by Aileen Adams
His hand slipped downward.
Heather screamed; a sharp, abbreviated cry of alarm.
“Don't let go!”
After hissing the warning, he swore. His right arm, biceps, and shoulder muscles burned with the strain. Focusing only on the strip of leather, he quickly twisted his wrist and managed to wrap the end of the rein around it.
He had a good handhold now, but would it bear their combined weight?
Not sure how long the makeshift rope would hold, he quickly reached for the rope with his right hand, placing it just above his left.
Held his breath, his heart pounding crazily now. His feet no longer felt their meager purchase and dangled in the air,
Heather’s face pressed into the side of his neck. Her breath hot against his skin as she uttered short, frightened gasps. Was that wetness he felt her tears, or had the rain increased?
Her scream echoed against the rocks surrounding them, bouncing into the distance and downward, perhaps loud enough to filter their way down to the bottom. Whoever was down there, friend or foe, had likely heard it. Would her cry be mistaken for that of an animal? Possibly, but he wasn't going to count on it.
“Hang on,” he muttered, teeth clenched as hand-over-hand, he slowly made his way upward.
He had progressed maybe a foot when he began to worry that the rope could not possibly hold the both of them much longer.
Could she scramble up the rest of way on her own?
Was she strong enough to pull herself upward, hand over hand, like he was doing? She might be, but did he want to take the chance?
As he inched his way upward, felt his breath grunting from the depths of his chest, leaving a vapor trail behind him, he paused for a brief moment.
“Can you see the top?”
Every muscle in his body trembled with exertion. He was only half way there. Such an insurmountable distance! He had to make it. Her question taunted him. Could he see the top? Her eyes must be closed.
“Almost,” he lied.
His muscles strained with his efforts. The blood pounding in his heart roared in his ears. Scrambling for footholds wherever he could, he nevertheless was forced to rely on the strength of his upper torso to lift them in tiny increments upward.
Could he make it to the top before his muscles gave out?
Over the sound of his lungs gasping for air, he heard a sound from below.
A shout?
Had they been seen?
He couldn't risk a glance downward. Refused to focus on anything except reaching the top.
Heather’s breaths came faster now, each one marked with a squeak of increasing fear. She was close to panicking.
He couldn't blame her, not one bit, but now was not the time.
“Almost there.”
Miraculously, his makeshift rope held.
After what seemed like hours but was not likely more than a couple of minutes, he saw the top.
Still so far away.
Unfortunately, the edge extended slightly over the slope they now climbed. He swore under his breath. He kept searching for footholds, but more often than not his feet failed to find secure purchase. Every muscle in his biceps felt like it could rip asunder any moment.
He found it increasingly difficult for his cold fingers to maintain a firm grip on the leather strap, and then he felt the braided fabric he had crafted. The feel of the fabric beneath his fingers gave him hope.
He was making progress.
Slow, moving upward one agonizing inch at a time, he tried to estimate how many more times he would have to lift them both upward, hand over hand. Twenty? Would he make it?
He had to!
Another squeak from Heather.
Her position shifted slightly as she gasped and croaked out a single word that sent shivers racing down his spine.
“Slipping!”
Her voice tight with panic, he felt her arms tightening, fingers trying to clutch at his tunic, digging deep into the flesh under his collarbones.
He winced.
If she panicked and began to shift, the strain against the rope could either cause him to lose his grip or loosen the knots.
A downward plummet the result of both.
He had to hurry, but he was climbing as fast as he could.
“Hang on!”
His strength waned. He forced himself to move.
Heather dangled down his back like dead weight, seemingly growing heavier by the second.
Reach.
Grab.
Surge upward.
He didn't have the energy nor the strength to try and calm her.
She knew what would happen if either of them lost their grip. Knew that she would cling desperately as long as she could.
Reach.
Grab.
Surge upward.
Finally, the lip of the ledge was within reach.
With the last of his strength, he forced himself to surge upward once more, to reach for the root of the shrub around which he had tied their makeshift rope. Grabbed onto it with his left hand. A little slippery, but still a lot more solid than dangling from a crevice on the rock face.
Bearing their weight with his left hand, with what little strength he had left, he reached forward with his right, scrambling for purchase.
He got high enough so that his upper torso pressed against the lip of the precipice, his hips and legs still dangling.
“Up!”
He gasped, sucking air, every muscle in his body trembling with exhaustion.
Heather understood what he wanted her to do.
Small sounds escaping her throat, her fingers clutching at his tunic, she tried to wiggle herself upward, higher onto his back. She couldn't find purchase. Her grunts of frightened desperation transformed into a sound of despair. She couldn't release the grip of her arms from around his neck. She was frozen with terror.
“Do it!”
His voice came out harsher than he intended, but she had to let go, had to reach forward, climb off his back and onto the top of the cliff.
Still, she didn't—or couldn't—move.
He couldn't maintain his grip on the shrub much longer with her dangling weight hanging over the edge, threatening to send them both tumbling downward.
Then he felt her hand move, clenched like a claw past his face. She let go of his tunic and clasped his forearm, her grip incredibly strong and tight. Her fingernails dug into his skin.
With a low groan, she lifted herself a bit higher.
He felt her breasts against the back of his neck.
In any other circumstance an interesting development, but not now.
Grunting with effort, sounds erupting from her throat as choked back desperate, frightened mewling cries, she finally let go with her left hand. With a loud grunt of supreme effort, she reached upward past his head and wrapped a hand around the base of the shrub, desperately clasping it just above his.
He felt her midriff on the back of his head and lowered his head, pressing his cheek against the damp earth, hoping that she could lift herself upward over his shoulders, dragging her body over his until she could manage to climb off of him and onto the edge of the cliff.
His heart pounding, every muscle in his body now screaming with pain and protesting his prolonged efforts, he clung desperately to the shrub.
Heather’s knee dug into his back, but he winced and resolved to ignore the pain. Focused on imagining her scrambling upward, every movement of hand and foot carefully synchronized. Bruised and battered, her muscles surely as stiff and sore as his, he could only pray that she would make it.
That she wouldn't let go. That she wouldn't give up.
After what seemed like forever, trying not to put too much weight on his shoulders, she managed to scramble over him.
Half-rolling, half-pulling, she managed to lift herself up onto the ledge.
“Get back!”
She had fallen onto her side, her face mere inches from his, her chest heaving with her effo
rts, hands still tightly clasping the shrub.
Her eyes wide with fright, her pupils dilated, she stared at him.
His command sank in, and she realized what he wanted her to do.
She scrambled back and up on her backside, kicking herself upward away from the ledge with her good leg, giving him room.
With one last mighty effort, he growled low in his throat and heaved himself upward after her. Every muscle in his body strained, his muscles and his strength depleted. He wasn't sure he would make it. He swung his legs beneath him, scrambling for a foothold, trying to wedge himself further upward.
His concentration broke as he saw Heather sit up, brace her uninjured leg against the base of the shrub, and lean forward, arms extended. She grabbed his forearm, wrapping her hands tightly around it, incredibly strong for such a small woman.
She leaned backward, trying to prevent him from sliding downward. Her efforts were enough to aid him in getting the rest of his upper torso onto the cliffside.
Ignoring the pain shooting through his leg, he swung it upward until he was able to scramble up over the ledge and roll onto his back mere inches from the edge, staring up into the cloudy sky, which at that moment flashed with lightning.
His chest heaving, he lay still for several moments, every muscle in his body drained.
The only sound was that of their harsh breathing.
A sharp clap of thunder reverberated through the highlands. As if on cue, the clouds released their rain.
He felt the droplets on his cheeks, refreshing, cold, and life-affirming.
They had made it. He was surprised by the chuckle that escaped his throat. Relief, disbelief, and gratitude all mixed together.
He must've lain there for a solid minute before he managed to roll onto his side, away from the edge of the cliff.
Heather sat hunched, her eyes wide, her face pale with shock, her good foot still braced against the base of the shrub, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other resting in her lap. That small hand trembled uncontrollably.
Such a small hand, blue veins providing stark contrast to her pale skin. He knew she trembled from a combination of fear, cold, and muscle exhaustion.
So did he. He tried to smile encouragingly, but he was too damned tired.
“Come on,” he gestured lamely, flinging his hand toward the copse of trees wherein he had sheltered and hobbled the horses. At least they could find some shelter from the rain there.
They would have to spend the night here. He would not risk taking the horses down the uneven trail in this weather near dusk. Not in these mountains. Rugged slopes, stones loosened by dripping rain, possible mudslides. Better they just shelter as best they could where they were and head back to the manor in the morning.
He'd never felt so drained, so exhausted in his life, not even after battle.
Battle had always filled him with a sense of excitement. Fear, determination, and bloodlust had always provided him with the momentum to keep going.
But his scramble up the cliff with Heather hanging down his back? Fear and determination, yes. But the sense of desperation he had felt moments ago, he had never felt before.
Her life had been in his hands. Not on the battlefield, where every warrior had the expectation of dying. This was different. He felt as emotionally drained as he did physically exhausted.
Something to contemplate in the near future, but not now.
The rain fell in earnest.
If they were exposed much longer they would both be soaked through, their clothing heavy and damp with cold. If they didn't find shelter and warm themselves in their exhausted state, they could catch their death.
After the effort of getting up the cliff, he wasn't about to let that happen. Fighting the weariness in every muscle of his body, he reached for the knife in its sheath at his waist, cut the rope tied to the shrub, and then, slowly got to his feet.
That in itself took more of an effort than he imagined. His leg nearly buckled beneath him as she rose slowly to his feet. Every muscle in his body twitched with sensations. Sharp, stabbing pains that nearly took his breath away.
He loosely coiled the makeshift rope in his hands. Grasping it with his left, he extended his right down to Heather.
She was having trouble scrambling to her feet as well, wincing with pain as she maneuvered her own injured leg. A fine pair.
She made it to her feet without his aid. He wrapped an arm beneath her shoulders, holding her against him, his hand coming to a rest just below her breasts. Supporting her as best he could, they hobbled toward the shelter of the trees a short distance away.
By the time he reached the copse of trees sheltering the horses, he had not one shred of energy left. Releasing his grip on Heather, he collapsed to the ground where he stood.
Heather did much the same. The horses stood nearby, staring placidly at them, standing head to tail, resting on three hooves.
He gestured toward a nearby tree, pine boughs growing waist high to the ground.
“I'll just rest a minute, and then I'll make some sort of shelter,” he finally said.
He saw the look she gave him and shook his head. “We’re staying here through the night.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest, but then nodded as she slumped as if boneless.
She had survived a harrowing experience.
They both had. But they had made it.
He grunted and sent her a smile of encouragement.
It warmed his heart when she returned his smile with one of her own.
15
Jake had saved her life. Literally. Heather watched him quietly as they both rested under the overhang of pine boughs above.
The scent of the bark, the sap, and the pine needles enhanced by the fresh rain. The rich aroma of soil, damp with life-giving rain.
She even imagined she could smell the dampness in the air, feel the wisps of fog and low-lying clouds wrap around her. High above in the tree, she heard a soft sound, and knew instinctively, that it was a squirrel scrambling for purchase as it sought shelter of its own.
She knew her senses were enhanced because of their close call. That her desire to live had sharpened those senses to an incredible degree in the aftermath of her harrowing experience.
The horses nearby stood quietly, heads drooping, their breaths sending vapor gusting into the air. Her heart still pounded. She couldn't stop her hands from trembling. Her back was stiff with muscle spasms that just wouldn't stop.
Jake sat quietly with his back against the tree nearby, legs sprawled in front of him, arms dangling at his sides, hands resting with palms facing upward on the pine needles underneath him.
She saw his hands also trembled from physical exhaustion.
Waves of emotion swept through her. Gratitude. Pride. Admiration. Intense relief to be alive.
Not only had he come down to her on the ledge when he didn't have to, but he had risked everything, even his own life, to save hers. She could've sat on that ledge while he rode back to the manor to get help, but he hadn't left her.
She felt humbled by his loyalty. A loyalty that he no doubt shared with his comrades on the battlefield, and with the Duncan clan. But to experience it, to understand what loyalty meant to the Highlander, that was an eye-opening experience.
She had no doubt that she had always felt loyalty for her sister. In her own way, Sarah had striven to protect her from life. If the tables were turned, Heather knew that she would do everything within her power to help her if Sarah needed her.
Still, would she thought of crafting a makeshift rope out of strips of fabric and the horse’s reins as Jake had? Would she even have had the strength to pull herself up on her own with or without a rope? Or be brave enough to try? She doubted it.
She experienced a sudden, overwhelming urge to hug him, to in some way show her gratitude.
But would he welcome such a gesture from her?
She didn't think so. She had done this. She had endangered not only her
own life, but his. Risked the lives of the others looking for her. Exposing them to the dangers of wild animals, a slip down a mountainside, the attack of enemy clans.
She sat with her back resting against the same tree trunk, close to Jake, but not touching. Close enough to reach out her hand to clasp his, if she had the energy, which she didn't.
She couldn't even make herself move. Even taking a deep breath was painful. Her leg throbbed. She couldn’t imagine how much pain Jake must be in.
But something was required.
“Thank you, Jake.”
He turned to look at her and their eyes met.
What was he thinking?
His expression inscrutable, she worried. Angry with her? A distinct possibility. Not only had she been foolish enough to run off in a pique of anger, but she had potentially risked her life, and his.
They both could've died today.
She dropped her gaze from his, nervously plucking at the damp cloth of her kirtle with her fingers.
That might not have been anger she saw in his expression, but disappointment.
She had done everything that he had spent weeks telling her not to. Yet once again, she had allowed emotions to control her actions. She hadn't been fighting an actual enemy, but for all intents and purposes, the landscape and the environment were her enemies.
Face downturned, staring at her damp and heavy woolen kirtle, shame rose within her. Warm tears filled her eyes despite her efforts to blink them back. A lump rose in her throat, making it difficult to swallow.
She looked up at him again, prepared to apologize.
She hesitated.
A slight frown pulled down his eyebrows. Why didn't he say something? Before she could venture an apology, which seemed embarrassingly inadequate due to their present circumstances, he shifted his position and prepared to crawl out from under the boughs of the pine tree somewhat sheltering them from the rain.
Her eyes widened.
He was leaving her? Now? After all he had done for her? “Where are you going?”
He crawled from beneath the bows, muttering under his breath, then rose to his feet, jaw clenched tightly against the pain surely coursing through his leg.
