The Isaac Project (6 page)

I grinned and dismounted. Tossing the reins over Samson’s head, I gave him some slack and walked him to the water’s edge.

It was a beautiful day, if a bit hot. The lake looked cool and inviting, shimmering like glitter in the sunlight. Dropping down on the grassy bank, I plunked off my boots and stripped off my socks. Ah, already that felt better. I rolled my pant legs up over my calves and stood.

The water was cool and refreshing as I slipped my feet beneath the surface. The silt at the bottom of the lake squished between my toes as I wiggled them, burying them deeper.

“So how am I supposed to go about finding you a husband?” Lisa asked as she came up beside me, her own feet bare as well.

My mind went blank. Okay, so I hadn’t worked out all the logistics yet, but it would work out. It had to.

She turned to me, eyes bright. “I know! I’ll put an ad in the school paper for a mail-order husband. That seemed to work well in the eighteen hundreds. Maybe some flyers hanging on the bulletin boards around campus. Oh!” She slapped her thigh, startling the horses. “A big life-sized cardboard cut-out of you, a dozen red, long-stemmed roses, and my very own version of
The Bachelorette
.”

“Yeah. I’m sure that’ll work great.”

“Seriously though, what do you want in a guy? If you could somehow create the perfect man, what would he look like?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’d thought James was pretty perfect, and look how that turned out.”

“No cheating scumballs.” Lisa checked an imaginary list on her palm. “Got it.”

Samson lost interest in the water and tried to get to a patch of grass. He strained against the bit in his mouth and the reins in my hand. Not wanting my arm to get ripped out of its socket, I stepped out of the lake and sat crossed-legged in the middle of his intended smorgasbord.

I picked a blade of grass and stared off into the distance. “I want a man like Poppy. Someone who puts God first in his life. Who is dependable and can make me laugh. It would be nice if he liked horses and could help me out on the ranch. No stuffy city boy for me, please.”

I flicked the blade of grass at Lisa.

“Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if he were drop-dead gorgeous and a ‘49ers fan,” I added with a waggle of my eyebrows.

“Oh no. That wouldn’t be the least bit painful.”

Enough about me. Lisa had a life, too. A way more interesting one, actually. “So how is Sam?”

A telltale blush bloomed on her cheeks.

“Things getting serious?” I pressed.

She nodded, her eyes shining. “He’s so wonderful, Becky. I think I’m in love with him. He might…I think he might be
the
one, you know?”

I reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m so happy for you.”

And I was. Truly. Except for some reason I couldn’t stop the stinging sensation that suddenly came to my eyes. Or the selfish questions echoing in the dark corners of my mind. What about me? Would someone ever love me? Would there ever be
the one
for me?

Because if I knew one thing, I knew this—the arrangement I’d made with Lisa might produce a husband, but I held out little hope for a happily ever after.

6

Luke

LATE SUMMER SUN shone through the open bay doors. Everyone in the North knows to hoard time in the sun in the summer months because it’s a rare treat come winter. Clipboard in hand, I checked over the equipment in the storage compartment of the pumper.

A long shadow moved across the concrete floor as a tall man entered through one of the bay doors. He strolled over to me with his hands in his pockets, his face darkened by the sun beating down behind him. As soon as he came fully beneath the cover of the fire station, I grinned.

Sam and I were cousins, our mothers being sisters. Both of us, however, resembled our fathers. Sam had the coloring of the all-American boy next door. Sandy hair and eyes the shade of Lake Michigan in July. He was tall and lean—redwood in height and the girth of an Aspen.

I, on the other hand, took after the Irish ancestry on my dad’s side. Dark hair—so dark, in fact, that it seemed almost black, except when the sun hit it at just the right angle so that it shone through with lighter-brown strands woven through. Or so an old high school girlfriend told me once. And where Sam had the smooth face of a newborn baby, my own jawline always sported a shadow. It didn’t matter that I shaved every morning—a couple of hours later I couldn’t tell a razor had touched my face.

We greeted each other with a man hug. The kind where two hands met to make a sort of fist but then got caught in the middle of a manly chest bump with a couple slaps on the back for good measure. I don’t know which guy came up with it, but it sure did stick around. Unlike the secret handshakes my friends and I came up with when we were boys.

“What brings you here?” I asked.

“An invitation. Mom wanted me to come by and invite you over for supper tomorrow at seven.”

I rubbed my chin, pretending to ponder the offer. A man would have to be a fool not to accept an invitation to eat Aunt Margaret’s cooking. It didn’t matter what that woman made, it was always delicious.

“She told me not to leave until you said yes. Said to tempt you by telling you she’d be making arepas and flan for dinner.”

My mouth salivated as I imagined biting into one of Aunt Margaret’s arepas. Before she had Sam, and even before she’d married Uncle David, she’d spent a year as a missionary in Argentina. It was there she learned how to make the tasty little round cakes made out of very fine corn flour, or
mesa
.

I licked my lips. “You couldn’t keep me away now.”

“Good.” Sam gave me one of his boyish grins that always made the ladies swoon. “I want you there, too. Lisa is going to be there.”

“Wait.
The
Lisa? The love of your life, I-don’t- know-how-I-ever-lived-without-you Lisa?”

“Yep.” If it was possible, his grin spread even wider. “You tease, but just wait ‘till you meet the girl who makes your heart stop and race at the same time.”

“That’s not physically possible,” I replied dryly.

Sam opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the tones of the station indicating a full set.

“Response needed for a structure fire at 1252 Ferry Street.”

Leaving Sam to scramble out of the way as the rest of the Engine One team poured into the bay, I sprinted to my turnouts. Kicking off my shoes, I jumped into my boots and jerked the suspenders attached to my protective trousers over my shoulders. Swinging on my jacket, I continued to prepare for the flaming battle ahead.

“See you tomorrow,” I called over my shoulder to Sam as I scrambled onto the bright-red pumper and took the rear-facing seat behind the driver.

Sirens blared and lights flashed as the truck pulled out of the bay and onto the quiet city streets.

God, please let everyone be out of the building. Let no harm or danger befall any of your children today. And if possible, please help us save this house.

People were devastated to see their homes and businesses go up in flames and smoke. Or, sometimes even, to the massive water damage from our hoses as we fought to put out the consuming fires.

But it was always worse if someone was trapped inside. When most people ran out of a burning building, it was our job to run in—even at the risk of personal peril. But if there was someone inside, then the stakes were raised. No one wanted the death of another person on his or her hands. When the worst happened, questions haunted our minds. Did I do my best? Was there anything else I could have done?

Please, God.

The engine stopped. We spilled out of the truck, the reflective strips on our trousers and tunics glaring back at the sun in a staring contest. Quickly, I took in the scene before me. Thick, angry black billows of smoke spewed out the windows of the small house, signaling that this fire had plenty of fuel to feed its enraged temper.

By the look of the older-styled home, I imagined wood paneling, synthetic wallpaper, and polyester furniture. All tasty treats for a fire to gorge on. Not to mention the wooden structure of the building itself.

We all worked as a team, knowing our duty and the part we were to play. The truck we came on was a pumper and held one thousand gallons of water within its belly. That allowed us to be aggressive in our attack against the blaze while we tapped into backup water supplies, such as a hydrant. But before a single drop was sprayed, the situation had to be assessed. Our captain was busy acquiring needed information from concerned neighbors and reading the signs of the fire. He turned and raced to the crew, barking out orders.

“Neighbor reports that a single lady and her teenaged autistic son live here. The neighbor saw the woman leave about half an hour ago, but he didn’t see her son with her in the car, so we may have a rescue situation on our hands.” He turned to me. “Masterson and Lopez, I want you two inside on recovery as fast as you can. In and out and no heroics, you hear? Josh, grab the chainsaw and get on the roof for ventilation. We need to get a hole open for smoke and gasses to find a way out. Baxtor will work on busting out these windows. Chambers and Richard, man the hoses.”

Lopez and I both strapped on our self-contained breathing apparatus, known simply as SCBA to firefighters. The air tanks now fastened to our backs added an extra twenty-three pounds to our gear but allowed freedom of breathing once we entered the smoke-filled house. Shoving the clear plastic shield of the apparatus over my head, I tugged on the nylon straps to make it snug on my face and took a few test breaths. Next came our Nomex hoods and helmets.

By this time, the adrenaline pulsed through my veins the way it always did. We firefighters were known to be adrenaline junkies. There was nothing like the excitement that bubbled in the pit of my stomach whenever I heard the tones of a full set. My body was antsy with it, but I reined it in and channeled it to the challenge before me—finding one scared teen in one dangerous situation.

I twisted the handle and shoved the door with my shoulder. Locked.

“Masterson!” Lopez shouted.

I jumped out of the way as Pedro Lopez lifted the handle of an ax behind him and swung it in a high arch above his head. He brought the razor-sharp blade into the wood, splitting it into shreds by the jam. The door loosened, and I kicked it wide open.

The heat whooshed out like water rushing from a broken dam and slapped me square in the face. If not for the SCBA mask covering my face, the sheer force of the temperature would have reached down my throat and stolen the breath right out of my lungs.

I bolted into the house, Lopez quick on my heels. Family portraits hung, slightly warped, on once-white walls now blackened by smoke and soot. The fire, the heart of which burned in the back of the house, roared and hissed. Flames shot out and licked the ceiling in the corner.

My breathing echoed in my ears with a
koosh
that overshadowed the crackling of the fire around us. We often told kids that Darth Vader was really their friend because that was exactly what we sound like while breathing through a SCBA.

“This is the Niles Fire Department,” I called out. “Can anyone hear me?”

No one answered.

There were no bodies in the main living area, so we headed away from the flames and cautiously made our way down a narrow hallway. The first bedroom proved empty, and I shook my head at Lopez and signaled him to continue. Mario and Luigi posters were push-pinned to the walls of the second bedroom. On the other side of the bed, my attention snagged on a head full of curly brown hair barely visible behind the twin mattress.

“Lopez, over here!”

The boy was crouched down on the ground with his back to the corner where the bed and wall met. His head was bowed, his attention riveted on the screen of a hand held device. Looking more closely, it appeared to be an old Game Boy system. The sounds of game music lightly filled the air around the stooped young man, interrupted with a
boing,
boing
every time the character jumped.

I squatted in front of him. “My name is Luke, and I’m with the fire department. I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”

The boy never flicked a glance my way but continued to stare at his game, his thumbs racing on the buttons as he played. I reached out to take both the game and player, but he snatched his hand away.

“No, no, no, no!” He cradled his precious game protectively with one hand while swinging his arm wildly to fight me off with the other.

I glanced back at my partner and the orange glow emanating from the other side of the house. Suddenly the boy was in my line of vision, darting out of the room and in the direction of the heart of the fire.  Pedro Lopez might have been the smallest man employed at the station, but he was also one of the quickest. Before the boy could make it two feet down the hall, Lopez snaked an arm around his waist and halted what the boy thought to be his escape but would truly have been his demise.

The neighbor had described the boy as a teenager, and while his face still held the look of a juvenile, he had to be closer to twenty. He was taller than Pedro’s five-foot-four-inch frame and right then his eyes were crazed with fear. His arms and legs thrashed wildly, his screams piercing the roar of the fire. Suddenly both the boy and firefighter fell to the ground.

Before I could round the bed to help, Lopez propped himself up from the ground, brought his now clenched fist behind him, and punched the boy square in the jaw, rendering him unconscious. As Lopez scrambled off the floor, I grabbed the limp body and hefted him over my shoulder, pinning his legs to my chest.

Good. Now we can get out of here.

I took the first step toward exiting and—
crack
!

“Look out!” The yell tore from my throat as a rafter in the ceiling came crashing down, raining drywall and burning embers in our path.