The Wonder of You

by Susan May Warren

  Or more, really, if she were honest, for the EMTs to get over two lakes, two portages, and paddle to their campsite. They should move Mike to the base of the portage between Rose and Bearskin, but she couldn’t jeopardize the lives of the kids in the thunderstorm.

  She could see them now, huddled in their ponchos onshore, under a makeshift shelter made from the emergency tarp Darek had added to the pack. A puny fire crackled under the shelter, smoke peeling out from under the tarp, a marker for her to follow.

  And singing. Was that—? Yes, she made out the tune: “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” But the words were new. “‘He jumped out without a parachute from twenty thousand feet . . .’”

  She heard a voice shouting as she came closer, and one of the scouts came down to help catch the canoe, pull it onshore. The scout held it steady as she climbed out, soaked to the bone, shivering.

  “He died, Ms. Christiansen,” the kid said.

  Her heart stopped. No—

  “And then Roark brought him back to life!” The kid was scrambling up behind her, leaning on the paddles.

  Brought him back to life?

  Mike lay on his back, still wrapped in Roark’s coat and the poncho, his legs elevated, his eyes closed. Roark knelt beside him, holding his wrist, checking his pulse against his watch.

  He looked up, and she read the stress on his face. But he turned to the group. “C’mon, guys, where’s the chorus?”

  They mustered up words to their battle hymn tune.

  “‘Glory, glory, what a heck of a way to die, suspended by your braces when you don’t know how to fly. Glory, glory, what a heck of a way to die. And he ain’t gonna jump no more.’”

  Given the circumstances, Amelia wasn’t going to judge Roark for his song choice. She dropped to her knees beside him, cut her voice low. “How is he?”

  “Barely with us,” he said, equally low. “His heart stopped, so I had to administer CPR. But I got him breathing again.”

  “Oh, my—you really did bring him back to life.”

  “For now. Please tell me you got ahold of EMS.”

  “Yeah, but the medevac is already taking a drowning victim to Duluth. We have to get him out on our own. Seth is bringing in a crew, but it could be hours.”

  “He doesn’t have hours!” He glanced at the crew of wide-eyed scouts. “C’mon, boys, don’t let my fire die.”

  She couldn’t help but be impressed with the way Roark had mustered the boys, having them pack their gear, bring the canoes onto shore, overturn them so they wouldn’t fill with water. Keeping them calm.

  A couple boys added wood to the fire, stirred the coals.

  “I don’t know what else to do. We could try to bring him out, but with the storm, it’s not safe to be on the water.”

  “Do you know CPR?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He checked Mike’s breathing once more. “Good. I’m going for help.” He stood. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

  “But—what? Are you hiking out?”

  “No. I’m going to get us a medevac.”

  “How—?” She got up, chasing him half down the shore, her voice shaking. “Don’t leave me!”

  He rounded and caught her shoulders. Found her eyes. “Amelia. You are more than capable of handling yourself. Do what you know to do.”

  Rain pelleted his black thermal shirt, pasting it to his body. She probably appeared just as waterlogged. He must have noticed her shiver because he rubbed her arms. “You’re hurt.” He touched her lip with his thumb, then pushed her hair behind her ear. “You were very brave.”

  She licked the blood from her lip, reached up to wipe her cheeks. “I don’t feel brave.”

  “It’s not about how you feel. It’s about what you do.” He pulled her against himself, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I’ll be back with help; I promise.”

  Then he let her go and headed down to the canoe. As he grabbed a paddle and pushed her canoe into the lake, he seemed a different man from the one she’d seen this morning, trying too hard to impress her. He sat in the middle, crouching on his knees, just like she had, and his long, powerful strokes carried him out into the lake, over the cresting waves. Lightning still zagged in the sky, followed by the roar of thunder.

  Please, God, keep Roark safe.

  Amelia crouched beside Mike, the fire flickering under the misty air, and laid a hand on his chest, felt it rise and fall. And don’t let Mike die.

  Then she turned to the boys, sitting around the fire, their faces drawn. “What’s the next song?”

  She kept her eyes on Roark as he shrank to a speck across the lake, crossing it in half the time she had. He might have never canoed before, but he’d become a pro by the time he landed it, disappeared up the trail.

  They’d sung through “Boom Chicka Boom,” “Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts,” and the entire length of “I Met a Bear” by the time he reappeared.

  He set out across the lake again, the wind bringing him toward her. She could make out his tall outline, like a voyageur bent against the wind and rain as he fought the waves. His black hair streamed back from his resolute face.

  Mike began to moan, reviving.

  “Shh.” Amelia caught his wrist, found his pulse weak. “Hang in there, Mike. Help is coming.” Please.

  “‘The prettiest girl . . .’” Mike’s voice emerged in a whisper.

  She leaned down near his mouth. “What?”

  “‘The prettiest girl . . . I ever saw . . . was sippin’ cider . . .’”

  Oh, another song. One of the scouts picked it up. “‘Through a straw.’”

  Mike smiled.

  Roark came ashore, hopping out of the canoe and dragging it with one hand. He jogged to the site, crouched beside Amelia. Exertion flushed his face, his body shivering even as the thermal shirt outlined the corded muscles on his arms, his stomach. He pushed his hair back as water ran in rivulets down his face. “Help’s on its way.”

  “Did the flight come in?”

  He shook his head. “I found another plane.”

  “What—?”

  He stood. “Boys, we’re going to need to get your scout leader ready to transport. That means we need a makeshift gurney. Colin, Darrin, I want you to get me all the paddles. We’re going to lash them together.”

  Two of the scouts scampered to the overturned canoes.

  “Mark, you and Evan start unloading the Duluth Packs.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’ll use them to create the body of the stretcher.”

  “I can walk,” Mike said.

  “Shut it,” Roark said to Mike but added a smile. “We have it sorted.”

  The boys brought over the paddles. “Shoelaces,” Roark said. “I need as many as you have.”

  The boys began to untie their shoes.

  “We could probably carry him,” Amelia said quietly.

  “And steal from these boys a great story of how they saved their scout leader with their shoelaces?” He winked at her.

  Oh. But she had to admit the mood changed suddenly from doom to anticipation as they worked together to lash the paddles, then cut holes in the Duluth Packs—she’d have to sew on patches later—and wove the wooden paddles through the packs to create stretcher poles.

  “Lay the stretcher down next to him.”

  In the distance, a low drone hummed above the roar of rain. It seemed, too, the rain had started to die, the thunder now an irritated growl.

  “We’re going to roll him onto the stretcher. Boys, I want two of you at his head, two more at his feet, and I’ll pick up his body.”

  “I can move.”

  “Sit tight, Mike.” Roark directed the boys into position, then on three, rolled Mike to his side. “Colin, you and Evan push the stretcher under him.”

  They obeyed, and Roark rolled Mike onto the makeshift stretcher, made with three Duluth Packs and six paddles.

  Amelia covered him again just as she heard a floatplane
drop from the clouds and skim across the lake, bouncing against the waves.

  It motored to shore, dropped anchor ten feet away. The door opened and the pilot poked his head out, waved.

  “You called Jake Goldstein?” Amelia said.

  “Yes.” Roark got up and headed toward the water. “Jake!”

  Jake waved. “I brought an EMT like you asked.”

  The passenger door opened, and Seb Brewster jumped out from the backseat, wearing his orange rescue jacket.

  Amelia didn’t have time to sort through the questions. Or even argue as Seb waded to shore and, with Roark, lifted Mike and hauled him across the cold water to the plane. Jake met them, and they managed to load him in before Jake climbed back into the cockpit.

  Roark ran ashore, sopping wet. “Amelia! You have to go with him.”

  He grabbed her day pack, her camera, and shoved them into her arms. Then, before she could protest, he scooped her up. Strong arms pressed her against the planes of his chest.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re freezing, and you could get hypothermia. And from the way you’re favoring that wrist, you need it looked at.”

  She clutched her pack to herself, throwing an arm around his neck as he waded out again into the lake. “I can walk!”

  “I don’t want you to get wet.”

  “I’m already wet.” But it did no good to argue as he marched her to the plane. “What about Seth? He’s on his way.”

  “He can help me bring out the scouts.” Roark reached the door, set her inside. “He can learn a couple songs.”

  She didn’t want to imagine how much Seth might love that.

  “Seb, take a look at her arm, will you?” Roark said as he buckled her in. He called up to Jake, “Thanks again.”

  “No problem,” Jake said as Roark jumped off the float into the water.

  See you at home—the words nearly emerged from her mouth, but how silly did that sound? Almost as silly as Be careful.

  “I’ll get them home safely!” Roark shouted before she could figure out a decent response. He closed her door.

  She pressed her hand on the window. Watched as he waded to shore. Jake pushed the throttle forward, and the plane skidded across the water.

  As they lifted off, she saw Roark standing onshore, a dark, wet, heroic outline.

  And as they arched over the lake and flew south, she made out Seth’s crew, just topping the ridge over Rose Lake.

  By the time she dug out her phone, the rescuers had descended out of service.

  Of the handful of people Roark would not want to see paddling through the low-hanging mist as an early twilight cast shadows over the lake, top of the list would be Seth Turnquist, local hero, rescuer extraordinaire.

  Roark stood onshore, pausing from rallying the scouts, who, behind him, took down the tarp, doused the fire, and packed up the supplies in the remaining ponchos, turning them into plastic, lumpy knapsacks. The chill of the day had begun to find his bones right about the time Amelia vanished into the clouds with Jake Goldstein and a good chunk of Roark’s monthly allowance. But he hadn’t quite known how to persuade Jake to jump into his plane in a lightning storm except through a generous financial motivator.

  No one had to know, either, because Roark paid for that too—Jake’s silence.

  But someone would find out, judging by the darkening look on Seth’s face as he drew closer and spied Roark standing in the drizzle. Roark lifted a hand to the four men, in two canoes with EMT supplies piled in the middles.

  Seth wore a sensible bright-orange rain poncho and paddled a fiberglass canoe with wooden paddles—safe passage in a lightning storm.

  Roark caught Seth’s canoe as it came to shore, softening the bump against the rocks, then holding it while Seth and his partner climbed out. Seth reached for the medical kit.

  “No need. They flew out of here over a half hour ago.”

  Seth’s mouth tightened. “The floatplane.”

  Roark nodded.

  “She should have mentioned that when she called me.”

  She called him. Not EMS, but Seth. He tried not to let that rattle him. “She didn’t know.”

  Seth frowned at that as the other canoe bumped up. Roark guided it to shore, held it as the crew climbed out. He recognized a couple men from the Cutaway Creek rescue—a guy named Joe and the pastor, Dan.

  Dan pulled his slicker on over his head. “What happened?”

  “The scout leader had what seems to be an AMI. His heart stopped, I revived him, but he was in serious condition when he left.”

  “You called in Jake, then?” Dan said.

  “And Seb Brewster came along.”

  Dan nodded. “Let’s get these boys home so they can check on their leader.”

  Seth stood considering Roark, who had started to shiver. Then he reached into his pack and pulled out a thermal shirt, contained in a plastic bag. “I brought an extra.” He tossed it to Roark, then marched past him, heading up to help the Boy Scouts.

  The sky stopped weeping as they loaded the youngsters and crossed the lake, Roark managing to at least stay caught up to the scouts and the second EMT canoe. Seth’s canoe had streamed out ahead, maybe moving under its own fury.

  Twilight fell around them like a sheet as they cut across Bearskin, then portaged through the murky forest into Hungry Jack. By the time Roark loaded up the canoes and followed Seth’s EMT truck from the forest, his jeans had dried, his legs chafing, his body sore.

  Seth continued south into Deep Haven, while Roark turned onto the resort driveway. Behind him, the Boy Scouts had fallen quiet, some of them sleeping.

  Darek stood in the lot as Roark pulled up, dirty, tired, and solemn. “Amelia called us from the hospital. Mike’s stable, but you probably saved his life. Don’t you answer your cell?”

  Roark dug it out of his pocket. Dead. “Sorry, mate.”

  Darek blew out a breath, clamped him on the shoulder.

  “You did good, 007.” This from Jensen, who came out of the lodge toward them. “You had us all worried. Darek was just gathering the troops to head into the thicket and flush you out.”

  Darek had begun to unload the supplies, handing the tied ponchos to the Boy Scouts. “Leave them in the outfitter’s shed, then go into the lodge. Mrs. Christiansen has supper for you.”

  A few cries of approval. Skinny—aka Colin—came up to Roark. “Thanks, man,” he said. “You’re not so bad.” He held out his fist, and it took Roark only a second to figure it out. He bumped it.

  Colin grinned and went inside.

  “I think I’m headed to the hospital,” Roark started.

  “Not until you have some food,” Darek said. He was climbing into the truck. “I’ll move the canoes and unhook the trailer. You get inside and change clothes.”

  Roark hadn’t realized that he’d begun to shiver again.

  “You’re a little taller than Owen, but I think Mrs. C. can dig up some clothes,” Jensen said, directing him toward the house.

  “Owen. He’s the one just older than Amelia, right? The one who is missing?”

  “Let’s say he’s trying to find himself. And don’t bring him up in front of the family,” Jensen said, opening the lodge door. “I found a castaway!”

  Amelia’s family greeted him like he might belong, Ingrid coming up to him with a smile and an unexpected hug. Grace turned from where she was dishing up spaghetti to hungry Boy Scouts to say, “Hey there, Bond.”

  “Bond?”

  “I told them about your nickname,” Claire said from her perch on the sofa.

  “Someone best dash upstairs and find some trousers for this one,” Jensen said.

  “Please cease with the vile accent. My ears are bleeding,” Roark said to Jensen’s back.

  “Jensen, dig around the boys’ room and get him some trousers. And a jumper! He’s positively trembling!” Ingrid said with her own shameful accent.

  Roark cringed, and Grace laughed as Jensen headed upstai
rs.

  Ivy came down the stairs. “Okay, the baby’s asleep,” she said. “What did I miss?”

  “Roark saved the Boy Scouts,” Claire said. “And we’re indoctrinating him into the American inability to speak in an accent that sounds remotely like British.”

  “Speak for yourself, darling,” Darek said as he came into the house.

  Claire laughed, and Roark managed a smile. He took the plate Grace offered him filled with spaghetti. “How’s Mike?”

  “They’re keeping him overnight, and tomorrow they’ll take him to Duluth. They might have to put in a stent, see if they can open the arteries. His family’s driving up from the Cities right now.”

  “And Amelia? How’s her arm?”

  Silence.

  “She did mention that she hurt her arm . . .”

  Ingrid put down her plate. Shook her head.

  “Oh. Of course not.” Roark took a bite of spaghetti, then another, trying to finish it off.

  “What do you mean?” Darek said.

  “You know. She doesn’t like to worry you all. She thinks you hover too much—”

  “Hover?”

  Uh-oh. “Or perhaps simply—”

  “No, they hover,” Claire said. “It’s like the family motto: Protect Amelia.”

  “That’s not true,” Grace said. “We just don’t want her to repeat our mistakes.”

  “I’d definitely call it hovering,” said Ivy, who poured a glass of milk and carried it toward the den, calling over her shoulder. “What else would you call the great fort-in-the-wood fiasco?”

  “Hey now, that was just—” Darek started.

  “Hovering,” Ingrid said, raising an eyebrow. She handed Roark a glass of milk. “Amelia was seven. She made a fort in the woods down by the lake—a cute little shelter—and was so proud of it. She hauled her sleeping bag out there and asked her father and me if she could sleep there. We could see the shelter from the house, and John figured at the height of summer, if she had Butter with her—”

  “Butter was our dog. She passed away this winter,” Grace said.

  “Right. We figured Butter would keep her safe. Besides, we honestly thought she wouldn’t last much past dark.”

  “No one asked me, however, what I thought,” Darek said. “Amelia is a Christiansen. She’s stubborn.”