North Country Hero. Lois Richer
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near her head, dragging on it as he stood. A moment later he walked past her down the aisle, paused politely for a woman with a child to precede him, then followed her into the next car. Sara’s curiosity mushroomed.
When the angle of his body and the dim overhead lights didn’t give her a good view of his face, Sara decided she’d pay more attention when he returned. That way she could ask Laurel about him when they arrived in Churchill.
But though she waited long hours, the man did not return. Frustrated that her formerly fascinating book on the northern lights no longer held her attention because he kept intruding into her thoughts, she finally exchanged that book for another in her bag, a romance about a hero determined to find the love of his life, who’d disappeared five years ago.
Yet even that couldn’t stop Sara’s mind from straying back to him. He was returning to Churchill. Because someone he loved had lived there, someone he’d had to leave behind? For a while she let the romantic daydream she’d been reading become his story. What would it be like to be loved so deeply that someone actually came to find you?
The train seemed to hum as it rolled along the tracks. Outside, darkness began to drape the landscape. Weariness overcame Sara. She leaned back to rest her eyes and again her thoughts returned to him. She’d heard deep longing in his voice when he’d mentioned settling things, as if he ached for someone.
Sara didn’t understand a lot of things, but she understood that feeling.
She ached, too, for somebody to love her.
Maybe, just maybe, she could find the love she sought in Churchill.
* * *
“Churchill, Manitoba. End of the line.”
Kyle Loness grimaced at the prophetic nature of the conductor’s statement. This seemed like the end of the line for him, for sure.
He peered out the window, waiting for everyone else to leave before he rose and reached for his duffel bag. The bed in his sleeper hadn’t afforded much rest. Now the bag’s extra weight dragged on him, making his bad leg protest as he went down the aisle to the door. He winced at arrow-sharp stabs of pain. Though it felt as if there were still glass shards in his calf from the explosion, he knew that was a mirage.
He knew because there were no nerves below his knee. In fact, there was no leg. A prosthesis allowed Kyle to walk. Yet the phantom pains were very real, and for a moment, just before he stepped onto the platform, he wished he’d downed another pain pill.
“Can I help you?”
The whisper-soft query came from a young woman dressed in clothes clearly inadequate for this place. Her long caramel-brown hair flew every which way, tormented by a gust of icy wind off Hudson Bay. Her gray-shot-with-silver eyes blinked at him, wide and innocent-looking between the strands. She shuddered once, before steeling herself against the elements.
“Thanks, but I’ll manage.” Kyle immediately regretted his gruff refusal as surprise flickered across her face. But she said nothing. She simply nodded once and waited for him to move.
To prove he was fully capable of maneuvering, Kyle stepped down too quickly. He would have toppled onto the platform if not for the woman’s quick reaction. She stepped forward, eased her shoulder under his arm and took most of his weight as he finished his ungainly descent.
While Kyle righted himself, his brain processed several fleeting impressions. First, she seemed too frail to survive Churchill. Her thin face looked gaunt and far too pallid in the blazing sun. The second thing Kyle noted was that she jerked away from him as soon as he was stable, as if she didn’t like him touching her.
Well, why would she? He wasn’t exactly hunk material, especially not since a roadside bomb had blown off his leg and scarred most of the rest of him.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, embarrassed that he’d needed her assistance.
“You’re welcome.” She didn’t smile. She just stood there, watching him. Waiting.
Kyle turned away, pulled up the sliding handle of his suitcase and leaned on it. He needed a moment to regroup before negotiating the long walk through the old train terminal and down the street toward his dad’s house.
Except—his breath snagged in his throat—his dad didn’t live there. Not ever again.
A knife edge of sorrow scraped his already-raw nerves. Kyle sucked in a breath and focused on getting out of here.
There were taxis in Churchill—two of them. But he was pretty sure both would have been commandeered by the first people off the train. He could wait for them to come back, but the thought of doing so made him feel as though he couldn’t rely on himself. He’d grown up learning how to be independent and he wasn’t about to give that up, despite his disability.
Kyle felt the burn of someone staring at him and knew it was her. The woman’s scrutiny puzzled him. Once they glimpsed his ugly scars, once they realized he was handicapped, most people—especially women—avoided looking at him. She didn’t. His surprise ballooned when her fingers touched his sleeve.
“May I know what happened?” she asked in that whisper-soft voice.
“I was in Afghanistan. I lost part of my leg.” The words slipped out automatically. He steeled himself for the mundane murmur of I’m sorry, which everyone offered.
It never came.
“I’m so glad you’re safe now,” she said.
The compassion in her eyes stunned Kyle as much as the brief squeeze she gave his arm.
“God bless you.”
God? Kyle wanted to snort his derision. But her sincerity choked his reaction. Why shower his frustration with God on her? It wasn’t her fault God had dumped him.
“Thanks.” Stupid that her fleeting touch should make him feel cared for.
Alone. You’re alone, Kyle. Get on with it.
They were the only two people left on the platform. Kyle led the way inside the terminal. She held the door for him but he refused to say thanks again. He didn’t want her help. Didn’t need it. Coming here was all about taking back control of his life. About not being dependent.
On anyone.
“Hey, Kyle.”
“Hey, Mr. Fox.” Kyle added the traditional Native greeting in Cree then waved his hand at the stationmaster he’d known since he’d moved here when he was ten. He ordered himself not to wince when the old man ogled his scarred face. Get used to it, he told himself. Folks in Churchill weren’t known for their reticence.
“What was that?” The young woman stood next to him, her head tilted to one side. “Those words you said?”
“That was Cree, a Native language. It means something like ‘How goes it?’” Kyle kept walking, pausing just long enough to greet his former schoolteacher in French before moving on.
“How many languages do you speak?” the woman asked.
“A few,” he admitted.
As a toddler, Kyle’s first words were in French, thanks to his European mother. Then as a child, while his father consulted for the military, he’d become fluent in both Pashto and Dari. After that, learning a new language had come easily. In fact, his knack for languages was what had changed Kyle’s status from reservist to active duty, and sent him to Afghanistan two years ago.
“It must be nice to speak to people in their own language.” The woman trailed along beside him, held the station door open until he’d negotiated through it, then followed him to the waiting area out front.
“Yeah.” He glanced around.
The parking lot was almost empty. Trains came to Churchill three times a week—often not on time, but they came. Natives of the town were used to the odd schedule and disembarked quickly after the seventeen-hour ride