Pressing his lips to her forehead, he whispered, “I love you, too, Twyla. I have for a long, long time.”
She made no move, no indication that she’d heard him. Yet, because it was Twyla, he firmly said, “Stay right here, sweetheart. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Forrest kissed her forehead again before he jumped to his feet and jogged toward the woods. He’d thrown off his jacket and kicked off his boots before they’d jumped from the car, but the sticks and stones beneath his soles didn’t bother him. His entire body had grown numb. Twyla wasn’t injured, not physically, as she very well could have been. She was exhausted. The swim had used up all her vibrant energy. That’s what he kept telling himself. Being held at gunpoint, driving a getaway car over a cliff and into the lake, swimming for miles. She had a right to be exhausted. And had more guts and courage than most men he knew.
He had to find the building materials they’d hauled over here years ago, and hope the rest of the supplies were there, too. Gloria Kasper lived at the resort. She was the best doctor for miles and would examine Twyla as soon as he got her home and confirm she was just exhausted. He wouldn’t venture any other belief.
The brush had grown considerably over the years, but it was there, their pile of lumber. Forrest rushed forward, tossing aside gray, weathered wood, and felt a jolt of excitement when he uncovered the tin can. Prying off the lid, he found the contents still intact.
Quickly gathering several boards, he sprinted back to the sandy beach, where he checked on Twyla again. She hadn’t moved, and he quickly went to work. After he assembled the wood, he gathered a handful of leaves and dried grass.
The matches in the tin can were old. Several merely hissed when he struck them, but one flared. He held it to the pile he’d assembled. First the grass caught, then the leaves and eventually the wood he’d broken into small chunks. Once they started burning, he threw on more, and then gathered a few dried branches. The fire was soon as large as he needed, and then he tossed on more leaves and moist moss, to make as much smoke as possible.
That would do the trick—someone at the resort was sure to smell and see the fire.
A cough had him spinning around.
Twyla smiled as her eyes fluttered shut again.
Arriving at her side, Forrest crouched down. “How are you feeling?”
“You built a fire.”
Relief washed over him. “Yes, I did.”
“Good. I’m cold,” she whispered.
Gathering her onto his lap, he whispered, “I’ll warm you.”
She giggled.
He rubbed her arms before wrapping both of his around her, holding her against him. “You sound almost drunk.”
“I feel almost drunk.” She snuggled her head beneath his chin. “Or maybe I’m dreaming that I’m on a deserted island with a handsome man.”
“You aren’t dreaming,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “But I’m hoping the island won’t be deserted for long. That’s why I built the fire, to signal to someone at the resort.”
“Aw,” she said with a long sigh. “But that’ll ruin my dream.”
As much as he wanted her to stay awake, he knew she wasn’t truly conscious. Just somewhere in between. In that comforting place between dreams and reality. “Shh,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep, love. No one will ruin your dream.”
“This is nice,” she said groggily.
“Yes, it is.” Lifting his head to gaze toward the resort, for a brief instant Forrest wished he was dreaming. But knowing reality was what he needed, he was happy to see people climbing into a boat.
* * *
Twyla opened her eyes and stared at the sunlit ceiling of her bedroom for an extended length of time. A plethora of visions danced in her head. It wasn’t until she attempted to raise an arm in order to rub her forehead that she realized they weren’t just visions, but memories. Her arm, her entire body for that fact, felt weighed down with lead.
“Wow,” she muttered, in response to both her body and memories of gunfire, fast driving and that long swim.
“Hello.”
She twisted, but flinched at the way even her neck muscles burned. Slowly, with painful effort, she forced her arm to obey so she could rub her neck. Even her fingers hurt. “Hi,” she said with a gasp.
“How are you feeling?” Norma Rose asked.
“Like I’m a hundred,” she mumbled. “No one my age should hurt this bad.”
Her attempt to sit up was too excruciating and she gave in, sinking slowly back into the softness of her mattress and pillow.
“I brought you something to eat,” Norma Rose said.