A Very Special Delivery

for getting away from the crowd and Ethan’s tempting presence. She found an empty sack and started picking up cans and bottles and paper along the water’s edge.
    The cloudy green water lapped against the shore in gentle waves. She inhaled, taking in the freshness of the air and the slightly fishy scent of the lake.
    She hadn’t been out here in a long time. Once she and her dad had fished for bass in this lake, and as kids she and Chloe had learned to swim here.
    Gazing out across the wide expanse of Winding Stair Lake, she remembered. Good memories that no amount of heartache could erase.
    A wave swelled and white-capped, pretty as a painting.
    Something orange, a buoy perhaps, caught her attention.
    She frowned and strained her eyes. No. Not a buoy. Something that ballooned up over the wave top and flapped with the motion.
    A chill of fear skittered down her spine.
    A shirt. An orange shirt. A very small orange shirt.
    Surely, it wasn’t attached to a person.
    She squinted against the glare, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh, Lord. No.”
    A child’s head bobbed up and down. The orange object was the bulge of his air-filled T-shirt holding him, barely, above the water.
    Molly whirled toward the pavilion where Ethan walked toward a Dumpster, plate in hand.
    “Ethan,” she screamed. “There’s a child in the water!”
    Ethan whirled toward her voice. He dropped the plate and took off in a gallop. But he was more than a hundred yards away. The child didn’t have that much time.
    She looked back toward the lake. Only the orange shirt bobbed on the surface. The child’s head had disappeared beneath the waves.
    Like a bad dream, time froze. A child was going to die and Molly was the only one close enough to do anything.
    Her heart accelerated into panic mode. Her throat constricted.
    Another child was going to die. And it would be her fault—again.

Chapter Fifteen
    “N o!” she screamed and broke toward the lake, shedding her shoes and over-shirt as she ran.
    She hit the water in a dead run. The icy cold sucked her breath away. Her pulse rattled wildly, threatening.
    She would not, could not let the fear take over. A child’s life was at stake.
    With a silent prayer for help, she plunged beneath the murky water. Her body rebelled against the cold. Her calves tightened at the unexpected temperature drop.
    Molly ignored everything but the need to get to the child.
    She fought through the incoming current, training her eyes on that distant spot. Then the orange shirt disappeared. Molly dove beneath the surface, eyes wide and stinging as she frantically searched.
    All the while, she prayed. “Show me where he is. Help me get to him in time. Help me. Help me.”
    An eternity seemed to pass while she thrashed beneath the waves. Her cold limbs grew heavy from exertion. Her chest felt as though it would explode.
    Suddenly she glimpsed orange and, with one final burst of energy, lurched toward it.
    Grabbing the loose shirt, she yanked the child’s head above the water.
    Molly’s heart, already thundering from effort, nearly shattered.
    He was nothing but a baby. A toddler, perhaps three years old. His eyes were closed. And his lips were blue.
    “You’re okay, baby,” she said. But looking into his small, waxy white face she feared he was already dead.
    Wrapping an arm around him, she lifted his limp body above the surface and, with every ounce of energy she could muster, raced toward shore. All the while,
she remembered the last lifeless body she’d held.
    Don’t let another one die on me, Lord, she prayed silently. Not another one. He can’t die. He won’t die.
    The words became an internal chant as she stroked hard and fast toward the crowd gathered along the bank. Long before her feet touched bottom, Ethan, grim-faced and determined, came wading toward her. He shoved the water aside with power and impatience—as if he controlled the very waves.
    Exhausted, she drew on the last of her strength to thrust the child across the short distance that separated her from Ethan.
    Ethan yanked the toddler into his arms and ran back toward land, whipping the water aside with his powerful strides.
    Molly followed, relieved that Ethan was there to help. He’d know what to do. Numb and cold and terrified, she watched as his broad back bent over the boy and puffed a breath into the tiny nose and mouth.
    Let him live. Let him live. She wasn’t sure if she thought the words or spoke them.
    When she stumbled ashore