She moved toward the boat. Nathan reached for her before he thought twice about it; she went unnaturally still as his hands encompassed her upper arms. Barely acquainted, the impropriety of the touch didn't escape him.
“I’m more than happy to protect you, Miss Hart. All I ask in return is the truth. I realize you have no reason to trust me, but I’ll say it again. You can trust me.”
She looked at him like a mouse caught in a wolf’s gaze. “Protect me,” she said, quietly repeating his words. “It might be better if you didn’t touch me in the future.” She stepped back, breaking the contact. “If you want to know the truth, I came here because I was inspired to do something so completely out of my element. It probably makes me sound crazy, but I wanted to see if I could do it.”
“A woman who likes a challenge.” Nathan brooded over the fact the woman shied from his touch. He told himself it didn’t matter. But who lied now?
“Not a challenge, just something I felt necessary to do.”
She talked in riddles, yet he understood. He’d left Missouri for the same reason. It had simply been time for him to go. He felt a grudging respect for her, even if her decision to journey through the Grand Canyon was a decision marked with a certain amount of lunacy. A lunacy he was ready to join.
“I’d like to get back on the river.” Her eyes reminded him of the soft underbelly of a blue jay. She retrieved two cork life vests from her gear. “We ought to wear these from now on.”
They donned the vests. Emma climbed into the boat while Nathan pushed it into the water, then jumped inside. In silence, he guided the craft into the current.
* * *
“Is Molly well?” Emma asked.
Mister Blackmore sat across from her, his back to the river, occasionally rowing one or both oars to keep them on a steady course down the placid, muddy water. “Near as I could tell.”
“You must think there's something wrong with me, that I don't want to see my sister immediately." The precariousness of the situation was suddenly catching up to her—she was alone in the wilderness with a man she didn't know, although she wouldn’t have known the guide she hoped to employ either. Clearly, she hadn’t thought through that aspect of her journey.
On the one hand, she was grateful for the company. It was a foolhardy notion to roam this area alone, and Mister Blackmore appeared quite capable in many ways. On the other hand, she didn’t like being in close contact with someone she found…interesting. It was an unlikely dilemma, since she had never before found a man interesting. She firmly told herself her erotic dream lover didn’t count. And she didn’t believe for a second Mister Blackmore could be that man.
She'd long questioned her sanity due to the visions; perhaps she would always suffer poor judgment. But she’d fought hard to overcome her insecurities, and just as hard to make this journey. She wouldn't turn back now.
“It's a long trip back to Texas. We'd best get to it as soon as we can.” Nathan's eyes reflected the colors of the canyon walls, rising up from the river in a myriad display of tan and red. “And I don't know you well enough to think there's anything wrong with you.”
As he rowed with long strokes, her gaze drifted to his forearms—veins and muscle clearly outlined. She contemplated his large hands and fingers.
“Of course, once I do know you better, then I reserve the right to think otherwise.”
She flicked her eyes to his face. He teased her. Her cheeks burned from embarrassment because she'd been staring. To cover it, she nodded, plastered a partial smile on her face and looked at the scenery. A thought, however, plagued her.
“Did Molly suffer when she was with the Comanche?”
“I'm guessing you need to ask her that.”
Memories of her sister were vague, child-like images. How wonderful it would be to see her now, to speak with her, sister to sister. Woman to woman.
And she would. She closed her eyes as a rush of exhilaration filled her. She savored it. She would see her sister again in this life.
“Did you know Matt before Molly returned?” she asked, opening her eyes.
“Yeah. We rode together in the same Ranger outfit.”
“Ranger?”
“Texas Rangers.”
She'd heard of them. They hadn't existed when she was a child living in Texas but later, while in San Francisco, she heard the tales of heroism and butchery.
“Have you been in many battles?”
“Some.”
“Did you owe Matt a huge favor? Did he save your life?”
“No, I saved his.”
“Then why are you here?”
Nathan stopped rowing. His gaze rested beyond the boat and she dismissed the sudden notion of familiarity that filled her soul, like a warm-scented breeze blowing through her heart and mind.
“It made sense to me.” He resumed rowing.
Emma didn't know what to say so concentrated on Marble Canyon. She estimated they would be in this gorge for several days before reaching Grand Canyon.
From studying Powell’s work, she decided that the exposed sandy-looking rock must be limestone. Cream-colored and grayish white, with horizontal striations rising vertically ninety degrees, it gave the river corridor a closed-in feeling.
As they glided further down river, the vertical limestone cliffs continued to rise above, but a layer of loose rock angled down to the river’s edge. According to Powell, this was a combination of limestone and sandstone, the colors more pale yellow and gray. Some vegetation existed.
More silence between Emma and her newfound partner as the river exposed another drastically steep rock landscape—sandstone composed of fine-grained quartz. Large, wedge-shaped cross-beds were visible. To Emma it appeared to be an ill-conceived staircase, with an angled slide replacing the horizontal portion of the stairs.
It was remarkable and awe-inspiring, and a burst of excitement coursed through her as she realized she was actually here. She'd done it. She was making the journey she spent months planning. And maybe, just maybe, she’d reclaim a steady footing in the world again. Grief over Bethany pushed at her enthusiasm, but she set it aside. She needed to stay focused.
They passed six different washes that extended from short side canyons. Only one flowed with water. Upon reaching the seventh wash, Blackmore suggested they make camp for the night. They secured the boat on the right bank while dusk approached.
“How far do you think we’ve come?” Emma asked.
“I’d say six or seven miles from Lee’s Ferry.” He dragged the boat as far out of the water as he could.
“I have food and blankets stored here.” Emma pointed to the compartment at the front of the boat as she untied and retrieved several rawhide bags. Blackmore helped with the remaining supplies they would need for the night. “I have a tarp, but it looks like a clear night.”
“I’m fine without a cover.” Turning, he walked away and began collecting random pieces of driftwood. Soon, his tall frame disappeared behind a rocky bend.
Emma paused while organizing the supplies.
He'd told her earlier he would behave like a gentleman, and truthfully she believed him. But should she? She couldn't voice aloud the real reason she didn’t want to be in close proximity with him—she feared learning too much about him, sensing too much, because on some basic level he intrigued her, too much. It made no sense, she hardly knew him.
He was a stranger, and she needed to remember that. Aunt Catherine would have her hide if she knew Emma’s location and her un-chaperoned status with a man.
She had spent the last few years shielding herself physically and mentally from other people and had very little experience with men. She hoped Mister Blackmore wouldn't take advantage of her, or the situation. But truly, it was too late now. Better to avoid anxiety, eat something, and go to sleep as soon as possible.
Feeling fatigued, she suddenly realized what a long day it had been. For a few moments, she had thought the Baxter boys might shoot her. Their doggedness s
urprised her. She hadn’t thought them capable of following her all the way from San Francisco. She was grateful she’d brought a gun.
She took a deep breath, and spread blankets for her and Blackmore on opposite sides of the intended location of a small cooking fire. She would worry about the Baxters later, just as she would worry about her companion later as well.
He returned and made a fire. Without conversation Emma made coffee, biscuits, and red beans, and they ate quickly. Once the dishes were cleaned, she stared across the river, trying hard to ignore the man just a few feet from her.
Rising from the water’s edge was, Emma believed, finely-grained shale. Blackmore brooded. Straining her neck, she focused on the geology before her but it was difficult to see in the near-darkness. He's aware of me. She unpacked Major Powell’s book, as well as her journal, but didn’t have the energy to struggle with the minimal light from the fire to read. He dreads speaking to me. That was it.
“Do you have something to say to me, Mister Blackmore?”
“I apologize.” He watched her from across the flickering firelight. “I was just tryin’ to figure out how to share the rest of your family’s news with you.”
“There’s more?” His hesitation alarmed her.
He nodded and drank the last of his coffee, his black hair outlining the sharp angles of his face. “When Molly returned, we were able to determine who murdered your parents.”
Stunned, she stared at him. The days before and after her parent’s deaths were lost to her, she had barely been eight years old at the time. But her aunt and Mary had filled in the gaps years later, and the most glaring was the unsolved status of the murder of her mama and papa. Neither of them had ever graced her with their presence in a vision. The lack of closure had always unsettled her, so she’d buried the incident in her mind and refused to visit it.
“Do you remember a man named George Sawyer? He worked for your father for a time.”
Emma shook her head. “I was very young. I’m afraid my memories aren’t all that clear.”
A haunted look crossed Blackmore’s face.
“Please tell me what you know,” she said. But did she really want to hear what he had to say?
“You don’t remember…” He shifted, resting an arm on a bent knee, and cleared his throat. “You don’t remember when your pa got rid of Sawyer?”
Emma shook her head again.
“Molly found you with Sawyer in the bunkhouse. He was… trying to hurt you.”
She concentrated on Blackmore’s words, but they faded to the background as she became overwhelmed by his uneasiness and concern. It bothered him to share this with her.
The memory he spoke of eluded her. “I don’t remember.” I don’t want to remember. She closed her eyes then shook off the sentiment. No more hiding. Wasn’t that the purpose of this journey?
“I don’t mean to be blunt, but from Molly’s recollection Sawyer was forcing himself on you. She interrupted and got you away, then she went to your pa and told him he attacked her, not you.”
Emma trembled as nausea overwhelmed her. She took a steadying breath. “Did this truly happen?”
“I’ve no reason to believe Molly lied. Sawyer returned later and led the attack on your family, abducting Molly in retaliation. But the men who took her were overrun by Comanche once they rode away, and the Indians got her instead.”
Emma’s protective walls faltered as tears filled her eyes. What price had her sister paid in all this? And why couldn’t Emma remember any of it?
“She was with them all this time?” she asked.
Blackmore’s gaze softened. “She’s strong. She survived.”
“And what about Sawyer?”
“Dead. Molly killed him.”
Emma absorbed the statement and in a flash witnessed the scene. Sawyer dragging Molly into the woods, beating her, kicking her. Emma inhaled sharply. Molly is with child. Her visions always snagged high emotion. Molly ran and Sawyer chased her; she fought him. Then she drove a knife into his chest. But the fight cost her; Molly slipped away. Emma could feel her life energy ebb.
“Did she almost die?”
Nathan nodded.
“But the child brought her back,” Emma said under her breath.
“What child?”
“Are Matt and Molly expecting a baby?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. In due time, I’m certain they will.”
Emma let the subject drop. She’d have a hard time explaining how she knew of the son that grew in her sister’s womb. And Eli would grow to be a fine man, tied to the land as much as his ma. Warmth and strength flooded Emma at the thought; she looked forward to meeting the boy. “Sawyer’s death was justice,” she said.
“That’s one way to look at it.”
The detached tone of Blackmore’s voice caught Emma’s attention. He glanced into the darkness, his shoulders stiff, as if supporting an unwanted weight. He had more to tell her.
She began to appreciate this man who had come so far to find her, to share personal family news, to intrude where he clearly would rather not.
Where does the character of a man lie? On the surface, for all to see? Or deep down, where dreams are overshadowed by responsibility and honor?
“Do you remember Davis Walker?” he asked.
Emma nodded. “He had a ranch somewhere near us. He had three sons, but his wife had died.”
“Yeah, in childbirth. Afterwards, your ma tried to help out. She and Walker were acquainted before she married your pa.”
Emma didn’t know this.
“They carried on.” Blackmore blew out a breath. “He’s Molly’s real pa.”
Emma stilled. She heard the words but couldn’t seem to grasp the meaning. Confusion swirled in her mind, a chaotic mess that rivaled the shattering disillusionment that had followed Bethany’s death. Molly’s real father? Not Robert Hart, Emma’s pa, but Davis Walker?
“You’re sure about this?” Her throat closed around the question.
“I’ve been trying to figure out all afternoon how I should tell you, if I should tell you. You probably would’ve been better off hearing it from Molly.”
Did this mean Robert Hart wasn’t her father either?
Panic filled her chest. “Does this mean that I’m…”
“Walker’s daughter, too? No. Molly learned it was only her.”
Relief washed over Emma, but only the barest amount. What other touchstones in her life were false?
How could she not have known, had some idea, some vision, a dream, something. She received information on so many levels—Maeve likened it to being a sponge—but in the biggest and most important aspects of her life she received nothing.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“The sooner you get past the shock of betrayal, the sooner you can get over it and leave it behind.”
So sharply did she see it that she flinched. The betrayal hidden within Blackmore, the one he couldn’t let go of, the one he tried to leave behind but still it followed him wherever he went.
Then, it was gone.
Chapter Four
Nathan awoke before dawn, plagued by a restless sleep. That he slept badly was hardly a surprise, considering all the news he’d shared with Miss Hart. Never before had he been the messenger, and his delivery had been less than stellar. It only confirmed his belief that he wasn’t any good at it.
Glancing at her slumbering form a few feet from him, her body wrapped tightly in a blanket to ward off the early morning chill, he thought she looked too young and too vulnerable for this world. A wave of protectiveness swept through him, not necessarily an odd sensation since he often felt a sense of responsibility toward those who couldn't defend themselves. It was why he'd spent the last ten years fighting petty tyrants and bastards who lived by a code of violence and control.
But Miss Hart could defend herself—he had a bruise on top of his head as proof of that. She wasn't helpless or in need of his protect
ive services.
She'd have them nonetheless, however. He owed that to Matt and Molly. Well, not really. As Miss Hart pointed out, he'd saved Matt's life, not the other way around. But Matt Ryan had been Nathan's backup countless times in the Army and Rangers, and he was one of the few people Nathan trusted. And while he came as a favor to his friend, it was now clear he stayed for other reasons.
The Colorado River.
Grand Canyon.
Miss Emma Hart.
Maybe the order of importance wasn't quite right, but Nathan wasn't of a mind to dwell on it.
He stood and glanced around their campsite. Two books near Miss Hart caught his eye. Perhaps he should familiarize himself with John Wesley Powell’s account of his journey down these waters just a few years prior.
Nathan stepped around the ashes of the campfire and retrieved the top book, then sat on a rock a few feet away so as not to disturb the woman whom, Nathan suspected, needed as much rest as she could get. A pale blue sky began to appear above, illuminating a slight mist around camp. Bird chirps and whistles took precedence over the constant background hum of flowing river water, and the boulder he sat upon still retained heat from the previous day. This time of day had always been Nathan’s favorite—a time to think strategy, to prepare, to face down the demons that whispered during the night.
Nathan flipped through the book.
He noticed the line drawings of a boat first. Different viewpoints and dimensions filled several pages. Upon closer inspection, he realized they resembled Miss Hart’s boat. Flipping through more pages brought him to a handwritten entry.
June 5th, 1874 — Trip to Yosemite Valley was amazing. To be so close to nature seemed to awaken something deep inside me. The grandeur of the landscape is almost too divine to describe with words.
He scanned a new page.
May 14th, 1875 — Authorities found the missing Danziger girl. She was right where I told them she would be.
The Sparrow Page 3
