Since the deck offered a view of the lake, Pixie suggested they sit outside. It was a mild, sunny day, but the table was shaded. She knew the kids would enjoy seeing the birds that swooped over the water, along with the occasional sailboat floating by.
Andy was already in his high chair and Brogan had just finished getting Shayna settled by padding her seat with a thin cotton blanket rolled up, when they heard the roar of a boat engine.
“What in the world?” Pixie said, pushing back her chair and standing for a better view. The cove in front of the restaurant was a no-wake zone, meaning boats were prohibited from going fast enough to cause a wake.
Brogan muttered, “Shit” as he pulled his wallet and phone from his pocket and kicked off his shoes.
“What are you …?” Pixie didn’t understand, not until a fast-moving pontoon rammed right into a dock holding several people, including some young kids. The dock shuddered, wood cracked, and people screamed as the kids fell in. The motor continued to churn the water. “Watch the babies,” Brogan ordered, and then he was vaulting down the stairs, three at a time. He hit the grass at a full run.
“Dear God,” Pixie said, her heart in her throat as she took in the chaos.
As the driver frantically tried to reverse the boat away from the dock, she heard Brogan shout, “No!”
There were people in the water behind him! With the front of the boat wedged half up on the dock, the propeller churned, spraying water with a horrible grinding sound.
Everyone started yelling at once, but no one was doing anything.
Except Brogan. He was a man in motion as he pounded onto the dock.
In smooth succession, he grabbed the driver out of the boat, switched off the motor, and pocketed the keys. “Everyone okay?”
“My son!” a woman screamed hysterically. “I can’t find him.”
Another said, “Oh, my God, there’s blood in the water.”
Brogan didn’t hesitate to dive in. People hung at the edge of the dock, watching, waiting.
The inebriated man staggered to the shore and collapsed onto a bench.
For what felt like the longest time, Brogan didn’t come back up.
Pixie glanced at Andy and Shayna. As if they sensed the tension, they stared back at her, their eyes big and watchful, but they were okay. They weren’t fretting, thank God.
To ensure they wouldn’t see anything too awful, she half-turned their chairs. They no longer had a view of the lake, but they could still see the hill beyond, the birds and trees, as well as a part of the restaurant.
Trembling all over, she moved closer to the deck rail, her gaze searching the surface of the lake. Where was Brogan?
He emerged to a collective gasp from the crowd. In his arms, he held a limp boy whose head was covered in blood. Pixie covered her mouth, fear gripping her.
Seemingly without effort, Brogan climbed the ladder, carrying the boy. Water dripped off him, forming a puddle as he carefully laid the child on the rough wooden dock. To Pixie, the boy appeared to be only seven or eight, and he was frighteningly lifeless and pale. The crowd surged around him.
Pixie heard Brogan loudly instruct, “Call 911,” and then, “Back up, damn it!”
With obvious expectation that his orders would be carried out, he started CPR.
Tense silence gripped the onlookers as everyone anxiously waited, not moving, barely breathing, until the boy abruptly gave a harsh, sputtering gurgle that turned into a fit of coughing. Brogan turned him to his side and held him steady. Pixie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she knew he was offering soothing words as he supported the boy.
The poor mother sank to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Brogan put one hand on her shoulder and leaned close to speak near her ear. Whatever he said, she nodded agreement. He removed his shirt, wrung it out, and wrapped it around the boy’s head. Fresh blood was already seeping through. Lifting the child in his arms, Brogan stood and took long, sure strides up the grassy incline. The boy hugged his neck so that blood now covered Brogan, too. His mother ran frantically behind them.
When Brogan got closer, she heard him say to the woman, “Try to calm down or you’re going to scare him.”
The poor mother instantly mopped her eyes and gave her son a wan smile.
Brogan issued calm instructions as he reached the deck. “I need dry towels, plenty of them, a first aid kit, and ice.”
Two women ran off to find the necessary items.
Using his foot, Brogan pulled a chair away from a table and then carefully lowered the boy into it. “Hold his hand,” he told the mother, but he also kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he turned to a young waiter. “I need a dry shirt for him. Can you find something?”
