North Country Hero. Lois Richer
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Sara hugged herself tighter into her thin coat. “It can’t be more than a few degrees above freezing outside!”
“That’s warm for Churchill in May.” Kyle twisted to look at her. “Enjoy it. When it gets hot, the bugs come out. That’s not fun.”
A tiny groan pushed through Sara’s bluish-tinted lips before she subsided into silence.
When they finally pulled into the drive of a building that dated back to World War II, Laurel pointed out the renovations she’d incorporated into the old army barracks.
“It will do to begin with. Later I hope to expand and add on.” She pulled open the heavy door. “Come on in. I’ll give you both the grand tour. Then we’ll have coffee.”
Having gained respite from his pain during the car ride, Kyle followed Laurel and Sara into the massive structure, proud that he wasn’t limping too badly and therefore wouldn’t garner anyone’s sympathy. He’d had enough sympathy for a lifetime.
“I’m impressed with what you’ve accomplished here,” he told her, admiring the changes in the old building. It came as a relief to end up in the kitchen. He sank gratefully into a chair. “Really impressed,” he added, noting the professional-looking kitchen. He was also aware that Sara had arrived before them and was now busy at the kitchen counter.
“Me, too.” Laurel grinned.
“So this is your dream, to help at-risk kids. Marla said it’s been a long time coming.” He pulled his gaze away from the silent Sara and wondered at her deference to Laurel.
“Yes, it is my dream.” Laurel’s blue eyes grew misty. “This is a big answer to my prayers.”
“Really?” She’d prayed to come to Churchill? Kyle bent forward to listen.
“Really.” Her smile had a misty quality to it. “Just after our son was born, my husband was killed in a car accident. I was a single mom, alone and with a child to support.” Her voice caught. “Brent was killed when he was sixteen, a victim of gun violence on the streets. His killer was thirteen. He’d been in the system for years, learned more violence with each visit.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kyle murmured, aghast.
“So am I.” Laurel reached out and squeezed his fingers. “But Brent’s death spurred me to a new goal. To create a place where young offenders could learn new ways instead of sinking deeper into violence. So here I am, almost fifty years old, starting a new career.” She smiled.
“I’m glad.” Kyle thought he’d never seen anyone who looked more at peace.
“Coffee?” Sara murmured from behind him.
Kyle tried to ignore the citrus scent that floated from Sara’s hair directly to his nostrils as she reached to set a cup in front of him. Brief contact with her hand ignited a spark that shot up his arm. Confused and irritated by the burst of reaction he did not want to feel, he edged away, shifting positions at the battered table.
“Thanks.” He couldn’t help the huskiness in his voice.
He did not like the reactions Sara evoked in him.
When he’d been injured, his fiancée had flown to his side in Kabul. Repulsed by the extent of his injuries, she’d dumped him and left on the next flight. That still burned. No way was he going to let himself get involved again. Besides, he was only back in town to close this chapter of his life.
“You’re welcome.” Sara handed Laurel a brightly colored mug of steaming brew then sat across from Kyle in a prim position, feet together, back ramrod straight.
Sara hadn’t poured a cup of coffee for herself. Instead, her long, thin fingers wrapped around a glass of plain water. Here in the kitchen, under the bright fluorescent lights, Sara might have passed for a teenager, except her serious eyes and the hint of worry lines around them told him she was older. Those eyes said she’d seen the rough side of life.
If Laurel had been a social worker, was Sara one of her “cases”? His questions about the younger woman mounted, matching the hum of the printer working overtime in Laurel’s office around the corner. He studied Sara more closely. She didn’t wear makeup. But then she didn’t need it. She had a natural beauty—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes and wide mouth, all visible now that she’d scraped back her hair into a ponytail.
The room’s silence forced Kyle to refocus. He realized that Laurel had asked him his plans.
“I’m inquiring because Marla suggested you might be willing to give us a hand. I thought perhaps you could teach my boys what living in the North Country means.” Her smile flashed. “I’ve heard you’re the best tracker these parts have ever seen.”
Sara’s unusual eyes widened and refocused on him.
“Was, maybe.” Kyle grimaced at his messed-up leg then frowned at her. “Who told you about my tracking?”
“Everyone in town talks about you, Kyle. They’re so proud of your service overseas.” She went on to list all the things she thought he could teach her young offenders.
“Wait.” Kyle had to stop her. “I wish you success, Laurel. But I can’t take that on right now. Even if I could still do what I once did. Which I can’t.”
“I see.” She didn’t say anything more, nor did her face give away her thoughts.
Sara’s forehead furrowed in a frown as if she had a question. But she didn’t speak.
“And as for plans, I don’t have any firm ones yet.” He took a gulp of his coffee, glanced at his watch and knew he had to leave now, while the pain was still manageable. “I’m taking things one day at a time.”
Just then a low, menacing rumble filled the room, followed by a loud pop.
“Oh, it’s that dratted printer again. I’m beginning to wish I’d never seen the thing. It’s become my worst nightmare.” Laurel jumped up and raced to her office.
Sara’s wide eyes met his. “Excuse me.” She followed Laurel. It seemed as if she was eager to get away from being alone with him.
Kyle decided there was no point in sitting in the kitchen by himself. He walked to the office and paused in the doorway behind Sara, slightly shocked by what he saw. Two computers took up most of the floor space. They lay open, as if someone had been tinkering. A half-destroyed keyboard sat on top of a file cabinet beside a hard drive with six screws taped to it. In the corner, an assortment of cords and cables spilled out of a tattered cardboard box. He couldn’t decide if someone was tearing apart PCs or putting them together.
“Can we do anything?” Sara asked after exchanging a tiny smile with Kyle.
“I have no idea what’s wrong this time,” Laurel said, glowering at the now-silent printer. “I suppose I’ll have to call Winnipeg and get another sent out.” She exhaled. “That will take at least three days.”
“I can clean things up,” Sara offered. “But I’d be no help with fixing anything electrical.”
“I might be. My dad tinkered with computer stuff and I often helped him.” The words poured out before Kyle could stop himself. “Want me to take a look?”
“Would you?” Laurel stood back. “It’s jammed,” she explained.
“Yeah, I see that.” Kyle hid his grin as he eased past Sara. He pulled over an office chair and sank onto it, bending to examine the innards of the machine. With painstaking slowness he eased bits and pieces of paper free. After a moment of watching him, Sara brought a trash can so he could throw out the scraps. “Thanks.”
She didn’t smile, simply nodded. But those gray-silver eyes of hers followed every move he made between quick glances at the monitor. Since it was filled with an error message, Kyle couldn’t figure out what was so captivating. He refocused on the printer, removing the ink cartridge and