North Country Hero. Lois Richer
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 from Thompson, anxious to get home as fast as they could.
Tourists usually took longer to figure out the lay of the land. Local businesses got them settled, signed them up for some excursions if they could and fed them. Churchill made a lot of money from tourists. Except that somehow Kyle didn’t think the woman behind him was a tourist, he decided after taking a second look. It seemed as though she was looking for someone.
So who was she?
Once Kyle had known all the town regulars. But he hadn’t been home in two years, and a lot of things had changed. Things like the fact that his dad was never again going to stand beside him while they watched a polar bear and her cubs play among the ice floes in the bay.
Dad was gone and Kyle was damaged goods—too damaged now to scout the back country, climb the rocky shore or do anything else requiring intense physical effort. He wasn’t even sure he could manage the walk home.
He paused to reconnoiter while his hand massaged his hip, as if it could short-circuit the darts of pain now shooting upward.
“Is something wrong?” Her again. Her quiet question was neither intrusive nor demanding. Just a question.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Kyle grimaced. Again he sounded sharp, irritated. He didn’t mean to, but the rawness of the place matched his mood. Still, he’d better get rid of that chip on his shoulder. This woman was not his enemy. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Okay.” That calmness of hers—where did it come from? What made her so accepting, so gentle in the face of his irritation?
None of your business. Stop thinking about her.
But he couldn’t because the soft slap of her sneakers against the pavement told Kyle she was right behind him.
“Are you following me?” he asked, turning to stare at her.
“Sort of.” The wind had tinted her cheeks pink, but now the color intensified into a rose blush. “Someone was supposed to pick me up.” She checked the plain watch around her too-thin wrist.
Kyle thought he glimpsed the faint white mark of a scar, but then it was gone as she shifted her small overnight bag from one arm to the other.
“I’m late and they’re not here.”
“Stay here. They’ll come to the station for you. Everyone in Churchill knows when the train comes in.” He studied her again, curious about this waiflike woman. “Who are you waiting—?”
“Sara!” The yell came from a blond-haired woman who screeched her van to a halt, jumped out and rushed over from the parking lot. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” She flung her arms around the younger woman in a bear hug. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.” Those silver-gray eyes grew shiny.
Tears? Why? he wondered.
“You must be Kyle Loness. Marla told me you were coming.” The new arrival laid a brief hug on him, too, then laughed. “Welcome to you, too, Kyle.”
Oddly enough the embrace felt good, even though it knocked Kyle slightly off balance.
“Thanks. I’m guessing you’re Laurel Quinn.” He smiled when she slid an arm around Sara’s waist and planted a hearty kiss on her cheek in the same way his mom had done to him before cancer had sapped her strength. “You’re the woman who’s starting the youth center, right?”
“That’s me. I see you know Sara.” Laurel glanced back and forth between them.
“Uh, not really,” he said, suddenly too aware of the younger woman standing silent, watching him. “We just got off the train together.”
“Well then, Sara, meet Kyle Loness. Kyle, this is Sara Kane. She’s going to be our cook at Lives Under Construction.” Laurel beamed as she proudly said the name.
“Lives Under Construction,” he repeated, remembering his conversation with Marla. “What exactly is that?” he asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He didn’t want to get involved.
“It’s an alternative approach to serving time for young offenders,” Laurel told him.
“Here?” He glanced around, struggling to put together the few pieces Marla had given him. “You’ve made Churchill your base?”
“Yes. It’s perfect. The boys can’t run away because there is no place to run to. With our quarters outside of town, it won’t be easy for them to create much mischief, either.” Like him, Laurel didn’t miss Sara’s shudder. “It’s cold out here and Sara’s not dressed for this wind. Why don’t you come with us, Kyle? You can see my project for yourself. I’ll drive you home later.”
Home. The word made his stomach clench.
“Kyle?” Laurel frowned at the long silence. Her gaze slipped to his leg. “Okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
But it wasn’t okay at all. He’d had the prosthesis on for too long. His stump was shooting pins and needles to his hip. He’d never make the walk to his dad’s house in this condition. Might as well take the proffered ride and see what Laurel had created. There was nothing waiting for him at home, anyway. Not anymore. “I’d like to see your Lives Under Construction.”
He didn’t tell her he was also coming because he was curious about Sara, and her role in Laurel’s center for troubled youth.
They walked together to Laurel’s battered vehicle. Kyle took a second look at Sara, who shivered as the wind toyed with her coat. Ms. Kane didn’t look as though she could survive a group of young offenders or the rigors of cooking for hungry teens.
Actually, she looked as if she needed another hug.
Don’t get involved.
Despite the warning in his head, Kyle wondered what Sara’s story was. He’d first spotted her yesterday when they’d boarded the train. During the ride he’d seen her twice more and thought she’d seemed a little tense. But she’d visibly relaxed the moment Laurel appeared and now gazed at her with a mix of neediness, adulation and hope.
Sara grabbed his bag and put it in the back of Laurel’s van with her own small satchel. “You take the front.” She waited until he had, then crawled into the seat behind. She remained silent as Laurel talked about her project. She didn’t lean forward to hear. Obviously she knew all about the plans for Lives Under Construction. But then she’d have to if she was cooking there.
“We get our first six boys later this week.” Laurel steered out of the parking lot and took a right turn. “A mix of twelve-and thirteen-year-olds.”
Churchill’s only highway ended about fifty miles out of town. Kyle knew they wouldn’t go that far. Only the odd inquisitive tourist did that.
“None of these kids are model citizens.” Laurel shrugged. “They wouldn’t be in the system if they were.”
He remembered that Marla had said Laurel was a former social worker. So of course she would know about the legal system as it