by Aileen Adams
But there was nothing there.
She had reached the apex of the ridge. Less than two footsteps beyond, the ground dropped precipitously. She gasped. A myriad of emotions struck—horror, fear, her own sense of dismay at her penchant for distraction.
She swayed for a second or two and then instinctively swung her arms to regain her balance, tried to reach out and balance as she felt herself falling forward.
Nothing to grasp onto. Just empty air.
She felt herself falling. Cried out in pain as the ground rose to meet her with a bone-jarring thud before she began to slide. She landed on her right side, the side of her face, her shoulder, and her hip impacting the ground. Hard. Her startled cry was broken as the air left her lungs, carrying with it a grunt of pain.
She caught only a glimpse of gravel, stones, and then of darkening sky as she tumbled downward.
For all she knew, she was heading for a precipice. Certainly were enough of those around here.
In those few seconds of heart-pounding terror, trying to clutch at anything that might slow her descent, trying to twist her body around so that she could dig her heels into the gritty soil, she prayed that she wouldn't be flung off the side of the mountain to fall hundreds of feet to her death.
As suddenly as her descent began, her forward momentum came to an abrupt halt. She landed flat on her back, the air once again knocked out of her, mouth open, gasping for breath that refused to fill her lungs.
At first, she didn't feel anything. Gradually, pain surged through her body. She managed to gasp in a lung full of air. Cold, damp, mist-laden air.
She didn't move, afraid that if she did, she would continue her downward descent. Ever so slowly, she felt the surface beneath her sprawled torso with her fingers, palms flat against the ground.
Rock. Damp, slick rock, fairly smooth.
She had landed on a ledge. How big was it? How sturdy?
Amazing. She had literally topped the slope and toppled right on over, perhaps thirty feet or so. The drop and slide down had felt longer.
She stared upward at the darkening sky, spying the red kite still slowly circling overhead, peering down at her.
She turned her head. To the west, the setting sun shadowed the mountains and painted them a deep purplish-blue glow. Beautiful under other circumstances.
Carefully, without moving her body much, she tried to assess potential injuries from the fall and hard landing. She slowly wiggled her feet.
So far so good.
She tried to bend her knees, but her right one protested in pain. She must've twisted it, or worse, broken her leg. She tried not to dwell on that thought while she continued with her examination. She was able to lift both knees very slightly upward. Okay, so her right leg wasn’t broken, but she had definitely injured her knee. With a sigh, she continued her small movements to gauge the presence of any other injuries.
She repeated the same with her hands, her elbows, and her shoulders. Her upper back hurt, and her left shoulder was awfully sore. Her face burned, and she could imagine that it was scraped, as was her upper right arm and her right hip. She assessed what she felt in those areas. Heat, throbbing, stiffness, and discomfort. No horrible pain.
Now to appraise her location. She had landed on a stone ledge jutting out from the cliffside. Ever so slowly, she began to sit up, holding her breath, hoping that her movement didn't dislodge the ledge.
Finally, she was able to sit up, leaning back against her hands, her feet extended out in front of her. She repositioned herself so that her back leaned against the mountainside, but every little movement sent needles of pain shooting through her.
Finally, gasping from the effort, she managed to secure a stable position.
She lifted her hand and touched the side of her face. A few scrapes, likely bruised, but no alarming amount of blood. Her hands and arms also scraped, but again no severe bleeding. Bruises would form soon; she had no doubt.
She looked out over the landscape, searching the near and far distance for any sign of the manor house. She didn't see anything but wilderness. No telltale smoke to indicate a house, a village, a campfire. In the distance, a low valley and the stream running through it shone a golden red as the sun sank lower toward the horizon. The grasslands on the leeward side of the mountain dotted with brown shapes—deer.
The hawk soaring above screeched, and then disappeared around the side of the mountain. The only sound now was a slight breeze ruffling the treetops and her own breathing.
So wild out here.
Alone.
No way down and, looking upward over her shoulder, a terrifying climb back up.
She doubted she could make it on her own.
She fought back the tears as she clasped her arms over her chest, chilled not only by the quickly cooling evening air, but also by her growing dread.
The incredibly steep slope rose above, mocking even the thought of Heather climbing from her precarious perch. Even if she could find handholds in the rocks, she couldn’t do so until tomorrow morning, after the sun rose and warmed them up. No use even making an attempt to scramble back up the steep slope in the darkness. That would be pure foolishness. At this time of day, they were damp from the evening mist—and slippery. The ledge she sat on seemed solid, but at least fifty feet or more from contact with the slope below, which declined yet even more sharply to the base of a narrow ravine.
She had no tools, no weapons, nothing that would aid her ability to ascend the cliffside. She looked out over the landscape before her; beautiful, wild, and deadly. Her heart thumped.
No one knew where she was.
Would anyone come looking for her?
“Of course, they will!” she muttered.
When she didn't return to the manor house, she knew Sarah would worry.
Phillip would likely send out a search party. Maybe he already had. Would they be able to track her? The landscape she had traversed was rugged. Her slipper shoes wouldn’t have created much of a trail.
She tried to shift her position, but pain shot through her and caused her to stiffen.
She gasped in pain. She wanted to cry, but refused to. Leaving her right leg extended out in front of her, she pulled her left knee close her chest, and wrapped her arms around it.
Think. Try to keep warm. Don’t panic.
She repeated the words over and over, but her anxiety refused to be ignored.
How long would she be up here before someone found her? Time passed slowly. The sun dipped lower.
Just before full darkness fell, she noticed movement down below.
Three horses with riders slowly wound their way along the bottom slope of a hill near the edge of the narrow valley a bit to the east, past the opening of the ravine.
She was right!
Sarah had noticed her absence. Phillip had sent out riders to look for her!
Her heart leapt with excitement.
She shouted. “Help! Up here! Help!”
Would her voice carry down the mountainside? Would they be able to tell where it came from after bouncing off the steep mountain slopes and trees?
Roiling clouds of mist sent exploring tendrils through those trees and hugged the ground. What with trees lining the slopes, the mist, and the growing shadows, she wasn't sure she would be seen even if someone did hear her voice.
Desperate, she waved her arms and shouted again. For a second she thought that maybe she had been heard.
The horses paused briefly. It looked as if two of the figures turned their heads and looked in her direction, as if trying to identify the source of her call. The third wore a cloak, but didn’t turn around. Smaller than the others.
Her eyes widened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. How foolish could she be? What if those riders weren’t from the Duncan clan, out looking for her? What if they belonged to an enemy clan, perhaps the McGregors?
She immediately flattened herself against the back of the mountainside, now hoping and praying that she had not
been spotted. Had not been heard. That those riders would assume they had heard nothing more than the breeze blowing through the trees, the call of a hawk…she sighed with relief when the riders continued on until they disappeared around a bend.
Fear swept through her. If she couldn't call for help because of the risk of alerting outlaws or enemy clansmen, how would anyone find her? Losing hope of being rescued for the night and with the growing chill in the air, she heaved a shaky breath, told herself not to cry.
Sarah wouldn’t cry. It would do no good.
A single tear escaped, but she wiped it away, looked up at the emerging stars and prayed.
* * *
Hours passed. She shivered with the increasing cold, not entirely successful in her efforts to stay calm. She tried to keep her thoughts occupied with anything else but her present predicament. To distract herself from her growing discomfort, the throbbing pain in her knee, and what would happen if she couldn't figure out a way to get back up onto the top of the slope in the morning.
Would she die of thirst or starve to death on this ledge? Succumb to the elements? Both were likely. Such a demise would take days—
—Stop it!
With each passing moment, she grew angrier with herself. For all her attempts to be independent and self-sufficient, she hadn't been thinking at all when she’d dashed out of the manor house, angry with the world. Hurt not only by her sister, but also by Jake.
She should've known better.
Jake had been trying to encourage self-sufficiency for weeks and what had been the first thing she did when left to her own devices?
She'd let emotions rule her actions. Something that he had tried to insist that she work on. Once again, she had reacted without thinking. Look where that had gotten her.
What if—
She heard a noise.
What was that?
It sounded like something striking a rock. The noise had come from up above her. She heard it again. It was full dark now, but a wavering glow oozed over the top of the cliffside above her.
What was that noise?
Her heart skipped a beat, and then pounded.
She heard it again.
Something striking against a stone.
She realized what it was.
A horse!
Was there a horse and rider up there? Friend or foe? She wasn't sure she cared. All she wanted was to get off this ledge.
Fear surged through her.
Call out or stay silent?
Call out or stay silent?
She debated with herself for seconds. Then the sound of movement from above faded, as did the faint glow of light. Someone holding a torch?
Her instinct for survival was strong, but what if whoever was up there wasn't a friend, but an enemy? Someone who hated the Duncan clan? She had no weapon, no way to defend herself—
She heard a voice, male, hushed. Even more startling, he spoke her name.
“Heather… Heather MacDonald!”
The voice bounced through the darkness and off of the walls of the mountainsides back in her direction.
But she heard no movement.
Was her mind playing tricks on her?
It sounded like maybe a horse up there.
Who but someone from the Duncan clan knew her name? Then again, anyone who knew Sarah MacDonald knew of her younger sister.
Sarah’s reputation as a healer was well-known far and wide.
She was suspicious yet hopeful at the same time.
Whoever it was up there moved on. She heard that sound again and recognized it as a hoof glancing against a rock. More than once.
Should she call out? Should she risk it?
“Hello?”
Her voice tentative and hoarse, she cringed, not sure if she had just made a mistake that might cost her dearly. But if she didn't get off this ledge, she might die anyway. Even if she attempted to clamber up the slope tomorrow with an injured knee, she could very well slip and fall to her death.
The sounds from above stilled.
She tried again. “Hello?”
A lengthy pause.
Then movement.
“Heather?” A pause, the voice filled with disbelief. “Heather, is that you?”
A horse blew.
The man spoke again, a little louder this time, but not enough to travel far in the stillness of the night.
“Heather MacDonald, if that's you, answer me!”
“It's me… Heather MacDonald!” she responded, as cautiously as he.
The sound of hooves came closer.
She heard a curse.
Saw the glow of torchlight near the edge of the cliff.
“Where are you?”
“Down here!”
She tried not to scream, fought against the urge, but her voice did shake with relief.
Someone was up there, someone surely from the Duncan clan who knew her and was going to help her!
“Please,” she hissed. “I'm down here!”
Several moments later she heard the sound of scrambling, then, looking up, watched in dismay as a torch was held over the edge of the steep slope. The man must be lying on his stomach up there, holding the torch over the precipice.
The light didn't extend down far enough to illuminate her.
“Where are you?”
“Right below you,” she whispered loudly, afraid that if she spoke any louder, she would start screaming and never stop. “Directly below your torch, maybe thirty feet down or so. I'm on a ledge!”
“Heather MacDonald, I swear I’ll put you over my knee and give you the thrashing you certainly deserve!”
She hadn't recognized the voice until now. She nearly choked back a sob.
“Jake? Is that you?”
“Aye, it's me,” he grumbled. “Are you hurt?”
“I've hurt my knee. I couldn’t try to climb back up. It's too steep and the rocks too slippery!”
She heard a string of oaths followed by a low growling sound.
“Heather MacDonald, don't you dare move until I get down there!”
12
Jake’s emotions were torn between immense relief that he had finally found Heather—and disbelief, frustration, and anger.
The sun had set hours ago. After darkness had fallen, he knew finding her trail would be impossible. Not only that, but the rugged terrain was dangerous to take horses over at nightfall.
The landscape was rife with dangers—vole holes, dips, slippery rocks, and grass.
Several of the searchers had set up camp.
Hugh had ridden back to the manor house to give Phillip and Sarah an update on their progress—or lack of it.
Jake had ventured on with the spare horse tethered to his saddle.
Sarah had told him that Heather had rushed out of the house earlier in the day without taking her cloak or her wrap. She was not dressed for the bone-chilling dampness that had settled through the valleys, let alone the drop in temperature on higher ground.
After hours of searching, his leg was on fire, but he would not rest until he found her.
After darkness fell, he had continued on, moving slowly. He had finally deigned to light his torch, but held it low in one hand, the other on his short sword.
A perfect target for an arrow, but he risked it.
He had long ago begun to imagine the worst: She had slipped and fallen. Smashed her head against a rock and lay unconscious, or dead at the bottom of a ravine, her body hidden in the brush. Attacked by outlaws. Clyde McGregor had found her on the trail and kidnapped her.
His thoughts grew darker, more violent. The thought of anyone hurting Heather sent waves of fury through him. He berated himself for saying anything to Maccay in the first place. If he hadn't opened his big mouth, none of this would have happened.
Now he lay on the ground over a steep slope, cursing under his breath as he extended the torch further over the side of the slope.
Still couldn't see her.
He didn't wa
nt to say too much or too loudly. A sound could carry great distances in a narrow valley like this, and late at night, especially with the breeze. He needed to douse the flame. It could be seen for miles.
“Heather, how wide is the ledge you’re on?” He spoke in a normal tone of voice, hoping that it was loud enough for her to hear.
“I'm not sure,” she responded several moments later, her voice more even, no longer a hushed whisper. “I landed on it sideways and didn't find myself too close to the edge.”
“Does it extend out very far from the side of the mountain?”
“I'm sitting with my back to the wall. My leg is extended out in front of me, and I think there's a least a few feet beyond that before it drops off.”
He shook his head, bit back a sigh.
What the hell was he going to do?
“Can you help me, Jake?”
Her voice sounded forlorn, torn between hope and resignation.
He shook his head. “Just don't be moving around. I'll try to find a way down to you.”
“I think you'd be best to wait until daylight, Jake,” she said. “It's steep. The rocks are wet. Please, don't come down here now.”
He knew she was right, but the thought of leaving her there all night ...
“I can drop the torch down to you, but I'm afraid if it lands on you, it will set your clothes on fire.”
“Don't risk it,” she replied. “Besides, earlier… just before dark, I saw some riders down there in the valley.”
“Riders? How many?”
“Three. Heading off to the northwest. They disappeared around the bottom of the mountain along the valley floor.”
He swore.
The same number of individuals they had spied over the campfire toward the western boundaries a couple of days ago. Could it be the McGregors? Ceana?
“I'd better douse my torch then. It can be seen for miles.”
Reluctantly, he did just that, then rose and limped back to the horses, every step sending a jolt of pain up his thigh and into his hip. He untied a bundle from the spare horse and returned to the side of the cliff.
