Tying the Knot by Susan May Warren Page A

barrel screwed into his jaw.
    “Where is it?” a voice growled, and he came fully awake. Three shadows, accented by the spark of moonlight on silver gun barrels.
    “I don’t have it. Yet.” He sounded pitiful and adolescent. Fear rose and clogged his throat. “But I will.”
    Breath, thick with booze, streamed across him. “You have one week. One.”
    Relief melted every muscle. He lay down, a soggy, trembling mass on his double bed as they filed out and closed the door with a soft click.

7
    The sunlight woke him, a kiss of hope after the onslaught of the night. Noah sprawled on the ratty sofa of the Wilderness Challenge lodge and closed his eyes, feeling as if he’d been beaten and left for dead. He’d chased his worst fears around in his sleep, and somewhere in the wee hours he knew he had no choice but to surrender. Wilderness Challenge would have to wait another season to open.
    His heart felt like cement in his chest. God, I am sorry I’m not the man to make this happen. Please forgive me for being less than who You needed. He sat up and swung his legs onto the floor, the chill somehow a balm to his knotted nerves.
    The idea of calling the mothers and aunts of the campers and having to tell them the kids would be spending the summer on the streets pitched his empty stomach.
    He needed coffee. He staggered into the kitchen, newly outfitted and sparkly with a new industrial refrigerator and stove. The bag of coffee lay crumpled and empty next to the Mr. Coffee. He made a face at the two-day-old sludge crusting the bottom of the pot. Closing his eyes, he held the bag up to his nose and inhaled deeply. The aroma would have to do until he made it into town and grabbed a cup at the Footstep of Heaven.
    He enjoyed his occasional mornings there, chatting with Joe, the owner’s husband. Evidently, the guy knew something about being judged by external appearances, although Noah wasn’t sure how. Joe Michaels seemed to have life in the palm of his hand—a beautiful and charming wife, a life goal that didn’t need the approval of three committees to attain, and a very definite niche in the community. Everyone loved Joe, and it wasn’t rare to find the guy hosting a small crowd, like he was some sort of celebrity.
    Noah grabbed a towel and headed out to the men’s washhouse, a building with nothing more than a trough and a few faucets, half open to the sky. He’d built a private shower on one end, but Noah counted on the attraction of a clear Boundary Waters lake to entice his campers to cleanliness.
    The icy water, pumped up from the lake, made him gasp. He dunked his head into the trough, washed his hair, and felt frozen when he toweled dry.
    The sun blinked through the sodden trees, turning droplets into diamonds against a jade background. The storm had littered twigs and leaves across the yard, and Noah counted at least two big branches across the trails. He’d have to do some cleanup before he tackled assembling cots.
    No. He stopped and shook his head. There he went, thinking like a guy with a mission instead of a soggy failure with nothing but expenses piling up around his ears. It was so easy to fall into the plans, skipping ahead on the hope set before him, the grace already granted to him. He took a deep breath and trudged back to the lodge.
    He bent into the fridge, scrounging up some sort of sandwich—pickles and mayonnaise, maybe—when he heard the gravel crunch of wheels on the drive. He paused, riffling through his mental files. Staffers? Not until Saturday. Inspectors? His stomach knotted.
    He closed the fridge and plodded outside. He was halfway out the door and across the porch when he saw her standing with her hands on her hips, surveying his freshly tiled roof.
    The wind toyed with her hair, the delicious color of copper. Dressed in a pair of track pants and a sweatshirt, she looked suspiciously ready to . . . work?
    Then she looked at him and smiled, and for a moment, he thought he would