Tying the Knot (3 page)

He joined her, set down the bucket, and placed one of his large hands on either side of the hood. Amazing how wide his reach was. Up close, he unnerved her with his size. Six feet three with the stance of a fighter. She kept her distance and rubbed her arms, suddenly feeling cold.

“Spark-plug connections look okay.” He jiggled a few wires. “This the only sign of trouble?” He looked at her over his shoulder.

She froze, gripped by his eyes. Golden brown, like sweet honey. She could only nod.

“Hmm.” He turned back and her knees felt like cooked oatmeal. She’d seen those eyes before. They looked uncannily like the ones burned into her brain a year ago. She’d reenacted that day on Franklin Avenue a thousand times, trying to dissect her missteps, clinging to the memory of an unnamed tenor who’d spoken peace to her terrified heart. She’d memorized every nuance she’d seen in her hero’s gaze, despite the brevity of the moment. Those deep liquid eyes had seen her deepest fears, had comforted in her darkest hour.

Certainly those same beautiful eyes couldn’t belong to this muscled beachcomber. Anne shook away the comparison and focused on her wounded engine. “I filled up with gas in Deep Haven.”

“At M&P’s?” His playful grimace threw her and she nodded warily. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nope.”

“That’s it. Plugged fuel filter. Mom and Pop’s have a . . . reputation. I’d steer clear of their gas near the end of the month. They sell great apple butter, however. It’s homemade.” He was already unscrewing a greasy cylinder.

“Is it fatal?” Anne couldn’t believe something the size of a battery could render her Explorer helpless.

“The apple butter?” He tapped the filter against her fender, and she saw chips of grime break free. “No, I don’t think the butter is near as fatal as the gas.”

She stared at him, blinking. A smirk edged up his rugged face. She noticed how it wrinkled a small round scar high on his cheek. She swallowed hard, her thoughts racing ahead of her, pumping her heartbeat on high. He didn’t seem to notice her white-knuckled grip on the hood as her world tilted crazily.

Her hero, the one who’d edged her dreams for over a year, couldn’t possibly be this unkempt beach bum.

“If you pick up dirty gas, it’ll plug your filter.” He put the cylinder to his lips and blew. More grime flew out.

Anne made a face. No, definitely not. The man who had held her hand with such impossible tenderness couldn’t be this rough-edged Joe Mechanic.

“That should do it.” He wiped his lips on his shirt, then replaced the filter. “Fire her up.”

Anne stood rooted, eyes on his black hair sneaking out from the baseball cap. And something in his voice resonated . . .

She climbed in the SUV. “Here goes!” The engine turned over on the first crank. She hopped out as he lowered the hood. “Thank you so much.”

“I was just in the right place at the right time.” He smiled, and it was so warm her stomach did a small, rebellious flip. “You just passing through?”

Anne shook her head, scrambling to find her voice. “I’m staying with my aunt for the summer while I finish my internship at the Deep Haven Hospital.” And in the meantime she’d pray that God would find her a full-time position in this quaint, safe community. Someplace to bury her fears, her past, and live a life of peace.

“Doctor?”

“No.” She toed the dirt, unable to meet his unsettling eyes. “Nurse. I’m getting my master’s in community nursing.”

“Like teaching young inner-city mothers how to take care of their babies?”

Anne scowled. “No, more like administering immunizations to families in remote locations. The last thing I want to do is dive back into the city and its problems. No way.” A thousand wild horses, elephants, and dogs couldn’t drag her back to the nightmares awaiting in Minneapolis. In fact, she had doubts that even the three hundred miles between Deep Haven and the Twin Cities would be a safe enough distance for her.

He went silent, and when she chanced a look at him, the pained expression on his face jolted her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She frowned. “Is that why you’re here, combing the beach for—” she peered into his bucket—“rocks?”

He laughed, and light reentered his eyes. “It’s a project I’m working on.”

“Do you live here?”

“Sometimes.” He picked up the bucket. “I hope you find what you’re looking for here. Deep Haven isn’t just a pretty place. It’s more than it seems.”

“Right.” She patted the hood of her Explorer. “Full of all sorts of surprises. I’ll stay clear of Mom and Pop’s.”

He backed away from her vehicle. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

She opened her door. “Hopefully it won’t be because I’m in the ditch. Thanks again . . .”

“Noah.” He gripped the bucket with both hands.

The look on his face—tender concern, friendliness, and not a little naturally etched fierceness—glued her to the spot. Somehow she took his hand, and the gentleness in it threw her pulse into overdrive. She smiled at him, wrenching herself free of the memory that gripped her. Besides, although he was tan, with coal dark hair sneaking out from under his cap, this man didn’t look like he had a touch of Native American blood in him.

“Noah Standing Bear.”

Anne yanked her hand out of his grasp. Wide-eyed, she dove into the cab and, without another word, peeled away.

Noah scowled at the suspicion written across the lady’s face as she drove away and disappeared around a curve.

Destroying fears was why he’d come to Deep Haven, why he’d begged and cajoled every little church from Minneapolis on north for funds, why he’d invested his life in reaching kids with the gospel. The hope of breaking stereotypes had him beachcombing for smooth, paintable rocks, praying with every step about tonight’s meeting, that the missions committee might also embrace that hope.

Unfortunately, as a youth he’d deserved every one of those fearful glances. Growing up a foster child—and a Native American one at that—had molded his character quickly. He’d learned that life gave only what you took—by force. Noah cringed, remembering his years wasted with the Vice Lords, or “the People,” fighting for gang turf, lying, and stealing. Somehow he’d steered clear of drugs, but he’d managed to rack up a list of sins that would make a convict flinch.

By the grace of God, those days were not only forgiven, they were obliterated. And every tomorrow God gave Noah would be used to fight for the lives of the next generation of gangbangers. This time, he battled with the power of God behind him. If only he could convince the church of the righteousness of this war. If he didn’t fight for the discarded kids on the streets, who would?

Life in the city hardened people on the outside, creating a crust so deep that breaking through it took the patience of St. Francis and the force of a jackhammer. But Noah had had enough victories as a youth pastor to keep him dreaming the impossible. Hope kept him hanging in the hood, drove him to knock on church doors asking for donations. Most of all, it sent him to his knees until he’d worn out more than a few pairs of fatigues. God could change lives; he knew it from personal experience. He was this close to fulfilling his dream of taking these at-risk kids to his wilderness camp. And he dearly hoped that God had handpicked him as the right man for the job.

Noah was painfully aware that he still looked like a hoodlum, a fact confirmed by the fear written on the young lady’s countenance. She was beautiful, with her cropped auburn hair and heart-shaped face. Too bad she had a chip the size of Alaska on her shoulder, a protective, stay-on-your-side-of-the-street wariness, and a formidable dog sitting in the passenger seat that gave her attitude bite and muscle.

Thankfully, looks of unmasked prejudice like the one she had just given him had forged a bullheadedness in him that God could use. Nevertheless, it hurt to have someone stare at him that way . . . especially someone with such paralyzingly beautiful hazel green eyes. When she gave him that wide-eyed look, as if she’d seen a ghost, he nearly forgot his own name, and it had ignited a ludicrous protective impulse to give her an encouraging hug.

A breeze lifted the hair sticking out of his baseball cap and chilled him. He swallowed hard. No doubt if he’d even hinted at approaching her, she’d have deployed a defensive maneuver and taken out his front teeth. She had the appearance of a tiger cat in pounce position.

He couldn’t ignore the disappointment pinching his chest. He had dreams that one day God might drop into his life a woman with guts, strength, and a spiritual vision. But that would take a serious miracle, and such a woman certainly wouldn’t resemble the lady who just floored it out of his life. A woman like that, clean and honest and untainted by a wicked past, would never see beyond his exterior to a redeemed man who loved God. In these moments, the reminder of who he’d been—and in many ways still strived to be for the sake of the gospel—stung.

Noah scrambled back down to the beach. Deep Haven Hospital, she’d said. He wondered if she’d be working for Doc Simpson.

He resumed his hunt for large smooth rocks. He doubted the city kids had ever thought to make sculptures with rocks before. Usually the stones were used as missiles. But that was what Wilderness Challenge was all about—confronting stereotypes about life, offering a vision beyond the kids’ concrete boundaries to what God might have in store for them.

Hadn’t God also challenged Noah’s boundaries with this wild idea? Start a summer camp for inner-city kids, God had said to him through his quiet time three years ago. He’d been happy in his life as a youth pastor. Happy hanging out on Franklin Avenue, yanking kids off the street and into church. He’d dismissed the camp idea as a delusion.

Then he’d seen his drugged neighbor blow away an EMT. He’d personally led Anthony to Jesus a week before the attack. But the teen hadn’t been able to escape the street’s death clutch and see his potential. That potential now languished in adult lockup.

Grief had crystallized Noah’s mission. A year later now, he was just shy of all the funding needed to take his former youth group out of the city for the summer and give them a fresh perspective through a wilderness challenge.

The enormity of the task—and the need—made Noah sink to his knees on the beach.
Oh, God, only You can pull this off. You put this vision in my heart. Please make it happen.

He sat back onto the rocks and looked into the sky. A light wind played with a wispy scattering of cirrus clouds. On the waves, closer to the horizon, seagulls rode Superior like buoys. The air smelled wet, and the breeze washed through him like a cool breath. God embedded this place. Noah prayed that the kids could see Him.
Give them Your vision. Your hope. Change their lives. And please help Deep Haven Chapel see You through this former gang member with ancestors who happen to be Ojibwa.

Three hours later Noah paced the annex of the church building, trying to focus on his prayer and not the muffled voices spilling out from under the library door. His hiking boots clunked on the floor, and he winced at a black streak they left across the white linoleum. Why didn’t he think of buying a suit for the occasion? He’d thought he looked spiffy enough in black jeans, boots, and a brown suede jacket. He’d even unearthed an iron and pressed the white oxford he wore with a tie. Looking into his cracked bathroom mirror hanging in the dilapidated cabin he called home, he’d seemed suitable.

He combed his fingers through his hair. The shortest he’d worn it in years and
still
the two women on the missions committee scrutinized him the entire meeting as if he’d crawled out from under a Dumpster. He blew out a heated breath and deliberately peered out the foyer windows at Main Street. Tourist season had bloomed. A number of pickups loaded with nets and tackle lumbered by. It made him think he ought to learn to fish. A couple of lovebirds meandered hand in hand along the beach, kicking up stones. A trail of white smoke spiraled from Mack’s Fish Stand.

“Noah?”

The friendly voice startled him. He turned and clasped Pastor Dan’s outstretched hand. The man always wore a kind smile, and he’d donated an entire day at the camp, helping Noah pitch army tents. If anyone in Deep Haven cheered for him, it was Pastor Dan Matthews.

“So?” Noah studied Dan’s face and braced himself.

Dan shook his head. “I’m sorry. The committee thinks it’s a liability. Kids inherently possess their own set of troubles, but these kids . . .”

Noah clenched his jaw. “These kids need it more than any others.”

“There’s no disputing that—”

“I’ve got a great staff trained to work with these at-risk kids, plus junior counselors who know exactly the shenanigans they’re liable to pull. I’ve sent them all through hours upon hours of counselor training, besides training each of them as a first responder.” Noah shook his head. “Frankly, I think we’re more than ready for what these kids will throw at us.”

“I’m sure you are, Noah. No one believes in you and what you’re trying to do more than I do. I’ve seen the hours you’ve put in, and I know you spent hours praying and handpicking your staff. But be honest, besides the everyday accidents that happen at camp, you want to take the kids backpacking and canoeing. What if you had a medical emergency while you’re out on the trail?” Dan’s tone turned grim. “What if somebody died?”