“The woman with angina?” Her speech was thickening.
David squatted and touched her arm. “Someone wants to say hello.”
He moved, and in his place appeared “her hero.” His hand found hers and squeezed gently. But his eyes—honey brown, sweet with hope, and undulating with worry—fixed on her. She felt them reach out, along with his song, to comfort her. Ridiculous as that thought seemed, it made tears spring to her eyes. She smiled meekly. “You tried to warn me, didn’t you?”
“You were awfully determined to help my mother.” He brushed her hair from her forehead. His whisper-soft touch made her throat thick. “I’m sorry I didn’t move quicker.”
She must be drugged, Anne thought, for her eyes were glued to his face, taking in the stubble of dark whiskers along his jawline, his lustrous black hair, a small, intriguing round scar on his upper right cheekbone. Close up, a very masculine power radiated from him, mixing confusingly with the tender concern on his face. Topped off by a white smile, he’d turned . . . charmingly attractive.
She gulped. “You were singing?”
He rubbed her hand with his thumb. “It’s a hymn. Can I sing it for you?”
She nodded as Gary moved into her line of vision. “No more talking.” Her partner held up a non-rebreather oxygen mask and worked it over her head. The cold breath of 100 percent oxygen filled her nose and mouth. She closed her eyes.
She heard the tones of the low, melodic tenor, and though it was muffled under the hiss of the oxygen tank and the rattle of the stretcher, the effect seeped into her bones. It followed her as she was loaded onto the stretcher and toted out to the rig. She wasn’t sure if he rode with her or if it was the memory of his voice, but even against the backdrop of the whining siren, she clung to his song, taking it with her as she sank into dark oblivion.
“For me be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live.
If Jordan above me shall roll.
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,
Thou shalt whisper Thy peace to my soul.”
1
ONE YEAR LATER
Anne Lundstrom turned down the opera music that swelled through her Ford Explorer as she topped the hill overlooking the town of Deep Haven. She’d waited half a lifetime for this moment, and she’d start this new chapter in her life listening to the waves of Lake Superior batter the shore and the cries of complaining seagulls hanging on the breeze.
As she motored through the tourist town, she soaked in the scenery. A donut stand, a dime store, and a rickety hotel told her the town had advanced into the twenty-first century with some reluctance. The log General Trading Store looked like it might be worth checking out, and the Loon Café reminded her of a 1950s soda fountain, with its specials written on a sidewalk chalkboard. The rainbow-trout sign dangling above Mack’s Smoked Fish Stand made her chuckle. Aunt Edith said her town had charm, and Anne was beginning to believe her.
She made a mental note to stop in the bookstore. The blooming peonies along the white porch and the cute little tables on the veranda made her believe the sign on the door: Footstep of Heaven Bookstore and Coffee Shop. Maybe here she’d finally have time to read.
Anne felt stress unknot as she meandered through town. She filled up at a gas station/convenience store called Mom and Pop’s and was sad to see Deep Haven in her rearview mirror ten minutes later. Aunt Edith had moved “up the shore” into her dream home two months ago, and when she’d offered Anne free lodging in the vacant guest cabin on her lakeshore property, Anne just couldn’t refuse. Maybe God was finally giving her a break. She’d certainly done her time.
The signs of civilization vanished in a blink. Highway 61 wound along the jagged coastline of Lake Superior, embraced by the indigo lake on one side and mighty balsam and birch trees on the other. Anne savored the jeweled colors of a sapphire lake, the turquoise sky, and emerald trees. Especially in this stretch of the world, God’s master craftsmanship could never be denied.
Anne had healed remarkably since that terrifying afternoon a year ago, yet the scars remained on her body and her heart. The words of Spafford’s hymn she’d heard that day still mocked and called to her in a way she couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps her thirst for peace accounted for the way the hymn—and the singer—never strayed far from her thoughts.
Next to her, Bertha watched the gulls spiraling from the heavens in search of scraps. Anne rubbed the Saint Bernard’s coarse hair. The brute cast her a sad, brown-eyed glance, as if to comment on her state of hunger. “I’m sorry, honey. We’ll be there soon.” Anne rubbed her behind the ears, grateful for the animal’s company.
When she’d adopted the dog six months ago from the local shelter, Anne thought, Bertha’s lumbering size and serious fang teeth gave her a measure of menace. Anne soon realized, with mixed emotions, that a juicy saliva bath was Bertha’s only weapon. Still, having the animal around meant that Anne had someone waiting at home. Someone who would listen to her, love her unconditionally, keep her feet warm, and offer a sense of security. All the benefits of a husband and more. Bertha would never challenge her goals. Never require her to venture beyond her comfort zone and force her to abandon her own dreams. A dog would never ask Anne to make the sacrifices her father had asked of her mother.
Anne would relinquish the hold on her etched-out life for no man, regardless of her childish fantasies of romance and happily ever after. Yes, she had her dream hero—an unnamed tenor with golden brown eyes and long dark hair—but she had less than a one-percent chance he’d stumble back into her life. And, minus him, she felt pretty sure the man she wanted—a man of courage and strength with a burden to minister to the hurting—would suffocate in the safe cocoon she planned to build for herself in Deep Haven.
So, she had Bertha.
She checked her odometer and scanned the road for Aunt Edith’s drive, 6.2 miles out of Deep Haven. As Anne moved up on four miles, she wondered if the hospital was close enough for a bicycle commute. She’d benefit from time inhaling the crisp, pine-scented air.
She’d just passed five clicks when the Explorer lurched, coughed, and sputtered out. It coasted noiselessly along the highway. Anne’s pulse skipped a second before she thought to put the car into neutral. She tried to turn the engine over, but no life sparked from it. Anne groaned and turned the SUV onto the shoulder. What now? C’mon, God. Gimme a break here. She’d emptied her bank account to pay for gas for this trip and would survive on Club crackers until her first paycheck. All she needed were major car repairs.
After a moment of resting her forehead on the steering wheel, she trailed a hand through Bertha’s fur, sighed, then popped the hood and got out. Thankfully, she’d chosen the right outfit for fixing her car—a pair of faded jeans and a University of Minnesota sweatshirt. However, although she could describe the human body down to the last corpuscle, she had no idea how to unravel this mess under the open hood. Now, where is the oil cap?
The highway stretched out like a black ribbon east to west, completely void of vehicles save hers. Anne kicked a tire and threaded her hands into her newly cropped hair. Across the road, the wind combed the trees and reaped the fragrance of the June wildflowers. Behind her, the waves lapped the pearly shore. Well, at least it wasn’t a horrible place to be stranded.
“Hello there! Need a hand?”
Anne whirled. Treading up the beach, spilling rocks under huge brown work boots, a man waved at her. From a distance, he looked large. Linebacker large.
“You broken down?”
Anne shoved her hands in her back pockets and took a deep breath, fighting the swell of her heartbeat. Every instinct screamed at her to dive into the car, lock it, and dial road service on her cell phone. If she were stuck on a lonely strip of I-94 outside Minneapolis, that would be a gut instinct, but out here, she doubted she’d find a signal on the Nokia in the glove compartment.
As the man walked along the ditch toward her, she measured him, watching the wind wrestle with a red baseball cap hit
ched backward on his head. He’d pushed the sleeves of his gray sweatshirt up past his elbows, revealing powerful tanned forearms, and his faded fatigues completed the look of unemployed mercenary out for a stroll. He held a bucket in one hand, as if he’d been hunting for clams. “What seems to be the trouble?”
She decided to chance it. After all, she’d left the city five hours ago and made a point of discarding her fears there also. Hadn’t God given her this new beginning in Deep Haven? Even the town’s name augmented the feeling of refuge and safety. “She coughed and died on me.”
He joined her, set down the bucket, and placed one of his large hands on either side of the hood. Amazing how wide his reach was. Up close, he unnerved her with his size. Six feet three with the stance of a fighter. She kept her distance and rubbed her arms, suddenly feeling cold.
“Spark-plug connections look okay.” He jiggled a few wires. “This the only sign of trouble?” He looked at her over his shoulder.
She froze, gripped by his eyes. Golden brown, like sweet honey. She could only nod.
“Hmm.” He turned back and her knees felt like cooked oatmeal. She’d seen those eyes before. They looked uncannily like the ones burned into her brain a year ago. She’d reenacted that day on Franklin Avenue a thousand times, trying to dissect her missteps, clinging to the memory of an unnamed tenor who’d spoken peace to her terrified heart. She’d memorized every nuance she’d seen in her hero’s gaze, despite the brevity of the moment. Those deep liquid eyes had seen her deepest fears, had comforted in her darkest hour.
Certainly those same beautiful eyes couldn’t belong to this muscled beachcomber. Anne shook away the comparison and focused on her wounded engine. “I filled up with gas in Deep Haven.”
“At M&P’s?” His playful grimace threw her and she nodded warily. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Nope.”
“That’s it. Plugged fuel filter. Mom and Pop’s have a . . . reputation. I’d steer clear of their gas near the end of the month. They sell great apple butter, however. It’s homemade.” He was already unscrewing a greasy cylinder.
“Is it fatal?” Anne couldn’t believe something the size of a battery could render her Explorer helpless.
“The apple butter?” He tapped the filter against her fender, and she saw chips of grime break free. “No, I don’t think the butter is near as fatal as the gas.”
She stared at him, blinking. A smirk edged up his rugged face. She noticed how it wrinkled a small round scar high on his cheek. She swallowed hard, her thoughts racing ahead of her, pumping her heartbeat on high. He didn’t seem to notice her white-knuckled grip on the hood as her world tilted crazily.
Her hero, the one who’d edged her dreams for over a year, couldn’t possibly be this unkempt beach bum.
“If you pick up dirty gas, it’ll plug your filter.” He put the cylinder to his lips and blew. More grime flew out.
Anne made a face. No, definitely not. The man who had held her hand with such impossible tenderness couldn’t be this rough-edged Joe Mechanic.
“That should do it.” He wiped his lips on his shirt, then replaced the filter. “Fire her up.”
Anne stood rooted, eyes on his black hair sneaking out from the baseball cap. And something in his voice resonated . . .
She climbed in the SUV. “Here goes!” The engine turned over on the first crank. She hopped out as he lowered the hood. “Thank you so much.”
“I was just in the right place at the right time.” He smiled, and it was so warm her stomach did a small, rebellious flip. “You just passing through?”
Anne shook her head, scrambling to find her voice. “I’m staying with my aunt for the summer while I finish my internship at the Deep Haven Hospital.” And in the meantime she’d pray that God would find her a full-time position in this quaint, safe community. Someplace to bury her fears, her past, and live a life of peace.
“Doctor?”
“No.” She toed the dirt, unable to meet his unsettling eyes. “Nurse. I’m getting my master’s in community nursing.”
“Like teaching young inner-city mothers how to take care of their babies?”
Anne scowled. “No, more like administering immunizations to families in remote locations. The last thing I want to do is dive back into the city and its problems. No way.” A thousand wild horses, elephants, and dogs couldn’t drag her back to the nightmares awaiting in Minneapolis. In fact, she had doubts that even the three hundred miles between Deep Haven and the Twin Cities would be a safe enough distance for her.
He went silent, and when she chanced a look at him, the pained expression on his face jolted her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She frowned. “Is that why you’re here, combing the beach for—” she peered into his bucket—“rocks?”
He laughed, and light reentered his eyes. “It’s a project I’m working on.”
“Do you live here?”
“Sometimes.” He picked up the bucket. “I hope you find what you’re looking for here. Deep Haven isn’t just a pretty place. It’s more than it seems.”
“Right.” She patted the hood of her Explorer. “Full of all sorts of surprises. I’ll stay clear of Mom and Pop’s.”
He backed away from her vehicle. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
She opened her door. “Hopefully it won’t be because I’m in the ditch. Thanks again . . .”
“Noah.” He gripped the bucket with both hands.
The look on his face—tender concern, friendliness, and not a little naturally etched fierceness—glued her to the spot. Somehow she took his hand, and the gentleness in it threw her pulse into overdrive. She smiled at him, wrenching herself free of the memory that gripped her. Besides, although he was tan, with coal dark hair sneaking out from under his cap, this man didn’t look like he had a touch of Native American blood in him.
“Noah Standing Bear.”
Anne yanked her hand out of his grasp. Wide-eyed, she dove into the cab and, without another word, peeled away.
Noah scowled at the suspicion written across the lady’s face as she drove away and disappeared around a curve.
Destroying fears was why he’d come to Deep Haven, why he’d begged and cajoled every little church from Minneapolis on north for funds, why he’d invested his life in reaching kids with the gospel. The hope of breaking stereotypes had him beachcombing for smooth, paintable rocks, praying with every step about tonight’s meeting, that the missions committee might also embrace that hope.
Unfortunately, as a youth he’d deserved every one of those fearful glances. Growing up a foster child—and a Native American one at that—had molded his character quickly. He’d learned that life gave only what you took—by force. Noah cringed, remembering his years wasted with the Vice Lords, or “the People,” fighting for gang turf, lying, and stealing. Somehow he’d steered clear of drugs, but he’d managed to rack up a list of sins that would make a convict flinch.
By the grace of God, those days were not only forgiven, they were obliterated. And every tomorrow God gave Noah would be used to fight for the lives of the next generation of gangbangers. This time, he battled with the power of God behind him. If only he could convince the church of the righteousness of this war. If he didn’t fight for the discarded kids on the streets, who would?
Life in the city hardened people on the outside, creating a crust so deep that breaking through it took the patience of St. Francis and the force of a jackhammer. But Noah had had enough victories as a youth pastor to keep him dreaming the impossible. Hope kept him hanging in the hood, drove him to knock on church doors asking for donations. Most of all, it sent him to his knees until he’d worn out more than a few pairs of fatigues. God could change lives; he knew it from personal experience. He was this close to fulfilling his dream of taking these at-risk kids to his wilderness camp. And he dearly hoped that God had handpicked him as the right man for the job.
Noah was painfully aware that he still look
ed like a hoodlum, a fact confirmed by the fear written on the young lady’s countenance. She was beautiful, with her cropped auburn hair and heart-shaped face. Too bad she had a chip the size of Alaska on her shoulder, a protective, stay-on-your-side-of-the-street wariness, and a formidable dog sitting in the passenger seat that gave her attitude bite and muscle.
Thankfully, looks of unmasked prejudice like the one she had just given him had forged a bullheadedness in him that God could use. Nevertheless, it hurt to have someone stare at him that way . . . especially someone with such paralyzingly beautiful hazel green eyes. When she gave him that wide-eyed look, as if she’d seen a ghost, he nearly forgot his own name, and it had ignited a ludicrous protective impulse to give her an encouraging hug.
A breeze lifted the hair sticking out of his baseball cap and chilled him. He swallowed hard. No doubt if he’d even hinted at approaching her, she’d have deployed a defensive maneuver and taken out his front teeth. She had the appearance of a tiger cat in pounce position.
He couldn’t ignore the disappointment pinching his chest. He had dreams that one day God might drop into his life a woman with guts, strength, and a spiritual vision. But that would take a serious miracle, and such a woman certainly wouldn’t resemble the lady who just floored it out of his life. A woman like that, clean and honest and untainted by a wicked past, would never see beyond his exterior to a redeemed man who loved God. In these moments, the reminder of who he’d been—and in many ways still strived to be for the sake of the gospel—stung.
Noah scrambled back down to the beach. Deep Haven Hospital, she’d said. He wondered if she’d be working for Doc Simpson.
He resumed his hunt for large smooth rocks. He doubted the city kids had ever thought to make sculptures with rocks before. Usually the stones were used as missiles. But that was what Wilderness Challenge was all about—confronting stereotypes about life, offering a vision beyond the kids’ concrete boundaries to what God might have in store for them.
Hadn’t God also challenged Noah’s boundaries with this wild idea? Start a summer camp for inner-city kids, God had said to him through his quiet time three years ago. He’d been happy in his life as a youth pastor. Happy hanging out on Franklin Avenue, yanking kids off the street and into church. He’d dismissed the camp idea as a delusion.
Deep Haven [02] Tying the Knot Page 2