Tying the Knot (10 page)

He shook his head, his back still to her. “I found it this way. Your dog—”

“My dog did this? I highly doubt that.”

She watched his broad shoulders rise and fall, as if breathing in calm. When he turned toward her, the moisture in the corner of his eyes shocked her silent. “Yes, your dog did it. I don’t have a habit of chewing up pillows, even when I’m near starvation. And maybe if you came home a littler earlier and took her out for a walk, she might not resort to eating logs!” A tiny muscle twitched in his bronze cheek, right below that intriguing round scar.

She blinked at him, fixed for a moment. Then she dismissed the spark of familiarity and registered his accusation. “Excuse me, but I was out trying to recover from your attempt to sell me into slavery. Edith promised to take Bertha out for a run, not that it’s any of your business.”

“She was whining.”

“What?” He had this annoying habit of shaking his head while he talked, as if he were patronizing a small child, and when he forked his hand through his luxurious black hair and looked up to the heavens, her fury boiled over. “Get out! Get out this second or I’ll call the police and have you arrested for breaking and entering.” Milliseconds away from snapping, the last thing she wanted to do was confront the fact that she’d left Bertha at home without a bladder break and starving since breakfast. Or the fact that, for a hideous split second, she’d been paralyzed in the past, watching her life explode in slow motion.

“No. I’m not leaving.”

“You
are
leaving. Right now.”

“No, not until I help you clean up this mess and apologize for hurting you today.” His eyes, a breath-stealing brown, held her like glue, and for a moment, her focus zeroed in on his expression, awash with a raw desperation that made her heart bang hard against her ribs. He had an unrefined charisma about him that suddenly tangled her fury into confusing knots. She fumbled for a response and watched in dismay as Bertha, Saint Benedict Arnold, ran over to him and pawed his chest.

Noah scrubbed the dog behind both ears and even leaned down so the animal could lick his chin.

Anne clenched her teeth. “Some guard dog you are.”

“Let me help you, Anne.” The voice, softly toned, soothed the ragged edge of her nerves. “And then let me tell you why I wanted you to spend the summer with me.”

When he smiled at her, her traitorous mouth said, “Okay.”

6

Anne sat on the porch, watching the stars shift among approaching storm clouds, beacons of hope against the blackness. The smell of rain layered the air, and the breeze carried with it the moist breath of the lake. Anne tugged the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her knuckles and wrapped her arms around her waist. At least she’d stopped shaking.

It had taken a mere hour to subdue her terror after she’d discovered Mr. Standing Bear in her house. She winced, remembering how she’d completely unraveled in front of him. The last thing she wanted was him peeking at her vulnerabilities. Especially when he had turned out to be so . . . so . . . infuriatingly gentlemanly. It would be a thousand times easier to hold a grudge and brand him the local menace if he hadn’t just swept up debris, untangled her bedspread, and washed her bedroom floor with the finesse of a cleaning team. And he’d hummed a hymn—“O, How I Love Jesus”—while he’d done it, something that made her want to burst into idiotic tears.

She got up and leaned on the porch rail, gazing out over the cliff a few yards away and onto the shoreline below. In the intermittent moonlight, the foam looked silver, ringing a mysterious opal lake.

She didn’t know how to tell the handy hero inside her cabin that she wouldn’t be spending the summer baby-sitting his campers. She might be able to forgive him for trying to trap her into a job, and she might even be able to overlook the felony of breaking and entering.

But she simply couldn’t spend one hour, minute, or second in the company of someone who reminded her of everything she’d escaped from. Someone who oozed danger, despite the sincerity in his eyes.

The screen door slammed. Mr. Bear walked out, two paper bags filled with trash—shards of glass, wood fragments, paper towels dripping with dog slime—under his arm. He tossed her a lopsided grin as he bounded down the steps and shoved the bags into the metal garbage can. The lid scraped as he replaced it. She braced herself as he hopped back up the stairs.

“Are you okay?” Something about the tenderness, the concern in his musical voice made her tingle to her toes.

She couldn’t look at him as she nodded. She couldn’t deny the possibility that despite his rough exterior, inside lurked a man of honor.

Then again, he did break into her home.

She watched as he knelt beside Bertha and rubbed her behind the ears. The dog licked him on the chin, and he laughed. It sounded so rich and enticing Anne had to smile. “Thank you for cleaning up my house.”

“Would you like to go for a walk?” He indicated the shoreline below. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“Mr. Bear—”

“Noah, please. Call me Noah.”

“Okay, Noah, listen. I know what you’re going to say. I forgive you for breaking into my house, although how you did it freaks me out. But it was for a good cause.” She glanced at Bertha, feeling a twinge of guilt. Even if she did ask Edith to walk the animal, Bertha needed more than a fifteen-minute prison break, especially with the June air calling to her like a hot steak.

“Anne—”

“No, hear me out. I’m pretty sure you came here to convince me to work at your camp, but you can save your breath. I’ve already made up my mind.” She stared at his worn work boots, the ones he’d worn earlier that day while roofing the lodge. The wind chose that moment to reap his scent—fresh soap, the smell of clean cotton, and authentic male aroma that made her feel strangely safe. “I’m sorry but I can’t work for you. I’m going to ask Dr. Simpson for another assignment, and if he can’t give me one, then . . . well . . .”

Actually, she hadn’t worked out anything beyond that. In the first scenario she’d conjured up, she marched into Dr. Simpson’s office at the crack of dawn and unleashed both barrels of indignation. Later images, birthed sometime after Mona Michaels had mixed her a soothing cup of tea, contained elements of sanity, including a constructive discourse on the ethics of assigning a young, single woman to live in the backwoods with a male stranger.

“That’s okay, Anne. I understand. I wanted to trust the Lord to work it out, but my faith took a nosedive and I handled it poorly. I’m going to talk to Dr. Simpson in the morning and tell him to let you off the hook. But I wanted to apologize to you.” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “I treated you with disrespect. Will you forgive me?”

The sincerity in his voice made her search his face—the hard jawline, a smattering of whiskers, and a small scar that insinuated a suspicious past. But those gorgeous eyes drew her in and his chagrined half smile, full of remorse, made her insides tumble. The Noah Standing Bear package might have an intimidating wrapper, but she suspected that inside lurked a man who might be worth knowing. A man of character.

Anne looked away. Learning whether or not her hunches were correct wasn’t worth the risk. “Of course I forgive you.” It didn’t come out at all the way she wanted, but perhaps he’d take the hint and exit before she collapsed into her deck chair and began to weep. Why did she feel like she was the hoodlum here? “What will you do about your funding?”

Noah was so tall that when he turned away from her and leaned on the railing, she suddenly felt the breeze lift her hair, as if he’d been protecting her from its invasive touch. She shivered.

“Well, I guess I need to exercise a little faith. I can’t see God’s plans, but I know that He’s there, even in the dark moments, waiting to rescue me. I have full confidence that if He wants this camp to work, He’ll provide.”

“What if He lets the entire thing crumble? What if all your hard work is for nothing?” Her voice sounded tight, and it wouldn’t take a genius to sift through her question to see her own searching, her own lack of faith. Thankfully, Noah didn’t even glance at her, leaving her unscathed by those probing, way-too-sensitive eyes.

“Well, that’s a pretty universal question, isn’t it?” He folded his work-worn hands and stared toward the lake. His profile, bold and noble and suddenly overwhelmingly Native American, made her heart thump hard. In the soft glow of the starry luminaries, Noah Standing Bear was impossibly, undeniably handsome.

“Where is God in the dark moments, when our dreams crumble, when the worst happens?” His voice became so soft, she leaned closer to hear him. “Where is God when children die, when disease racks a parent . . . or when a woman is attacked?”

He looked at her, and she could barely breathe. She managed a nod.

“He’s there. He’s there in the darkness, saying, ‘Look up! I’ll hold you. Look up!’ His grace is sufficient for even the worst moments.”

Anne flinched, wanting to refute those words. Where was God when she awoke in the hospital, unable to breathe, minus a kidney, morphine flooding her veins? Her throat burned and she looked away. “It might be for you.”

She felt his gaze on her, hot on the back of her neck. Tears bit her eyes. “I’m a Christian, Noah. But I’m not so sure about the sufficiency of God’s grace. What does that mean, anyway? What part of pain and sorrow and grief does God’s grace eliminate?”

“None, Anne. And all.”

She fought a crest of fury. A man like him, tall and capable and oozing strength, couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to feel vulnerable, afraid, alone. The gunshot had been only the topping on a lifetime of fear, a lifetime of seeing God fumble. No, God’s grace wasn’t sufficient. It was a Band-Aid, a placebo the Christian community used to cover the agony of suffering. No one wanted to look grief full in the face or admit its ruthlessness. So they dodged it and called it “God’s sufficient grace.” But she knew from firsthand experience that God checked out of people’s lives when the going got tough. At least, that’s what it felt like.

Anne folded her hands across her chest, battling the grief of spiritual betrayal. “It’s late, and I have to go to bed.”

He didn’t move.

She gritted her teeth. “I’m not debating this with you. I don’t care what you believe.” She thumped her hand on her chest and felt her heart hammering. “I know that God’s grace isn’t enough. Frankly, I don’t have the faintest inkling what God’s grace in the dark moments might look like because I’ve never seen it. I’ve never felt His arms around me, never noticed the bright light that is supposed to calm my fears. I know the truth, and it doesn’t resemble your religious platitudes.”

Noah nodded. “I guess you do.”

What did he mean by that? “Just leave, Noah. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

He made a small noise in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a groan. “Lord, give me a little grace here!”

“Ha!” Anne jutted out her chin. “See?”

He blinked at her, opened his mouth, and gave a huff that sounded suspiciously like . . . laughter?

Anne nearly punched him. “What’s so funny?”

He shook his head. “You are.” He gave her a tender look. “Anne, you are delightful. There’s no denying it. I wish you could see your face, all screwed up and angry. You’re ready to run from God’s grace.” He smiled, and it hinted at a kindness that made her bite her trembling lip. “I don’t know why you are in Deep Haven, but I know that whatever lessons God wants to teach you, He can do it here or anywhere. It doesn’t matter to Him. And that’s also a part of God’s grace. You can’t escape it. You simply can’t run from His love in your life.”

She swallowed, feeling like the insensitive brute had slapped her. “Right. Oh yes, God is just brimming with love for me. What a gift to be . . .” Tears clogged her throat. No, she wasn’t going to return to that moment. The last thing she wanted from the man before her was his pity.

“What?” His voice was so soft it hurt.

She clenched her jaw and turned away. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I don’t see God’s love as easily as you do, I guess.”

He sighed, as if longing to respond. Then he started to leave, and she closed her eyes, immensely thankful that he wasn’t going to chase her down the road of grief to her most private sorrows. A man like him, packed with muscle and menace and immune to vulnerability, wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to respond to her horrors.

Then, as if unable to let her troubles linger between them without comment, he spoke into the wind. The words chilled her to her bones. “Whatever darkness you’ve walked through, Anne, God was there. You just don’t want to open your eyes and see Him. Don’t run from your fears. Face them.”

She recoiled, unable to believe the audacity of his words. She was struck with the sudden impulse to haul up the edge of her shirt to just below her ribs and show him how she hadn’t run from her fears. How she’d planted herself long enough to get a jagged scar that shattered not only her body, but her faith in a good and protective God. She ought to show him exactly where God wasn’t at that ugly moment.
Yeah, sure, God’s love surrounded me, didn’t it?
She didn’t want to open her eyes to see God? She’d begged for His almighty presence as she tumbled into a pit of despair, of blinding darkness. Anne balled her fists at her sides, wanting to barrel them into Mr. I-Have-the-Sensitivity-of-a-Grizzly’s face.

Instead, she said tightly, “My darkness is my business. You couldn’t possibly understand what kind of darkness I’ve lived in.” She folded her arms, pressing against the hollowness in her chest. “I came here to find peace. Please leave.”

He stared at her, his smile erased, his eyes piercing. She clenched her jaw, refusing tears. Then he left without a word. His motorcycle’s roar drowned out the scream of her racing pulse, the only recognizable sign of life in her bereft heart.