4. Chapter 4 #2
Refusing to consider any other outcome, she lay backward, rolling him with her.
She positioned his head to ensure his chin remained above the water line, then aimed them for shore, modifying her sidestroke to accommodate a passenger.
Urgency added power to her kicks, and as they neared the shoreline, the tide gave them an extra push.
Muriel adjusted their trajectory west of her rocky cove, knowing she’d need a flat, sandy area for him to lie upon.
Her feet touched sand, and a prayer of gratitude seeped from her soul.
Keeping his head and shoulders supported, she dragged him out of the surf, using a wave to propel him as far up the small beach as possible.
Hurrying around to his head, she hooked her hands under his arms and dragged him a few more inches away from the water before plopping down on her rear. It would have to be far enough.
Not only had Da insisted all his girls learn to swim, he’d taught them the basics of resuscitation. A skill she’d never thought to need. Five years of rust fell away in an instant, as memories of practicing the Sylvester Method on her sister Alana rushed to the forefront of her mind.
Muriel positioned herself on her knees at the young man’s head and leaned over him to grab hold of his wrists.
She lifted his arms over his head, stretching backward to expand his lungs as she brought his arms down along the outside of her knees.
Then she leaned forward, using his arms like a giant lever.
As she neared his chest, she encouraged his elbows to bend, and pressed his wrists into his ribs to compress the lungs as if he were exhaling.
She repeated the motion over and over, to the point of fatigue. Tears pooled in her eyes as hope faded.
“Ye can’t die. Ye hear me?” Her voice choked. “I won't let ye.”
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.