“Three cracked ribs, a concussion, and a wrenched knee is not fun.”
Michael started putting together a fire in the hearth. His back to her, he asked, “Does Mr. Jenkins look familiar to you, Nem?”
“Why?”
The boy shrugged and struck a match to his work. “No reason. I just wondered if maybe he’s been here before.”
“I can safely say that Medicine Creek Camps has never had the pleasure of his company.”
“You gonna keep him here in the lodge?”
“For a while. Any problem with that?”
He added logs to the crackling pine. “No problem. But you’re too busy as it is. And with me in school, you’re all alone, running in every direction and trying to please every sport who wants to shoot a few birds.” He searched her face, concern in his eyes. “Moose season starts next week.”
Emma threw her washcloth at him and stood up. “Then it’s time you helped me get an orange ribbon around Pitiful’s neck.”
He caught the cloth with ease and also stood up. “I am not going near that stupid beast. A well-placed bullet would be a blessing. He’ll never make it through the winter, Nem.”
“Sure he will. Pitiful’s not stupid.”
“No? That fool is in love with you. A two-year-old moose should know the difference between a woman and a cow moose. He’s missing some rooms upstairs, Nemmy.”
“I think he was grazed by a hunter’s bullet last fall. That’s why his right antler hasn’t grown back this year,” she explained in defense of her pet.
“I think he walked into the side of a logging truck. Face it, Nem, he’s becoming a pest. He trashes the garbage cans and keeps trying to get in the kitchen.”
“He likes my cooking.”
“And he swamped one of the boats yesterday. He was trying to climb in it!”
“We have to look out for the dumb ones, Mikey. I’ll make him a cake of oats and molasses, and you can tie the ribbon around his neck while he’s eating it.”
Emma left her nephew contemplating that delightful chore, and went to check on her guest before she turned in for the night. Benjamin Sinclair had made a tangle of his blankets and kicked them to the side, barely keeping himself decent.
For a city-sport, the man was amazingly fit. His deep-barreled chest was darkened with bruises that would have killed a lesser man. Emma quietly leaned over and pulled the covers up to his chin. She carefully brushed his hair back from his forehead, feeling for fever as she exposed a bandage over his left brow.
Welcome to Medicine Creek, Sinclair. Have we given you all the adventure we promised?
She straightened and turned to crack the window beside his bed, letting in the pine-scented autumn air, hoping the slight chill would help keep his covers in place. The full moon was shining starkly, drawing a runway on the lake, just like when they had landed two hours ago. That had been another first for her guest, and one he’d argued against. But again, Michael had calmly told him not to worry, that his aunt had been making night landings on moonlit lakes for years.
The lights in cabin three winked out. Emma leaned her head on the glass, breathed in the smell of what had been her personal heaven for the last fifteen years, and wondered how heavenly Medicine Creek Camps would be without Michael.
Even if Ben didn’t take him away to start the new life he was entitled to, Mikey would be going to college, and then on to bigger and better things. And she would be right here, ready to push him or pull him in the right direction—waiting for him to return a grown man.
The wheels of change had begun turning today.
“Why does the boy call you Nemmy?”
Emma didn’t turn around, unwilling to let him see her tears. “Because when he was a two-year-old he found Aunt Emma too big of a mouthful. He shortened it to Nemmy and it stuck. I hope that’s what he writes on my tombstone.”
“Where’s his mother?”
“Gone.”
“And his father?”
“I hope he’s dead.”
There was a moment’s silence. “You’re raising him all by yourself?”
She turned to face the bed. “No, Mr. Jenkins. Michael has been raising me.”
“He’s a remarkable boy.”
“There is nothing boylike about Michael, Mr. Jenkins. He’s older than all of us put together, most of the time. Don’t ever make the mistake of underestimating my nephew, if you want his respect.”
“You clearly have it.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, and it took me many frustrating years to get it. Have you ever tried urging an infant to crawl when he’s determined to walk instead? Or tried to explain to a five-year-old why he has to go to school to learn finger painting when he wants to learn how airplanes stay up? Or tried to tell a seven-year-old with a genius IQ that being a tree in a school play is a noble pursuit?”
“No.”
“Then you should try telling a fourteen-year-old that he can’t drive to town for supplies, or fly sports up from Bangor when we’re shorthanded. Or try to comfort a grieving child when his mother leaves when he’s too busy trying to comfort you instead. I gained Michael’s respect by never, ever underestimating him.”
“I’ll remember that, Miss Sands.”
Emma walked to the door of the bedroom and looked back at the bed. “Be sure that you do, Mr. Jenkins.”
Ben sat at the expansive kitchen table and watched Michael move around the kitchen until the boy eventually came to sit across from him. “Where did Medicine Creek Camps get its name?” Ben asked into the silence.
“From the mist that sometimes rises off the creek in winter, when it should be frozen tighter than Pluto.”
“There are hot springs here?”
“There might have been at one time. Now the creek just runs unusually warm, fed by springs deep in the granite. Medicine Gore was settled by some Swedes back in the early eighteen hundreds. Apparently the creek ran even warmer back then.”
“Ever see these springs?”
Michael took a bear-size bite of his sandwich, chewed slowly, then washed it
