The Wonder of You (21 page)

For a wonderful moment, Roark thought he might get to share a canoe with Amelia, but she took the stern of a fourth, leaving him with a skinny boy who looked like he spent most of his time playing video games in the basement, his face pasty white, eyes round with fear as he climbed into the boat. He leaned too far over the edge, and Roark had to grab it before the canoe tipped.

“Ahoy, matey, let’s not go in the drink!”

The kid looked back at him as if he might be a pirate.

“It’s okay. Just take a seat.” Roark pushed off from shore and got in, taking his paddle. Amelia and Mike had already paddled toward the middle of the lake, catching up with the other two canoes.

He dug in, paddling hard, but quickly found that he’d angled away, moving toward the western shore.

“Hey there, Your Highness, how about heading this direction?” Mike’s voice carried across the lake, along with the sound of his laughter.

Roark blew out a breath as the kid at the bow turned to look at him. “Switch sides,” he said quietly.

Right. He knew that. But he put the paddle in on the other side and steered the canoe toward Amelia, correcting as he went.

He finally pulled up alongside her. “Getting my sea legs,” he said.

“No problem.” She bore nothing of criticism in her expression. He didn’t look at Mike.

Amelia pulled out a map. “This is where we’re going.” She indicated their destination on the map and then pointed out the indentation in the shoreline. “Thankfully, this side of the BWCA wasn’t affected by the fires. It’s a pretty paddle; then we’ll portage into Bearskin and finally head into Rose for lunch.”

“Off you go,” he said, his mood lightening.

She led them out, and the crew began to paddle to the portage across the lake. The quiet nudge of the canoe through the water, the bump of the paddle against the frame of the canoe, the call of loons in the still morning
 
—he could find a sort of peace here.

From across the lake, probably from Amelia’s canoe, he picked up a song, this one familiar.

“‘Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise, Thou mine inheritance, now and always . . .’”

The hymn from Sunday’s service. It had found purchase in his heart, dredging up an old memory from his camp days in Russia. If he listened hard, he could still hear his father’s voice as he worked out the chords on his guitar.
“Thou and Thou only, first in my heart, High King of heaven, my treasure Thou art.”

Except God hadn’t been first in his father’s heart
 
—not really. If He had, he never would have sold out his calling to grab a job co-running Grandfather’s vast business.

But like father, like son, because Roark had his chance to serve
God, to follow the High King of heaven, and had turned away at a full-out sprint.

He noticed Amelia had reached the portage, followed closely by Mike, then the two other canoes. He tried not to let his dismal skills horrify him as he pulled up last. Mike and Amelia had already hauled their canoes from the water, loading one onto two of the scouts and sending them on their way up the trail.

Mike propped the next canoe on two more scouts and took the third himself.

Which left a Duluth Pack and two canoes to divide between Amelia, Roark, and Skinny.

Roark’s eyes widened as Amelia positioned herself at the middle of the canoe, dragged it up her legs, then, with a hitch of her hips, hoisted it onto her shoulders. She balanced it with one hand, turning. “You okay here?”

He stared at her. “Seriously? You’re going to carry that?”

“Try to keep up.” She took off up the path.

Skinny grabbed the pack and followed her, which left Roark with the canoe. He shoved the paddles against the gunwales, then reached over and, mimicking Amelia’s movements, hauled it onto his shoulders.

He hadn’t expected the weight. Or the unwieldy balance. He turned the canoe to follow her and crashed the bow into a skinny birch. The sound bellowed across the lake and shivered into his bones. He straightened the canoe out, hoping no one heard, and headed up the path.

The portage trail wound through the woods, and he nearly tripped on a slew of roots, bare and winding like snakes across the path.

By the time he reached the output, sweat dripped down his
back, his shoulders screaming. But he swung the canoe down and set it gently in the water.

Skinny sat on the Duluth Pack, arms folded. Amelia and the rest of the crew floated offshore, waiting.

“Sorry.”

“My mother can portage faster, dude.”

Roark refrained, barely, from pitching Skinny in as the lad took his position in the bow. Roark pushed them off, and Amelia and the gang started for the next portage while he managed to zigzag his way across the lake. By the time he arrived, only Amelia remained, waiting for him.

“You okay, Roark?” She sat in the sun, her fleece tied around her waist, the sleeves of her Evergreen staff shirt rolled up to her shoulders.

“Right as rain,” he said darkly.

She raised an eyebrow but stood and did her canoe-carrying ballet move. He wanted to load the canoe on Skinny, but the coward grabbed the Duluth Pack and took off at a run.

Nice.

The portage climbed a thousand steps up the side of a mountain
 
—or seemed that way as sweat saturated his shirt, ran in rivulets down his face. But the view from the top could heal him, the lake stretching out before him, flanked by high cliffs. He heard laughter and the sound of rushing water and worked his way down the portage to find the scouts wading in the pool below a waterfall.

The canoes rested against a tree nearby. Amelia sat on a rock, capturing the scouts’ activities with her camera. Rainbows of sunlight arched in the spray of the waterfall.

Roark set his canoe down, crawled onto the rock next to her.
“I am woefully out of my element here, love. I’m about as useful as a sieve in a rainstorm.”

She lowered her camera and laughed. “You’re doing fine. We’ll cross the lake, make lunch, and the boys will work on their knots. You can teach them a stevedore knot.”

He glanced at her. “That’s a sailing knot.”

“Or a knot we use for our tarps.” She caught him in her viewfinder. “Smile.”

He tried for something that didn’t look like a grimace.

“Oh, Roark, you look like you’re in pain,” she said, reviewing the shot, her hand over the screen to shade it.

“I’m in agony over my wretched paddling skills.”

She laughed and rounded up the Boy Scouts. “C’mon, guys. Let’s get going.”

They set up camp for lunch an hour later, at a clearing across Rose Lake. Roark managed to stay ahead of his own chagrin by building a fire, then boiling water for lunch.

After a less-than-gourmet meal of freeze-dried ravioli, during which Mike led the boys in a chorus of “On Top of Old Smokey,” Roark and Amelia taught the scouts the figure eight, carrick bend, bowline, bowline on a bight, and stevedore.

He was helping one of the scouts with a running bowline when Skinny came running over. “Something’s wrong with Big Mike!”

Amelia got to him first, Roark close behind. Mike sat with his hands over his chest. His breath came in hitches, his face contorted.

“Big Mike, you okay?” Amelia said.

He shook his head, leaning back. “My chest hurts.”

Roark crouched beside him. “Where does it hurt? Your arm, your neck?”

“Yeah.” His breathing became shallow. “I think I’m going to faint.”

Roark looked at Skinny. “Open the Duluth Pack and get out a couple ponchos.” He took the man’s pulse as Amelia helped retrieve the ponchos.

“Lay one out on the ground; cover him with the other.”

She spread out the first poncho, eased him back. “Is that better?”

Mike shook his head.

“Mike, have you had a history of heart trouble?” Roark asked. He pulled off his fleece jacket and draped it over the man, covering him with the second poncho. Then he gestured to another scout for the Duluth Pack and used it to prop up the man’s legs.

“No. Nothing. I mean, sure, I get a little indigestion every once in a while but . . .”

“Okay.” Roark patted his chest, then turned to Amelia, walking her a short distance away. “The fact that his pain hasn’t gone away has me worried. I’m not ready to say he’s having a heart attack
 
—”

“Oh no! I was thinking that as you were talking to him. What are we going to do?”

He took her by the shoulders, feeling useful for the first time today. “We should get him some help. And as we both know, you’re the better paddler.”

“I can get cell reception at the top of the portage between Rose and Bearskin. I’ll call the Deep Haven EMS.”

“Good.” He wrapped an arm around her neck, pulled her to himself in a fast hug, pressed a kiss to her head. Then he let her go. “Hurry.”

He didn’t watch her paddle away, just mobilized the boys. “Let’s pack up camp and load the canoes.”

“Don’t let me die,” Mike said, his voice a whisper.

“Are you kidding me? Who’s going to teach me the next wretched verse of ‘On Top of Old Smokey’?”
Please, God, did You hear him?

Only then did Roark glance up and spot Amelia halfway across the lake, on her knees in the middle of her canoe, paddling like she’d been born in the wild.

He checked Mike’s pulse again. Skinny came over, crying, clearly afraid.

Roark put his arm around him, directed him back to the campfire, where the other scouts sat, shaken.

“Hey, how about a song? Who knows ‘Do Your Ears Hang Low?’”

The next time he looked up, Amelia had reached shore, was scrambling out of her canoe and running up the trail to the top of the portage.

And right then Big Mike gasped, cried out, and fainted.

T
HE SKIES PARTED
and unleashed a rumble of doom as Amelia ran up the trail to the apex of the portage, the highest point between Bearskin and Rose Lakes. She already had her cell phone out, watching the bars.
Please.

Lightning, then droplets of rain dribbled down from the sky. She slipped on a root, landed hard on her hands and knees, splitting her lightweight pants. Pain speared through her wrist, but she shook it off as she scrambled to her feet and pushed harder up the portage steps.

Please, God, let Mike live.
She’d known the leader
 
—a fixture at Evergreen every summer, leading a fresh group of recruits out for a taste of wilderness
 
—for most of her life. He couldn’t die on her watch.

On Roark’s watch.

Breathing hard, she reached the top of the portage. The drizzle from the steely-gray clouds grew steady, heavier, becoming drops that slid down her hair, her back. She should have grabbed a poncho.

No, she should have paddled faster. She lifted her phone and found a bar. If she stood right here . . .

“Deep Haven Emergency Services.”

Seth. She took a breath, pushed every thought but Mike from her mind. “Seth, help. We have an emergency.”

“Amelia?”

“I’m on Rose Lake with the Boy Scouts and their leader might be having a heart attack. I need a medevac from the campsite across the lake from the falls.”

“Okay. Breathe. Is he still experiencing chest pains? What’s his pulse rate?”

“I don’t know. I had to paddle to the portage to get a signal.” She stepped out of the pocket, heard his voice cut off, and for a second she thought she’d lost him. “Seth!”

“Amelia, listen. The chopper is out. There was a drowning on Gunflint Lake, and they flew the victim to Duluth. You’ll have to bring him in.”

“I . . . I have a bunch of sixth graders. I can’t
 
—”

“You left them alone?”

“No! Roark is with them.” She heard the quick intake of breath, but she couldn’t help it. “We need help. We can’t carry him out on our own.”

“Okay, Ames, breathe. I’m on my way. Sit tight. I’ll bring a team as fast as I can. But with the storm and the road conditions, it might be two hours.”

“Please hurry, Seth.” She hung up, the rain lashing over her now, soaking her to the bone.
Please give Mike two hours, Lord.

She scrambled down the portage, nearly running, praying she didn’t slip as she jumped from root to root. A low-hanging branch slapped her face and she tasted blood on her lip. She fell again, sliding in the mud, but scrambled back up, ignoring the pain in her wrist.

She reached the canoe and pushed it onto the water, too aware of the lightning crackling in the sky as rain pelleted the surface of the lake. An aluminum canoe made for a terrific lightning rod on open water.

She ducked her head and dug in, pushing through the burn between her shoulder blades and in her upper arms and knees, grinding against the bottom of the canoe.
Two hours, Lord. Two hours.

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.