Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) (8 page)

She turned, about to head toward the lighthouse and the rowboat, when something caught her attention. Shielding her eyes against the sun's glare, she scanned the shoreline. Everything seemed okay, but she could have sworn she'd seen a flash of crimson in the water.

"Yes!" she said, focusing all of her attention on that point of color. There it was, something bobbing in the water about one hundred yards out. "Oh my God! Zane!"

He was struggling against the current and from the looks of it he was losing the battle.

She kicked off her shoes and raced for the water, trying desperately to keep him in sight, but he kept disappearing beneath the swells.
Hang on, Zane,
she pleaded silently as she plunged into the water. She was a strong swimmer, but the current presented a daunting challenge and each time he disappeared, she thought her heart would stop beating.

"Zane!" she managed as she reached him. "Grab onto me."

No response. A feeling of dread washed over as she realized he had lost consciousness.

Working frantically she rolled him onto his back, making sure his nose and mouth were clear of the water. "You can do it," she urged. "Hang on to me."

Her words were as much for herself as they were for him. He was a big man, large-boned and heavily muscled. She thanked God for the buoyancy of the salt water. Without it, they wouldn't have had a prayer.

The shoreline was growing closer and she rejoiced when her knees scraped against the sand. She stumbled to her feet in the calf-deep water then continued pulling him toward safety. His eyes were closed. An ugly gash ran from the end of his right eyebrow down to his cheek. Blood mingled with salt water, leaving an ominous trail behind them.

"You can't be dead," she said as she struggled to haul him onto the sand. "You wouldn't dare do that to me." She tried to ignore the trail of blood that he'd left behind on the sand. He had to live, if only so she could tell him that he was the most arrogant, irresponsible, crazy excuse for a grown man she'd ever met.

She placed her ear to his chest but couldn't hear a thing. His color was dreadful. She pried open one lid, but he didn't stir. Her own breathing was rapid, ragged, and she willed herself to calm down before she hyperventilated, something that would do neither one of them the slightest bit of good.

There was only one thing she could think of that might help and, straddling his chest, she began to administer CPR, praying the class she'd taken last year at the fire department had covered all the necessary bases.

"Breathe, damn you!" she ordered as she pounded his chest. "Breathe!"

It was like being trapped in a bad dream, the kind where you were running and running through an endless tunnel with no end in sight. But she couldn't stop, she couldn't just let him slip away no matter how hopeless it seemed.

And then she heard it. Faint at first, then louder, stronger. He was coughing, spitting up sea water. And then the wonderful, miraculous sound of him breathing!

"I could kill you for this," she said, brushing away tears of relief. "You scared the living hell out of me."

When he came to, she intended to give him a piece of her mind, enough so that he felt guilty all the way to Tahiti. Her relief was short-lived, however, as her eyes were drawn again to the blood seeping into the sand. A man didn't bleed like that for no reason. She'd saved him from drowning, but what if there was something more serious wrong with him?

She was no doctor, but it occurred to her that the worst thing she could do was leave him lying on wet sand. He could go into shock or take some water into his lungs and end up with pneumonia. The thing to do was get him dry and warm, then call for help.

She glanced toward the lighthouse. She'd manage somehow to drag him across the beach but she wasn't entirely certain she'd be able to get him up the wooden stairs that led inside.

"You won't know unless you try," she said. The only thing she knew for sure was she couldn't leave him lying there on the sand. She retrieved her shoes then approached him.

Gingerly she bent down and gripped him under the arms. He groaned loudly and she backed away, horrified that she'd obviously hurt him. She looked closely and noticed that his right arm was bent at an odd angle, one that made her insides twist into a knot.

She tried to favor his right side but with his weight balanced unequally she felt as if she were dragging him around in circles.

"I know this hurts," she said apologetically, "but it's the only way."

Gripping him beneath both arms, she moved as quickly as her burden would allow, until she reached the bottom of the cottage adjacent to the lighthouse.

She paused to catch her breath while she tried to figure out the best way to get him up the short flight of stairs. She'd always believed wit and ingenuity could see a woman through any difficulty, but this time she had to admit that brute strength would have been a welcome addition.

"Zane." She touched his shoulder. "I need your help."

He mumbled something but didn't open his eyes.

"I have to get you inside," she persisted, "and I can't do it if you don't help me."

He opened his eyes and struggled to a sitting position.

"Do you know what I'm saying, Zane? I have to get you up those stairs."

He nodded. It was obvious even so small a motion as that caused him excruciating pain. Her heart ached for him but this wasn't the time for sympathy.

She moved to his left side. "Put your arm around me," she ordered in her most businesslike voice. "I'm going to help you stand up."

His hold on consciousness was tenuous at best but she managed to get his arm around her so she could use leverage to bring him to his feet. He tried to help. She could feel it in the way his weight shifted and in the sight of the beads of sweat breaking out across his handsome face.

"Too heavy..." he said, "...forget--"

"Shut up," she ordered, not unkindly. "Keep your mouth shut and don't fight me. We'll get you up these stairs."

She'd spoken the words with great assurance, confident that her adrenaline would kick in and give her that little extra strength she'd need, and to her everlasting gratitude it did. They made it to the landing and she reached for the doorknob, overjoyed to discover that someone obligingly had left it unlocked.

That extra second might have spelled disaster.

They staggered together into the lighthouse as he once again lost consciousness. She tried to cushion his fall with her own body, wincing as his elbow caught her behind the ear.

What was one more bruise, she thought as she rolled him onto his back. She'd managed to get him up the stairs and into the lighthouse and now all she had to do was see to it that he was dry and warm. Then she could figure out a way to call for help.

"Now don't take this personally," she said with a wry smile as she reached for his belt. "This is all in your best interest."

He was as gorgeous today as he'd been last night. She felt like a pervert for even noticing. The poor man was in agony and she was admiring his pecs and abs. Still you'd have to be blind not to notice.

Quickly she stripped him of his wet pants and shirt. She debated the wisdom of leaving his shorts on him, but decided that was ridiculous. A beautiful quilt rested on a ladder-back chair near the fireplace, along with a pale blue coverlet. She dried Zane with the coverlet then used the quilt to wrap around his body for warmth.

She glanced around the front room of the lighthouse for a blanket or another quilt. It struck her as odd that these two beautiful specimens had been waiting for them here in the lighthouse. The place had been empty for more years than she could remember and quilts as fine as these were collectibles that fetched impressive sums.

Sam Talmadge, one of the members of the Crosse Harbor Historical Society, was in charge of the light show that would be staged later tonight from the harbor. Could he have brought over the quilts to keep his grandkids warm while they watched the spectacle from the tower?

She'd never been inside the lighthouse before and she noted with interest that it looked anything but abandoned. The walls had obviously received a recent coat of whitewash. The wooden staircase that led up to the tower seemed sturdy and solid. The dilapidated radar equipment was gone and in its place were a compass, a telescope and a copy of Thomas Paine's pamphlet
Common Sense
.

"Good for you, Sam," she murmured as she helped Zane to the trundle bed beneath the leaded glass window. She'd always known Sam Talmadge was a great believer in period detail during these Revolutionary War recreations that Crosse Harbor was so fond of, but there was something about this that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Maybe it was the silence. She tilted her head to one side, listening. Eagle Island was small, but it was never quiet. This morning all she could hear were the faint sounds of gulls circling overhead as they hunted for food. Where were the sounds bouncing across the water from Crosse Harbor? Lawn mowers, the laughter of kids playing stickball, the putt-putt engines of the motorboats that cruised the waters in search of the ultimate fishing spot. Even the gnat-like buzz of small planes en route to the glitzier pleasures of the Atlantic City casinos was absent.

Apparently
everyone
was at the village green enjoying the celebration.

Or were they?

"Now you've really gone crazy," she said as she went back into the front room to check on Zane. Her imagination was running riot.

Her body had weathered the accident in good form; she was no longer so sure about her brain cells.

From the trundle bed Zane moaned loudly, bringing her back to the situation at hand.

"Oh, God," she murmured, as she bent down to look at him. A huge purple bruise had blossomed over his right eye and it was almost swollen shut. She was positive his arm was broken and she wouldn't be at all surprised if he'd cracked a rib or two in the bargain.

She sat next to him for a while as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It was well past noon. Her own clothes clung to her damply and her hair cascaded over her shoulders in a wild mane of wet curls and waves. Obviously no one had gone out looking for her. She had to do something. That broken arm wasn't going to set itself and she knew that even a simple fractured rib could lead to complications.

There was only one thing she could do. She had to grab the small boat Sam Talmadge kept stashed behind the lighthouse and row back to the mainland for help.

"I'll be as fast as I possibly can," she said to Zane, who looked up at her with glassy eyes. "You have to stay in bed. Please, whatever you do, don't get up."

He nodded but she wasn't sure exactly how much he comprehended. He seemed to be in some kind of
Twilight Zone
. Seeing self-confident Zane Grey Rutledge so vulnerable unnerved her. She had visions of him tumbling down the stairs or something equally dreadful. If she had some rope she would even consider tying him in place but there was nothing handy.

She made her way around to the back of the lighthouse. Funny thing, but she'd always thought there were beach roses on this side of the structure. Instead she found herself fighting her way through a veritable thicket of brush and untended shrubbery. She followed a stone path down toward the waterline where Sam kept his boat.

Only that wasn't Sam's boat bobbing gently in the water. Sam's boat was a small but jaunty metal vessel with a hot pink heart painted along the starboard side and the name
Janine
emblazoned in throbbing DayGlo purple. The rowboat bobbing in the water was enormous and built of wood with oars of a size to match.

Again that odd prickling sensation overtook Emilie but she swallowed hard against it. Boats like that one hadn't been seen around Crosse Landing for a very long time.

It's for the Patriots Day celebration,
she thought as she untied the boat then climbed into it. Sam Talmadge loved everything to do with holidays and he obviously was just making certain that all the Revolutionary War recreation details were right on the money.

She hadn't rowed more than three feet before she found herself sorely regretting letting her membership at the health club lapse. The wooden oars were as heavy as they were huge and a few weeks of pumping iron would have been a welcome rehearsal for the enterprise.

"Think positive," she admonished herself as she struggled to move the oars through the water with firm, even strokes. She'd already done the impossible twice today when she'd saved Zane from drowning, then dragged him upstairs and into the lighthouse. Certainly she could manage to row a measly boat across the harbor and get help.