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 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.
