Page 53 of Calling on the Matchmaker
“Now roll,” Riley called.
The boy was sluggish but managed to roll several feet.
“Again.” Riley was grasping the ice with both hands, his skin ashen, his wet hair now dark and flattened to his head.
The boy managed to move a few more feet.
“One more time.” Icy water dribbled down Riley’s face, his attention focused on the boy.
Everyone had stopped to watch, and this time the boy made it far enough away from open water that one of the other men stretched out, grabbed him, and pulled him to safety.
As soon as the boy was well away from the gaping hole, Riley wiggled his way up onto the ice and was only halfway out of the water when it broke again. He slipped back under and didn’t come up as quickly this time. When he surfaced, he seemed slower, weaker.
He was starting to freeze to death. It wouldn’t be long before his body shut down, and he lost the ability to save himself.
Riley began to swim toward the rim of the ice again.
Someone else had to venture out and rescue him. As if coming to the same conclusion, several men started toward him.
“No,” Riley called. “Don’t come any closer.”
The men halted and exchanged glances. Did they intend to listen to Riley’s foolishness and let him die?
Well, they might, but she wouldn’t.
Finola’s boots weren’t laced, but she stepped onto the pond and started toward Riley. Without her skates, her feet slipped and slid, but she raced as fast as she could, her heart thundering like a dozen racehorses.
She might not have the strength to haul him out of the water. And she might very well fall through, cracking ice for herself. But she couldn’t stand back and watch him drown, no matter what he said.
Swallowing the fear—and taste of bile—rising in her throat, she shouted out, “I’ll go! I’m lightweight and can make it.”
At the sound of her call, Riley shook his head. “Don’t let her come out here. Please!” The desperation in Riley’s tone made her pause but a moment before pushing onward.
She sidestepped several men and crossed over onto the thinning ice.
“Finola Shanahan, you stop now. Do you hear me?” Riley roared, his eyes widening with terror. In all his rescues, she’d never once witnessed his terror. She guessed he was only wanting to protect her from danger, was afraid of something happening to her.
Even so, she couldn’t cower away from trying to help him. As she took another tentative step, he growled and hefted himself out of the water. As the ice crumbled around him again, he threw himself away from the edge and toward the shore, scrambling to stay one step ahead of the disappearing solidness beneath his body.
Finally, the cracking stopped. Riley glanced at the ice around him as though to make certain he’d arrived on solid ground. With his garments and coat dripping and his skates soaked through, he likely weighed twice as much or even triple what he normally did. But he slogged forward, this time making adirect line toward Finola, the scowl still in place, his eyes as dark as a starless night.
With shaking legs, she took several steps back, retreating into the safe area of the pond. As he reached her and was finally well away from the danger, she collapsed to her knees, then bent over and retched onto the ice.
19
Even though Finola wasn’t the one who’d gotten wet, she couldn’t stop shivering no matter how hard she tried.
“Add more coal to the fire,” Riley instructed one of his apprentices. Then with a frown creasing his forehead, he wrapped another blanket around her.
“You need it more than I do.” From her spot on the workbench in front of the forge, she tried to wiggle out of it and hand it back to Riley, but he draped it over her shoulders again.
“I’m fine now, Finola.” Gently, he tucked the blanket around her tighter. “I’m dry and changed and plenty warm.”
Finola nodded but shuddered again, especially as she relived the drive back from the pond to the wagon shop, with Riley’s body shaking and his teeth chattering the whole way. She’d never prayed harder and was relieved the gig could go fast.
Big Jim must have heard their frantic pace, and he’d met them out front. He’d whisked Riley up to his apartment above the workshop and helped divest him of his wet garments and don warm clothing.
Now Big Jim was sitting nearby at another bench, tappinga piece of metal into an arched shape. She’d seen him the previous time she’d been in the wagon shop. He was taller than most men—or would have been if he’d straightened to his full height. Instead, his shoulders were always stooped so that his head hung low.
