Sunday Kind of Love (6 page)

Come on, come on! Where are they?

For a long, agonizing moment, Hank feared that the person had gone underwater for good, but then, between swells, he saw the hand again, bobbing in the river ahead of him. He started swimming, his hands knifing through the water, determined to reach them in time.

Hank had reacted without thinking, his instincts telling him to help another, even if it meant putting his own life in danger.

He would save them both, no matter what it took.

Beneath the water's surface, the sounds of the raging river were dull, almost muted. Darkness pressed toward Gwen from every side. Having given up, she was limp, directionless; left was right, back was front, up was down. Somehow, through all the chaos, beauty began to emerge; she felt warm, at peace, and was strangely comforted by the memory of her mother singing her favorite lullaby.

Then someone grabbed her wrist.

The touch was so unexpected that Gwen, as bad off as she was, was frightened. Reflexively, she tried to pull away, but the grip was too strong. Slowly yet insistently, she was pulled upward. When her head broke the water's surface, Gwen began to cough violently.

“I've got you! Don't let go!”

Groggy, still hacking up water, and with all her strength spent, Gwen looked at the person who'd suddenly appeared alongside her in the river. From the voice and what little she could see, Gwen knew it was a man, but she had no idea of the identity of her would-be rescuer.

He pulled her close, wrapping one arm around her waist while the other pushed hard against the current, moving them slowly toward the shore. Exhausted, Gwen struggled to keep her head out of the water, needing to occasionally rest against the stranger's shoulder.

“Hang on,” he told her. “This is our chance!”

Ahead of them a dark shape loomed; as they raced ever closer, Gwen realized that it was an enormous rock. The river flowed swiftly around it, the water diverted to either side. The stranger was trying to get them to the inside, closer to shore, but the current was moving so fast that they slammed hard into the stone, a grunt forced from his mouth. Somehow he managed to hold on, stopping their momentum. Gwen clung tight, the bank only fifteen feet away.

“You've got to help me!” the man shouted. “I'll push us off the rock and then you kick with your feet! Use whatever strength you have left!”

Weakly, Gwen nodded.

“On the count of three…”

When it was time, Gwen did as he'd asked. From somewhere deep inside, she found the energy needed to scissor her legs and paddle with her free arm. At first she feared that they weren't going to make it, that they would be carried farther downstream, but just as she was about to give up, her foot touched the river's bottom and the man pulled her the rest of the way into the shallows.

Miraculously, the river no longer held them.

Even though Gwen had reached safety, darkness still pressed down on her. It was a fight to keep her eyes open. The stranger scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bank, laying her down in the grass. Her chest rose and fell beneath her soaked blouse, her arms limp at her sides.

High above, the clouds had broken up, leaving the moon unblemished in the sky, shining brightly over her rescuer's shoulder. Light encircled his head like a halo, illuminating the beads of water clinging to his hair. Shadows obscured his face. She couldn't make out many details, only that he was looking at her with concern.

“Gwen? Can you hear me?” he asked.

She smiled. He knew her name, though his voice was unfamiliar. Gwen opened her mouth to say something, but that was when exhaustion took her. She slowly tumbled down like an autumn leaf falling from its tree. She blinked once, twice…

Then everything went black.

G
WEN…IT'S GWEN FOSTER…

Hank stared down at her face, lit by the moonlight. He tried to wake her, shaking her arm and repeating her name, but she remained unconscious. He had immediately recognized her. Even though he was only a handful of years older than Gwen, he didn't know her personally, not really.

Hadn't he heard that she was living in Chicago?

What was she doing here?

Most importantly, why had she been about to drown in the Sawyer?

Now that his adrenaline was subsiding, Hank felt exhausted. He took deep gulps of air, his heartbeat slowing. Getting them both to shore had been demanding work; his shoulders and legs burned from the effort. He wanted nothing more than to collapse in the cool grass and rest, but he worried that Gwen could be badly hurt. He knew he had to get her to a doctor, fast.

So how in the heck am I going to do that?

They were on a small outcropping, clear of trees, that jutted out into the river. The woods in front of them were thick, the underbrush crowded with bushes and fallen limbs. If Hank wasn't mistaken, they'd drifted half a mile or so downstream from the bridge. Unfortunately, no one lived around these parts. However, if he could get through the woods, there was a little-used road that would take them most of the way back to his truck.

He looked at Gwen. She appeared peaceful, as if she was merely sleeping. A few strands of her dark hair were plastered to the side of her face, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted. The sudden realization that she was prettier than he remembered filled his head. Hank pushed the thought away, chiding himself for thinking such a thing at a time like this.

Even though it would be far faster for him to go back for the truck alone, Hank knew he couldn't leave her behind. If Gwen were to wake while he was gone, disoriented and frightened, she could wander off, and he'd have a devil of a time finding her in the dark.

He didn't have a choice. He had to carry her.

Hank lifted Gwen, one arm hanging limply at her side, water dripping from her clothes, and started for the trees. He moved with determination but also care; if he were to turn an ankle, they'd both be in a world of trouble. Painstakingly, he worked his way through the woods. When the path he'd chosen proved too difficult to navigate, he had to back up and find another route. He turned Gwen one way and then another, weaving among the trees and bushes. Once, they startled something in the undergrowth, probably a rabbit, sending it skittering away. Eventually, and with no shortage of relief, he found the road.

As he trudged toward the bridge, Hank's boots squished with every step, completely soaked through. His arms burned from their burden, but he didn't even consider setting Gwen down for a rest, just gritted his teeth and kept walking. He hoped he'd see headlights coming from either direction, but they were alone, so he continued on, listening to the chirping crickets.

Hank looked at Gwen. Even now, it seemed unbelievable that he would meet her again like this. In all the years they had each lived in Buckton, Hank didn't know if they'd shared more than a couple dozen words, most of them back when they were kids, but Gwen had always been nice, with a bright, friendly smile. Her parents were both well thought of in the community, the same sort of pleasant people as their daughter, but thinking about Warren Foster made Hank frown. In the weeks after Pete's death, one of the most hurtful comments he'd heard had come from the baker's mouth.

I reckon we should be grateful his mother isn't here to see this. If Eleanor was still alive, what that boy did woulda been the death of her…

Though the words had stung deeply, Hank supposed he couldn't blame Gwen's father. It wasn't as if he'd been the only person in town to voice such harsh sentiments. Besides, Warren's opinion did nothing to dampen Hank's desire to make sure his daughter was safe.

Eventually, after what felt like an hour and a couple of miles, the bridge came into view. Hank's truck was just as he'd left it; the headlights were on, the driver's-side door was ajar, and the radio was still playing. Pulling Gwen close, he managed to open the other door and place her inside as gently as he could. Making sure she was secure, Hank hurried around the pickup, slid behind the wheel, and put the truck in gear.

Then he stopped, unsure of where he should go.

Grant Held's house was on the opposite side of Buckton from the bridge; the doctor would surely be able to treat her, but it was a bit of a drive.

The Fosters' home was much closer.

Hank looked over at Gwen. Her head lolled on her shoulder, her hair spilling across her face, her breathing steady but shallow. Even with Hank's recent unpleasant history with her father, the decision was an easy one to make. He would take Gwen to her family. They'd know what to do.

And maybe I'll find out what she was doing in the river in the first place…

When Gwen's mother opened the front door, she let out a gasp, then stepped back and placed a hand over her open mouth. Hank didn't wait for an invitation to enter but hurriedly stepped inside carrying Gwen in his arms, still unconscious. Other than some mumbling as he had raced down the darkened streets of Buckton, she'd yet to exhibit any signs of consciousness. He laid her down, still soaking wet, on a divan in the living room. Only now, nearing the end of their ordeal, did Hank begin to feel the price he'd paid for plunging into the Sawyer, swimming against its current, and rescuing Gwen. His arms and legs burned, the muscles aching, while his ribs were sore from when he'd slammed into the rock. His whole body wanted to rest.

“Get some blankets,” he told Meredith, who still stood near the staircase, watching. “She needs to get warm as fast as she can.”

All the way to the Fosters' house, Hank had blasted the heater in his truck, but it had done little good. From their time in the water, as well as the long walk in the cool night, his teeth had never stopped chattering. Even with his adrenaline racing, Hank felt chilled to the bone. For Gwen, it was likely worse.

But instead of doing as Hank had suggested, Meredith ran to her daughter. She fell to her knees beside the sofa, pushed away wet strands of Gwen's hair, and slapped her cheek, insistently and with increasing force.

“Gwendolyn, wake up!” she shouted. “Open your eyes and talk to me!”

Before Hank could begin to tell Meredith what had happened, loud footsteps sounded in the hallway. He turned to see three people burst into the room: Warren, Gwen's aunt, and a man Hank didn't recognize. All of them reacted with astonishment at what they saw.

“Gwennie!” her father shouted. His gaze moved quickly from his daughter to Hank, his eyes narrowing when he realized just
who
was standing there, dripping water on his rug. “What happened?” he demanded.

Hank told him about what he'd seen on the bridge, how he had jumped in after Gwen, how he'd managed to get them out of the Sawyer, and finally how he'd brought their daughter back home. While he spoke, Samantha left the room and came back with a pile of blankets, draping them over her niece, trying to warm her. Through it all, the other man just stood there in obvious shock, his mouth hanging open.

Warren stared hard at Hank. “And you just happened to see her in the water…” he said, doubt in his voice.

“Yes, sir, I did,” he answered.

“In the middle of the night, during a thunderstorm…”

Hank's heartbeat quickened. Struggling to hold back his irritation, he asked, “What's that supposed to mean?”

Warren stepped closer. Looking into the man's eyes, Hank saw several different emotions, including fear from the realization that he had come dangerously close to losing his daughter, but also disgust at the man who'd unexpectedly kept that nightmare from coming to pass. Far too late, Hank also remembered that Pete had been working for Gwen's father down at the bakery in the months before his death. It hadn't been much, a few hours at a time, a delivery here and some cleaning there as Pete tried to save money for college. Sitting in his truck on the bridge, soaking wet and unsure about where to take Gwen, he'd somehow forgotten all that. But from the look on Warren's face, the baker most definitely hadn't.

“You haven't been drinkin', have you?” Warren asked, the insinuation as obvious as his disgust. “Maybe downed a few, one thing led to another…”

Anger raced through Hank, threatening to swallow him whole. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Here he'd saved Gwen Foster's life, risking his own to do it, and had brought her back home simply because it was right. In exchange, he'd gotten
this
. Hank hadn't expected them to give him a medal, but he sure as hell hadn't counted on being accused of having a hand in what had happened to her.

Pete's death is like a stone tied to my leg, dragging me down…

“Now, wait a second!” he growled. “I didn't—”

“Stop it, the both of you!” Meredith shouted from where she still knelt beside the divan; both Hank and Warren turned to look at her. “I don't care how it happened,” she continued. “All that matters now is Gwen. We need to get her upstairs to her room and out of these wet clothes.”

Hank knew that Gwen's mother was right. But when he moved to help lift Gwen off the sofa, Warren stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “Give me a hand, Kent.”

At the sound of his name, the other man finally stirred, nodding his head. “Right, right,” he mumbled, then hurried over, positioning himself at Gwen's shoulders.

“Doc Held needs to be called,” Hank suggested.

“I'll do it,” Samantha said, and headed for the telephone. As she passed Hank, she touched his arm and whispered, “Thank you,” leaving him grateful that not everyone in Gwen's family suspected the worst of him.

Meredith led the way up the staircase. Kent carried Gwen's upper half, his hands beneath her arms, while her father lifted her feet. Hank drifted at the rear of the procession, drawn to follow out of genuine concern. But then, just before they reached the landing, Warren noticed him. He stopped and asked, “What are you still doin' here?”

“I want to make sure she's all right,” Hank answered.

The baker shook his head. “This ain't none of your concern,” he spat. “You've done more than enough.”

“Someone might need to—”

“I want you out of my house!” he barked, his face a dark red.

“But, Warren…” Meredith soothed.

Turning his attention from Hank, Gwen's father nodded to Kent. “Let's get her to her room,” he said.

Hank watched them leave. From downstairs, he could hear her parents doing all they could to help their daughter. Just then, the memory of Gwen lying in the moonlight on the bank of the swollen river unexpectedly sprang to his mind. This time, Hank didn't chase it away, but instead reveled in it, remembering how surprised he'd been to recognize her, how beautiful she was…

Slowly, Hank shook his head. He was a fool. He didn't belong here; Warren had made that clear enough. It was time to leave.

The sooner the better.

Just as Hank turned the knob of the front door, preparing to step back out into the night, a voice called out to him. “Wait!” He turned to see Kent hurrying down the stairs toward him, occasionally looking back over his shoulder as if he was worried about being discovered sneaking away.

“I'm glad I caught you before you left,” he said when he reached the foyer, taking another glance up the stairs. “I wanted to thank you for rescuing Gwen.”

“I only did what was right,” Hank replied modestly.

“You have my gratitude all the same.”

Up close, Hank could see that the other man had recovered from his initial shock. He still looked a little harried, his forehead dotted with sweat, his eyes unsettled, though he was trying hard not to show it. His clothes were expensive, cut from rich fabric, every stitch flawless, every button shining; compared to Hank in his soggy attire, he was dressed like a king. The man struck Hank as the sort most comfortable being in control, smiling brightly as he went around a room, enthusiastically pumping every hand. The more Hank looked at him, the more the man reminded him of the attorney he'd met with just after Pete's death.

“I'm Kent Brookings,” the man said, extending his hand. When Hank took it, he added, “I'm Gwen's fiancé.”

Hank faltered, if only for a moment. Kent's comment had caught him off guard, although Hank had no idea why. It shouldn't have come as much of a surprise that a beautiful young woman like Gwen Foster would attract the attention of someone as clearly successful as Kent. An uncomfortable pang lit across his stomach; realizing that it was jealousy made him feel like an even bigger fool.

“Hank Ellis,” he replied halfheartedly, taking the man's offered hand. Kent's grip was far softer than his own. He resisted the urge to squeeze hard.

“I've never seen Warren so out of sorts,” Kent said, hazarding yet another backward glance. “What is it about you that set him off like that?”

The last thing Hank wanted was to explain why everyone in Buckton thought he was worth less than the debris floating in the Sawyer River. He especially didn't want to tell this man who rubbed him the wrong way. Besides, Hank knew that as soon as he left, the Fosters would explain every sordid detail.

“It's a misunderstanding,” he answered.

Fortunately, Kent let it go. “Whatever the reason, I can't imagine why he wouldn't be grateful to you for saving Gwen's life. I certainly am.”

Hank believed Kent's sentiments were genuine; he seemed legitimately thankful, even relieved that his wife-to-be was safe.

But then he went and ruined it.

“As a matter of fact, I'm so appreciative of what you've done that I'd like to offer you a reward,” he explained as he pulled out his wallet; opening it revealed a thick swath of green, more money than Hank had seen in one place in an awfully long time, if ever. Fishing out two twenty-dollar bills, Kent held them out to Hank. “For a job well done.”