It would not be much longer.
He told himself that every step of the way until he touched down on soggy earth. How good it felt to feel mud squish beneath his boots! And rain drip from the leaves of trees high above his head. Not below him, or beside him, but towering over him the way God intended.
With a little luck, Schoville found the cave system in the dark. They dried off as best they could and hunkered down for the night. But as tired as Patrick was, he could not rest. He lay there within arm’s reach of Linley, trying to hear her breathing over the relentless downpour of rain just outside.
All he could hear was Schoville snoring away in his corner of the cave.
Patrick fumbled for Linley’s hand in the dark. He wanted to hold her. To know she was near, and hope that wherever she was, she knew he was near, too.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Patrick and Schoville looked out across what once was a lush river valley, now raging from weeks worth of torrential rains.
“Christ,” Patrick said, laying Linley’s stretcher a few feet from the river’s edge.
“At least we know we’ve made it this far.” Schoville searched up and down the floodwaters. “With any luck, the bridge will still be here.”
“Bridge? You mean the one we crossed to get here? The one that barely held us when the river was down?”
Schoville nodded.
“You’re mad! Surely you don’t intend to put Linley through that sort of danger.”
“Do you want to get across or not?”
Patrick did not even bother to answer. He simply stared at the thick brown water rushing past. Danger or no danger, they would get Linley across that river.
Schoville slapped him on the back. “Good man.”
They marched along the riverbank, careful to keep their precious cargo far away from the crumbling embankment. Neither man was accomplished at reading maps—especially not rudimentary ones drawn by an aged lama who hadn’t left his monastery in many, many years. But, once again, the good Lord seemed to be on their side, as they were only a mile or so away from the bridge.
“By God!” Patrick called. “There it is.”
Somehow, through the beating rain and fog, the weather-worn bamboo bridge teetered just over the water’s surface.
Patrick’s excitement sank to the pit of his stomach. “When we first came through, it was a good fifteen feet above water level.” He watched with dismay as stumps and loose branches crashed against the woven bamboo boards. “I—I don’t think it is crossable.”
“At this point, I don’t think it is a question of can it be crossed or not. All that matters is whether we’re going to try.”
Patrick looked from the bridge down to Linley, who lay tucked beneath her canvas shield. “I suppose today is as good a day to die as any.”
“There’s that bravery our noble classes are so revered for.” Schoville gave the stretcher a little shove, knocking Patrick forward.
They slogged the rest of the way to the bridge, ankle deep in mud and grass. The bamboo creaked and groaned over the sound of the thundering river. Patrick had been half kidding when he made that joke about it being a good day to die. Now, it did not seem so amusing.
“I’ve crossed worse rivers than this in the Amazon,” Schoville assured him. “The bridge will hold. It is what they’re made for.”
Patrick took the first slow step onto the slick latticed boards. The bridge protested, dipping with the wind, and the water, and the added weight. He clutched the stretcher until his knuckles went white and he was sure his calloused hands were bleeding.
“…Whenever I cross the river…” he whispered to himself. “On its bridge with wooden piers…”
Schoville took his first step onto the bridge, and Patrick moved ahead.
“Like the odor of brine from the ocean…”
More steps. More swaying.
Patrick’s voice began to tremble. “Comes the thought of other years…”
The two men slipped and slid as the water danced over the bamboo boards. It swirled around their boots, seeping through the wet leather.
Ignoring it, Patrick kept whispering, breathing the lines of the poem that saw him across that river the first time. “And I think how many thousands, of care-encumbered men…”
They moved out farther onto the bridge. It was too late to turn back. The river tumbled all around them, seeming to grow higher and faster with every step.
“Each bearing his burden of sorrow.” He held tighter to the stretcher. “Have crossed the bridge since then.”
They made it halfway on shaking legs. But by then, the woven bamboo boards were completely submerged. Either the river was rising, or they were sinking.
The bridge seemed to dip and sway with more violence than before. With every step Patrick took, it felt like the river pushed him back three more. He had less than half a bridge left to go, and was getting nowhere.
The bamboo groaned. It practically screamed in agony.
One of the support ropes splintered, causing the entire structure to lurch. It tipped, nearly dumping Patrick, Schoville, and Linley into the raging water.
Both men held on to the stretcher for dear life. Thankfully, Linley remained belted and secure.
Schoville looked back at the beginning of the bridge, watching the waterlogged bamboo quiver from the stress of its injuries.
He whipped his head around to Patrick. “Go!”
With both hands clutching the stretcher, Patrick pushed forward against the current. The bridge dipped lower into the water, which now pulled on the men’s calves.
More cracking. More groaning.
The weakened bamboo bridge uttered its last cry, and rolled over in defeat.
Schoville pitched into the churning water and slammed against what was left of the woven boards as the river threatened to carry him away.
Patrick, still holding on to Linley and the stretcher, grew tangled in the mass of splintered bamboo. He could not get his feet free, but neither could he let go of Linley to help himself.
He wanted to scream, but every time he opened his mouth, river water rushed in before he could get the air out. It was like the worst game of apple-bobbing imaginable. Or getting one’s head dunked in the toilet and having the chain pulled.
Or drowning. Just like Johnnie.
Patrick sputtered, hanging half in and half out of the water. He kicked as hard as he could, refusing to be the second Wolford to die that way.
He kicked until he felt he couldn’t kick any more, and then kicked again.
He kicked his way free of his bamboo bonds.
Still clutching the stretcher, Patrick slammed against the broad side of the bridge so hard it knocked what little breath he had out of him. He felt dizzy and cold, and his lungs burned.
The canvas sheet covering Linley from the elements threatened to wash away. Her limp body flopped against her restraints.
Patrick could fight for his life, but Linley was defenseless against the raging river. He pressed the stretcher against the side of the bridge, letting the current hold it fast. Fighting as best he could against that same current, Patrick struggled to unbuckle the belts that secured her to the stretcher.
Further down the bridge, Schoville clung to the shattered bamboo latticework. He wanted to help—needed to help—but did not have the strength to fight his way there. The rough bamboo dug into his skin, and with every bob and dip of the water, Schoville’s body grated against it like cheese on a shredder.
But still he held on.
The debris in the water seemed to come more frequently. Stumps and branches scraped against the bamboo, knocking chunks out of the woven boards as they flew past. They, too, tore at Schoville’s arms and legs. He gritted his teeth and bore every lash, but knew he would not be able to withstand the large, broken tree barreling down the river. He watched in horror as it headed straight for them.
Patrick saw it, too. He fumbled with the belt buckle holding Linley in. His hands
shook, and he kept turning around to see the how close the tree was.
It came at them hard and fast.
He had a minute—at most—to get Linley free.
After an eternity, she came loose from her restraints. The stretcher could not be wrenched away from the broad side of the bridge, so Patrick held her around the waist with one arm and to the last line of bridge support with the other.
The tree slammed into the battered bridge, sending shards of bark and bamboo flying through the air. Patrick held fast to the rope as it trembled from the impact, but Schoville took the brunt of the crash.
What was left of the bridge whipped around, dragging Linley and Patrick along for the ride. Somehow, he held on through it all.
“Schoville!” he cried.
But the man was gone.
It was like a nightmare Patrick had relived over and over again. The water. The helplessness. If only he could have been there when Johnnie went in.
If only he could have been there for Schoville.
No time to think about that. He had to get Linley to safety. Patrick pulled at the bamboo support until he felt his muscles tear. He inched along, fighting the current and his own fatigue with every motion of his hand as he slid closer and closer to the riverbank.
It seemed like hours had passed when he finally crawled onto the muddy earth. He dragged Linley up to the tree line, along with their sodden leather packs. It was nearly dark, but he tripped back down to the water’s edge.
“Schoville!” Patrick cupped his bloodied hands around his mouth and called again. “Schoville!”
No answer came.
He walked the bank and screamed until his voice went hoarse, but all he found of Schoville was his leather satchel, full of mud, and dirt, and leaves.
But the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. As Patrick dug the muck from the bag, he realized he had the tent. He pulled it out and saw with his own eyes the stakes, ropes, and everything else he needed.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Patrick carried Linley to higher ground. He strung together a makeshift shelter using the tent components from Schoville’s bag. The sun sank and the moon climbed higher. The air grew cold, and he shivered beneath his sopping wet clothes.
His teeth clattered. And even in her fevered state, Linley’s did, too.
“We…need to…get dry,” he told her. “We need to…keep…warm.”
Patrick searched through the dark for anything dry enough to be used as kindling. He used his Sheffield knife to cut enough branches to build a decent fire, and thanks to finding Schoville’s pack, he also had a lighter to light it with.
Satisfied with the meager campfire, and somewhat proud that he’d at least managed that much, Patrick strung up their soggy blankets to dry. But if they intended to survive the night, Linley and Patrick would have to get dry as well.
“I have to get you out of these wet clothes,” he explained as he unlaced her waterlogged boots and pulled them off. Next came her blouse and skirt, until Patrick had stripped her down to her underlinens. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, peeling those off as well.
He stripped himself down. It wasn’t like he’d never seen her naked before. And it wasn’t like she had never seen him naked. But Patrick felt acutely aware of their nakedness there in the forest. Miles away from any other human beings on Earth.
Just a man and a woman, as God intended.
Like Adam and Eve before The Fall.
Patrick stared down at her—thin, frail, and wholly dependent on him. He pulled her to him and held her close, rocking her back and forth in his arms. Regardless of his intentions, he had signed her death warrant when he dragged her out of the monastery. He could not even save a healthy grown man. What good could he possibly do for an invalid girl? She could no more depend on him for survival than she could a toddler, or a blind man.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he rocked her. “I’m so sorry.”
***
At sunrise, Patrick dressed and headed down to the river to look for Schoville. It was foolish, he knew. The man could be miles away, and time spent looking was time wasted. And with Linley weaker than ever, every second counted.
He beat his way through the tall, broad leaves and buzzing, stinging insects. The sun was barely over the treetops and already the heat had grown unbearable. Patrick stopped to wipe the sweat from his eyes with his dirty shirtsleeve. Everything around him looked the same—more trees. More insects. More mud. He needed to keep track of his path through the forest, or else he might lose his way back to Linley.
Finding the river was easy. Patrick followed the sound of rushing water until he reached the soggy banks. The low mist of the forest followed him there, hanging thick and heavy in the little river valley, choking the tops of trees and swirling around Patrick’s ankles. It would be hard to find anything with such little visibility, but neither he nor Linley could afford to wait until the fog cleared.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Schoville!”
No sound but the birds’ wings beating against the leaves as they scattered from the trees.
“Schoville!”
Again, there was nothing.
Patrick looked around. The river was still rising, and would continue to do so. If he intended to look for Schoville before all traces of the man were swept away, he needed to hurry. Patrick’s watch had long since stopped working, but he figured that he could walk a mile and back over rough ground in a little less than an hour. Certainly Linley could spare him for an hour.
An old military chum once told him the Ancient Romans calculated a mile to be exactly two thousand footfalls of an average soldier. Patrick considered himself an average sort of chap, so he set off one step at a time downriver in search of Schoville.
By footfall number three hundred and seventy-six, Patrick saw a can of tinned beef lodged between two rocks jutting out of the water. It was well out of reach, but it was a good sign. Here and there along his path, Patrick found traces of their accident—a piece of shredded canvas, bamboo shards from the bridge, and even an electric torch.
Around the thousandth step, he began to smell something burning in the air. The morning mist was still too thick to see any smoke, but Patrick was certain somewhere nearby someone had lit a fire. He continued along the edge of the river, only now he kept his eyes focused on the thickets of trees along the banks.
Patrick had long since given up counting footsteps by the time he saw the trickle of smoke escape from the forest canopy. Under the cover of a large tree only a few yards from the water’s edge, a man lay on the ground, warming himself by a small fire.
“Schoville!” Patrick called, tripping up the embankment.
The man shifted, rolling over to face him.
It was Schoville, back from the dead.
“Jesus Christ!” Patrick cried.
Schoville cleared his throat. “Not quite.”
“I’d nearly given you up for dead.”
“Somehow I managed to cling to the tree as it carried me downstream.” He paused to look Patrick up and down. “I’m surprised you made it out.”
“I find myself accomplishing lots of surprising things lately,” Patrick replied.
“And our Linley?”
“Alive, when I left her this morning.”
Schoville frowned. “You shouldn’t have left her alone. She is weak and vulnerable. Every moment spent looking for me…
It was Patrick’s turn to frown. “I couldn’t leave you behind. Not without at least looking for you first.”
“I would not have looked for you.”
Schoville struggled to his feet. For the first time, Patrick noticed what a sorry state the man was in—his clothes were torn and bloodied, his arms and hands bruised, and his hair caked with river mud. He looked pale. He looked weak.
“You look a fright, man,” Patrick said, standing. “Are you well enough to walk?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because it
matters to me that we both make it out of here alive.”
“To please your conscience?”
Patrick shook his head. “No.”
“Why then?”
“Because, despite how you treat me, I still believe you’re different than Archie and the others,” he said. “I believe you are a good man, and a good friend to Linley. And when this is all over, Linley will need every friend she has.”
***
“We lost all our food, but we still have the water,” Patrick said, showing Schoville the makeshift camp he’d set up overnight. “I’ll get Linley dressed and you can have the tent,” he said, bending down and picking Linley up, blanket and all.
While Schoville cleaned himself up and tended to his wounds, Patrick sat cross-legged on the ground by the fire, holding Linley upright in his lap, her head resting against his shoulder. He would dress her later. For the time being, he wanted to sit and reflect on the situation.
“I’m sure you’re glad to have Schoville back,” Patrick whispered to Linley. “I must admit, I was a little worried what might happen to us without him. But now we are back to three. And three can manage just fine.”
He smoothed her hair back from her face, and kissed her temple. Her eyes were open that day, and even though she never responded, Patrick liked to think she could still see and hear him. For good measure, he hummed a few bars of Steamboat Bill, just for her.
As content as Patrick was to hold her in his arms all day, the fact of the matter was that Linley needed to be washed and dressed. So he maneuvered as best he could with her still on his lap to pour a little of their drinking water into the small enamelware bowl they used for cooking. After placing the bowl of water near the fire to warm, Patrick dug through Linley’s bag for the bar of strong soap and flannel he knew she kept there.
He tested the water with his fingers, and finding it warm enough, dipped the cloth all the way in. Once the flannel was wet and soapy, Patrick gently folded back the rough blanket covering Linley’s body. It was then that he first saw her—really saw her—naked in full daylight.
A Love That Never Tires (Linley & Patrick Book 1) Page 30
