More flipping.
January 12th, 1876 — Would really like to go to Grand Canyon but Aunt Catherine would most certainly never let me.
Nathan snapped the text shut. His gaze flew to Miss Hart, but she hadn’t moved. Carefully, he returned the book to where he found it, uncomfortable that he intruded on her personal diary. How had she known where a missing girl was to be located?
He thought of the boat drawings—she must have sketched them. She must have designed her own dory, then somehow found a way to have it constructed.
Clearly, she wasn’t short on determination.
Perhaps he was wrong to worry about her.
* * *
Emma rolled to her side and clutched her favorite doll, the hair tickling her nose. She lay on the soft bedding and listened to the chatter of adults socializing in the outer rooms. Her mama had just put her to bed, and Emma’s cheek still felt warm from the soft kiss.
“Go to sleep, Emma,” she had whispered.
“Night, mama. Where’s Molly?”
“In trouble, that’s where she is.” But a playful tone filled her mama’s voice. “We’ll find her, and she’ll be in shortly. Dream of the stars, Button.”
Emma smiled. “I will.”
Her mind drifted to the light in the heavens.
The crack of gunfire startled Emma awake. Pounding hooves filled the night; panicked, she looked for Molly but her sister’s bed was empty. She searched the dark corners in vain. Where was she?
A scream pierced the commotion, a woman’s scream. Frightened, Emma crawled to the floor and scooted underneath her bed. She pushed her doll behind to protect her, then covered her ears and began to chant. Dream of the stars. Dream of the stars.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as helplessness overwhelmed her. “Mama! Mama! Papa!” She rocked her head back and forth and squeezed her eyes shut. No. No. Sobs escaped her mouth. Her folks were gone. No. No. She should do something. But her mama would’ve wanted her to hide. So that’s what she did. Please, please, Mama. Where are you?
“Emma.”
Spit dripped from her mouth and she cried harder.
“Emma!”
She went silent and opened her eyes. A dark face was silhouetted in the room. “Mary?”
“Emma, come here.” There was such sadness in her sister’s voice, such pain, that Emma could hardly bear it.
“No.” She shook her head. “No, it’s not true.”
“Emma.” Mary’s voice caught on a sob as she reached for her. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
“I want Mama!” Emma pounded a fist on the wooden floor, searching for a pain that would be worse than the one she felt in her heart. It squeezed her chest and pounded in her head. Mary pulled her from beneath the bed and held her. Despair engulfed her. “I want Mama.”
Emma awoke with a start. She pushed herself upright, squinting from the daylight well underway. She looked around, but saw no sign of Blackmore. Trembling, she wiped at the wetness on her face and took a deep breath as the grief of losing her folks hit her full force. She’d buried the loss so deep that it had been but a dull ache. Not anymore. She had her traveling companion to thank for that.
Blackmore soon returned. By the time full daylight was upon them, they’d repacked the boat and were soon on the river again. They spoke very little, which suited Emma. She felt raw from the inside out after her emotional dream.
“Does Powell’s book say anything about where we are?”
Emma thought for a moment, trying to refocus from her grief. “Yes, a little.” She retrieved the book from one of the rawhide bags and flipped through the pages. "There's a passage marked August fifth." Pausing, she used her finger to skim the sentences. "With some anxiety they enter a new canyon. Powell talks about the composition of the rocks—limestone and sandstone—and how they also found these in another place, Cataract Canyon. He says that the inclination of the rock can determine if rapids or falls will occur. With harder strata above and softer rocks below, there will be rapids and falls. He says there will be toil and danger." She closed the book. "I guess that would be the direction we're headed." She cleared her throat, and tried not to show her mounting anxiety. "Perhaps that wasn't the best entry to read."
Blackmore shrugged. Emma was able to watch him since they sat directly across from one another, his back to the river as they glided forward. “At least we know there’s a rapid ahead of us somewhere,” he said, “and that it could bode toil and danger.” The man smiled.
“It doesn’t concern you?” she asked, feeling uncertain about what might lie ahead. Maybe she’d been wrong to come. Maybe it was simply too much—too much danger, too much terror. Was she truly cut out for this?
“Relax. We’ll scout the rapid before we run it. If it looks bad, we’ll line the boat through the water from shore, or I’ll carry the thing myself on land. We’ll only run the rapids you want to run.” Pausing, he continued, “At least, the ones I think are safe to run. You have enough rope?”
She nodded.
He appeared so natural, rowing as if he were born to it. His calm reassurance bolstered her, kept her afloat, saving her from the mire of her own fears. Barely. Her thoughts and her mind felt cast adrift with no stability to anchor them, and it terrified her to realize soon she could be physically cast adrift, drenched, throttled, and possible thrown from the boat by the torrent of water they now navigated, an illusion of deceptive calm.
She really needed to get a hold of herself.
“My mama and Davis Walker.” She didn’t realize she whispered it aloud until Nathan responded.
“Everyone has a secret of one sort or another.”
Emma looked away from his penetrating gaze. “I suppose.”
“I’m sure Molly can help you understand.”
“She sacrificed so much. Does she seem happy?”
He nodded.
The canyon walls dwarfed them, and the sun made Emma increasingly hot. She shifted her hat to better shield her eyes. A sudden thought struck her. “Good Lord, Mary. Has anyone told her?”
“About Molly? Yeah. I believe Matt’s Ma sent a letter to her in Tucson. As to the rest, I’m not sure.”
“Someone should tell her in person. It ought to be me.” It had been three years since she last saw her eldest sister, during the birth of her second child, an adorable baby girl she’d named Molly Rosemary—Molly for the sister thought lost to them and Rosemary for their mama. Their mother’s betrayal would be especially hard for Mary, who had been fourteen at the time of their parent’s deaths.
“If you like, when we get out of here, I’ll take you.”
“You would? Do you usually offer escorts to women you barely know?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
“So you do this as a matter of course?” Was he an honorable man or an opportunist? Would he steal all her money? But she didn’t have much anyway.
Blackmore laughed. “No, but I wouldn’t feel right letting you make your way to Tucson alone. A woman traveling on her own would make an easy target.”
Emma stared at the canyon walls. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Being a woman was difficult in many ways. But she’d made it here, and although she’d been forced into creative measures to do it, she never gave up. She needed to hold onto that.
“Why’d you name the boat Paradise?” he asked.
“It’s from my favorite book—Paradise Lost by John Milton. Have you read it?”
He shook his head. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about Satan’s war with God after he’s cast out from Heaven. It’s also about Adam and Eve, and how they lose paradise. They’re cast out from the Garden of Eden after the incident with the snake.”
“I remember the story now.”
“Milton retells it in the most fantastic of ways. I have it with me if you’d like to read it.”
“Thanks, I’ll think about it.” He continued to move the oars through the water as the heat of th
e day began to grow. “Do you think you’ll find paradise down here?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. My favorite line in the book is after Adam and Eve are cast out of Eden; the archangel Michael says to Adam that he may find ‘a paradise within thee, happier far.’ So, maybe paradise is less an actual place than a location inside yourself, a space inside your own soul.”
“Maybe you should write Paradise on your forehead instead.”
For a moment, Emma was unsure of his tone. Sarcastic and rude came to mind, but then she saw the hint of mischief in his eyes. She smiled, and looked away before he might think she actually liked him.
“So how’d you do it? How’d you get here?” he asked.
“Well, I took a ferry to Oakland then a train to Sacramento then a train to Ogden, in the Utah Territory—”
“No, I mean, how’d you get this boat down here. How’d you get the nerve to do it?”
“I just…wanted to. I studied boat designs, and drew up plans for this one. I contracted a builder in Salt Lake City to make it for me, although it took a few tries. When I finally used a man’s name, they helped me. They transported the boat in pieces to Lee’s Ferry. I told them I was the sister and that my brother would be along shortly. So they assembled it and departed.”
“I assume you never told your aunt about any of this.”
“No. I guess that was my secret. It took me two years of planning.”
He rowed the oars several strokes. “You did all of this for a sense of adventure?”
It did sound outrageous. She decided to be honest.
“Have you ever had a dream? Something that kept you awake nights, that focused your thoughts away from the difficulties of the moment?”
He stopped rowing. “Once, but it was a long time ago.”
Their gazes locked; his brown eyes contemplative. The vision came so swiftly she nearly fell out of the boat.
Blackmore coming toward her as she stood by a pool of blue-green water, his naked torso revealing a flat stomach and dark hair that descended to… His eyes conveyed his intent. The intensity of his wanting was reflected in every movement as he closed the distance between them. He was coming…for her. And her body reacted, waiting, wanting him to touch her. Shaking with anticipation, Emma experienced an overwhelming desire to be joined…
“Miss Hart? Are you alright?” Blackmore’s voice broke through the trance, startling her.
“What?” Breathe. Her heart pounded and her hands trembled. It was suddenly so ungodly hot.
She grabbed Powell’s book again, but not to read. Fanning herself with it, she wondered peripherally if Blackmore could sense any of the very improper thoughts she was having of him. Would he just laugh in her face, or let her down gently?
“Yes, I’m fine,” she replied, hoping he wouldn’t notice her embarrassment. “Just a little overheated.”
* * *
By midmorning, they reached the first major rapid. The sheer towering cliffs of limestone, sandstone, and shale gave way to two side canyons, one on either side of the river. Nathan brought them to shore on the right-hand side, helping Miss Hart from the boat. She quickly moved away from him. He had the vague feeling she was uncomfortable around him, but he wasn’t sure what he’d done.
Once he secured the boat, he followed Miss Hart downstream to scout the rapid. Already about ten feet ahead of him, sidestepping rocks and boulders on the sand bar they now occupied, she practically ran from him. Nathan thought she was either very excited to see her first rapid or very glad to be relieved of his company.
Brooding, he watched her legs, clad in dark wool trousers and sturdy brown boots. The tucked white shirt she wore only emphasized her narrow hips. They were nice hips, swaying back and forth as she walked. Her dark hair was bound in a braid along her back, and the hat she wore made her look every bit the adventurer.
“Should we run it?” she asked, as he joined her.
The whitewater moved swiftly past them, the rumbling evidence of the force behind it. Nathan noted the pile of rocks on the far side of the river and the large pour-overs just before them. If they did run this rapid, the center tongue appeared to be the best route. But his natural caution took over, and he couldn’t justify risking Miss Hart’s life, or their only boat, for the challenge before them.
“I think lining makes more sense,” he said quietly.
She took a deep breath. “I think you’re right.”
“Are you disappointed?” He gazed at her profile.
“Disappointed?” she asked, smiling a little. “How can I be? I’m here, aren’t I? That’s more than I ever imagined I could do.” She squinted while watching the rapid, then continued, “I’m just a little overwhelmed to be honest. Whitewater is…a bit more frightening in reality than descriptions in a book.”
Nathan smiled. “Life usually is. How old are you?”
Her eyebrows creased into a frown as she glanced at him. “Eighteen.”
Younger than he thought. There were times when they spoke that he had the distinct impression she possessed the mind of an aged, elderly woman, voicing a cautious wisdom borne from years of experience. “You have your whole life before you. There'll be other rapids. No sense rushing the inevitable.”
Nathan had the feeling he didn’t speak about Miss Hart’s emergence into the world, but rather about whatever seemed to exist between the two of them. Their eyes met and he wondered why he had, in all his past experiences with women, never seen such vast possibilities in the eyes of a female.
Embarrassment evident, Miss Hart turned and began to walk upstream. “We better get started. I’m sure this will take some time.”
Confused, Nathan wondered again if they spoke of more than simply lining the boat. Perhaps he was reading too much into it.
Turning to the task ahead of them, he was grateful it would offer a physical release. Hard labor always did the trick when trying to put a woman out of mind.
* * *
Nathan rigged a line of rope fore and aft of the boat, and he and Miss Hart lined the wooden craft through the rapid from the shoreline, not an easy feat due to the abundance of rocks and boulders impeding their progress, both in and out of the water. By Nathan's estimation, several hours passed before he felt confident they'd guided the boat through the worst of it.
Miss Hart held up well, and was surprisingly stronger than he would've credited her, holding tight to the rope and navigating the rocky shoreline like a mountain cat. But now she appeared as exhausted as he felt. She slumped on a rock and tried to catch her breath.
With little conversation they ate a lunch of beef jerky, hard biscuits from the previous night, and dried apples.
"Let's get back on the river." She took a last swig of water from the canteen.
"We could camp here." He didn't want her overtired. They had only just begun the journey.
"There’s still several hours of daylight left. We shouldn't waste them." She rose and began repacking the food they'd removed from the dory for their meal.
Nathan nodded in silence and decided to rig a bit of shade. Taking the two extra oars Miss Hart had had the foresight to bring, he wedged each one into the sides of the boat then draped a blanket across them, securing it with rope.
"What's that for?" she asked.
"You. I'll row and you can rest."
He held her elbow while she stepped into the boat and moved to the shaded aft section.
She'd asked him not to touch her.
Obviously, he was unable to honor that request. She said nothing, and instead retrieved Powell's book.
Nathan pushed the dory from shore, then hopped inside and settled in with the oars. He rowed with has back to the river and his gaze on the woman he couldn't quite get a reading on.
"I'll just rest for a bit, then take a turn rowing so you can take a break." She glanced at him then turned her focus to the book.
It wasn't long before she curled up on the narrow bench, rested her head on a bent arm, and drif
ted off for a nap.
For several miles Nathan glided on the river, watching the canyon walls grow higher and the peaceful solitude on the woman’s face before him. The sensation he felt was new to him, a feeling he couldn’t pinpoint. But then he realized what it was—he was content.
* * *
Emma awoke with a start, knocking down the shelter Nathan had rigged for her. The blanket engulfed her.
Lifting the corner, Blackmore peeked inside. “Bad dream?”
“Something like that.” She pushed the covering from her head. She couldn’t recall the dream at the moment. As she tried to concentrate on it, she pulled one of the oars from where Nathan had wedged it between the bench seat and the bottom of the boat. Something about the river. Emma chided herself. It would be surprising if she didn’t dream about the river every day.
Look into the river. She stood and leaned over to stare at the murky water. As she struggled with the other wedged oar, her attention became fixated overboard. Something moved. A head popped out of the water and a snake slithered alongside the boat.
Emma screamed as the oar pulled free. Off balance, she swung the wooden paddle around in an arc until it hit something hard.
Blackmore’s head.
“Oh, no!”
He slumped backwards, unmoving.
“Mister Blackmore!” Tossing the oar weapon aside, she scrambled to the other end of the boat as the dory rocked back and forth wildly. “Nathan, are you all right?”
She held his head in her lap and stroked his hair, watching his expressionless face for any sign he hadn't been permanently hurt. Wake up. Please wake up. There was no blood, thank goodness, but a red welt began to form on the left side of his cheek—the same side as the long scar—and his ear was bright pink.
It astounded her she had enough strength to take out a man like him. He was so big and full of muscle, so remote and untouchable. And yet, here she was, cradling him in her lap like a child. But it wasn't maternal feelings she felt. She didn't want to lose him. Fear gripped her. I can't lose him.
A distant noise in the background infiltrated her focus. It was noise where there shouldn’t be noise. A glance over her shoulder doubled Emma's heartbeat.
The Sparrow Page 4
