Tying the Knot (28 page)

Her eyes glowed, and even in the darkness, he saw a blush creep up her face. “No. I’ve been wanting you to kiss me all week.” She smiled, and he heard music in his soul.

He couldn’t manage words, so he took her hand. Could she feel him shake? Did she know she’d touched a part of his heart so hidden he himself barely acknowledged it? She’d called him a beautiful person.

He hoped for a lifetime to hear those words.

They walked to the edge of Dan’s property, gazing out over the beauty of Deep Haven. The wind nestled the trees behind them, reaping the night sounds, the fragrance of fir. Anne shivered again, and Noah drew her into the nook of his arm. She wrapped her arms around his waist, unafraid, trusting.

“I’ve been waiting a lifetime to find a man like you, Noah,” Anne said softly, and his breath skipped in his chest.

Is she the one, Lord, the partner I’ve prayed for? Please, oh, please . . .

“What a lovely town to build a life in,” Anne mumbled in his embrace.

She’d disappeared off the face of the earth. He stood outside her cabin, the sound of waves pummeling the shore, the hint of storm in the air. He’d seen her in town only three days ago—and then,
whoosh,
she’d been abducted by aliens.

Which, at this moment, didn’t sound so utterly awful. Disappear. Forever.

His throat tightened. This is what happened when he let himself think instead of simply moving, dodging his demons. His living and breathing, leather jacketed, pistol-toting demons.

He needed her. They were watching, and if he had any prayer of squeezing free, he needed her. And what she could give him.

He glanced at the house nestled on the end of the point, at the yellow glow in the upper window, like a lighthouse against the clutch of night. Certainly they would know where she’d hidden. The maddening urge to stomp up the path, knock on the door, and push this nightmare to its inevitable conclusion pulsed through him.

No, he’d wait. He was the one with the control, the power. He wouldn’t let the fine edge of desperation push him into the abyss of craziness.

She’d return, and when she did, he’d be there, waiting like a father for the wayward prodigal.

He hoped she showed her pretty face in time to save his skin.

20

Anne stood in the middle of the outfitter’s cabin, surrounded by climbing ropes, floppy Duluth backpacks, paddles, garbage bags, life jackets, sleeping bags, and MREs—dried packets of army rations. The smell of dust, leather, and canvas clinched the camping ambience and confirmed that, indeed, Noah had lost his mind.

Ten days in the wilderness with these kids sounded like a surefire death sentence. And the man was actually giddy about it. The late-afternoon sun slid like molten gold along the rough-hewn floor and cast her shadow over Mr. Happy, who was shoving a sleeping bag into a stuff sack.

“There are two things you need to know about me right now,” she said, still trying to drive home a point that he seemed determined to ignore.

He looked up at her with a cockeyed grin. “Is this a make-or-break our relationship type of thing?” He waggled his eyebrows, and she just about melted into a heap. Now that they were on talking . . . and occasional kissing . . . terms, he’d spent the last three days charming her silly. She’d relished every second, knowing she’d completely lost her heart to this rascal in leather.

“I don’t know . . . could be.”

“I’m all ears.” He tied the sack closed.

“Okay. Listen well. I don’t sleep on the ground, and I don’t tolerate bugs.”

Noah tossed her the sleeping bag. “Honey, you’re about to do both, in spades.”

She made a face at him, loving the way he teased her. Disarming in his full warrior regalia—a pair of army fatigues and a black T-shirt that looked about two sizes too small the way it pulled across his wide, muscular back—she could barely focus on packing the backpack at her feet. She pawed through her items, checking them off verbally. “Mosquito repellent, Bible, tennis shoes, three pair of socks, brush, comb, toothpaste, jeans—”

“Whoa, nix the jeans.” Noah crouched before her and hauled out her new Gap boot-cut jeans. “They’ll feel like two million pounds when they get wet.”

“Wet? You didn’t say anything about getting wet.” When he’d announced the ten-day canoe trip though the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, Anne conjured up mental pictures of paddling gently through a wind-combed lake, listening to the melody of loons or the strident rattle of kingfishers, feeling the kiss of the sun on her face. Nothing in that dreamy scenario suggested moisture, other than the water on the paddle. “Make that three things—I’m not getting wet.”

“Right.” He laughed. “Just trust me on this one. Track pants and hiking boots. Three pairs of wool socks, two T-shirts, a flannel shirt, and rain gear. That’s it.”

“For ten days? You’ve got to be kidding. I won’t need the bug juice—I’ll repel the mosquitoes with my smell.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “No you won’t because you’ll bathe in the lake.” He handed her a bar of Ivory soap. “It’s biodegradable. Does wonders for your hair.”

“No thank you. I’ll bathe when I get back.”

His expression told her how he felt about that.

She tossed the Ivory into her bag. How had she gone from dispensing medicines at the local public clinic to trekking the backwoods with a bunch of street punks . . . well, slightly adorable street punks?

She couldn’t deny that underneath the body piercings and the spiked, filthy hair lurked children who might be worth knowing. She’d been drawn in by their occasional eager questions that burst from their sullen postures like explosions of hope. And their smiles amid the grime on their faces could turn an iceberg into a molten puddle. Even so, she reserved the right to change her mind. Trouble festered . . . she felt it in the air. Like a rubber band tensing to snap. This camping trip, this trek through the wilderness, a zillion miles from medical care, was most definitely the worst idea Noah had ever dreamed up.

She closed the Duluth pack, sitting on it to get the leather straps into the buckles. “What about a pillow? Certainly—”

“Here’s your pillow.” He tossed her a life preserver. “Welcome to the wilderness.”

She stuck out her tongue.

He laughed. “Grab those bags, please. I need to fill them with gorp.”

She handed over a box of Ziploc bags. “I’m almost afraid to ask. What is gorp?”

“Granola, raisins, peanuts. A sort of trail-mix munchie. You’ll like it.” He opened a plastic container the size of a garbage can, grabbed a tin can, and began to fill a bag. “It’s healthy.”

She rolled her eyes. “Listen, pal, have you ever heard the phrase ‘you are what you eat’?”

“Yeah. I’m proud to be a chocolate marshmallow Frito.”

Hardly. Chocolate maybe, with that dark run-your-hands-through-me hair and tough-as-a-Frito shell . . . but marshmallow? When he put his arms around her, she knew without hesitation that he wasn’t a marshmallow. Still . . . he looked at her with such a sweet, lopsided grin, and here he was, getting ready to drag twenty unruly teens out on a camping trip that might change their lives. Because inside that hard and crispy exterior, he was a softie for their souls.

Okay, maybe Noah was exactly the definition of a chocolate marshmallow Frito.

She bit her lip to stifle a giggle, grabbed the pack straps, and hauled the pack up to her shoulders. “Ugh. This feels like a ten-ton boulder. You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack. Duluth packs are the best canoe luggage. They’re easy to handle, can be tossed into the bottom of the boat, and they’re sturdy as Sunday.” He sealed a gorp bag and set it on the worktable. “And they make you look like Happy, one of the seven dwarfs.” He winked at her.

“Oh, very funny.” She let the pack plop to the ground. “Just for the record, I feel I need to say it again. Clearly, in English.” She leaned over, trying not to let his wild grin and delightful mock exasperation rabbit-trail her words. “This trip is a Bad idea—capital
b
, little
a,
little
d
. Bad. Trouble lurks in the forest, Noah, and these kids are going to find it.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her close. The smell of soap and leather sweeping over her as she fell into his embrace turned her pliable. “Have a little faith, my sweet thundercloud. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

He kissed her on the nose, and she disentangled herself before she abandoned her reputation—one that didn’t involve gossip about her and the resident, tough-and-tender camp director.

“So, I gotta know,” she said, sitting on the Duluth pack-slash-Rock of Gibraltar. “How did a Vice Lord transform into the crunchy granola Boy Scout I see before me?” She shook her head. “You seem so . . . so born for the backwoods. It hurts me to think of you hanging with the Vice Lords I knew in high school, so I’ve decided to conjure up a different life for you.”

“Oh, really?” She had his attention. “Tell me more.”

“Okay. You grew up in a cabin in the woods, not far from here, learning to fish with your dad and cook with your mom—”

“Cook?”

“I told you this is an alternate reality. Now hush.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled, his eyes twinkling dangerously.

“You ran track and played football through high school. In fact, that’s how you got your scar on your cheek. State play-offs against the Moorhead Spuds. You were decked while making the game-winning touchdown.”

“Okay, I can dig this alternate reality. How about girls? I’ll bet I was popular—”

“Oh no!” She laughed. “You were much too shy and polite. You spent all your free time chopping wood—”

“And roasting marshmallows?”

“Absolutely. In fact you won a 4-H prize for excellence in roasting.”

He nodded, like that fit perfectly into his resume.

“Then when you graduated, you went to a nice Bible college and decided to run a youth camp.”

“Now that part isn’t so far from fact.”

She shrugged. “I’m good. What can I say?”

He came close and crouched before her, his hands on her knees. “Let me finish. I start this camp. One day this beautiful, knock-my-breath-away brunette shows up with Bigfoot the dog and begs to work as a camp nurse, just to be close to me and my charisma.”

“Oh sure, back to fantasy,” she said, but her throat threatened to close at how accurate his last words were.

“Shh. This is my version. She, of course, can’t help but fall for the handsome hometown hero—”

“And they live happily ever after in Deep Haven.”

He smiled. “I like that ending.” His eyes were on hers, piercing, probing, as if the answers to some unspoken question could be found in their depths. She felt herself redden, and her heart pounded like a drumroll in her chest.

Then suddenly he broke her gaze, swallowed, and blew out a breath. “You know how to tell a good story.” His smile turned wry. Abruptly he stood and stepped away. “I’d like to keep it.”

She somehow dug her voice out of her constricting chest. For the briefest of moments he’d reminded her of someone she’d met a year ago. A man she finally happily freed into the recesses of distant memory. It wasn’t as if the dream of meeting her split-second singing hero from the past ever held any element of reality. “Well, you haven’t really told me much about your past. . . .”

She thought he might give a puff of agreement, but a dark shadow crossed Noah’s face. His smile dimmed. He looked away, grabbed another plastic bag, began to fill it with gorp.

“Noah?” Oh no, now what had she done?

He shook his head and paused. “Anne, like I mentioned before, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me.” The way he said it, soft and not a little mournful, made her insides clench.

Anne hugged herself as her own omissions rammed into her brain. He might have a tattoo, a very permanent reminder of the man he’d been before salvation, but she had scars—ugly, pitiful scars that screamed out the fears she still dodged. Today. In spite of her salvation. If she hoped that Noah could ever, ever be God’s embrace around her, a flesh-and-blood embodiment of unconditional love, she would have to let him see the real Anne Lundstrom, complete with pain and heartache and gunshot wound. She swallowed a choking lump.

It was one thing to tell her story to Granny D., Katie, and Melinda. After all, they’d seen the reddened starburst on her back and the pucker of stitch marks on her abdomen while hunting for broken ribs after her fall. Then telling her story had seemed, well . . . natural. But the idea of telling Noah and bringing him into her dark yearlong floundering . . . she exhaled hard. Perhaps she could just omit it. Did he have to know
everything
about her? Couldn’t some things be kept private? The thought of facing the moment when her world and her faith had caved in made her shudder.

Besides, what if her scars and her story repulsed him? made her seem . . . ugly? pitiful? She fought the dark pull of shame and raised her chin.

The look on Noah’s face made her wonder if he’d been reading her mind. Horrified, guilty. A perfect mix of rejection. Anne stiffened.