Rescue Me(47)
A day they’d get all these kids home safely, if it was up to her.
Sam stirred next to her. The dawn had just begun to illuminate the sleeping visages of her youth group.
Maggy leaned against Gus; he had his arm around her, his head propped on hers. Zena had curled up next to them; Gus was big enough to support both of them. In the backseat, Dawson lay with his head back, his mouth slightly open, as if completely passed out. Next to him, Quinn curled into a ball, his hands tucked under his arms. Riley, however, sat up straight, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw tight.
Sort of how she’d felt last night. If not for Sam’s calm presence, she might still be an unraveled mess.
She didn’t know why she’d lost her grip on herself last night, practically begging Sam not to leave her. She’d been alone plenty of times before.
Although not on a cliff’s edge, in a brutal storm, with darkness enclosing, entrapping her.
Oh God, listen to my cry! I cry to you for help when my heart is overwhelmed.
Her words at the lookout came back to her, and with them a rush of peace. It seeped through her, into her bones.
Yes. Today they would be rescued.
She gave Riley a smile of reassurance.
He looked away.
The storm had died sometime in the night, but it glazed all the surfaces with ice. Her breath formed in the air, her fingers stiff and cold. But her shoulder ached less now—maybe she had only torn a ligament.
Vi groaned, and Sam came awake. Willow leaned away from him, scooting to Vi. “Hey, Vi, how you feeling?”
Vi, with her short brown hair and delicate features, always seemed a little fragile to Willow. Smart—straight A’s—but delicate. Apparently Dawson had gotten the brawn.
“My leg hurts,” Vi said.
“Hang in there while Sam and I figure out what to do.”
Sam and her.
And Josh. Oops.
She glanced at the youth pastor, who was curled into the front passenger seat, his hands tucked under his arms. Oh my . . . Willow grimaced at the purple bruises blooming under his eyes. Most definitely a broken nose. His eyes were open, and he looked at her, no smile. She wondered if he’d gotten any sleep.
Sam leaned up, and for the first time since the accident she got a good look at him.
A cut across his cheekbone, a bruise forming underneath, and an ugly bump just over his left eye.
The damage, plus his five-o’clock layer of dark whiskers, turned Sam Brooks positively, devastatingly fierce. The kind of man who wouldn’t quit.
“You look like you’ve been in a street brawl,” she said to him.
He raised his non-wounded eyebrow. “Yeah, well, you’re not much better there, Fight Club.” His gaze went to the wound on her head. “We need to get that cleaned out this morning, then wrapped up.”
She could feel her hair matted on one side from blood, but the throbbing had mostly stopped, leaving behind a dull ache.
“The good news is—look.” She moved her shoulder up and down, slowly, yes, but with enough movement to suggest healing.
Relief crested over his face. “Good. How’s Vi—”
His question broke off with the shout from the back of the van.
Riley was on his feet, opening the back hatch of the van—and he wasn’t alone. Dawson too had turned in his seat, fighting the door.
“Stop! You’re going to jostle us loose!”
As if reading Sam’s mind, Quinn grabbed Dawson by the belt. Willow winced as Dawson elbowed him in the face.
Quinn recoiled, but he had the grit of his father, apparently, and held on.
Riley kicked at the door, and it swung open. He slithered out onto the ledge.
“Riley!” Sam shouted just as Dawson rounded on Quinn with a fist.
Quinn dodged it but fell back, his grip on Dawson breaking free.
Dawson climbed over the seat, out into freedom.
Sam turned and opened the side door to the van.
Willow gasped. Whatever ledge they’d landed on couldn’t be more than a foot wider than the van. She nearly made a leap for Sam to pull him back.
He stepped out, hanging on to the door. “Stay here!”
Then she heard shouting as he headed back to recover the fugitives.
Gus, Maggy, and Zena sat up in their seats.
“Stay put,” Willow said, even as she got up to disobey Sam.
Josh’s hand on her arm slowed her down. “He said to stay.”
She shook out of his grip. Sorry, but not when World War III was igniting outside.
“Let go of me! I’m not getting back in there!” Riley said, his voice tight and edgy.
Willow clamored to the back, put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Stay here,” she repeated and pushed open the back door.
Their position on the ledge could turn her legs to wax. They were perched precariously on a lip of rock, with no more than five feet of space behind the van. They’d dropped at least fifteen feet, the cliff arching over them.