Deep Haven [02] Tying the Knot Page 4

  Noah gulped, hard. “I need some help.”

  Simpson clasped his hands on a tattered blotter. “Wilderness Challenge, right?”

  Noah blinked. “Right. How’d you know?”

  “Dan and I have been praying about it for some time. Men’s Bible study.”

  Noah kneaded a neck muscle. “We can sure use those prayers. I’ve got a place to stay, tents over our head, staff and a full roster, but I’m short funds to feed them.”

  “How can I help?”

  Noah took a deep breath. “I need a nurse.”

  Dr. Simpson quirked a brow. “So, hire one.”

  Noah studied his weathered hands. “With what money? I need someone willing to work for free, someone who has emergency training.”

  Dr. Simpson pursed his lips. “I don’t know how to help you, son.”

  Noah rested his hands on his thighs and let the silence stretch out.

  “Unless . . .” Dr. Simpson leaned back and folded his arms across his white lab coat. “I have a young lady on her way here, due to finish her internship in community nursing. She has some EMT experience . . .”

  Noah looked up and kept his voice even. “Yes?”

  “Maybe I could assign her to you for the summer. If she wants to do rural nursing, a stint in the wilderness would only add to her resume.” He narrowed his eyes at Noah. “But something tells me you already knew this.”

  Noah looked out the window. A deer had crept out from the clasp of forest. Noah stilled, watching it. “I think I met her yesterday on the road. Her car broke down.”

  “Anne Lundstrom.”

  “Pretty brunette, a dangerous amount of attitude. She mentioned she was doing an internship here this summer.”

  “And you saw an opportunity.”

  “No. I saw an open door and I’m walking through it.”

  Dr. Simpson nodded, his eyes hard on Noah. “I don’t want her getting hurt.”

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  The doctor’s mouth tweaked into a smile. “She doesn’t give the impression of one wanting to be taken care of.”

  Noah matched the doctor’s grin. “I caught that.” He edged forward in the seat. “Listen, she’s perfect for the job. And if I can get her on board, I might be able to get the funding I need. It’ll change these kids’ lives; I guarantee it.” He winced at the urgency in his voice, but he was willing to surrender a little pride for the sake of the kids.

  The whir of the ceiling fan filled the silence. Noah met Dr. Simpson’s gaze and read in it the compassion he’d prayed for.

  “Go back to the board. Tell them you got your nurse.”

  The moonlight had turned the highway silver. Noah longed to pull off his helmet, let the wind sing in his ears and scrape cold fingers through his hair. Instead, it billowed through his leather jacket. His suit coat and tie were neatly rolled up in his saddlebag. He should have hightailed it back to camp after his meeting, but he’d let joy drive him straight to Pastor Dan’s office. The price of strangulation in a monkey suit was worth it. He’d earned the probational camp funding.

  He gunned the engine and popped a wheelie. Only God could have put together today’s events. It was no small miracle that he’d met the answer to his problems while rock hunting and praying his way across the beach yesterday.

  And an attractive answer at that. He easily conjured up her tentative smile and the needy, shocked look in her eyes when he offered to help. He had to admit, he was looking forward to the opportunity to erase the fear he’d seen on her face. If he could erase it. He’d avoided women long enough to have grown rusty in the charm area. Not that he’d ever had much, but there’d been a day, long ago, when he’d found it easy, perhaps too easy, to sweet-talk a lady. He cringed at the recollection. Anne Lundstrom wasn’t that kind of woman, and he certainly wouldn’t be sweet-talking her into anything.

  But maybe he could change her opinion of inner-city kids. And he meant every syllable when he’d told Doc Simpson he’d take care of her. Nothing would happen to Miss Lundstrom on his watch.

  He couldn’t stop a bubble of pleasure from leaking out into a song. “‘What a friend we have in Jesus . . .’” The motor and wind ate his words, but his soul danced to the music.

  Noah rounded a bend just as a dark, hulking shape dashed across the road. Slamming on his brakes, he felt his bike skid. From somewhere in his periphery, he heard a scream, then throaty barks that thundered into his brain.

  Fire ripped up his leg as the bike slid toward the shoulder. He gritted his teeth and held on to the machine, praying he wouldn’t crush the figure paralyzed in the ditch. The bike turned and threw him off. He tumbled into the grassy gutter.

  He lay in stunned silence under the canopy of stars, hearing only the labored gasps from his own body.

  “Are you hurt?” A feminine voice, rushing toward him. Feet thumped down into the ditch. “Lie still.”

  He groaned and propped up on one elbow. Except for an agonizing burn on his calf, he seemed unbroken.

  “I said, lie still. You might have a broken bone.” She crouched next to him and ran a hand down his arm.

  Noah shrugged her off. “I’ve been hurt worse than this, lady. Calm down.”

  “You almost killed me.”

  Noah’s mouth hung open as he stared at Anne Lundstrom. Sweatshirt hood up and dressed for exercise, her gaze surveyed him, not yet registering recognition. He swallowed and dredged up his voice. “Something ran across the street.” He worked off his helmet.

  Anne sat back hard on her heels, mouth agape. Utter horror swept her expression. “You!”

  In emphasis, a beast the size of a horse tackled him.

  “Agh! Get away!” Noah pushed at hair—everywhere hair—and a slimy tongue licking his ear.

  “Bertha, down. No!” Anne somehow hauled the animal off him.

  Rescued, Noah sprawled in the grass, gathering his wits. When this lady invaded a man’s life, she left no room to breathe.

  “Sorry about that.” She squatted beside him, restraining her brute. “Are you okay?”

  He gave a small smile. “We meet again.”

  “Are you following me?” Anger edged her voice.

  “Hardly.” He couldn’t bear to admit he’d not only tracked her down, but would be her quasi boss for the next two months. She’d probably deck him into the dirt. “I was driving home. What are you doing in the middle of the road?”

  She glared at him. “I was on the shoulder, and you were speeding.”

  Irritation made the hazel in her eyes shine like gold. He tore his gaze away and examined the scrape on his leg. Luckily, his jeans had given first.

  “You have a mild abrasion. You should get it cleaned and dressed.”

  He had to smile at the warm concern in her voice. The hardened street kids would melt in a second. Never mind what it was doing to him. “How’s my bike?”

  Hopping up, he groaned at the surge of pain that spasmed his leg. She gripped his elbow, as if to help him. The Suzuki lay on its side ten feet away in the middle of the road. Noah hobbled over, hoisted the bike up, and wheeled it to the shoulder. “I think she’ll live.” He didn’t mention the dozen or so dents the bike had acquired over the years.

  “I live just down the road. Let me get my truck and drive you into town. A doctor should look at that, Mr. . . . um, Running Bear.” The wind had yanked off her hood, and now her hair shone bronze in the moonlight, tiny wisps dancing about her face. She was short enough to tuck under his arm, but her presence—the way she stood with her hands on her hips, the jut of her chin, and the tenacity in her eyes—made him feel small.

  He searched for his voice. “Standing Bear. But you can call me Noah.”

  “Well, Noah, you’re certainly not going anywhere until you get bandaged up.”

  “I don’t—,” he started, then stopped at the cool arch of her brow. Obviously, arguing would only earn him more trouble. Besides, compliance might be a good way to let her in on their f
uture association. He swung a leg over the bike and jump-started it. The motor churned the air and coughed up dirt.

  She made a face.

  “Hop on. I’ll drive you home.”

  He couldn’t help but wince at the fear that leapt into her eyes.

  They’d not only found him; they’d sent a watchdog.

  He’d sat in his car and watched the flesh-and-blood Doberman roar out of the parking lot on his terror machine. It sent a chill of pure fear dripping down his spine.

  Here, of all places, he thought he’d be able to hide.

  And finish his business.

  But they’d found him and sent a thug to hound him. A pair of biceps and a mangy face to never let him forget that they owned him. At least until he scraped up what they wanted. What they’d already paid for.

  Did they think he couldn’t see through the man’s facade? Camping director? He wasn’t stupid. The guy looked like a recent escapee from the projects.

  He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his short, sweaty hair. His stomach growled but it wasn’t food he needed.

  Not right now.

  He’d survive for a year on pure freedom if he could find a way to get his hands on it. Permanently.

  Trust wasn’t a high value in this business, but he’d guaranteed them—especially when they pointed a Glock two inches from his nose—that he’d make good on their deal.

  Then again, it had taken them nearly a month to find him. A month clear of shadows and death threats, four glorious weeks absent of panic in every footstep. He hoped to stay AWOL until he unraveled his mess and arranged his escape.

  How was he supposed to finish the deal with a shadow nipping at him?

  He tapped his manicured fingers against the steering wheel, watching the greedy gulls swoop out of the sky, screaming, fighting for scraps of meat. He knew how they felt. Desperate. Hungry.

  Who would have thought fifteen years ago that he’d land in the exact pit from which he’d spent his childhood scrabbling to escape? He’d learned—back then at the gritty age of sixteen when he finally summoned the guts to swing back—that there was only one way to survive a sound beating from the bullies, the Dobermans of life.

  Strike first.

  3

  Anne paced the hospital corridor, wearing a trail through the brown carpet. She had memorized the pictures on the wall, finished off an orange juice, and even made friends with the duty nurse down the hall, Sandra. Anne liked her. Something about a woman in her mid-forties still wearing her blonde hair in braids and adding a pink chamois shirt over her uniform resonated a chord of kinship in Anne. Wanting to fit into the local dress code, she had briefly considered returning home to change out of the black suit pants and silk blouse, but she didn’t want to miss Dr. Simpson when he actually showed up.

  She returned to the small lobby and perched on a vinyl chair.

  Sandra looked up from her desk. “I can’t imagine what is keeping him.” She glanced at the clock. “He knows you have an appointment.”

  Anne forced a smile. Perhaps in the backwoods time ran like cold syrup. She smoothed her hands over the manila folder she held on her lap. Of course he already had a copy of her transcripts, but the write-up she’d received from her last supervisor couldn’t hurt his impression. Especially if she wanted to earn the freedom to stretch her wings and explore her new hometown.

  Community nursing meant meeting needs, something she supposed she’d inherited from her parents. But unlike them, she wouldn’t dive into the cesspool of the inner city, hoping to heal the homeless and the drug addicts. No, her sphere of influence would be tamer—the homebound elderly, educational services, perhaps humanitarian assistance on a local Indian reservation. She hoped the closest thing she’d come to a drug addict would be someone who overdosed on Peanut M&M’s.

  “I’m sorry, Sandra.”

  Anne looked up to see a tall man breeze past her. His blue windbreaker hung open, and he thumped down the hall in hiking boots.

  Sandra rose and started to follow him but stopped when he reached the end office and slammed the door shut. She whirled, and silence hung from her open mouth. Anne frowned.

  “That was Dr. Simpson.” Sandra cleared her throat. “I’ll inform him you’re here.”

  Anne watched the nurse creep down the hall, knock on the door, and poke her head in.

  “Go ahead, Anne,” Sandra said when she returned. But her face had lost a shade of color.

  Anne’s heart hammered. She somehow made it to her feet. She fought to hear Aunt Edith’s positive assessment of the good doctor above the cacophony of doubts. She shuffled down the hall and licked her lips as she stood outside the door. It was open a crack.

  Inside, Dr. Simpson was talking on the phone. He motioned for her to enter. “I want to keep it under our hats for now,” he said, “but you should know the situation, Sam.”

  Anne sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair, taking in her surroundings. She hid her revulsion at the sight of a fish, its jagged teeth bared, mounted on a block of wood. Books had been crammed into a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and piled atop a filing cabinet. A rickety coat tree laden with two sweaters, a white lab coat, a down jacket, and a compact umbrella looked dangerously near collapse, and a rather coarse carving of a bear inhabited the corner. She turned and nearly died of fright at the sight of a moose mounted above her, dripping fur onto the back of her neck. She scooted her chair forward.

  “Thanks for your assistance, Sam. We’ll be in touch.” Dr. Simpson hung up the telephone and smiled at Anne. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Lundstrom.” He reached across the desk and offered his hand. She found it warm and gentle. “We had a hospital situation I had to deal with.”

  Anne felt her pulse slow. “No problem. I met Sandra.”

  “She’s the glue that keeps this place together.” Dr. Simpson pulled a manila file folder from a tall stack on his desk. “Dr. Meyers sent your transcripts and evaluation. She speaks highly of you.”

  “She’s been a big support.” Dr. Roberta Meyers was a prime reason Anne had stayed in the nursing program after her injury. It took a woman with experience fighting for a place in the medical society to pull Anne back to the land of the living. Anne would never forget the sight of Roberta’s chocolate brown hand holding hers when she’d awoken from surgery.

  “You’ve made a remarkable recovery, Miss Lundstrom.” He put down the folder. “But I have to wonder why you chose to finish your internship here. Dr. Meyers expresses regret at losing you.”

  Anne folded her hands on her lap. “I’m just looking for a change. I did my time in the city, and I need some fresh air.” She smiled. “I am hoping Deep Haven has some to share. And, frankly, I’m hoping to make my stay here . . . permanent.” She hoped he could read between the lines to her desire for a full-time job.

  Dr. Simpson quirked a brow. “I see.” He looked out the window. “How do you feel about spending some time at a camp?”

  Anne blinked at him. Camp? She pictured ten-year-olds with scraped knees lining up for Band-Aids. She fought a swell of panic. “I thought I’d be visiting the elderly or teaching mothers how to care for their babies.”

  “You’ve been doing quite a bit of that these last few months. I think your time at the University of Minnesota Hospital gave you sufficient experience in community education. If you want to work in this community, a knowledge of the wilderness is a must.” He reached for a pad of paper. “I’ll assign you to visit members of the Granite River Indian Reservation. Meet with Jenny Olson. She runs the clinic on the reservation.” He grabbed a pen.

  Anne’s voice caught in the back of her throat. She blinked, trying to comprehend Dr. Simpson’s words. Spend her internship cooped up at a camp? How would she impress the board with her competence when all she did was pull out slivers? Still, the idea of nothing more traumatic than a bloody nose had its appeal.

  “Where is the camp?”

  Dr. Simpson looked up from his scribbles. “Up the G
unflint Trail about twenty miles. You’ll be close enough to come home on the weekends.”

  “I have to sleep there?” Anne winced at her outburst and stared out the window. Her face grew hot as she felt the doctor’s gaze on her. “I’m sorry. I pictured something different.”

  Silence, save for the whir of an overhead fan, filled the room. She watched the wind skim through the forest at the edge of a meadow. A squirrel ran down from a nearby poplar and stared at her, its jaw moving. Anne sighed. Perhaps she needed a summer of peace. She might even be willing to acknowledge God’s involvement. Perhaps a positive attitude would also add to her marketability.

  She turned back to Dr. Simpson. She was startled at the sight of his head bowed, his hands clasped. Was he praying? Anne wondered what she’d done to elicit such concern.

  He cleared his throat and looked at her. “Let’s give it two weeks. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll revamp your course of study.” He handed her the paper. “These are the directions to the camp and Ms. Olson’s telephone number. I’ll expect you in my office in two weeks for a report.”

  “You don’t want to see me every day?”

  “Why? You’re ultimately accountable to yourself, and I’m going to trust you to do your best job.”

  Anne nodded. Another change from the city—no one looking over her shoulder. It made her feel oddly naked. “Um . . . I was wondering about pay. Usually the school covers my internship costs, but since I am working outside their usual sphere, they won’t fund my internship.” She swallowed the embarrassment thick in her throat. “I don’t suppose . . .”

  Dr. Simpson did have a kind face. She read it in his smile, the crinkles around his eyes. “I don’t have anything worked out right now, but the camp should cover your expenses, and perhaps when your time there is complete, Deep Haven Municipal can offer you a compensation package.”

  At least in camp she wouldn’t have to buy a uniform, and they would feed her. She stood and clasped the doctor’s hand. “Thank you for accepting me.”