Page 11 of Part of Your World

As if she had any say in the matter. Only God could save him. All she could do was keep pumping his lungs, and she would. Until she collapsed.

Please, God. Help him breathe. He’s too young to die.

He looked to be only a few years older than her. Slender. Arms well-muscled but alarmingly limp. Thick black hair cut short and dusted with sand framed a face with a straight nose and strong jaw.

She stared at him as she folded his arms and pressed against his ribs, her movements slowing as her muscles burned.

“Breathe,” she pleaded.

She leaned backward and pulled his arms back over his head. She couldn’t stop. No matter how exhaustion tempted her to succumb. He could be someone’s husband. A father to wee ones. A beloved son. If someone had rescued her da or young Fletcher, she’d want them to persevere. Not to give in to weariness. Not to forfeit hope.

But he lay so still and pale. And his full lips carried a bluish tint.

Please, God.

Her stomach twisted, but she kept on. Stretch and squeeze. Stretch and squeeze.

A muscle in his neck twitched. His eyelids fluttered.

Muriel sucked in a breath as a spurt of energy surged through her, renewing her vigor as she manipulated his arms. “Come on,” she murmured. “Ye can do it. I know ye can. Breathe, mister. Breathe.”

A gurgle sounded, so startling her, she dropped his arms. They fell into the sand at his sides, but as she reached to reclaim them, his chest rose of its own accord. Her heart pounded in her breast as hope gained traction. He began to cough and sputter, his chin wobbling.

Muriel jumped to his side, grabbed the shoulder farthest from her, and rolled him toward her, turning his face to the sand. The water he’d swallowed would need a place to go.

His coughs worsened into choking, but the sound was a heavenly music to Muriel’s ears as water heaved out of him. He inhaled a gasping breath as shudders shook his body. She leaned over him, rubbing his arm and back, doing anything she could think of to warm and soothe him.

He sputtered and coughed, but he breathed too. Raspy, ragged, beautiful breaths.

Thank the Lord!

“That’s it,” she praised as she rubbed circles into his back. “Easy now. In. Out. Ye can do it.”

As desperation gave way to relief, Muriel slowly became more aware of her situation. The wind chilled her damp skin. Skin clothed in naught but wet underclothes. Underclothes that had plastered themselves to her body, likely hiding nothing of what lay beneath.

“Zane!” A masculine voice shouted above the wind.

Muriel's head jerked up, and she twisted her neck to scan the grassy knoll. An older man carrying what looked to be a pair of binoculars in one hand ran toward them. She glanced down at herself and groaned. She might as well be naked.

The man in her arms had yet to open his eyes, but that could change at any moment. His lashes were fluttering, and his color was starting to return. She bit her lip then looked back toward the man hurrying down the beach. He’d be upon them in moments. She had to go. Surely, he’d lend her mysterious boatman aid in her absence.

Out of time and options, Muriel launched to her feet and fled for her cove, praying the newcomer would be too concerned for the man he called Zane to pay her any mind.

Chapter 5

"Zane. Can you hear me, son?" A firm hand pounded Zane's back. "Please, God, let him be all right."

Grandpa Clem?

Awareness crept over Zane in tiny increments. He was lying on his left side, his neck at an awkward angle, as if he'd lost his pillow. A cough seized him, one that made him sputter and gasp. Alarm shooting through him, he struggled to open his eyes. Shivers wracked him. Why was he so cold? He tried to sit up, but he couldn't seem to find the required energy. Another cough came, bringing something slimy with it. He grimaced and spit it out. At least he could manage that much. Not without a protest from his throat muscles, though. They ached something fierce.

Wait. Hadn't there been a woman? A hazy recollection tickled his mind. A lilting voice. An urgent plea. And . . . a song? He furrowed his brow, trying to capture the memory. But like an unhooked fish, it wiggled out of his grasp and disappeared.

"Zane? Open your eyes, boy. Come on."

He obeyed, but the simple action proved remarkably difficult to accomplish. "Grandpa Clem?"

His body chose that moment to make him aware of a hundred different aches all at once. Ribs. Head. Calf. Big toe. He squinted against the sunlight and groaned. "What . . . happened?"