Tying the Knot (21 page)

“So I walked into the room, and there was this fella standing there. He sorta looked at me as if sending off signals.”

“What kind of signals?” From the tone of Melinda’s voice, Anne had her wrapped in suspense. Probably a tale of love from her high school years. Curiosity pulled at him, but Noah fought it and lifted his hand to knock.

“He had these incredible brown eyes . . . and he looked at me as if saying, stop.”

“Did you stop?” Katie asked. Noah could picture her sitting on the end of her bed, green eyes wide with intrigue.

“I had to.” Something in Anne’s voice made Noah pause, and a sick feeling welled up in his stomach. “Standing behind the door was this punk, totally freaked-out on drugs and waving a pistol.”

Noah’s breath clogged in his chest.

“I must have scared him because the kid looked at me and
pow!
He pulled the trigger.”

“He
shot
you?” Melinda’s voice betrayed the horror that thundered in Noah’s ears.

No, it couldn’t be.

“Right in the stomach.”

Noah didn’t have to close his eyes to conjure up the picture of the pretty EMT sprawled in a pool of blood, an ugly wound gurgling life out of her abdomen.

Noah braced his hand on the doorframe, unable to swallow the avalanche of pain. Anne was that EMT, the lady he’d seen blown away. By his own failure. By a boy he’d tried to save.

His legs gave way, and Noah sat down hard on the edge of the stoop. No wonder Anne looked spooked when he’d first met her. She didn’t recognize him, of that he felt sure. But she’d turned white, as if she’d seen a ghost and he had no trouble pinning down the reasons why. Seeing him had transported Anne back to her stumble through the shadow of the valley of death. Seeing him reminded her of pain, fear, and danger.

And he’d forced her to work for him. Forced her to stick around and tend the scrapes of the very hoodlums she feared. He should tell Anne to leave. Pack her suitcase and head for the hills.

But he needed her.

He sank his head into his hands.

“Noah, what are you doing out here?”

Anne had opened the door and leaned out, looking down at him with a smile that said she hadn’t the faintest idea that he was the man who’d seen her at death’s door—who had, in fact, opened it for her.

He swallowed, found his voice in the pit of his stomach. “I . . . uh . . .” He tried to smile, but all he could manage was a weak grimace.

She looked so trusting, so pure and honest, with eyes that drew him in and made him feel like a snake.
Why, O Lord, did You bring her here? It’s not fair to either one of us!
“I’m just here to say good-bye.” Noah scrabbled to his feet and immediately glued his eyes to his boots, wrestling to find the guts to finish the sentence. “I have to go get the campers.”

“Oh,” Anne said, as she let the door close behind her. “Where’s that?”

He cleared his throat and half turned so he could make his escape without seeing her expression. “Minneapolis.”

15

Anne lay on her cot watching the moonbeams sweep the floor, wondering about Noah’s warp-speed exit. As if suddenly, by breathing her air, he’d catch leprosy or the plague.

She clenched her jaw against the only explanation that filled her brain. Maybe she’d embarrassed him. She’d clung to him, weeping unashamedly, this afternoon after her near-death plummet. Perhaps whatever fledgling feelings that might have germinated toward her had been weeded clean by her cheap display of cowardice. Of blinding, needy emotion.

Yes, he’d practically carried her home, and she thought she’d read worry in those sweet eyes. But the man who’d flirted with her for a week now was not the man she said good-bye to this afternoon. The morphed persona on the steps of the cabin had told her, in no uncertain terms, that something about her made him edgy. From the look on his face, it wasn’t due to a wild desire to pull her into his arms.

This particular brand of agitation made him want to run.

All the way to Minneapolis.

Her eyes filled, recalling their conversation. The wind had smacked out of her when he announced he was headed to Minneapolis. “What?” she’d rasped in a croak.

The look he gave her felt so raw, so vulnerable that she could barely make out his words. “I’m headed down to the Twin Cities to pick up the campers.” He swallowed and ducked his head, as if somehow dreading the impact those words might have on her.

And then, with those words, right there before her eyes Noah morphed back into the gangster she’d been dodging. Suddenly the scar on his cheek, the motorcycle, even his swagger screamed drug lord, or worse, murderer. She froze.
No.
It had to be her fears, her past scrambling her vision. Noah may look dangerous, but over the past week she’d realized it was an act for the benefit of the campers. Identification. A youth-director gimmick.

But he’d never contradicted her when she accused him of being a convict the night he broke into her cabin . . . but truth be told, she’d been . . . well . . . exaggerating. The Noah that was her friend, the one who taught her how to roast marshmallows and who chopped wood like Paul Bunyan couldn’t be from Minneapolis. Well, maybe the suburbs. But not the inner city. He was simply too nice. Pure hero. Besides, God wouldn’t do that to her. Not after what she’d been through.

Anne had forced a smile, shaking away her idiocy. “When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

Why didn’t he look at her? After he’d nearly carried her home, concern ringing his eyes and tightening his arm around her, she felt sure he . . . she nearly choked on the confusing emotions knotting her throat. He’d shot her a half smile, but it spoke more of chagrin. “Try and get some rest while I’m gone, okay?”

Then he’d turned, hands balled at his sides, and strode away. Anne watched him go, wanting to call after him, yearning to ask the questions just now forming in her heart. Who were these kids he was picking up and why did Noah Standing Bear look like he’d seen a ghost?

Anne wiped a pool of disloyal tears, turned onto her side, and smacked her pillow. Well, she wasn’t here for him, was she? She was here to serve the kids in the camp. Even if they were from Minneapolis didn’t mean she had to instantly assume the worst. The picture made perfect sense. City kids, probably from a nice suburban church, needed a wilderness experience, a camping atmosphere outside their manicured lives to test their faith. If living in army tents, battling mosquitoes, and bathing in icy water didn’t push them to the edge, the five-story vault off the ropes course would certainly encourage them to wrap their fingers around their faith.

Anne battled the recurring image of Noah as drug lord, gangbanger, hustler. Yes, with a nylon hat, a tattoo, and baggy pants, Noah might fit the Phillips profile. But his gentle smile, his patience, even his wisdom belied the truth. She had more street experience in her little finger than he had in his entire muscle-bound body, even if he did look the part.

That street history told her that Noah Standing Bear harbored secrets behind his grimace. She couldn’t be imagining the feelings budding between them—no, not after the kiss he’d given her last night. Sweet and gentle, and she’d felt a tremble that told her it meant as much to him as it had to her.

The memory of his touch curled her insides in a swirl of pleasure. She wasn’t imagining the way he looked at her or the stirring of her own feelings. When Noah returned, she was going to look him straight in the eye and ask him what he was hiding.

Because—she couldn’t deny it any longer—she was here for Noah. And this time she wasn’t going to run from the fears lurking behind the doorway of her heart.

Noah vise-gripped the steering wheel of the ancient bus, trying not to be unsettled by the potholes and dips in the logging road that ran the final five miles to Wilderness Challenge. Behind him the twenty tired kids had quieted after five hours of sweltering, uncomfortable travel under the relentless commands of Noah’s capable bouncers, Bucko and Ross.

The kids had been patted down for weapons, had their gang colors confiscated, been deloused, and now, as the birch arms enclosed them, each mile they drew closer to the edge of the world, fear tightened its stranglehold on Noah. These urban warriors were no match for the real jungle wiles.

Three years ago, when Noah had first trekked into these woods with his motley youth group, he’d watched a sixteen-year-old Vice Lord minister reduced to tears at the hoot of an owl and knew he’d found the golden ticket. Noah smiled at the perfection of God’s plan. He never ceased to marvel at the effect the wilderness had on kids—especially street kids. Kids who had never seen the beauty of a loon, never heard the song of the night absent sirens, traffic, and the scream of neighbors. These kids didn’t know the world wasn’t painted entirely in gang symbols, rutted cars, and broken homes. Surrounded by mosquitoes, the sounds of the wind lashing the trees and forest animals lurking about their tents, these junior highers in the back would be hanging on Noah’s every word in less than twenty-four hours.

“Hey, Noah! Where ya taking us? The dark side of the moon? I mean, man, do you even got electricity up here?” Darrin Marlow hung his arm over the rail separating the bus driver and the passenger seat. “I thought you said we were going to camp. I don’t see nothin’ but trees.”

“Calm down.” Noah flicked the kid a look in the overhead mirror. “I promise you’ll have a good time.”

“Yeah, sure.” Darrin flopped back in his seat, arms folded across his chest, in the throes of a deep pout, looking every inch a thirteen-year-old homeboy with a rugged history. His size alone had made him a fine catch for the Vice Lords, and it was only Noah’s shadow standing sentry every night after school that had kept the kid out of the gang’s lasso. For now.

Darrin’s father, a man who’d loved his kids, had been found facedown in the Mississippi two years ago, a gang-related murder statistic. The man, the owner of an electronics store, had said no too many times. It hadn’t taken Darrin’s mother long to shop other options. Noah didn’t blame her—she needed a father for her kids, but Darrin wasn’t having any part of the replacement, a man from Noah’s church. Tricia had called Noah twice last year to drag Darrin home after he’d shown up drunk at Casey’s, the local pinball/pizza hangout. Noah counted his blessings that the kid wasn’t hanging out in darker playgrounds.

Darrin slipped on his headphones. His CD player was probably on the last of its juice because he fiddled with the toggle and made a face.

“You’re gonna lose it in about ten minutes anyway, big D,” Noah said. He didn’t wait for Darrin’s response. He knew the entire assembly would take off his head when he confiscated their electronics. But gangster rap and hip-hop were the last things these kids needed. He wasn’t a great singer, but he had a few new tunes that might catch their interest. These kids weren’t ready for Michael Card, but Christian rap might turn their ears.

Noah steered over a rut and heard a trio of ten-year-olds in the back give a screech of delight as they bounced. He couldn’t hide a smile. These kids weren’t so hardened that they didn’t break free of their cool-as-ice shells and enjoy childhood. Junior high or even younger was the optimum age for moral and spiritual change. At ten to fourteen, kids were still searching, still available, still fueled by a remnant of hope. High school punks had a firmly gelled worldview and an outer layer so thick it took a sledgehammer to break through.

Maybe someday, if this summer didn’t crumble, he’d begin to dream bigger, into that demographic also. Right now, just thinking about the next month turned him cold. He had no illusions that this little party could turn into a brawl with one serious dissing between campers. With kids from all over the Phillips neighborhood crammed into this rusty 1974 school bus, he couldn’t count the different gang affiliations on one hand. These kids might be decloaked, disarmed, and displaced, but it would only take a few negative hand gestures for battle lines to be drawn.

God and all His heavenly armies had better be in shape because this summer might see a battle to rival the L.A. riots.

Or it might succeed. He glanced at Darrin, then at his little sister, Latisha, sitting behind him, singing softly to herself, her dark fingers weaving a friendship bracelet. Wilderness Challenge might force these kids to the end of themselves where they’d find nowhere to fall but into the arms of their Savior.

Noah muscled the bus through an embrace of foliage, brush screeching as it scraped the sides. He could see the sign ahead, rough cut by his own jackknife into a piece of stained oak: “Wilderness Challenge: Psalm 62:8.” The verse came readily to mind:
“O my people, trust in Him at all times. Pour out your heart to Him, for God is our refuge.”

Gratefulness welled up inside him. Without a doubt, God had been his refuge, and only pure trust in God’s goodness had brought Noah to this moment. He had so many people to thank, starting with God and going down through supporting churches, his own staff at the Christian Fellowship Center, and finally Ross, Bucko, Melinda, Granny D., Katie, the rest of the counselors, and not in the least Anne. Without her, he wouldn’t even have the gas money to yank these kids off the streets for the summer. God had certainly surprised him with Anne. A lady who laughed at his stupid jokes, who was as tenacious as a badger, and who had more guts in that petite body than he’d first given her credit for.