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Luanne Rice is the author of twenty-one novels, including Sandcastles, Summer of Roses, Summer’s Child, Silver Bells, Beach Girls, and Dance With Me. She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut.

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The Edge of Winter

By Luanne Rice

Bantam

Copyright ©2007 Luanne Rice
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780553805277
Chapter One




Shane West held the flamethrower, stunned when he realized he wasn't alone. He'd come to the deserted beach to make his stand. His teachers were always saying he wasn't working up to potential, but this was just a different kind of potential.

Two girls rode by on their bikes just then-perfect but terrible timing. He recognized Mickey Halloran as she turned to stare at him, saw the fire. She looked panicked, and she must have thought he needed help, because suddenly she came charging at him on her bike. He tried to gesture "go away," but she flew at him like a two-wheeled missile, and he had to admire her for it. He knew single-minded purpose when he saw it. But just then she went into a skid and took a header over her handlebars.

Dousing the fire in a sand dune, he ran across the road, as the other girl-Jenna Carlson, he thought-jumped off her bike, ran back, and dropped to her knees next to Mickey. Shane pushed past her and crouched, leaning over to look into Mickey's eyes. He had never talked to her, but he'd noticed her around school. Her face was pretty, pale, lightly freckled; her enormous eyes were light green. Two long brown braids hung from beneath her dark blue knit cap. He could tell in one glance that it wasn't good. She had hit her head when she landed, and blood was pooling on the pavement. But her eyes were still open.

"Mickey, why'd you turn like that? Oh God!" Jenna was crying, almost hysterical.

"Don't move," Shane said to Mickey.

"They're going to move the U-boat," she said. "And they're acting like it's a public service." Her lips were blue; Shane knew she might be going into shock.

"Not if I can help it," he said.

"You were on fire," she said.

"Shhh," he said. "Pretend you didn't see that."

Her eyes rolled back, and her eyelids flickered.

"Whoa," he said, panicking. His heart accelerated, full blast. He hadn't been there for his father, but he was here now. Back then, things had gone so wrong. This time he'd make sure they went right. He stared down at the girl. They were in the same class, but different crowds. "No going to sleep. Talk to me. Your name's Mickey, right?"

"Yes, that's her name," the friend said. "And I'm Jenna, and she's right, you were holding fire in your hand. What was that?"

"Mickey, hey," Shane said, ignoring her friend. "Stay with me here. Dismantling the U-boat, taking it away? Changing the surf, and the way the beach is formed? How badly would that suck? Mickey?"

"Terrible," she said, coming back from the brink, those green eyes bright again, full of life. "Can't happen. The birds . . . snowy owl . . . need the beach the way it is . . ."

"Yeah," Shane said, thinking how sweet she looked, seeing how hard she was trying to stay alert. "And surfers need that U-boat. Birds and surfers. Fly by air, fly by sea. Come on, Mickey. Stay awake." He looked up at her friend. "We have to get her an ambulance."

"Where? How?" Jenna asked, starting to cry again. She might not know exactly what was wrong with Mickey, but she could see the blood, and like Shane she knew it was bad. She was willowy and blond, and Shane took note of her pretty powder-puff looks and hoped she could be tough right now. "We're five miles from the main road, and cell phones don't work down here," she said.

Shane had come the back way, through the frozen bog. His car was broken down, and he had no money to fix it. His mother was out of town, so he couldn't borrow hers. Besides, cars left tire marks, and any idiot with a TV had seen enough forensics shows to know that treads could be traced. So he'd fit everything he needed into his pockets, carried the rest, and come to do what needed to be done.

"I'll run for help," he said, peeling off his parka. It was old, patched in places by silver duct tape. "You keep her awake and talking no matter what-you hear me?"

"Yes," Jenna said.

"Don't move her," he said. "Not even an inch."

Mickey was trembling. As he tucked his coat around her, careful not to jostle her, Shane touched her face; it was ice cold. She gazed up at him as if he was some kind of savior. The look in her eyes caught him like a fishhook because he knew he held her life in his hands.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

"Think of that snowy owl," he said. "Just stay wide awake, and wish, and the owl will fly overhead. Just keep your eyes open so you don't miss it."

"You saw it?" Mickey managed to whisper.

"Of course," Shane said, staring into Mickey's green eyes. "Every time I surf. It's been here all winter." Then, to her friend, "Remember what I said-keep her awake."

"Okay. Hurry!" Jenna said.

Shane jumped up. "Watch for the owl," he said to Mickey, and then took off running. In another phase of his life, he'd been on the track team. His event had been the hundred-yard dash, but he wasn't a bad distance runner. Right now, although he had five miles to cover before reaching the state road, he ran as if it were a sprint-flat out, as fast as he could go.

He'd been young when his father had died, but if he could have run for help like now, he would have. Today, he knew failure was not an option. Surfing all winter, powering through the Atlantic cross-chop, kept him lean and mean, and he used the look in Mickey's eyes to make him run faster than he ever had.

He headed up the road, the dunes at his right. The thicket had thinned out here, and an icy wind blew full force off the ocean. Sand had drifted right onto the pavement; he saw the drifty remains of the girls' bike tire marks and admired them for riding down here on such a day. Hardly anyone loved this remote winter beach the way he did, not even most of his surfing buddies. They went for easy access, at the town beach. Mickey had mentioned the snowy owl. Was the bird the reason she'd come all the way out here in twenty-degree weather?

When he got to the ranger station, his stomach tightened. This wasn't going to be pretty. He saw O'Casey's green truck parked outside the low one-story building. Painted gray-blue, the color of the February sea, the ranger station blended into the sea and sky, into the beach itself.

Shane tore up the steps, into the office. O'Casey sat at his desk, dressed in his khaki uniform, glancing up over his reading glasses, looking just like the hard-ass authority figure that he was. Ex-Marine, people said. Shane wouldn't be surprised, and he thought of his mother down at Camp Lejeune. Jerks. Standing there, not wanting the ranger to see how out of breath he was, Shane glared down. He watched O'Casey tense up, his hand inching toward the desk drawer. Did he keep a sidearm in there? Jesus Christ, Semper Fi.

"What brings you back here?" O'Casey asked.

"Call 911," Shane said to his old enemy.

"What are you talking about?"

"There's a hurt girl," Shane said. "Hurry up."

All at once the ranger was on his feet. One hand reaching for the radio-static cracking, the police dispatcher taking the information as Shane relayed it: "Injured girl, bike wipeout, Beach Road, mile marker 3, near the jetty"-other hand grabbing his jacket, a bulky green government-issue job, just about as beat-up as the one Shane had left covering Mickey.

In that second, registering that Shane didn't have a coat, O'Casey thrust his at him. Shane refused to take it. He backed toward the door, hating to stand by the ranger....