Lois Richer - North Country Hero

“I’ll be fine, Kyle.”

He had a strong feeling that Sara Kane would be fine, though he couldn’t have said why. Perhaps it was the resolute determination in her manner. Sara Kane wouldn’t give up easily. He admired that.

“Open that cupboard. There should be a jacket in there, a red one.” He didn’t tell her the coat was special. He simply watched as she drew out his mother’s red parka. “Try it on.”

Sara shrugged into the coat. Her transformation was spectacular. A bird of paradise—she looked magnificent, delicate and incongruous in this land of icy winds and frozen tundra. The color lent life to her, enhancing subtle undertones in her hair and making her skin glow with a beauty Kyle had almost missed.

“I don’t think any of our guests ever looked as good as you in that.”

“Your guests?” She pulled the faux-fur collar around her ears and studied herself in the mirror, seemingly bemused by what she saw.

“Dad and I ran a guiding company,” he told her. “There are gloves in the pockets, I think.”

“Guiding? What does that mean?” She pulled on the gloves and bent her fingers experimentally, as if she expected the gloves’ thickness to impede movement.

“Guiding tourists to see the local sights,” he explained. “The northern lights, whale watching in a Zodiac, ATV treks into the wilderness or jaunts to see the polar bears—we did it all.” Bitterness oozed between his words, rendering his tone brittle and harsh, but even though he heard it, Kyle found it impossible to suppress his sense of utter loss.

“Polar bears.” Sara’s eyes were huge. She peeked over her shoulder as if expecting one to pounce from the bedroom.

“Churchill is famous for its polar bears. But it’s late in the season. When the ice goes out they leave to hunt seals. This year it’s very early but the ice is almost gone. Global warming, I suppose.” Kyle hated the fear pinching her pretty face. He rushed to reassure her. “But even if some bears are still hanging around, you don’t have to worry. There’s a town patrol that does a good job of keeping tabs on the bears’ whereabouts. Sometimes you’ll hear gunshots—pops,” he modified when her eyes expanded even more. “The noises deter the bears. I didn’t hear any on the way here yesterday or so far this morning, so it should be okay.”

“Uh-huh.” Sara inhaled and thrust back her shoulders as if she were about to venture into battle.

“Listen, Sara.” Kyle leaned forward. “Before we go outside I want to tell you something.”

“Okay.” It looked like she was holding her breath.

“Churchill is very safe.” He grabbed his jacket off the hook near the door. “But we tell this to everyone who comes here to prepare them. Just in case.”

“In case.” She gulped. “Right.”

“It might seem counterintuitive to you, but if you do happen upon a bear, do not turn your back on him and do not run.” Gently. Don’t terrorize her, Kyle. “Either of those actions will make you look like prey to him.”

“Which I will be,” she pointed out in a whisper, her face now devoid of all color.

“Well, yes.” He had to smile. “But what you want is to look like his adversary. Make yourself as tall as possible. Put your arms in the air and wave them. Yell as loud as you can. But do not run.” Why did he suddenly feel he had to protect her? “Bears love the chase.”

“Okay.” She trembled, her alarm visible.

Kyle had wanted Sara to be cautious. Instead he’d alarmed her.

Her eyes lost their silver sheen and darkened. She looked petrified.

Way to go, Kyle.

“I’d offer to drive you back, but I don’t think I could drive, even if Dad’s old truck was running. He cracked it up just before—” He swallowed, forced himself to continue. “Anyway, I don’t have transport.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Sara didn’t look fine. She looked like someone who had dredged up her last ounce of courage to face the lion’s den.

“Yes, you will be,” Kyle agreed. “Now let’s go take a look at Mom’s greenhouse.” He rose, ignored the twinge of pain in his hip and followed her outside, embarrassed by his slow progress down the stairs and Sara’s obvious attempt to ignore it.

Kyle didn’t intend to be in Churchill long, but by the time he reached the bottom step he’d made up his mind to hire someone to build a ramp. Dragging himself up and down these stairs sucked the energy out of him, not to mention that it made him feel like some kind of spectacle.

“Okay?” Sara opened the gate to his backyard.

“Just dandy.” He chose his steps over the uneven ground carefully. What a fool he’d been to wear these soft leather slippers and risk injuring himself again.

“The structure looks good,” Sara said, her head tilted to one side like a curious bird as she peered at the glass roof. “Of course, I don’t really know anything about greenhouses.”

“A friend wrote that he’d check on things till I could get home. It looks like he’s made sure everything is still solid.” Kyle pressed against the metal frame. Nothing swayed. “I brought the key. Let me check inside.”

The door swung to with a loud creak. Inside, the glass was dingy with years of dust. Debris covered parts of the floor.

“Oh, my.” Sara stared like a deer caught in headlights.

“After Mom passed away, Dad and I never used this for anything much but storage. I should have cleaned it out.” Kyle pulled away the cobwebs. “It’s filthy.”

“It won’t take long to clean.” Obviously recovered, Sara pressed the toe of her shoe against a stack of plastic bins. “What are these?”

“I don’t know. Dad must have packed them.” Kyle turned a pail upside down and sat on it. Then he opened the top bin. A bundle of bubble wrap lay inside. He lifted it out and slowly unwrapped it. A notebook fell out.

Instantly Kyle was a kid again, rushing home from school to find his mom in here, scribbling in her gardening journal while Dad teased her about her addiction to roses. Kyle gasped at the overwhelming pain.

“Kyle, what’s wrong?” Sara hunkered down in front of him. Her hand covered his. “Are you in pain?” she asked ever so gently.

“Yes.” For once he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. His heart ached so deeply he felt as if life had drained out of his body. He fought to be free, but the ache blemished his spirit like a scab on a scar.

“Can I help?”

“I’m okay.” Kyle inhaled, forced away the sadness. “This is my mom’s journal. I didn’t realize we still had it.” He flipped through the pages, chuckling at the funny drawings his mom had made. “She was always trying to produce a new breed of rose.”

“Under these conditions?” Sara lifted one eyebrow in surprise.

“Yes. Look.” He held up the book to show the sketch. “This was going to be her Oliver rose—named in memory of her high school friend. But the Oliver rose couldn’t take Churchill’s harshness. He was too weak.”

He was suddenly aware of Sara, crouched behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“I can’t read her writing.”

“No one could.” He cleared his throat. “Listen. ‘My dear Oliver is a wuss. One chilly night without the heater and he’s lost all his leaves. Pfui! A weakling. And a reminder of what God expects of us, a stiff backbone that weathers life’s challenges. I want a rose that will use the negatives of life to get tough and still bloom. I’ll wait and try again next year. But I fear my Oliver rose is finished.’” Kyle smiled. “She always spoke of her roses as if they were people.”

“It sounds like she had a sense of humor,” Sara said.

“A wicked one. Listen to this.” Kyle read her another passage about a yellow rosebush a friend had sent them. His laughter joined Sara’s. “I remember that bush. Coral Bells. It lasted year after year, no matter what adversity it encountered. My mother put Oliver next to it to give him some gumption. But it didn’t help.” He closed the book, suddenly loath to continue revealing these precious memories. “I wonder what else is in this box.”