Chapter 8
McKenna didn’t know which issue to focus on more. Bobbi screaming and dog-paddling to the wrong side of the river, or Oliver panicking and fighting Nate to the point that McKenna worried they were both going to drown.
“Oliver, relax,” McKenna shouted as she rushed off the bridge. “He’s trying to help you. And Bobbi, this is a river in Nebraska. You know whatever touched your leg wasn’t a crocodile or shark. You need to come back to this side. Oliver, seriously, stop fighting.”
This was one of those instances where being the size of a moose wasn’t really working in Oliver’s favor. Or Nate’s for that matter.
“Oliver, listen to me.” McKenna stumbled toward the bank of the river. “Let him help you.”
Oliver wasn’t listening. Splashes and splutters and screams continued as they wrestled each other closer to the shoreline.
“Put your feet down,” Nate growled when they’d gotten close enough to the riverbank that Oliver could just walk if he ever calmed down enough to stop fighting Nate.
McKenna watched Nate slip and slide over the rocks as he gave Oliver a shirtless piggyback ride the last dozen feet out of the river and onto shore. “Stop strangling me,” Nate’s voice wheezed. “We’re on dry land, you moron.”
When Oliver still wouldn’t let go, Nate collapsed to his knees then rolled onto his back hard enough to knock the wind out of Oliver and stun him into releasing his choke hold.
Oliver’s arms flopped to his sides as he lay there, frozen, gasping, like a proverbial fish out of water.
“He really is a moose,” Nate muttered on his hands and knees, massaging his throat, while McKenna knelt to make sure Oliver was still breathing.
“Is he dead?” Bobbi stood across the river, clutching her shivering arms over her drenched torso in the lengthening shadows.
“He’s fine. Everybody’s fine.” McKenna crouched over Oliver. He was fine, wasn’t he? Not like Bobbi had been back when she was four. When she’d had to stay in the hospital for three weeks with pneumonia after her near-drowning incident.
McKenna tapped the screen on her phone and dialed 911. She wasn’t taking any chances. “Hi. My sister’s fiancé, er, boyfriend, almost drowned and my sister is stuck on the other side of the river because the bridge is broke, and oh my goodness, Nate, you’re bleeding.”
He’d lifted his left pant leg and McKenna could see lots of blood trailing down his shin into his sock while the dispatcher started firing off questions and Bobbi kept screaming, “Is he dead?” from across the river.
“I’m fine,” Nate said.
“No, you’re not,” McKenna said.
“Is he breathing?” the dispatcher said.
“All down his leg,” McKenna said before realizing the dispatcher was asking about Oliver breathing and not Nate bleeding. “I mean yes, he’s breathing. We’re all breathing. I think we’re all breathing. Nate, is Oliver breathing?”
Oliver continued staring open-mouthed at the sky like a fish not just out of water, but one headed toward the light. “Tell him to stop looking at the sky like that. Make sure he’s still breathing.”
“He’s still breathing,” Nate assured her.
“And you’re still bleeding,” McKenna felt the need to point out.
“I think he’s in shock,” Nate said.
“We think he’s in shock,” McKenna said to the dispatcher. “The breather, not the bleeder.”
The dispatcher continued asking questions, Bobbi continued yelling, “Is he dead?”, McKenna continued answering the dispatcher’s questions when she wasn’t yelling, “He’s not dead,” to Bobbi and “Goodness, you’re really bleeding. Are you sure he’s still breathing?” to Nate.
“Hey, you big oaf. You doing okay?” Nate leaned closer, shaking Oliver’s shoulder. “Say something, man.”
The dispatcher had no sooner told McKenna that help was on the way when Oliver, with the type of growl McKenna only imagined coming out of something feral, sprang forward and rammed Nate in the head, knocking him flat on his back.
“Oliver, no,” McKenna yelled.
“What was that?” the dispatcher said.
“The breather just headbutted the bleeder,” McKenna said as Bobbi screeched from the opposite shore—“Is he dead?”