North Country Hero

“Listen, Sara.” Kyle leaned forward. “Before we go outside I want to tell you something.”

“Okay.” It looked like she was holding her breath.

“Churchill is very safe.” He grabbed his jacket off the hook near the door. “But we tell this to everyone who comes here to prepare them. Just in case.”

“In case.” She gulped. “Right.”

“It might seem counterintuitive to you, but if you do happen upon a bear, do not turn your back on him and do not run.” Gently. Don’t terrorize her, Kyle. “Either of those actions will make you look like prey to him.”

“Which I will be,” she pointed out in a whisper, her face now devoid of all color.

“Well, yes.” He had to smile. “But what you want is to look like his adversary. Make yourself as tall as possible. Put your arms in the air and wave them. Yell as loud as you can. But do not run.” Why did he suddenly feel he had to protect her? “Bears love the chase.”

“Okay.” She trembled, her alarm visible.

Kyle had wanted Sara to be cautious. Instead he’d alarmed her.

Her eyes lost their silver sheen and darkened. She looked petrified.

Way to go, Kyle.

“I’d offer to drive you back, but I don’t think I could drive, even if Dad’s old truck was running. He cracked it up just before—” He swallowed, forced himself to continue. “Anyway, I don’t have transport.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Sara didn’t look fine. She looked like someone who had dredged up her last ounce of courage to face the lion’s den.

“Yes, you will be,” Kyle agreed. “Now let’s go take a look at Mom’s greenhouse.” He rose, ignored the twinge of pain in his hip and followed her outside, embarrassed by his slow progress down the stairs and Sara’s obvious attempt to ignore it.

Kyle didn’t intend to be in Churchill long, but by the time he reached the bottom step he’d made up his mind to hire someone to build a ramp. Dragging himself up and down these stairs sucked the energy out of him, not to mention that it made him feel like some kind of spectacle.

“Okay?” Sara opened the gate to his backyard.

“Just dandy.” He chose his steps over the uneven ground carefully. What a fool he’d been to wear these soft leather slippers and risk injuring himself again.

“The structure looks good,” Sara said, her head tilted to one side like a curious bird as she peered at the glass roof. “Of course, I don’t really know anything about greenhouses.”

“A friend wrote that he’d check on things till I could get home. It looks like he’s made sure everything is still solid.” Kyle pressed against the metal frame. Nothing swayed. “I brought the key. Let me check inside.”

The door swung to with a loud creak. Inside, the glass was dingy with years of dust. Debris covered parts of the floor.

“Oh, my.” Sara stared like a deer caught in headlights.

“After Mom passed away, Dad and I never used this for anything much but storage. I should have cleaned it out.” Kyle pulled away the cobwebs. “It’s filthy.”

“It won’t take long to clean.” Obviously recovered, Sara pressed the toe of her shoe against a stack of plastic bins. “What are these?”

“I don’t know. Dad must have packed them.” Kyle turned a pail upside down and sat on it. Then he opened the top bin. A bundle of bubble wrap lay inside. He lifted it out and slowly unwrapped it. A notebook fell out.

Instantly Kyle was a kid again, rushing home from school to find his mom in here, scribbling in her gardening journal while Dad teased her about her addiction to roses. Kyle gasped at the overwhelming pain.

“Kyle, what’s wrong?” Sara hunkered down in front of him. Her hand covered his. “Are you in pain?” she asked ever so gently.

“Yes.” For once he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. His heart ached so deeply he felt as if life had drained out of his body. He fought to be free, but the ache blemished his spirit like a scab on a scar.

“Can I help?”

“I’m okay.” Kyle inhaled, forced away the sadness. “This is my mom’s journal. I didn’t realize we still had it.” He flipped through the pages, chuckling at the funny drawings his mom had made. “She was always trying to produce a new breed of rose.”

“Under these conditions?” Sara lifted one eyebrow in surprise.

“Yes. Look.” He held up the book to show the sketch. “This was going to be her Oliver rose—named in memory of her high school friend. But the Oliver rose couldn’t take Churchill’s harshness. He was too weak.”

He was suddenly aware of Sara, crouched behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“I can’t read her writing.”

“No one could.” He cleared his throat. “Listen. ‘My dear Oliver is a wuss. One chilly night without the heater and he’s lost all his leaves. Pfui! A weakling. And a reminder of what God expects of us, a stiff backbone that weathers life’s challenges. I want a rose that will use the negatives of life to get tough and still bloom. I’ll wait and try again next year. But I fear my Oliver rose is finished.’” Kyle smiled. “She always spoke of her roses as if they were people.”

“It sounds like she had a sense of humor,” Sara said.

“A wicked one. Listen to this.” Kyle read her another passage about a yellow rosebush a friend had sent them. His laughter joined Sara’s. “I remember that bush. Coral Bells. It lasted year after year, no matter what adversity it encountered. My mother put Oliver next to it to give him some gumption. But it didn’t help.” He closed the book, suddenly loath to continue revealing these precious memories. “I wonder what else is in this box.”

To hide his emotions, Kyle tugged out layers of old newspaper, aware that Sara still crouched beside him, neatly folding each piece of paper he tossed on the ground. Below the paper lay trophies from school sports, local awards he and his father had won for their business, a book filled with clippings and letters from past customers—he kept pulling them out until finally the box was empty.

“Garbage.” Kyle refused to be swamped by memories again while Sara watched. “I should chuck them.” He set aside the plastic box and began working on the second bin. But it, too, was filled with childhood mementos that only served to remind him of things he could no longer do.

At the very bottom lay a series of Sunday-school awards and a big ribbon with top place printed on it in silver letters, from the championship quiz team he’d once led.

“More garbage.” Bitterness surged that God hadn’t been there when Kyle had needed Him, despite his faith and despite the many pleas he’d sent heavenward. “No need to keep any of this.”

But Sara was already rewrapping each item and laying it carefully back into the container.

“Looks like this is the last one Dad got around to packing.” Kyle paused, needing breathing space so he could face whatever came next without revealing to Sara how affected he was. “My father the pack rat must have needed room in the house.”

“I think he wanted to keep your special things safe for you,” Sara said, her voice firm yet soft. “So you wouldn’t forget your history.”

“Maybe.” He yanked off the last lid and tossed away the flat sheet of plain brown paper lying on top.

And stared at the contents.

Sara’s fingers curved around his shoulder.

He felt stupid, awkward and juvenile. But he could do nothing to stop the tears. They rolled down his hot cheeks and landed on his wrinkled shirt in a trickle that quickly became a river.

Kyle lifted out the familiar wooden box, letting the satin smoothness of the wood soak through to his hands, waiting for it to thaw his heart.

“Kyle?” Sara’s gentle voice bloomed with anxiety. But she said no more, waiting patiently until he finally pulled his emotions under control. “What is it?”

“A seed box,” he told her. His index finger traced the letters he’d carved on the lid years earlier. “It was a Christmas gift Dad helped me make for my mom when I was twelve.” He lifted open the top, slid out one of the drawers, brushed a fingertip against the velvet lining inside.

“It’s beautiful.” Sara leaned forward to examine the surface. “Is it rosewood?”

“Yes,” he said, surprised by her knowledge. “I had to order the wood specially. I thought we’d never get it done in time.” The laugh burst from him, harsh and painful. “Actually, I guess we didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Sara sounded slightly breathless.

“Mom had barely put her seeds in this when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. By planting time she was too sick to come out here anymore.” He snapped the lid closed and thrust the box inside the bin. “She was so sure God would heal her. She said over and over, ‘Trust in God, Kyle. He’ll never let you down.’” Fury burned inside, a white-hot rage that could not be doused. “Well, He did. He let me down twice. And I will never trust Him again.”

He rose and made his way to the door, not caring about his awkwardness. All he wanted was to get away, to hide out until he found a way to deal with his anger.

“Do whatever you want in here, Sara. You’re welcome to it. Just don’t ask me to help you.” With that, Kyle stepped outside. He stood there, eyes closed as he inhaled the fresh, crisp air into his lungs and blew out frustration.

You’re starting over, he reminded himself. Forget the past.

Behind him he heard Sara close the greenhouse door with a quiet click. Desperate to be alone, he headed for the stairs to the house. He almost cheered when behind him a horn tooted and broke the strained silence. Kyle glanced over one shoulder at Sara.

“It’s Laurel,” she said. One hand went to the zipper of the red coat.

“Keep it. You might need it.” He held her gaze, nodding when her eyes asked him if he was sure.

“Thank you.” She hesitated then lifted her chin. “And thank you for letting us use the greenhouse. Enjoy your cinnamon buns.”

“Thanks.” He watched her walk to Laurel’s van. She opened the door then turned to face him.

“God bless you, Kyle,” she said in the softest voice. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

“That’s not necess—” Kyle’s words fell on emptiness. Sara was gone, the van driving away.

Kyle stomped into the house, fuming. He didn’t want her here, checking on him, blessing him. He wanted to be alone, to become totally self-sufficient.

Yet as he sampled the sticky sweetness of the cinnamon buns, Kyle almost welcomed the thought of someone else, someone whose presence would stop him from being engulfed by bitterness at what he’d lost.

He stopped himself. His plan for the future did not include staying here or becoming dependent. It certainly could not include getting mesmerized by a pair of silvery-gray eyes. He would never allow himself to be that vulnerable again.

For now, Kyle was home. He’d take the rest of his life one step at a time.

But if Sara did come back, he’d try to find out more about her, like what had made her stare so longingly at his dad’s laptop when she’d seen it lying on the desk.

And why she seemed so certain God would bless him.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.