A Hero for Christmas - Jo Ann Brown Mills & Boon Love Inspired Historical

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did not hesitate. Here was his chance to prove to God and himself that he was worthy of being called a hero. Shrugging off his coat, he shoved it into Miss Fenwick’s hands as she ran toward him.

      “Don’t dump the glass out of the pockets,” he warned, as he yanked off one boot and then the other.

      He threw them onto the beach and ran toward the water. He heard shouts behind him. The only voice he recognized was Cat’s, but he did not slow. The child might be dragged down by the next wave.

      The icy water froze his toes within seconds, and he gasped with the shock of the cold when he dove beneath the next wave. He fought the water’s pull that tried to send him back to the shore. Cutting as fast as he dared through the water, he heard more shouts. The words were lost to the wind and the sea. He looked up every few strokes to make sure he was headed in the right direction.

      The child was being pulled out to sea faster than Jonathan was swimming. He sliced through the next wave and did not pause to raise his head. Ice seemed to be forming around his toes and fingers, and he had to fight to keep them moving. He could not slow. He had to get to the child. He had to save the child. Then he would be a hero.

      Save the child.

      Be a hero.

      Save the child.

      Be a hero.

      He kept repeating that in his mind in time with his strokes to keep himself from slowing as the cold water began to gnaw at him.

      Something splashed in the water beside him. The child! Had he reached the child?

      He raised his head, shocked by how much energy the simple motion demanded. Instead of a child, he saw a coble.

      A hand appeared in front of his nose, and he halted.

      “Hey up, mate,” called a voice from above him. “Grab on and climb up.”

      “Save the child,” he said. Or he tried to say it, but the words blurred through his chattering teeth.

      The four fishermen in the coble must have guessed what he meant because one said in a heavy Yorkshire accent, “The barn is gat.”

      “What?”

      “The barn is gat.” The hand gestured toward where the child had been.

      He saw another boat there. Two men were lifting the youngster out of the water and into that boat.

      With a sigh, Jonathan nodded. The man’s strange words must have been telling him that the child had been saved. Grasping the man’s hand, he let himself be pulled up into the boat. He shivered in the bottom of the deep boat until someone tossed him a blanket that stunk of fish scales and sweat. He did not care, as he pulled it around his shoulders.

      He said nothing, as the men rowed back to the shore where Cat and Miss Fenwick paced uneasily. What was he going to say to them? Now he recalled Cat’s shout. Most likely she had been trying to tell him that the fishermen were far more experienced than he was in saving someone in the sea. Not only had they rescued the child but him.

      This hero stuff was going to be harder than he had guessed.

      Chapter Three

      As soon as the coble was pulled up on the beach, Catherine ran toward it, pausing only to pick up Mr. Bradby’s boots. She reached the boat at the same time Mr. Bradby was stepping over its high side. He wobbled, and she grasped his elbow to keep him from collapsing to the sand. A tingle swept up her arm, just as it had when he had handed her into the carriage back at Meriweather Hall, but this time she did not release her hold on his arm. Ignoring the delightful sensation, she focused on him.

      He was dripping, even though the blanket had soaked up some water from his clothes. His sleeves were already stiffening from the salt and the chilly wind. When she proffered his boots, he snatched them and upended both to shake any sand out.

      “That was the bravest thing I have ever seen,” Catherine said.

      He tried to reply, but his words were garbled by his chattering teeth. When triumphant shouts came from closer to the village, he looked past her.

      She turned, not letting go of his arm, to see another coble sliding onto the stones at the bottom of the street. A little boy was plucked out of the boat and handed to his mother who hugged him close, even as she scolded him for going too close to the water. Both mother and son were wrapped in more blankets as the rescuers led them up the steep street.

      The men with Mr. Bradby slapped him companionably on the back. They started to make a few jokes at his expense but stopped at a firm look from Catherine. Or it might have been the pastor’s sister coming to join them. The fishermen put their fingers to the brims of their floppy hats, before they pushed the coble back into the waves and rowed toward the village.

      Vera draped Mr. Bradby’s coat over his shoulders. “Can you walk?”

      “Of course.” His words were clipped.

      When he did not move, Catherine asked, “Do you need help with your boots?”

      “I can manage quite well on my own.” He looked at her for the first time since he had come ashore. Anger blazed from his eyes. “If you would be so kind as to release my arm...”

      Catherine jerked away, startled as much that she still held on to him as by his terse words. When he swayed again as he pulled on first one boot, then the other, she grabbed his arm before he could fall on his face. She let go quickly, but he still glared in her direction before stamping away along the sand. He started to pull on his coat, then slung it over his shoulder.

      “What is upsetting him?” Vera asked as she and Catherine followed.

      “I have no idea. Maybe he is annoyed that he didn’t get to rescue the child himself.”

      “What does it matter who saved the child? We must be grateful to the good Lord that the child is safe along with Mr. Bradby and the other brave rescuers. God is good to heed our prayers.”

      “Yes.” She envied Vera’s unshakable belief that God listened to each of her supplications.

      Vera frowned. “I never imagined Mr. Bradby using such an icy tone. When last he called at Meriweather Hall, he was jolly and joking. Now he is grim.”

      “I know.” Catherine had no other answer. She was as baffled as her bosom-bow.

      Something must have happened out in the water that they had not been privy to on the shore. She could not imagine what that might be nor could she ask Mr. Bradby when fishermen still gathered at the foot of the street.

      When the men called out greetings to Mr. Bradby, he nodded in their direction but did not speak. He remained mute as they climbed the steep street. A trail of drips marked his uneven steps. Several times Catherine had to steady him, and she heard exhaustion in his breathing as they crossed the bridge over the beck. He muttered something when Catherine linked her arm with his when he stumbled yet again.

      “You may be petulant if you choose,” she said, giving him a frown as fierce as his, “but I choose not to see you fall on your nose.”

      Vera looped her arm through his other arm, silencing any further protests from Mr. Bradby.

      They reeled up the steepest part of the street, which seemed as vertical as the cliffs beyond the village. Catherine doubted Mr. Bradby could have made the climb on his own. His steps slowed, and he was panting by the time they reached the top. With the coachee’s help and Vera’s, Catherine assisted Mr. Bradby into the carriage. He sat heavily and leaned his head back against the seat.

      Vera caught Catherine’s arm before she entered the carriage. Catherine looked at her, surprised, and asked, “What is it?”

      “I will walk to the vicarage,” Vera said, as she dug into her pocket and pulled out a handful of mermaid tears. She placed them carefully in Catherine’s hand. “You are welcome to bring him there, if you wish.”

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