King and Kingdom (12 page)

Several women took the child from Chey's arms, rattling off what sounded like words of gratitude in their mother tongue. Turning back, Chey took stock: one barge, a trawler and half the dock were on fire, more people were trapped between the boats under heavy pieces of wharf that had snapped like sticks under the weight of the collision. Sander and Wynn were nowhere to be seen. Several people were burned, more were unconscious, and still more floated in the water, flailing and crying. At some point, snow had started to fall, painting the scene in a surreal swirl of flakes and haze.

She darted between smoking pieces of rubber, around a slab of demolished wood, and down into a crack in the dock. Hopping from one piece to the next, she gripped the sections, thankful for the gloves still on her hands, and slipped closer to the water. Without dipping even one toe in, Chey knew it must be frigid. Those in the water wouldn't last long at all.

“Hey! Swim over here. Grab this!” She tugged a length of loose pipe free and extended the end toward a struggling swimmer. It wasn't much to hold onto, but other than shredded wood, there wasn't anything else to use. All Chey could see was a shock of wet, red hair, red eyebrows and a wealth of freckles. The splashing woman fought her way closer to the dock, hindered by heavy winter clothes. A nondescript coat weighed down her arms while the ragged end of a scarf trailed on the surface. She went under twice, causing Chey to consider actually going in after her. The tenacious survivor resurfaced both times, fighting her way toward the pipe.

“Good, good, just grab the end and I'll pull you in.” Chey shouted to be heard over the roar of fire somewhere to her left and the din of panicked voices calling out into the day.

The woman reached for the pipe and missed. Teeth chattering, a gust of breath rushed from between lips beginning to turn blue from the cold. She surged and reached. Missed again.

“You've almost got it. Come on!” Chey allowed herself to skid another foot closer to the water. At the sharp angle of the collapsed dock, she was on the verge of falling in herself. Clinging as best she could to an edge, she leaned further, the end of the pipe wavering just out of reach of the swimmer. Finally, the woman grabbed hold.

Chey hauled her in, bracing her feet and using the grip on the dock as leverage. The soggy coat felt like wet carpet, heavy and awkward to maneuver. Chey went hand over hand, grabbing a sleeve, the lapel, whatever she could to bring the woman to safety. Grunting, breath freezing in her lungs, Chey twisted her body to make room. The redhead flopped down, gasping and wheezing.

“You climb up right here. Take the pipe if you need help,” Chey said. She decided to come behind the woman and push instead of pull. If she lost her grip, the lady might wind up right back in the water again. Chey put all her weight into providing leverage while the woman sought a more level section of dock.

It was precarious going, with several setbacks, before the woman made it up to a point where waiting men could haul her the rest of the way.

Slipping on the damp, slick wood, Chey sought a better hold. Her face felt numb, like her hands, which didn't want to grip things with the strength of even five minutes ago.

A fisherman leaned over the crack above, beanie askew on his head, beard so thick it obscured his mouth. He shouted at Chey and made 'come here' gestures.

She scrambled up the wood, or felt like she scrambled. In reality, she realized she was barely moving. How had the wet woman done it? She must have been twice as cold and even more immobile than Chey.

The dock cracked.

Chey slipped further. Her feet, then her legs, went into the water. The angle of the damaged wharf was too steep, too slippery. She couldn't get traction and had nothing else to hold onto. The water was even colder than she imagined it would be. Needles of ice pierced her calves and thighs and seeped down into her boots.

The fisherman shouldered out of his coat, tossed it aside. He peeled out of his suspenders and dangled them down to her, keeping a tight grip through one loop. Flat on his belly, he inched forward until his balance started to tip. He shouted, making more gestures, his eyes sharp and concerned.

No matter how far he stretched, the distance seemed like miles to Chey. Surely it was a matter of feet, a reasonable gap to handle. Staring up, snow landing on her cheeks and forehead, the fisherman looked smaller and smaller by the minute. Was she sinking and didn't realize it? Fear galvanized her into motion. She surged upward, straining and reaching, praying the dock didn't crack and sink in with her attached.

If she could just grab the suspender. If she could just move her legs, get a boot on the wood. Her entire lower half refused to function as it needed to.

Mind over matter, Chey. Push harder. The other woman did it and she was submerged longer.

Just past the fisherman's shoulder, another blonde head came into view.

Sander.

He stared down, then flattened to his stomach and scooted dangerously forward over the edge.

The fisherman handed off the suspenders, braced his feet at angles, and grabbed onto his Prince's coat and pants at the back.

Chey watched the men work in unison without any communication at all. One would think the Heir to Latvala did this every day of his life. What was more, the
people
acted like it was normal.

“Grab the suspenders, Chey,” Sander called down. He wasn't shouting, wasn't yelling. A shock of hair fell over his forehead.

“I don't know if I can reach it,” she called back. The drag of the water on her legs made it hard to move at all.

The dock cracked again; she slipped another foot into the water. Scrambling, sure that the chunk of wood would just slide under the surface with her on it, Chey fought to reach the suspenders. She met Sander's eyes. His were intense, focused, worried.

“I'll get it,” she said, and with a surge in her flagging energy, she lurched up to make another grab. The water lapped at her ribs now, soaking her coat.

Sander slipped down a foot when the fisherman lowered him. He was the only thing keeping Sander from taking a header onto the wood, and then into the water.

“I've got you no matter what,” Sander said with steely determination, as if he wasn't hanging all but upside down over a busted section of wharf.

Chey's fingers hooked through the suspenders. Immediately, Sander started reeling her up. He barked words over his shoulder to the fisherman, who hauled the Prince back by his coat and pants. With a reach and clasp, Sander grabbed hold of Chey's wrist and forearm. His grip was firm, undeniable.

He wouldn't let her go.

With the help of two more fishermen, their anchor pulled Sander and Chey to the wharf. Chey rolled onto her back, legs numb, chest rising and falling with the effort of holding on and kicking against the water.

Sander peered down over her, shucking his damaged coat to lay over her torso.

“We'll get you into a tent and into some warm clothes. Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked with brisk efficiency. Sander might have been one of the doctors for how thoroughly he assessed and treated her.

Through chattering teeth, Chey said, “I don't think so. If you'll just get me some new boots, I can--”

“No, no. Lay back,” he said, using his palms to press her down when she tried to sit up. “You're in no shape to help. You've done more than enough.”

The fishermen brought a stretcher over.

“This is ridiculous,” Chey said, brushing at Sander's hands. She missed, misjudging the angle. “I'm fine.”

“You're bleeding,” Sander informed her. “And you look a step away from hypothermia.” He lifted her onto the stretcher, giving more orders to the fishermen.

“Bleeding?” That was a surprise to Chey. She didn't know she was bleeding. From what wound? Disconcerted and disoriented, she felt the world tilt when the stretcher lifted off the ground.

“Don't worry, you're in good hands,” Sander said. He paced by the stretcher as the men ferried Chey toward a newly erected tent. The people of Latvala had worked quickly to establish an emergency work center close to the docks.

“But, Wynn--”

“She's helping the nurses out. She's fine.” Sander squeezed her shoulder a last time, then parted away from the group. He headed back toward the wreckage at a jog.

Chey turned her head to watch him go before losing sight of him in the teeming mass of bodies. She wanted to go with him. Help others injured by the accident. The fishermen had other ideas.

Toted inside a tent, they transferred her to a military style cot and exited with the stretcher in tow. Nurses dressed in civilian clothing swarmed around her, bringing warm blankets, hot tea and bandages.

Chey gave up the struggle to rise and finish what she'd started.

The nurses would have it no other way.

. . .

Nine hours after the wharf ordeal began, Chey and Wynn climbed into the little blue car and headed back to Kalev. Both girls were exhausted, sore and mildly injured. At least their sopping clothes had been exchanged for dry ones brought by volunteers at the site.

Neither said anything as Wynn parked in the garage. They lumbered their way through the lobby and up to their room.

One by one, they took steaming showers and changed into soft pajamas that felt like heaven on their skin. They ate a late dinner of fruit, toast and oatmeal, with hot spiced cider on the side.

All of Kalev was abuzz with news of the accident. They sat on the couch and watched television reports, warm mugs in their hands and blankets pulled to their chin. A ticker tape in English running at the bottom of the screen kept the girls informed of the details.

The cause of the accident, they discovered all this time later, was a heart attack suffered by the driver of the barge. He'd slumped over on approach to the wharf, bumping the lever forward that sent the barge speeding faster than it normally would have. One impact led to another, resulting in the explosion.

Eight people perished in the aftermath, with dozens more hurt. Amateur videographers captured much of the rescue effort on film, from the fiery blaze to fishermen working together, to the tents set up by volunteers. Several times, Sander was shown on the screen, a vaunted hero who had saved a handful of lives.

Twice, Chey's image flashed into view. One shot showed her pulling the child free from under the charred slab of wood. It was an image the networks would use over and over, like so many others. Of course several mentions were made about her status with Prince Dare—or rather the lack of status. No one was sure.

Chey wasn't sure how she felt about the extreme gratitude the people of that small community had shown her. After all, she'd only done what anyone else would do in a time of crisis. She'd thrown concern for herself out the window and done what needed doing to save those who couldn't help themselves. But the citizens expressed an outpouring of thanks to both her and Wynn for their aid.

It was touching, and endearing, since Chey felt the same gratitude toward the people for helping
her
when she'd needed it most. After recovering for a few hours in the tent, Chey, in new, dry clothes and a bandage or two on her wounds, had gone right back to giving her time to assist the nurses as more patients came in. There were many who needed stitches or salve for burns and any number of smaller injuries suffered from daring rescues.

She hadn't seen Sander again. Even after a thorough search outside, as the snow had fallen heavier and the day waned, he wasn't to be found among the survivors, workers or those in the tents. It could have been that Chey simply missed him coming or going, but she suspected he'd slipped away after the last of the victims had been pulled free.

Her chance to thank him, to talk to him, vanished when he did.

At least he knew she was here.

“Can you believe all that happened?” Wynn finally asked, breaking the comfortable silence. She stared at the television as if not really seeing the images broadcast there.

Chey glanced at her friend. She was proud of Wynn for the hours of tireless aid she'd given. “Not really. What a shame about the ones that died, too.”

“Oh, I know. The people were so torn up. I wonder if we should go back tomorrow.”

“What for? It'll take days to clean up the mess at the wharf,” Chey said.

“I don't know. It just feels like we should go back and do something.” Wynn sipped her hot cider.

“We can go back if you want. I'm not sure we'll help. Might be more in their way at this point.” Heavy equipment would have to be brought in to deal with the remains of the wrecked boats.

“I don't know if we'll be able to get through. Look at the forecast,” Wynn said next, as the weather flashed in through the reports of the accident. Eight to ten inches overnight, said the weatherman, with temperatures dropping into the single digits.

Chey shuddered. “It must be an early storm. I didn't think that kind of snow came this early in the season.”

“Yeah. It'll hamper driving, for sure.” Wynn grumped between swallows of cider.

“It'll hamper a lot of things,” Chey said, mostly under her breath.