Love Worth Finding

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “She wanted a special Belgian lace that was on back order.”

  “No Belgian lace.” He tapped her shoulder to make sure she heard him.

  “I love Belgian lace.”

  He sighed. Once upon a time, he’d decided to give her time to whip up the wedding of her dreams. Right about now, he’d gladly have her dad wheel her down the aisle in a wheelchair with her dressed in a coonskin cap and swimsuit.

  Her cheek rubbed his shirtfront as she looked up at him. “Really, no Belgian lace?” She sounded so disappointed. But lace was so. . .impossibly trivial.

  “Belgian is for waffles, not lace.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “I didn’t know you felt that way. Next thing you’re going to say is Brussels is out because of sprouts. French is out because of toast.”

  “And fries,” he added. “What is this, anyway? Who goes around naming frilly stuff after European countries?”

  “The people who’ve perfected the art of creating beautiful lace.”

  He groaned. “Just how long is this Belgian lace going to take?”

  Her shoulders began to shake, and her voice filled with laughter. “The gown I love with Belgian lace is at my shop right now.”

  “Hot dog!”

  “You’re making me hungry.”

  “You’re making me crazy. Go to sleep.”

  ❧

  “Mornin’ beautiful.”

  “Hi.” She hitched up on both elbows. “You’re up early.”

  “I got a signal out. You’re due for a ride in about half an hour.”

  “Half an hour?” She sat up and groaned at how the action pulled her leg.

  Brandon nodded then wondered as she rummaged in her backpack, “What’re you looking for?”

  “My brush. Ouch! Found it!” She looked at him pleadingly. “Can you take me to the creek and help me dunk my head? I have shampoo.”

  He frowned.

  “It’s biodegradable. It won’t hurt the environment or ecosystem or anything.”

  “Honey, it’s going to take me twenty minutes to get you to the extraction point.”

  “Then we don’t have time to waste!”

  “The water’s cold.”

  “Refreshing,” she shot back.

  He heaved a sigh. “Vanity, thy name is woman.”

  Della gave him a sassy smile. “I’m a Christian now. Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  It took a little fancy maneuvering, but Brandon humored her. After laying her on his trash bag, he used the small pan to help rinse out the shampoo then tackled one side of her hair with his comb as she used her brush on the other. While she braided it, he packed up their sleeping bags, took the gear out of her backpack and stowed it in his then used the frame to rig a splint for her leg.

  Della reached over and threaded her fingers through his hair as he used the cording to tie the last knot. “You’re an incredible man. You know how to do so much.”

  “I’d better warn you; I can’t cook.”

  “So what? I love to cook. You know that.”

  “Then we’re definitely a match made in heaven, because I’ve eaten your food.” He tugged on his pack. It looked impossibly heavy. Della marveled at his strength.

  Then he scooped her up.

  “Brandon!”

  “Put your arm around my neck. I know it’s hard on you—”

  “Hard on me! Do you know how much I weigh—no, don’t answer that.”

  “I’ve carried ugly old rafts that weigh more than you.” He set off walking.

  “If you get me a stick, I can hobble.”

  He snorted—a purely masculine sound that dismissed her offer without bothering to even entertain it for a moment. He acted as if this were his own backyard—picking his path with the absolute assurance of where he was going, twisting to the side to avoid banging her leg on trees and bushes.

  “Brandon, how did you signal?”

  “Mirror.”

  “No kidding? I thought you’d have some super-spy satellite thingamabob. You mean I could have just used my compact?”

  “The mountains make signals bounce. Electronic gear’s unreliable out here. As for the mirror—you were under a canopy of trees. Not enough room to refract back up. Besides, I’d guess you don’t know Morse code.”

  “It’s on the inside cover of my survival book, but the directions don’t tell how to make a dot or a dash.”

  Her leg burned. Even though he did everything humanly possible to ease her way, Della hurt. He distracted her as best he could with tidbits of information and idle conversation. It was so unlike him just to chat about nothing—but he did it for her.

  It made Della love him that much more.

  They reached a clearing, and he laid her down in a small, grassy patch then consulted his watch. “We made good time.”

  “Even with washing my hair.” She smiled at him. “Did I thank you for that?”

  “Only a hundred times or so.”

  She looked down at herself. “Now I understand why the military uses those grays and khakis. They don’t show the dirt. I’m covered in grunge.”

  “It’s about to get worse.” His voice rang with unrepentant glee.

  “Why?”

  “Chopper backwash.”

  Once the helicopter arrived, everything happened quickly. A basket came down, and Brandon lifted her into it, strapped, buckled, and stood.

  Fear suddenly swamped her. She’d be hanging in this basket by a mere rope! God, I know it’s awful early for me to be asking things of You, but I’m so scared. Please help me.

  Brandon writhed in a few blurring motions then took a hook and clipped it to the rope. “Ready for the ride of your life?”

  “With you?” Her heart stopped thundering. God answered her prayer more quickly and much better than she could have imagined.

  “Yeah.” He gave a signal, and they lifted off.

  Once inside the helicopter, Brandon scooted off to one side. Medics converged around her, asking questions and yanking back the covers.

  In one slim minute she had an IV and felt like she’d been caught in a spider web of electronic wires. Brandon leaned forward and barked, “Give her something. She hurts.”

  They radioed, took an order, and pulled a syringe out of a package. Brandon leaned close and hollered in her ear, “You’re okay now, Babe. You’ll feel lots better in just a second.”

  She tried her hardest to smile at him, but the world started to tilt crazily then spin. Reaching toward him to grab his hand, she cried, “Bra—” but the world went dark.

  Twenty-one

  We need permission to treat. Who’s the next of kin?”

  Brandon dumped Della’s bag on the floor of the Emergency Department. “She has an emergency treatment consent card signed in her wallet. Do what you need to.”

  When they’d gone camping, she’d laughed at his attention to that seemingly ridiculous detail and proclaimed she trusted him to keep her safe. He’d insisted; now he was glad he had.

  “I want to go back to be with her.”

  “Are you family?”

  “We’re engaged.” Happy words, those.

  “I guess it’s okay. She’s in bay three.”

  Brandon strode back and stood outside the curtains. “Permission to enter?”

  Someone chuckled. “Permission granted.”

  “Thanks.” He parted the curtains and stepped inside. Dressed in one of those ridiculous hospital gowns, Della lay on the gurney fast asleep. It did his heart good to see the deeply etched lines of pain gone from around her eyes and lips. “How is she?”

  “Minimal exposure. She did a great job of staying hydrated and warm. We’re taking her to X-ray her leg.”

  “Thanks.” While they took her off, he ducked into the men’s room, splashed off, and shaved. As he swiped off the last swatch of his day-old stubble, he had to laugh. “Who would have ever guessed that I’d become this domesticated?”

  It hurt to raise his arms to peel off
his shirt. Between sleeplessness, sleeping on the hard ground, and carrying two packs and Della at the same time, his shoulder took considerable strain. He’d pay for it, but the cost was negligible; the joy he’d gained from leading Della to the Lord and asking her to become his wife were priceless. Eternal. He yanked on a clean T-shirt, grinned at his reflection, and headed back to sit by Della in the treatment room.

  Wheels and rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor, and Della’s gurney slid back into the bay. He squinted at the nurse’s badge. “Mary Jo. What did the X-rays show?”

  “Doc will talk with you.” She pointed to a jumble of lightweight aluminum tubes on the floor. “That was an ingenious splint.”

  “If you have a bag, I’ll haul it out of here.”

  “How long was she lost?”

  A lifetime. “Five days.

  “Hurt, scared, and alone. Poor girl.”

  “She’ll recover. She’ll be better than ever.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Mary Jo took another pasty-colored flannel blanket out of a steel cabinet. “These are warmed. Ought to feel good to her.”

  “Thanks.” Brandon helped her spread it over Della and noted how the nurse took care to leave Della’s knee exposed, yet tucked the blankets back around her foot so she’d be warm enough. The ER was drafty.

  “If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she took a spill off a cycle.” Mary Jo tucked towels under Della’s leg and started cleaning it with Betadine. “She’s got quite a road rash down the side of this leg. It’s amazing it’s not infected.”

  “She told me she poured hand sanitizer on it.”

  “Oh, ow. That had to hurt. Those are alcohol based.”

  The doctor came back in and shoved three X-rays onto a light box. “She’s got a hairline fracture at the head of the tibia. Patella’s not cracked. We had an MRI cancellation, so I want to slip her in that slot and see if she tore any ligaments.”

  “Great!”

  The doctor gave him a dark look.

  Brandon shrugged. “I believe in miracles. God let that machine be available for my Della.”

  “I see,” the doctor said, but Brandon could tell by his tone he didn’t see at all. What a pity.

  “Her ring—she can’t have on any metal in the machine.” Mary Jo tugged off Della’s engagement ring. “How about if you hold this for her?”

  “Yeah.”

  An hour and a half later, the doctor shook his head. “Someone’s guardian angel was watching out for her. The preliminary reading by our radiologist says the ligaments are okay. The swelling’s from the fracture and blood in the joint. She’s too swollen to cast, but I can tap her knee.”

  “Do it,” Brandon decided aloud as he slipped the ring back on her finger. He smiled at Mary Jo. “Let’s not tell her that came off. She’s sentimental.”

  ❧

  Della hobbled across her shop on the fiberglass walking cast. “Brandon!”

  “What are you doing here?” He scowled. “You need to be taking it easy.”

  “I got my cast last night. See?”

  He looked down and burst out laughing.

  “I thought it looked spectacular.”

  “Who did that?”

  She glanced past the hem of her pale blue-and-white floral sundress at the pale pink fiberglass affair that went from her toes to just above her knee. “Vanessa glued on the pearls and silver beads. Valene painted the designs and lettering.”

  Ellen Zobel straightened a gown on a nearby mannequin. “I wish I had my daughters’ artistic talent. I can’t get this right.”

  “Once you accessorize it with the necklace and bouquet, it’ll look perfect.” Without Ellen’s help, Della would have had to close down the shop. She’d been, literally, a godsend.

  Brandon ignored their exchange and stayed focused on Della’s cast. He read aloud, “Here comes the bride,” then tilted his head to study the hearts and curlicues. “It’s great. Especially the top. Who did that?”

  She didn’t dare look down again and played coy. “Oh, that little thing?”

  He nodded. “I like the blue ribbon on it.”

  “Well, you know the old saying, something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and”—she wiggled to give him a side view of her foot where they’d glued one last item—“—a penny in her shoe.”

  He threw back his head and belted out a deep, wonderful laugh.

  Della slipped her arms around his waist—as much for balance as affection, and he held her. “I’m one of a kind, Brandon.”

  “Babe, I’m so glad I found you!” He shifted her to the side, stooped, and swept her off her feet. Striding toward a padded bench over by the dressing rooms, he tacked on, “But I’m not happy at all about you zipping around. I want you to heal”—his voice dropped to a thrillingly deep, low level—“fast.”

  Della rested her head on his shoulder. “Doc said four weeks.”

  Brandon growled.

  She laughed. “That’s barely enough time to order, receive, and send out the invitations.”

  “You’re on your own there. You’ve seen my handwriting.” He seated her on the bench and tickled her newly painted toes.

  “It would help if you gave me a guest list.”

  Ellen groaned aloud. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. When Val married Jordan, he invited hundreds of guys he’d known in the service.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Della beamed up at Brandon. “This is the happiest day of my life. Everyone’s welcome to share it!”

  “How many does the church hold?” Brandon gave her a calculating look.

  “Five hundred.” Demurely tugging down the hem of her dress, she added, “I did a layout of The Spindles and figured if we use the entire downstairs, we can seat four hundred and twenty-five for a meal.”

  He whistled. “That’s gonna be steep.”

  “Nope.” Della gave him a perky smile. “One of the benefits of my business—the caterer, musicians, photographer, and Forget Me Not Flowers all offered to do everything at cost.”

  “Great.” Brandon clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I’ve got a bunch of men who’ll never go to church, but they’ll come to my wedding—especially if I tell them you’ve invited single friends.”

  “Okay. I know a lot of single women. We can have Pastor MacIntosh do what he did at your cousin’s wedding—give the salvation message.”

  “One other important thing.” Brandon tilted her face upward. “No negotiating. I want you to promise me you won’t wear heels.”

  “You, too? What is this?” Della let out a sigh. “Daddy, the doctor, my brothers, Van and Val—everyone is nagging me about that.”

  “Ellen? Did she listen to them?”

  Ellen bustled over and showed him a pair of beaded satin ballet-type slippers. “I chose these for her. What do you think?”

  He took one and shoved his thumbs inside then pulled on it. “It stretches. If it were a little bigger, it would fit over the cast. . . .”

  “You’re nuts!” Della cried.

  “Yep. Certifiably crazy about you.” He set the slipper onto the bench beside her and straightened up. “We’re pouring the foundation of our house this afternoon. Wanna come watch?”

  “Yes!” She hopped up from the bench and hobbled toward the cash register.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to put something in the cement.”

  “Like what?”

  The small metal box made a racket as she set it on the counter. Brandon opened the lid. “A glove.”

  “From the first time we met.”

  He nodded. “Tennis ball—from batting practice.”

  She peered into the box. “Sand from our morning jogs on the beach.”

  “And a rock?”

  She touched the water-washed stone reverently. “From the creek where you found me. Because Christ is the Solid Rock of our relationship, and no other foundation will do.”


  ❧

  Satin rustled, and Brandon couldn’t wipe the grin from his face even if he wanted to. His bride was the most beautiful woman in the world. The answer to his prayers, gift-wrapped in satin and lace, let go of his hands after they’d exchanged vows and wedding bands. Brandon helped Della kneel at the altar. Her snowy gown flowed behind her, and the veil softened his view of her face. He took his place beside her and slid his left arm around her tiny waist. It was all so right—this special closeness they felt as their pastor prepared to serve them Holy Communion.

  They’d had premarital counseling, and he’d developed a whole new view of marriage. This would be the first time he and Della would break bread together as man and wife. Sharing the Lord’s cup held deep significance—God was the center of their marriage. Through Him, the two of them became one.

  Hands and heart joined, they finally rose and turned to one another. Lifting her veil gave him a rush of joy. Love lit her eyes, and the kiss they shared was the sweetest thing in his life.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Pastor MacIntosh said, “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Brandon Stevens.”

  Vanessa was Della’s matron of honor. She hastily gave the bouquet back to Della, and Brandon tucked Della’s hand into the crook of his arm. He led her up the aisle, out of the church, and on to the bright future God had given them.

  About the Author

  Cathy Marie Hake is a Southern California native who loves her work as a nurse and Lamaze teacher. She and her husband have a daughter, a son, and two dogs, so life is never dull or quiet. Cathy considers herself a sentimental packrat, collecting antiques and Hummel figurines. In spare moments, she reads, bargain hunts, and makes a huge mess with her new hobby of scrapbooking.

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  Cathy Marie Hake

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