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Isabelle's Inning (Great Lakes Romances) (Volume 15)

By Donna Winters

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CHAPTER 1
As nineteen-year-old Isabelle Dorlon’s buckboard bumped along River Street into Centerport, she barely noticed the harbingers of an early spring that greeted her in the village—the scent of earth awakening that tinged hometown air and the delicate beauty of purple and yellow crocuses that bloomed in profusion along the drive curving up to the Jamison mansion.
Instead, her heart and mind lagged miles behind on the three business calls she and her mutt, Chips, had made on neighboring towns in Lakeshore County this unseasonably warm March day. Unable to follow maps and forgetful of verbal directions, Isabelle was pleased to think she had only lost her way twice.
But what delighted her far more than this were unexpectedly lucrative winter sales of the brooms bearing her brother’s name, T. Dorlon. Demand had been strong enough to provide the funds for Tracy to pay off loans taken out in January for his final semester at Erskine College. Despite hardships since her father’s death two years ago, the Lord had been faithful, and she silently thanked Him that Tracy would be debt-free on his graduation day this spring.
Slowing at the intersection of Main, Isabelle imagined the glow that would spread over her mother’s face at the welcome financial news. No longer would she need to fill both dormer bedrooms with roomers from the college, provide training table meals for the entire baseball team from April until mid-June, or furnish backbreaking laundry service for students living far from home, and a ball team which often played on muddy fields. Next fall, Tilda Dorlon could sit on the porch, Chips at her feet, and take up fancywork at her leisure.
But the tranquil scene was supplanted by the sight of townsfolk streaming down Main Street toward the river. Eager to follow, Isabelle turned at the corner and drove the half block to the bridge to discover that it had been roped off. Throngs of the curious had gathered at the water’s edge on either side. The river had already risen within inches of the bridge floor. The undertone of the swift spring current was accented by louder thuds of ice chunks battering ancient wooden supports as the river flowed ever more rapidly toward the big lake half a mile away.
Chips rose from the tarp on the bed of the buckboard and let out a low growl.
“Easy, boy,” she comforted, stepping down from the driver’s bench and inviting him to join her. The large mongrel leaped to the ground, staying close at her side as they found a place on the riverbank just downstream of the bridge. Nearby, a group of curious young boys jostled each other playfully for the best view. Jimmy Jamison, the son of the wealthiest man in town, was among them. Suddenly, he lost his footing and slid into the swift current. Thrashing the water wildly, he sent up a shrill appeal.
“Help! Somebody, help!”

~~~

Twenty-year-old Jack Weatherby, on his way home to Mrs. Dorlon’s rooming house after spring baseball practice at Erskine College, was standing fifty yards downstream from the bridge on an as yet unflooded pier when he heard the cry for help. A young fellow splashed madly as the current carried him along. Then he disappeared for several seconds beneath the churning, gray waters. When he resurfaced, his energy was obviously fading.
Jack looked about frantically for a plank or a rope— anything he could offer the boy who would soon pass the pier. Finding nothing, his heart pounded. He was the youngster’s only hope for help. Drawing back from the edge of the pier, black memories flooded his mind and froze his muscles.
The young boy surfaced near the pier, face pale, eyes dazed, lips silent.
The opportunity for rescue slipped by. The distance between the dock and the boy lengthened. Someone pushed past Jack, stripped off his jacket, and dove into the dangerous current. Stirring from his trance-like state, Jack recognized the rescuer as Tracy Dorlon, the captain and first baseman of the Erskine team on which Jack so desperately wanted a position as one of the nine.
Tracy cut through the raging river waters with bold strokes, caught hold of the boy’s shirt collar, and began struggling upstream, approaching the pier a few minutes later.
Jack bent down and reached out to Tracy, barely aware that others had joined him on the dock. Some-where nearby, a dog barked furiously. Just when Jack expected Tracy’s hand to grip his, he reached past him.
Isabelle Dorlon had come to her brother’s rescue with a big, long pole. Instantly, Jack added his grip to hers, their hands overlapping on the thick hardwood staff. Together, they managed to haul Tracy and the limp boy up onto the dock, now thronged with students and towns-folk. The Dorlons’ dog immediately began licking the boy’s face.
With a disparaging glance at Jack, Tracy lifted the apparently lifeless body into his arms. Cutting a path through the crowd, he set a rapid pace for Isabelle’s buckboard. Jack followed, keenly aware of others beside him muttering unkind remarks.
A young boy equal in age to the victim ran up to Jack and shook his finger in his face.
“Coward! You coulda saved my friend. It’s your fault if he dies!”
The young boy ran after Tracy, pulling himself up into the bed of the buckboard and settling at the victim’s side along with Chips and Isabelle. Tracy took the driver’s seat and headed up Main Street toward Dr. White’s office.
Following on foot, Jack sent up a desperate prayer that they would not be too late.

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