Just like he had thirteen years ago, when he’d found Kate and Maxine?
He hadn’t stopped long enough to weigh the odds of his saving Kate versus their drowning.
Hell, he hadn’t been thinking at all; he’d just acted on instinct. Nothing had mattered except getting her away from that river, and if they’d both drowned, well . . . he would have died knowing she hadn’t died alone.
But by some miracle, neither of them had.
Was that what Roger had meant in his note, when he’d written that Luke had already experienced creating a miracle when he’d needed it?
Because honest to God, from when he’d found Kate’s and Maxine’s tracks under that tree to when he’d gone out onto the ice sheet after them, it had felt like time had actually stopped. He’d reached the river in what had seemed like only seconds, even though it had been over a mile away, then taken off his snowshoes, gone out to her, and flung her to safety with absolutely no sense of urgency. His actions hadn’t been rushed or even in slow motion; time had truly ceased to exist.
So why in hell was he so determined to deny that miracles existed?
Because if they did exist, it would mean there really was some unknown factor ruling his beloved science, something that he couldn’t quantify . . . or control.
And God knows he’d spent his entire pre-adult life feeling out of control—from his accidental conception and arrival into the world, to his being raised by three women determined to mother him, to his mother’s marriage to a man who had been equally determined to father him. Even getting a baby sister he hadn’t asked for.
So maybe the real miracle on that river had absolutely nothing to do with Kate, but rather with the fact that, for the first time in his life, he’d stopped being self-centered long enough to uncompromisingly, unpretentiously, and unconditionally love someone other than himself.
A condition that had lasted all of four weeks, until he’d returned to school and fallen right back into his old habit of putting himself first. And he’d tenaciously clung to his self-centeredness all through his career, not collaborating with anyone unless it served him more than it served the greater good, and even going so far as to steal someone else’s work when he’d lost control of his own.
Christ, he deserved to die out here.
But Camry sure as hell didn’t—because she loved him exactly the way he was.
And he sure as hell loved her more than he loved himself.
So maybe it wastime he listened to his heart.
Luke looked at his watch and saw it was four o’clock. He lifted Camry’s hand and kissed the stone ring on her finger, then tucked it back under the sleeping bag, got to his knees, and kissed her warm forehead.
“Okay, sleeping beauty,” he whispered. “It’s time for me to make some magic.” He snuggled Roger’s hat farther down on her head. “Too bad you’re going to sleep right through the miracle I’m about to create.”
He stood up, picked up Tigger, and tucked her back inside Camry’s jacket. Then, after removing the bag of gear from the back of the sled and tossing it in the snow, he patted his leg. “Come on, Max. You’re riding, too.” He set the Lab in the sled, making sure the dog didn’t crowd Camry and Tigger. “Santa Claus is arriving at Gù Brath on the solstice this year, and I’m the reindeer who’s going to make this sled fly. So hang on tight, everyone,” he finished with a laugh, closing the tarp and securing it to the side.
He stepped to the front of the sled, settled the rope over his shoulders, then reached into his pockets for his gloves. After putting them on, he pulled the GPS out of one pocket and the transmitter out of the other.
Luke tossed the GPS in the snow next to their gear, then held up the transmitter. “Okay, Rudolph, you guide my sleigh to Camry’s house, because her mother’s expecting her daughter to blow out thirty-two candles in a two hours and fifteen minutes.”
The infernal thing gave a lively chirp.
Luke tucked it in his pocket with a laugh, then stepped out onto the lake. He took another step, and then another, keeping pace with the soft chirps coming from his pocket.
Chapter Twenty-two
So deep was Luke in the zone of putting one foot in front of the other that it took him a moment to realize that something was interfering with his hearing the steady chirp of the transmitter. He looked up from the moonlit snow in front of him and stopped dead in his tracks.
Max started yipping, and Luke shrugged off the rope and went back and opened the tarp. The Lab immediately jumped out and ran toward the bright lights of town, barking frantically. Luke peered in to see that Camry was still sleeping, her relaxed face rosy pink as Tigger’s wagging tail made her jacket move. He petted the dachshund. “You did good, girl. You’ve kept her toasty warm. Hang on, we’re almost there.”
Luke closed the tarp and started after Max, soon walking up over the shoreline, past the shops, and directly onto Main Street. He then held up his hand to stop the pickup slowing down to let him cross.
But instead of crossing the road, he walked to the driver’s window. “I need a ride to TarStone Mountain Ski Resort,” he said when the driver rolled down his window. He gestured toward the sled. “My wife is injured. Could you please give us a lift?”
The man put the truck in park and got out, only nearly to trip over Luke’s snowshoes. “Sure,” he said, going to the sled and pushing Max out of the way to fold back the tarp. He suddenly reared upright. “Hell, that’s Camry MacKeage,” he said, spinning back toward Luke. “You say she’s your wife?”
Luke tossed his snowshoes into the bed of the truck and walked over and pulled the tarp completely off. “You got a problem with that?” he asked, lifting Tigger out of her jacket and shoving the dog into the man’s arms.
The man grinned. “No, sir. But I certainly do wish you luck.” He nodded toward the sled. “Camry wrenched my brother’s knee during a brawl at my bar about six months ago.” After shifting Tigger to one arm, he held out his hand. “Pete Johnson.”
Luke shook his hand. “Luke Renoir. So, Pete, does that mean you’re not going to give us a lift?”
“Oh, jeez, no,” he said with a laugh. “My brother deserved both the wrenched knee and the scathing lecture I gave him once he sobered up. Come on,” he said, opening the back door of the crew cab to set Tigger inside. He motioned for Max to jump in, then walked back to the sled. “Jeez, she must be hurt bad if she’s not waking up,” he said, just as Luke straightened with Camry in his arms. “Hold your damn horses!” he shouted at the car behind them when the driver honked his horn. He rushed around to open the passenger’s-side door. “What’s the matter with her?”
“She has a broken ankle and maybe a couple of cracked ribs,” Luke told him, gently setting Camry on the seat and sliding her to the middle. He crawled in beside her, then tucked her under his arm and laid her bundled right leg over his own. “Could you just pull the sled to the sidewalk? I’ll come back and pick it up later.”
Pete closed the door, ran to the sled, picked it up, and tossed it in the bed of his truck, then climbed in behind the wheel. “If she’s got a broken ankle, I better drive you to the hospital in Greenville,” he said, putting the truck in gear.
“No, I need to get her home before she goes into total shock. She has an aunt there who’s a trauma specialist, who can help her while we call for an ambulance.”
“Libby MacBain,” Pete said. “I know her, and yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Doc Libby’s kept more than one person alive while waiting for an ambulance.” He glanced over at Luke, then back at the road. “What happened? Was it a snowmobile accident or something? You look like you’ve been walking awhile.”