The Tree Keeper's Promise Part 16

Mark pivoted. Papa meant it literally. Several planks forming the wall on the west side were gone. It didn't look like much at a distance, but as Mark got closer he could see the path the water had taken, where it had retreated, and the debris it had left in its wake. As well as a tree that had fallen and crashed into the side of the cabin. As he stared at the hole left by the missing wood, he could see the obvious. An open door to as much water as could rush in.

"Papa, I'm sorry we didn't bring any sandbags over this way," Mark said.

"Those wouldn't have helped here. Water always wins. We couldn't have imagined it rising up that high, son." Papa took his shovel and sc.r.a.ped at the ground, enough to move some mud and sludge. "We've got some cleaning to do."

Mark motioned for Brett to help him with the tree.

"Let's get this out of the way."

Brett blinked at the tree at their feet. "Without a saw? This looks like it might have been fifteen or twenty feet tall."

Mark started to walk the length of it. "We don't have to move it very far. I'll sleep better knowing it's not part of the cabin. Let's see what we can do."

They each took hold of a side where the trunk had been stripped of some of its branches, then lifted and pulled it away from the cabin wall, once, and then twice.

On the third lift, as they walked it away a few more steps, the rocky and rain-soaked ground under Mark's feet gave way. His right leg buckled under him and he fell to the ground, his left leg extended under the tree.

"Mark!" Angela called.

"It's slipping!" Brett yelled, not able to hold the tree on his own.

Mark felt a crus.h.i.+ng weight against his leg before he saw it, before he could stop it. A searing pain shot up from his calf into his thigh. He instinctively pulled both legs away from the tree. His right foot gained traction, but his left leg was pinned.

Brett and Papa were already positioning themselves. "One, two, three."

They heaved the tree, and Mark jolted back. He jumped up on his right leg, putting a little weight on his left to test it.

"Is it broken?" Brett asked.

"I don't know," Mark said as he tested it again. "Ahhh. It's good. I'm fine."

"Let's get you inside," Papa said.

"What about the trees?" Mark asked.

"We'll worry about them tomorrow. Looks to me like we lost some fifth and sixth years. That will spell trouble for the next few years, but we won't know how much until we can take a closer look," Papa said.

"What about the seedlings-the ones we planted this April?"

"About those ..." Papa said, setting his shovel against the cabin and walking back over the ridge. His hands rested on each hip, and his eyes lifted toward the darkening sky. "You may not believe this, but those trees hardly had a-"

Mark didn't wait for the bad news. He started limping toward the south section where they'd replanted, pain radiating from his left calf with every step. He was tired; they all were. But what did Papa mean? They couldn't be gone. Not those trees. Fire had claimed everything growing on that ground once and they'd waited until the year was right for new seedlings. Those trees had grown then, only for some vandals to cut them down in some senseless, destructive search for a treasure.

Mark had made sure the best seedlings were replanted there. He hadn't been at peace until they had taken root. They couldn't be gone.

They trudged through the receding water and the thick mud.

"You sure you ought to be walking on that leg of yours?" Papa asked.

"It's just bruised," he said, grimacing.

Any light from the sun behind the barricade of clouds was shrinking fast. But there was enough light to see his trees-his resolute seedlings, standing as though they didn't have a needle out of place. As though a storm had not been raging about their branches. Not even one of them downed.

"They're still standing," Brett said.

"I was trying to tell you that," Papa said.

"Incredible." Mark felt tears sting the corners of his eyes-not from the pain or the exhaustion but from the impossibly beautiful sight of those trees.

Once the others had left, Mark and Angela sat against the wall of the barn, the one opposite where the rus.h.i.+ng water had threatened. A portable floodlight shone over their heads, illuminating a soft rain. They were protected from it by the eaves. Mark leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His arm rested on his right knee, a rain-soaked towel hanging from his hand. His suit pants were wet through and covered with mud.

Angela tucked her knees into her chest, resting her head on them, noticing Papa's pants for the first time since she put them on. She strained to hear the water. Had it slowed? She wasn't sure, but she could hear Mark's breathing. She took a measured breath of her own.

What time was it? She didn't look up. Or speak. The previous hours had been a blur of water and scramble and fury. One minute she and Mark were smiling over dinner, and the next they were wading through a river of tree branches and gravel. It could have been a thousand hours ago, but something nagged at the corner of her mind. Mark had been happy but nervous maybe? Just enough for Angela to feel uneasy. She exhaled. She couldn't be sure of anything at the moment. Her back ached; her legs too. The adrenaline rush was gone and all her energy and faculties with it.

Mark spoke with a strained but gentle voice. "You okay?"

Angela picked her head up enough to turn it, resting the side of her head on her knees. "Pretty great considering we saved Donna's barn. What about you?"

"This wasn't how I'd thought the night would go, you know?"

She reached out and rubbed his arm. "I'm so sorry about your leg. Does it hurt?" she asked.

"It'll be fine." He clenched his jaw as he spoke.

"It hurts. I can tell," she said.

At this, he pushed his back against the wall and sat up straighter. He moved the towel from one hand to the other, and moved it over Angela's curved shoulders, then her arm.

She didn't move, only watched him with her eyes, sideways as they were.

He continued the motions of drying her back. Yes, she was drenched and the towel was soaked, but there was a careful, tender movement in his touch, one that surprised her. He took the towel and wrapped it around the ends of her long curly hair. Her braid had come undone amid the rain and chaos. Once, twice, he lifted it and held it in the towel. The towel couldn't absorb any more water, and they were covered in sand and grit, but his touch melted her, his love for her showing in his every motion. Such gentleness while he was sitting there in pain.

Their eyes met, and his hand rested on her back. A mix of warmth and grief filled her, and with no energy to resist her longing, she leaned into him.

"You must be freezing," he said, pulling her in, though his body was also drenched and not much warmer.

She nodded and moved her face to his. She closed her eyes as he put his lips to her forehead. She s.h.i.+vered involuntarily, and he pulled her tighter with both arms, adjusting his body to offer the most warmth possible. He kissed her forehead again, then her cheek, then her lips-lightly, slowly.

She sighed and he kissed her again. She reached around his neck and clasped her hands there. The damp coolness around them only accentuated the heat of their kiss, the heat rising inside her.

"Mark," she whispered, her eyes still closed. "What was it tonight, at dinner? Was something wrong?"

His tight embrace loosened, and he tilted his head away from her and exhaled.

"You want to know?"

He positioned himself at an angle so his back could be straight while one arm remained around her shoulder. "I was going to ask. I thought tonight-the autumnal equinox-would be a good night to."

"You aren't finis.h.i.+ng your sentences."

"Propose. I was going to ask you, Angela, once and for all, to marry me. Not because it's been four seasons, not because Caroline chose a love-match tree, but because I love you. I love who you are and who I am when I'm with you. The more time we spend together, the more time I want to spend-loving you."

Angela couldn't fight the tears that welled up, spilled over, and streamed down her cheeks. She'd never felt so loved or cherished. She kissed him before he could say anything more.

He kissed her fiercely in return, holding her shoulders, moving his hands up to her face. He pulled back and met her searching eyes. He s.h.i.+fted his weight and knelt down on his right knee, twisting his left leg out of the way.

"Mark, your leg. What are you doing? Doesn't that hurt?"

"Will you, Angela? Will you marry me?"

Surprised, she gasped and locked eyes with him.

"Yes. Yes! Of course yes."

Mark stood, hopping slightly on his right leg, and pulled her up with him, then wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her.

Angela reeled from the motion of it, her head woozy and heavy from the strain of the night. She leaned against his chest and let him squeeze her close. Why had she been so worried about the timing? She didn't want to live another day without Mark. A sob began in her chest, a sob of relief and exhaustion and joy.

"What is it?"

"I'm fine." She sobbed the words.

"Something's wrong." Mark pulled back to scan her face.

"I think I'm ..."

"Tired. You must be. Here, we can sit back down." And they did.

"No, that isn't it, but thank you."

"Hungry? We can go inside and find something to eat."

"No, Mark, it's not that. I mean, yes, I'm hungry and tired. But if I didn't imagine what you just asked me, then I'm also engaged. And happy. Like, crazy happy. These are good tears," she said with another heave of her chest.

Mark didn't say anything for a minute. He just sat staring at her.

"Maybe I ruined it, asking you here at a time like this."

"No," Angela said immediately. "Not ruined at all. I will always be glad you asked me this very night, right after you singlehandedly saved the farm."

"I didn't do it by myself."

"Think of the story we can tell our children ... our grandchildren," Angela said.

Mark smiled at those words.

"So what if we were drenched and exhausted? You were kneeling with a broken leg! Is it broken? Oh, I hope not," Angela said. "And so what if you didn't have the ring? We will never forget this night."

"The ring!" Mark began to dig in his pockets. "How did I forget it?" Any warmth of the moment gave way to a frantic chill. He searched his pockets over and over. "I put it in this pocket before I left the house. It's not here."

Angela replayed the rush to the farm, the swell of the river, the compromised bank, the mud and water and sand. Mark hadn't stopped moving, hadn't stopped working-he'd used every muscle, thrown his body into saving Donna's barn and the cabin. What was a little ring in the face of that frenzied work?

It was gone, that's what it was.

Angela reached for Mark's hands, taking them into her own, waiting for his eyes to meet hers.

Angela spoke quietly. "It's okay. Ring or no ring, I love you, and I will marry you."

Chapter 14.

Neither Mark nor Papa got more than a few hours of sleep, he was sure of that. Yet here they were, walking early to survey the damage. A thick blanket of clouds still covered the sky, blocking any glow from the sunrise. Mark's eyes adjusted to the dark, and Papa's must have too. He was commenting on each section of trees they pa.s.sed. Seemed the floodwaters had dislodged earth and rock and Papa's silence.

On any other day Mark would have had the chance to tell him about the good news-that he was engaged. But Papa was focused on the trees more intently than usual. He'd wait for a better time.

The dull ache in his left leg remained, and there was some swelling, but he was sure it wasn't broken. Bruised, maybe. The tree hadn't been that heavy.

"Whatcha gonna do about your leg?" Papa asked.

"Not much I can do. Let it be, I guess."

"Is it broken?"

"No, I'm walking on it. See?" Mark tried to walk unaffected.

"You a doctor now?"

Mark didn't reply. He didn't have anything against seeing a doctor. He just didn't have the time. By the look of things, there was more work to be done than he could have imagined.

"Look here," Papa said. "These two-year-olds had it rough. The water must have been almost as high as they are."

Sorrow welled up inside Mark. "Do we keep them? Or would it be better to clear the plot and see if we can get some mature seedlings next spring?" He weighed the options of letting the trees grow only for them to be ragged and unusable, or cutting them all down and starting over.

"Don't ask me," Papa said, staring at the debris of young branches below the trees. "Ask the trees."

Ask the trees?

"Why you starin' at me?"

"When you talk to the trees, do the trees talk back to you?" Mark asked.

"Why don't you plain out ask if it's time to send me to one of those homes for the senile? 'Course they don't talk back to me."