air and wished for another cigarette. As he reached for the door handle, he froze and his eyes bugged.
The pack of cigarettes! He’d left them on the steps outside of the veranda.
He breathed, willing himself to chill. Papa would have no reason to go out that way tonight. Jarret could get them as soon as he got home. He wished he could call Keefe to get them, but Keefe was camping. Too bad Keefe hadn’t brought his phone. Jarret needed to talk.
Jarret dropped into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine to life. Maybe he could trek into the woods and find Keefe. He’d said something about camping near that waterfall with the cave. A gravel service road ran along the river. Mr. Brandt had driven a truck down it before. Granted he was the park ranger, but who would care if Jarret used it?
CHAPTER 12
Stooped over and splashing through ice cold failure, Keefe bumbled though shallow water to the river bank. When he’d taken that false step, he’d thrown himself off kilter and flopped face down into knee-high water. If he’d only kept his balance, he’d have a wet pant leg or two at the worst. But now he didn’t have a dry spot on him.
Keefe hugged himself, convulsing from the cold, and peered at the shadowy line of trees ahead to orient himself. Now what? The weather forecast predicted low sixties tonight. Not a bad temperature for spending the night in the woods. Unless a person was wearing soaking wet clothes.
Wet jeans restricting his movements, he trudged along the dark bank and peered at shadows to find the woodpile he’d made. He couldn’t even see the ground beneath his feet, much less anything in the distance. He needed a fire. Could he possibly warm himself enough with it?
Keefe’s heart plummeted. Even a roaring fire wouldn’t dry his drenched clothes. He’d have to give up. Saint Francis had survived in the wilderness during forty cold days of Lent, and he couldn’t even last a few hours.
Too bad he’d lost the flashlight. He’d have to find his way back to the Brandts’ house. The thought of the door opening to Peter and Roland made his heart sink. Was this God’s way of saying no?
With his next jerky step, something sharp jabbed into his shin. He’d found his wood pile. Shivering and undone, strung out from the cold and wet, Keefe fell to his knees and lay curled up on the ground. He should’ve returned to the waterfall sooner, before sunset, instead of gathering so many sticks. He’d gone camping enough times in his life. He should’ve known better. Feeling like a fool, he hugged himself tighter.
Maybe he shouldn’t have come out here at all. He should’ve just talked to Papa about what he wanted. Why had he avoided it? Somewhere inside, he doubted he’d ever felt called. He knew he couldn’t follow through with such a profound life commitment. He’d never followed through on anything. He never pursued the victory. He gave it up every time. Why?
“My God and my all,” he whispered, thinking of Saint Francis’ prayer.
The trembling increased until his entire body convulsed. When it passed he lifted his head and looked at the sloppy pile of sticks. A few twigs lay apart. A few more stuck out from between bigger sticks.
Keefe pushed himself up and gathered the smaller sticks and twigs. Clutching them, he scooted toward the fire ring. With shaking hands, he arranged them into a little tepee. Leaning back, every move an effort, he stuffed a hand into his cold wet pocket and wrapped his frozen fingers around the two lighters. Water wouldn’t have damaged them, would it?
He dropped one lighter aside and flicked the other once, twice, before a flame appeared. Another wave of cold shuddering through him, his hand shook violently as he tried to hold the flame to the twigs.
“Light. Light!” he demanded. The flame burnt his thumb and he dropped the lighter, a cuss word coming to mind but not passing his lips.
A sound caught his attention. Wheels crunching over natural terrain? The sound grew louder.
Two points of light appeared in the distance on the service road that ran parallel to the river. Headlights? Why would a car come out here at this hour? Wouldn’t be a park ranger. Maybe kids looking for a good time. Hopefully not anyone he knew from school. The rumors surrounding his family never bothered him much last year, but this felt too personal.
The car came within ten feet and stopped.
Keefe brought an arm up to shield his eyes from the glaring headlights. Lowering his arm, he squinted to identify the car. A Chrysler 300? Jarret?
Relief weaved in between the shivering. He wanted to sit up and greet his brother, but he slumped back down on the ground and hugged himself. Had Jarret sensed trouble? All their lives they’d sensed things about each other.
The car door opened and closed. Footfalls came near.
“What the...” Jarret squatted beside him, looking him over. “What the heck happened? You’re soaking wet.”
Keefe forced himself to sit up. “F-fell in the... r-river.” His teeth chattered.
“Good thing I came. You should’ve brought your phone.”
“H-help m-make f-f-fire.” His chattering teeth kept him from saying more. He pulled his arm away from his side—cool air striking him at once—and pointed at the little pile of twigs.
“You’re kidding.” Jarret straightened and adopted a wide-legged stance, showing his unyielding attitude. “Get up. I guess I’m gonna have to sacrifice my car, get the passenger seat all wet. Not that it matters. Thing reeks anyway.”
“No. I have to do this.” Keefe felt a glimmer of hope. Forty hours. If he could dry off, he could do it.
“Yeah, right. Looks like it’s game over for you. You’ll die of hypothermia if you don’t get home.”
“I’m not gonna die. Get
me some clothes.” Misery kept him from asking the way he normally would, with a few logical suggestions that led up to a polite request.
Jarret shook his head, the darkness hiding his expression.
A long couple of seconds stretched out.
“All right. Fine.” Jarret unzipped his leather bomber, his favorite designer jacket. He shrugged out of it and unbuttoned his shirt. “Strip your wet stuff off. I’ll run home and grab a few things.”
“Thanks.” Shivering beyond control, Keefe climbed to his feet and fumbled with the zipper of his soaking wet sweat jacket.
Jarret dropped onto one knee by the fire ring and rearranged a few twigs. A flame caught in seconds. He continued building the fire while Keefe peeled off his wet clothes.
The fire reflected off Jarret’s bare chest covered in goosebumps, shadows emphasizing the muscular physique he’d worked so hard for on the weight set in the basement. Keefe had a similar build but less muscular, getting most of his exercise from things like grooming the horses and yard work. While Jarret looked more impressive, Keefe probably had more stamina.
Helpless to control the shaking of his body, he stuffed an arm into Jarret’s shirt. Frozen fingers made buttoning the shirt nearly impossible.
“You lose your food too?” Jarret straightened and turned away from the fire. Acting like it was no big deal, he buttoned Keefe’s shirt.
“No, it’s in the bag.” He tipped his chin to indicate it. Once Jarret finished with the last button, Keefe grabbed the jacket.
Jarret stepped back. “Keep up with the fire and I’ll be back.”
He’d left before Keefe had a chance to ask why he came. Had he sensed trouble? Or did he have trouble of his own?
JACKET ZIPPED AND HANDS in his pockets, Keefe gazed at the snapping, twisting flames. The fire had grown to a good size. The shivering had stopped, though he still wished he could get warmer. He sat with his knees up and his bare feet close to the warmth. Thankfulness wrestled with humiliation inside him. Even if he made it through the rest of the forty hours, he’d failed. If not for Jarret’s unexpected appearance, he’d be on his way to the Brandts’ house by now. And he’d have to admit everything.
Standing Strong Page 8