Tying the Knot (2 page)

He raised his hand. “Stay back.” His voice seemed pained.

Anne nodded and motioned for Gary to halt. Her partner’s breath streamed over her neck. She couldn’t place it, but something felt . . . wrong. Indeed, across from her, the man’s broad chest under a gray army T-shirt rose and fell, as if fighting hidden emotions. The chiseled fierceness in his face and his bunched neck muscles told her he bridled a power that could easily explode from those tree-limb arms. Then he reached out to her with a piercing look, and she couldn’t help but think he hoped to send her some sort of extrasensory message.

“My name’s Anne. I just want to help.” She took a step closer. “I’m not going to hurt her.”

Then the woman’s eyes shot open. The fear in their molasses brown depths froze Anne to the spot. The woman shook her head, her face twisted in panic. Or pain.

Anne unsnapped her belt kit and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. “I want to check your heart, okay?”

Anne glanced at the man, who started to shake his head. She clenched her jaw. They didn’t have time to coddle him. Judging by the patient’s shallow, rapid breathing, the woman needed medical attention—now. Anne snapped on her gloves and removed her stethoscope from around her neck. Now that she’d identified herself, she had a legal responsibility to assist. Anne took another step, trying to communicate calm.

“No!” The man’s deep cry made the flimsy walls shudder.

The woman started up on her elbows. Anne ignored the man and rushed to the patient, reeled in by her grimace of pain. But the woman’s wretched gaze fixed past Anne, over her shoulder. Anne turned, and her heart caught in her throat.

“Anthony, no—,” the old woman pleaded.

Anne couldn’t wrench her stare off the scratched silver pistol nor the way it trembled in the teen’s hand as he kicked shut the bedroom door. She fought her racing heartbeat. This wasn’t the first handgun she’d faced.

“Calm down,” Anne said, forcing her voice steady. She assessed his appearance and dread twisted her stomach at what she saw—fast breathing, sweat running over his wide cheekbones, and large, dark pupils in eyes that darted nervously around the room. She’d seen the signs of a drug user before, and this one was higher than the IDS building. She glanced at Gary, who stood frozen in the doorway.
Get out of here!
“This isn’t about you,” she whispered. “I’m just here to help this patient.”

The teen twitched and fixed his weapon on Anne’s chest, his eyes wide. Anne knew her words hadn’t registered.

Although it happened in split seconds, a year later Anne remembered the next moments in glacier-flow slowness, in jerks and agonizing sensory bites.

“No!”
A voice behind her thundered.

She froze. The teen cursed; the gun shook. A blur scraped across Anne’s peripheral.

Gunshot. The sound shattered Anne’s soul.

The man tackled the teen just as pain exploded through Anne’s body, in crescendo with a heart-ripping scream.

Anne hit the floor.

Then the cold wash of darkness.

“‘When peace like a river attendeth my way . . .’”

Singing wrestled Anne back to the living into the claws of searing agony. Her eyes burned under a bright light, and a blood-pressure cuff squeezed her arm. “What—?”

Gary’s face came into view. “Stay still, Anne. You’ve been shot, and I’m taking your vitals before we transport you.”

Her body felt on fire. “I hurt, Gary.” She heard voices and the muffle of song and turned her head to search. Behind her, two uniforms subdued the teen, now cuffed and facedown on the carpet. His slurred curse words punched the air. She strained to focus on the undertone of the hymn, softly sung by a rich tenor.

“Ninety-five over sixty; we need to get her in—quickly.” Gary muttered his assessment of her blood pressure, but Anne heard it and tensed.

“How badly am I hurt?”

Gary didn’t answer. He opened her shirtsleeve and wrapped a tourniquet around her upper arm to establish an infusion line. Anne watched him work, recognizing the beads of perspiration over his pursed lips and the furrow in his brow as worry. His dark eyes occasionally went to hers, and she read in them everything she needed to know and more.

Panic pooled bitterness in her chest.
Oh, God, I’m not ready! There’s so much more I wanted to do with my life!
If only her parents could see her now. She always knew, deep in her heart, she’d die a gunshot victim in the Phillips neighborhood. The irony made her groan.

The singing seemed closer. “‘. . . tho’ trials should come, let this blest assurance control . . .’”

Gary held the drip bag over her head, and the cool liquid surged into her veins. The edge of pain softened. “Who’s singing?”

Gary glanced over his shoulder. “Your hero.”

Her eyelids bobbed. “Hero?”

“The man who tackled the shooter. The bullet nearly hit you chest high.”

“Where am I hit?” It felt like her entire body had been shredded.

“Lower right. You’ll never need an appendectomy.” Gary attempted a smile but failed. She knew how he felt. If he’d entered the room first, she’d be the one administering the IV line and fighting guilt.

“She ready to move?” The gruff bass of fellow EMT David Nelson came from above her. “We’re transporting Mrs. Peters right now.”

“The woman with angina?” Her speech was thickening.

David squatted and touched her arm. “Someone wants to say hello.”

He moved, and in his place appeared “her hero.” His hand found hers and squeezed gently. But his eyes—honey brown, sweet with hope, and undulating with worry—fixed on her. She felt them reach out, along with his song, to comfort her. Ridiculous as that thought seemed, it made tears spring to her eyes. She smiled meekly. “You tried to warn me, didn’t you?”

“You were awfully determined to help my mother.” He brushed her hair from her forehead. His whisper-soft touch made her throat thick. “I’m sorry I didn’t move quicker.”

She must be drugged, Anne thought, for her eyes were glued to his face, taking in the stubble of dark whiskers along his jawline, his lustrous black hair, a small, intriguing round scar on his upper right cheekbone. Close up, a very masculine power radiated from him, mixing confusingly with the tender concern on his face. Topped off by a white smile, he’d turned . . . charmingly attractive.

She gulped. “You were singing?”

He rubbed her hand with his thumb. “It’s a hymn. Can I sing it for you?”

She nodded as Gary moved into her line of vision. “No more talking.” Her partner held up a non-rebreather oxygen mask and worked it over her head. The cold breath of 100 percent oxygen filled her nose and mouth. She closed her eyes.

She heard the tones of the low, melodic tenor, and though it was muffled under the hiss of the oxygen tank and the rattle of the stretcher, the effect seeped into her bones. It followed her as she was loaded onto the stretcher and toted out to the rig. She wasn’t sure if he rode with her or if it was the memory of his voice, but even against the backdrop of the whining siren, she clung to his song, taking it with her as she sank into dark oblivion.

“For me be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live.

If Jordan above me shall roll.

No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,

Thou shalt whisper Thy peace to my soul.”

1

ONE YEAR LATER

Anne Lundstrom turned down the opera music that swelled through her Ford Explorer as she topped the hill overlooking the town of Deep Haven. She’d waited half a lifetime for this moment, and she’d start this new chapter in her life listening to the waves of Lake Superior batter the shore and the cries of complaining seagulls hanging on the breeze.

As she motored through the tourist town, she soaked in the scenery. A donut stand, a dime store, and a rickety hotel told her the town had advanced into the twenty-first century with some reluctance. The log General Trading Store looked like it might be worth checking out, and the Loon Café reminded her of a 1950s soda fountain, with its specials written on a sidewalk chalkboard. The rainbow-trout sign dangling above Mack’s Smoked Fish Stand made her chuckle. Aunt Edith said her town had charm, and Anne was beginning to believe her.

She made a mental note to stop in the bookstore. The blooming peonies along the white porch and the cute little tables on the veranda made her believe the sign on the door: Footstep of Heaven Bookstore and Coffee Shop
.
Maybe here she’d finally have time to read.

Anne felt stress unknot as she meandered through town. She filled up at a gas station/convenience store called Mom and Pop’s and was sad to see Deep Haven in her rearview mirror ten minutes later. Aunt Edith had moved “up the shore” into her dream home two months ago, and when she’d offered Anne free lodging in the vacant guest cabin on her lakeshore property, Anne just couldn’t refuse. Maybe God was finally giving her a break. She’d certainly done her time.

The signs of civilization vanished in a blink. Highway 61 wound along the jagged coastline of Lake Superior, embraced by the indigo lake on one side and mighty balsam and birch trees on the other. Anne savored the jeweled colors of a sapphire lake, the turquoise sky, and emerald trees. Especially in this stretch of the world, God’s master craftsmanship could never be denied.

Anne had healed remarkably since that terrifying afternoon a year ago, yet the scars remained on her body and her heart. The words of Spafford’s hymn she’d heard that day still mocked and called to her in a way she couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps her thirst for peace accounted for the way the hymn—and the singer—never strayed far from her thoughts.

Next to her, Bertha watched the gulls spiraling from the heavens in search of scraps. Anne rubbed the Saint Bernard’s coarse hair. The brute cast her a sad, brown-eyed glance, as if to comment on her state of hunger. “I’m sorry, honey. We’ll be there soon.” Anne rubbed her behind the ears, grateful for the animal’s company.

When she’d adopted the dog six months ago from the local shelter, Anne thought, Bertha’s lumbering size and serious fang teeth gave her a measure of menace. Anne soon realized, with mixed emotions, that a juicy saliva bath was Bertha’s only weapon. Still, having the animal around meant that Anne had someone waiting at home. Someone who would listen to her, love her unconditionally, keep her feet warm, and offer a sense of security. All the benefits of a husband and more. Bertha would never challenge her goals. Never require her to venture beyond her comfort zone and force her to abandon her own dreams. A dog would never ask Anne to make the sacrifices her father had asked of her mother.

Anne would relinquish the hold on her etched-out life for no man, regardless of her childish fantasies of romance and happily ever after. Yes, she had her dream hero—an unnamed tenor with golden brown eyes and long dark hair—but she had less than a one-percent chance he’d stumble back into her life. And, minus him, she felt pretty sure the man she wanted—a man of courage and strength with a burden to minister to the hurting—would suffocate in the safe cocoon she planned to build for herself in Deep Haven.

So, she had Bertha.

She checked her odometer and scanned the road for Aunt Edith’s drive, 6.2 miles out of Deep Haven. As Anne moved up on four miles, she wondered if the hospital was close enough for a bicycle commute. She’d benefit from time inhaling the crisp, pine-scented air.

She’d just passed five clicks when the Explorer lurched, coughed, and sputtered out. It coasted noiselessly along the highway. Anne’s pulse skipped a second before she thought to put the car into neutral. She tried to turn the engine over, but no life sparked from it. Anne groaned and turned the SUV onto the shoulder.
What now? C’mon, God. Gimme a break here.
She’d emptied her bank account to pay for gas for this trip and would survive on Club crackers until her first paycheck. All she needed were major car repairs.

After a moment of resting her forehead on the steering wheel, she trailed a hand through Bertha’s fur, sighed, then popped the hood and got out. Thankfully, she’d chosen the right outfit for fixing her car—a pair of faded jeans and a University of Minnesota sweatshirt. However, although she could describe the human body down to the last corpuscle, she had no idea how to unravel this mess under the open hood.
Now, where is the oil cap?

The highway stretched out like a black ribbon east to west, completely void of vehicles save hers. Anne kicked a tire and threaded her hands into her newly cropped hair. Across the road, the wind combed the trees and reaped the fragrance of the June wildflowers. Behind her, the waves lapped the pearly shore. Well, at least it wasn’t a horrible place to be stranded.

“Hello there! Need a hand?”

Anne whirled. Treading up the beach, spilling rocks under huge brown work boots, a man waved at her. From a distance, he looked large. Linebacker large.

“You broken down?”

Anne shoved her hands in her back pockets and took a deep breath, fighting the swell of her heartbeat. Every instinct screamed at her to dive into the car, lock it, and dial road service on her cell phone. If she were stuck on a lonely strip of I-94 outside Minneapolis, that would be a gut instinct, but out here, she doubted she’d find a signal on the Nokia in the glove compartment.

As the man walked along the ditch toward her, she measured him, watching the wind wrestle with a red baseball cap hitched backward on his head. He’d pushed the sleeves of his gray sweatshirt up past his elbows, revealing powerful tanned forearms, and his faded fatigues completed the look of unemployed mercenary out for a stroll. He held a bucket in one hand, as if he’d been hunting for clams. “What seems to be the trouble?”

She decided to chance it. After all, she’d left the city five hours ago and made a point of discarding her fears there also. Hadn’t God given her this new beginning in Deep Haven? Even the town’s name augmented the feeling of refuge and safety. “She coughed and died on me.”