Leaping to his feet, he charged down the hill and ran into the river, arms swimming before the water reached his waist.
Feet kicking, arms cutting through the water, head above the water, he searched for Anora and saw Paxton on Big Red, charge down the hill and into the water. The ferry lurched, swung a full turn and twisted in a slow circle, straining the remaining cable lines until it finally broke free fore and aft. Paxton’s horse reared up out of the water.
Arms coming up out of the middle of the river, Hank caught sight of Anora. Her face turned up to the sky, coughing and sputtering, she fought against the current that carried her downstream.
On what remained of the ferry, the man came to his knees. He tried to stand. The rudder flashed again, striking him in the teeth. Hank could see the blood gushing from his mouth. He heard the man scream an oath, then he fell back to the floor of the ferry.
The ferry, pulled into the swift rapid that moved the river around the gravel bar, folded in two like a sandwich. Rounding the big hairpin curve of the river, caught between the two halves, the ferry and the man on it plowed into nature’s dam of rocks, logs, and debris cast aside by previous floods. The ferry splintered apart, reduced to a heap of rubble, with now and then a piece of rail breaking lose to float downstream.
∙•∙
Anora, fighting her way to the light and the surface of the river, kicked off her boots and shed her petticoat. The water, cold, sucked the breath out of her, but at last getting her head above water, she caught a glimpse of land, and Hank coming for her. The promise of safety inspired her to flail her arms and kick. Going with the current, making progress toward shore, she heard Hank call her name. She heard the splintering sounds of the ferry breaking up, and Ruben screaming oaths.
Focusing on Hank, she kicked and moved her arms until they were only a few yards apart. The sound of his voice had her pushing herself, kicking, reaching, stretching to reach him.
“Take…hold…of my…waist,” Hank shouted, winded, coming within an arm’s length of her. She clutched at his hips, finding his waist. Kicking, she held on, using her other arm to move with him. They drifted farther down, moving closer to shore, out of the current. In the armpit of the gravel bar, where it jutted out from shore, she tried to find her footing.
Dragging her with him, Hank grabbed hold of the willows that hung out over the water. With Anora attached like a barnacle to the hull of a ship, Hank half walked and swam his way back to the ferry landing.
∙•∙
Crawling up the bank, he gathered Anora into his arms. They both lay, working hard to catch their breath.
Across the river, Hank heard Paxton calling. “God almighty. Hank? Hank, are you all right? Are you all right over there?”
With superhuman strength, Hank raised his arm to wave, but found he didn’t have enough breath to make a sound.
“I’ll get Gregson’s boat,” Paxton shouted.
“Right,” Hank shouted back, shivering with cold.
“Papa. Papa,” he heard Isabell cry from the top of the rise.
“Isabell? Isabell…get blankets.” Turning his head in Isabell’s direction, he could see she hadn’t moved. “Isabell, blankets, get blankets.”
Seeing her tear off for the cabin, he flopped back down, his face turned to the sky, unable to move.
He’d closed his eyes for only a few minutes when Isabell, tripping over the blankets, sobbing, slid down the bank and landed on top of him.
The three of them, Anora tucked in at his side and Isabell on his lap, sat on the riverbank, swaddled, bound together in the warmth of the wool blankets, waiting for what they couldn’t have said.
Anora started to shake. Shake so violently Hank had to remove his arms from Isabell to hold her.
∙•∙
From deep within, a tearing cry of pain coursed up out of the center of Anora’s being, welling up, moving an unstoppable outpouring of rage, grief and, yes, gratitude to find herself alive and breathing in Hank’s arms.
Sobbing, wailing, Isabell and Hank wrapped themselves about her. Anora thought she would turn completely inside out, the sobs were so great. She couldn’t stop herself. All the ugliness gushed like a geyser, a force of nature she could not control.
She didn’t know how long they sat there before Theodore Gregson, Paxton, and Percy Price rowed across the river. “You all right, Hank?” Paxton asked. He jumped out of the boat. “Thought we should go down and see…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Yeah.” Hank got to his feet. “I’ll come with you.”
Paxton shook his head at him. “Maybe you should go on up to the cabin, get Anora some dry clothes.”
Anora reached up and took Hank’s hand. “You go. I’ll wait here until you come back.”
Hank put his hand on Paxton’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
»»•««
At the gravel bar, Hank, Paxton, Percy, and Theodore lifted away the fractured, puncheon logs of the ferry. They found a crushed torso, legs, and arms of what used to be a human being. The man’s head was gone, severed they supposed by the force of the rudder under the ferry slicing into the folding ferry bottom.
Hank helped to lift the remains onto a waxed tarp. They all stood over the lump of waste. Theodore broke the silence and asked the question, “What do we do with it? And who the hell is it?”
A powerful rage leaped to life within Hank’s breast. He had to fight against his urge to haul Gregson up off his feet and fling him into the river. “That is Ben Talbot, Ruben Tillery. He came back to finish Anora off. He murdered her parents, and her aunt, took her captive, tortured her for years, while you people stood around and let him do it. Well, he’s dead now. I don’t care what you do with what’s left of him. Throw him into the kiln at the mill. Burn the son-of-a-bitch.” He turned his back, then thought of something and turned back. “Wait, I want to search his pockets.”
“The reverend ain’t gonna like this. It ain’t Christian,” said Percy, as Hank tugged a pouch full of coins out one of the carcass’ trouser pockets.
Hank held up the pouch for all to see. Paxton nodded, and kicked the tarp with the toe of his boot. “This trash isn’t worth a burial. God doesn’t want to have any more to do with him. I’m with Hank, we burn what’s left, like he’s going to burn eternally in hell.”
Hank had nothing more to say to any of them. He walked back to Anora, stomping through the brush, slapping aside the branches that tore at his face and arms.
He found Anora, with Isabell at her side, waiting for him. “Come on, Anora,” he said, reaching for her hand to help her to her feet. “You need to get into some dry clothes.”
Her hands went to his chest, her eyes searching his face. “The ring is Mama’s wedding ring, Hank. I’m not…I never was, married to him. I couldn’t take it off or look at it because it’s Mama’s. He used it to keep me under his control. Help me take it off. I have to take it off, Hank.”
Hank very carefully and easily, slid the ring off her finger, leaving at a pale shadow in its place. “Throw it into the river, Hank.”
“You throw it, Anora. Let it go. Let the river take it.”
Closing her eyes, she tossed the ring out into the deep channel and swift current.
Hank pressed his lips to her wet hair, closing his eyes, hot tears rolling down his face. “Shhh, it’s over now, Anora. All over, shhh.”
“Will it ever be over? Ruben? Is he…is he dead?
“What’s left of him is going into the kiln at the mill. He’s gone, gone for good, Anora. Burn the memories along with his remains.”
“The money, Hank, the money, it’s gone.”
“Smiling into her eyes, he put the pouch of coins in her hand. “The river and I thought the least we could do is give you back a little of what you’ve lost.”
She took the pouch and held it to her heart. “Thank you.”
He folded her into his chest. She wrapped her arms around his middle and laid
her head against his breast. Closing his eyes, Hank felt his pulse pounding in his neck and could hearher Anora’s heart beating strong and alive. They were in step, beating as one.
“Now that you’re a woman of means, answer me this, Anora Claire Sennett, could you consent to marry a poor, lowly orchard farmer like me? I can’t promise you a life of luxury, or abundance. But I love you more than a thousand, a million, pouches of gold, is that enough?”
Coming up on her toes, she kissed his lips, her hands going to his jowls, her gaze locked with his. “It will be an honor to marry you. You are the finest man…person, I’ve ever known—a miracle. You’re the love I never hoped to win. If I have your love, I have everything I will ever need.”
About the Author
Hello, let me introduce myself: My name is Dorothy A. Bell. I write, and enjoy reading, Oregon historical and western romances. A big chocoholic, I make all kinds of sinful goodies. I love to garden, exercise in the water, tell stories, and write spicy, entertaining, colorful romances. I live in a tiny home with my husband, our long-haired Dachshund, Hector, and an old angora, tuxedo cat.
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Author's Web Site
Other Books by this Author:
Dance Hall Road
Do-si-do
Jo and the Pinkerton Man
Gathering on Dance Hall Road
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