Tying the Knot (12 page)

Noah pushed Bertha off. The dog bounded in a circle, tongue flapping, then bolted up the trail. “She’ll be okay,” he said, ESPing Anne’s sudden flare of worry. He stood, brushed off his pants. “I have to build a new outhouse, put up that army tent over there, chop and stack firewood, and rebuild the fire pit.”

“Is that all?” She still wasn’t used to his size, which probably accounted for the way her pulse had rocketed off the charts when she’d seen his shadow lurking in her bedroom last night. When he strolled over to her, panic rippled down her spine. Perhaps this was a bad idea. . . .

“Well, no, actually, but that’s today’s list.” He made a wry face. “I never seem to catch up.”

“You’re doing all this by yourself?” She tried to keep the wariness from her voice.

He nodded. “Well, until today, that is.” His bright smile melted her fear into a hot puddle. “It’s just been me and the squirrels.” He leaned closer to her, lowering his voice. The fresh smell of soap and toothpaste made her reconsider the hobo impression. “But between you and me, the squirrels are a loud and lazy bunch. Always running off to play or napping on the job. And they snore something terrible.”

She smiled, and he rewarded her with another wink. “Well, I’m better with a stethoscope than a hammer,” she admitted, “but I’ll give it my best shot.”

They started on the outhouse, something Anne, in her twenty-seven years, never thought she would build. The sun escaped the reach of the oaks and basswoods, drying the sodden ground and heating the day.

Two hours into the morning, Anne had shed her sweatshirt, and her skin began to bake. She noticed a
V
of sweat down the back of Noah’s shirt, but he didn’t remove it.

He had a simple grace about him, adeptly measuring twice, cutting once, his strong arms working the circular saw like he’d been born a carpenter. Anne held nails, chatted about the weather, and listened to him hum. While he worked, he managed to exhaust a repertoire of hymns. She recognized most of them—“How Great Thou Art,” “Fairest Lord Jesus,” and “Amazing Grace.” She even hummed along to “Blessed Assurance.”

“Why do you sing hymns?” She asked during a water break down at the dock. Ten o’clock by her watch, and her stomach had already growled once. She could go for a cup of tea and a bran muffin from the Footstep of Heaven Bookstore and Coffee Shop, but Noah didn’t hint at slowing.

“I love hymns. They’re like mini-sermons set to a tune. Whenever I am at a loss for a Bible verse, I go right to a hymn.” He poured a sierra cup of lake water over his head, letting it drip down his back. Another quick drenching, then he scraped his hair back from his face, looking dangerously like a Wild West warrior. He didn’t bother to towel off the water on his face; it dripped through his dark whiskers. “I learned them when I went to college, and they stuck. I prefer hymns to all other Christian music, although Michael Card’s ballads run a close second.”

Anne felt like a heathen. “I like opera.”

He nodded, as if that was the type of music he’d expect her to like. Frankly, she’d developed a taste for it only in the last year. Something about the tones of a rich tenor, regardless of the language of the lyrics, ministered to her battered soul.

By lunchtime, he’d placed the new seat, with attached ceramic lid, over a hole he’d dug inside the outhouse back in the woods. Anne never felt so proud of a toilet in her entire life. She broke into giggles when Noah closed the new door and wrote
Ladies
on it.

“At least I’ll know where to find the place when it’s pitch-dark,” she commented. Her words hovered in the warm air as Noah’s smile faded. He stared at her. The sunlight drew out the gold in his widened eyes. She dug up quick words to fill her glaring lack of good judgment. “I’m starved. How about some lunch?”

Mercifully, he didn’t leap on her first comment. He shoved his hammer into his leather work belt. “I think I have some pickles in the fridge.”

“Pickles?”

He shrugged. “Food hasn’t been a high priority yet.”

That was an understatement, Anne decided as she stared into his empty refrigerator. Pickles, yes. Mayonnaise, a wrinkled apple, a crusty hunk of Swiss cheese, and a smoky-smelling, foul brown fish head in Saran Wrap. “Quite the selection here, Noah.”

He stood before a large pantry, as if waiting for something to materialize. “A half bag of Doritos and a can of tuna.”

Anne closed the fridge. “How about if I run into town and get us something decent?”

“Wait. I think I have hot dogs in the freezer in the outfitter’s shack.”

“Do you have a microwave?” She’d been profoundly grateful to see the camp had electricity when he’d offered her—thanks, but no—the last sludge from the coffeemaker.

“Negative on the microwave. We’ll have to let them thaw. Maybe tonight we could have a cookout, roast marshmallows?” He sounded like a ten-year-old, charming and unpretentious, and she couldn’t help but nod, his enthusiasm catchy like a song. She hadn’t roasted a marshmallow in her entire life, but she had no doubts Mr. Outdoors could teach her. “I can offer you the rest of the pickles to tide you over.”

“I suppose I could carve up that wrinkled apple.” Anne reached into the fridge.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t really expect . . . company.” Noah made a wry face, then said, “I mean, I’m glad you’re here . . . really glad. I didn’t expect . . . um . . . well, especially after last night . . .” He had turned red, a charming touch to his earthy appearance. Anne couldn’t help but smile at his chagrin. “Anne,” he said, his expression so solemn she stopped tossing the apple in her hand, “I am so sorry I laughed at you last night.”

Oh no, tears sprang into her eyes. Where had they come from? She thought she’d cried herself dry last night into Bertha’s fur. Anne blinked them back.
Noah, don’t go down that path.
“No problem,” she said too quickly.

He closed his eyes, giving her space to gather her suddenly fraying emotions. “No, it’s not okay. But we’ll talk about it later.”

Oh, that made her feel better. No, sorry, but they’d never discuss it again if she had her druthers. “Okay,” she said, ducking the issue.

They made a sorry picnic on the porch, sitting in the sun, eating pickles, a mealy apple, stale Doritos, and tuna straight from the can. But Noah told her a story of his dorm life, and Anne had to admit the company made up for the meal.

“So, have you been a Christian all your life?” she asked as she picked through Doritos crumbs.

“Nope.”

When he didn’t offer any more, she glanced at him. He stared out over the yard as though caught in time, wrestling with unseen phantoms. Her heartbeat filled the silence, as she wondered what he wasn’t saying.

“How about you?”

“Yes.” Anne slapped the crumbs off her fingers. “My dad was a pastor. I grew up watching my father evangelize our neighbors and minister to our community. I have to say there’s never been a time I can remember that I didn’t know God.”
Know
Him, yes, but
trust
Him—now that was a different answer, but she didn’t particularly want to revisit that topic. Not with the sun warming her heart and Noah sitting beside her like a real friend. Her bitterness was sure to hang a cloud over the rest of the day and send a cold shudder into their fragile friendship.

“That’s wonderful. What a treasure.” His comment intrigued her. But he didn’t allow her a rebuttal. “Ready to stack wood?”

A pile of unsplit logs had been dumped next to the camp’s woodshed. Noah grabbed the ax, and Anne watched with a tight breath as he set the log up on the block, then chopped it neatly through. He handled the ax as if he’d been born with it in his hands. Relief flushed through her that she wasn’t going to have to sew his leg or foot back to his body.

How did a man who looked like a gangster learn to survive in the wilderness? She rephrased her question as she picked up the split logs and piled them neatly against the back of the shed. “Did you grow up around here?”

He swung the ax in a graceful swoop, his arm muscles tight. The movement hitched up his shirtsleeves, and she noticed a layer of Band-Aids on his upper arm. Obviously the man wasn’t indestructible.

“Nope,” he answered, catching his breath. He repositioned the logs. Chopped.

O-kay. So he wasn’t a fount of information. She knew he’d attended an upscale Christian college . . . he must have had a somewhat decent upbringing. “Where did you learn to run a camp?”

He swung the ax again. She’d never seen someone chop wood. The rhythm amazed her. “I attended wilderness training classes in Duluth. It’s been a passion of mine for a number of years.”

Swing, chop, wood tumbled off the block. “How about you? Where did you grow up?” Sweat beaded his brow, tangled in his dark hair.

“Nowhere I want to remember, that’s for sure.”

He stopped his swing and looked at her, concern in his expression. “Ouch.”

She brushed her hair back with her wrists. “I’m here now. That’s what matters.”

He finished his swing. The wood cracked. “Where did you get your nurse’s training?”

Hadn’t he read a personnel file on her? She picked up the fallen wood. “The University of Minnesota. I worked my way through school as a part-time EMT.”

She threw the wood on the stack. “I think the nursing career came from my father’s influence. I’ve always had an urge to be a part of some kind of ministry, and the nursing profession seemed in that realm. I can’t preach, but I can bandage hurts, help heal wounds. It feels like I’m working for the kingdom.” She didn’t add that since that day last summer, she’d barely had time to think, let alone figure out, where those lofty goals fit in with her sudden abandonment by the God she’d wanted to serve.

“Absolutely.” Noah’s smile seemed warmer than the sun’s rays, and suddenly Anne felt grimy, with sweat glistening on her face and bark and woodchips sticking to her forearms. She hated to imagine the current state of her rebellious mop.

He took a red bandana out of his back pocket and tied it around his head. Now he looked like Geronimo, wild and fierce. She couldn’t help asking, “So, where did you get the name Noah? It’s so . . .”

“Unusual for a fella with my ancestry?” He cracked a lopsided smile when he finished her sentence, and it loosened the grip of embarrassment in her chest.

She nodded, thankful he hadn’t been offended.

“My grandmother. She was as saintly as they come. She persuaded my parents to name me after a man of faith, hoping perhaps that I would turn out better than they did.”

“You’re not . . . ?”

“One hundred percent Native American?” He gave a sharp laugh. “Nope. I’m pure mixed breed, from mongrel parents. Somehow I inherited most of the Ojibwa traits floating in the Standing Bear gene pool, but I’ve even got a touch of authentic Minnesotan Swede in me.”

When he winked at her again, the third time now, she realized that the shiver that shimmied down her spine had nothing to do with fear. His hardworking presence felt so comfortable, so much like a budding friendship, she couldn’t help but wonder what other misconceptions she had created about Noah Standing Bear.

They split wood and stacked it until the sun hovered half-mast over the horizon. They spent the hours before twilight staking out the army tent and rebuilding the campfire pit, repositioning stones or adding new ones they lugged from the lakeshore. By the time long shadows scraped the lake and Noah constructed a textbook Boy Scout campfire, Anne felt as ravenous as a bear in March.

Bertha had finished her explorations of camp and found a place in the shade on the lodge porch, sides heaving. Poor lady, she wasn’t dressed for summer, with her white-and-brown shag coat. The setting sun took the heat with it and unleashed a hint of breeze. Anne lifted her face, intoxicated by the outdoorsy fragrances of pine, lake, and wildflowers.

Noah had disappeared with a towel around his neck, leaving her to sit in front of the fire pit to finish her blackened hot dog. Three rows of rough logs set in a semicircle hinted that Noah had plans for this area beyond roasting dinner.

She’d come to the semi-reluctant conclusion that perhaps Mr. Break-and-Enter wasn’t who she’d carved him out to be in her mind. Maybe—and this thought had riddled her for the past two hours—Noah had a character worth exploring. Bertha liked him. That upped his reputation in Anne’s mind. Then again, the dog’s qualifications were minimal—a guy who rubbed behind her ears, could take a slopping tongue-lashing on the choppers, and remembered to save the soup bones. Noah had endeared himself to the brute forever when he tossed her the remnants of the smoked cisco carcass he’d had buried in his refrigerator.

Anne couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so deliciously tired. So completely and contentedly worn to the bone. She heard footsteps behind her and turned. Noah trotted down the path, grinning at her, a bag of marshmallows in his hands. She noticed he’d washed up and changed into a gray army T-shirt, looking every inch a modern-day warrior in his fatigues and slicked-backed hair.

He climbed over the logs and settled next to her, smelling fresh and masculine. “Dessert,” he said and handed her the bag.

Anne opened it and dug out a marshmallow. “I’ve never done this before.” She poked it onto the willow stick Noah had cut and dangled the marshmallow over the embers, sizzling red against the creeping twilight. Overhead a smattering of stars competed with the moon for brilliance.

“You’re going to burn it.” Noah reached for her roasting stick. “May I?”

Now he wanted to teach her to cook? It didn’t surprise her in the least that he’d know how to toast a marshmallow to perfection.

“Aim for the red coals, the ones that haven’t turned white but don’t have a flame. And turn the stick slowly, as if on a spit. She’ll turn golden brown and melt in your mouth.”

When he returned her roasting stick, Anne mimicked his movements. “I guess you’re an old pro at this, huh?”

He shrugged, but his smile went straight to her heart and turned it to pudding.

He had a noble purpose here in Wilderness Challenge. She’d fallen into his dream, swallowed by his enthusiasm as he explained his plans to immerse the kids in the wild. “They’ll see God’s handiwork firsthand and know He is big enough for their problems at home.”