The Sparrow

by Kristy McCaffrey

  A rapid.

  Her eyes widened in panic. They needed to get off the river. Now.

  “Mister Blackmore, wake up!” His head rolled from her lap as she stood and climbed over him to reach the oars attached to the locks, but his legs blocked her path. She tried pushing him to one side, gaining a new and instant appreciation for the density of the man. Thick, strong, stalwart. In other circumstances, such thoughts would have brought a blush to her face. Now, he was simply too big to move anywhere.

  In frustration, she tried to row the boat from where she was, half-sprawled across the unconscious man, but she didn't have the strength.

  It was too late.

  The dory became caught in the current and rushed toward the rapid. Emma watched in horror as a large boulder loomed in the center, water rushing in waves to either side of it.

  She needed to get clear of that rock or else they’d be in a lot of trouble.

  No. They were already in a lot of trouble.

  Chapter Five

  Nathan rubbed his head. Another headache. How many was he going to have on this trip? And why was the boat moving so much? Miss Hart fell all over him.

  Nice, but had he missed something?

  “Mister Blackmore!” Emma’s voice shrieked with urgency.

  The sound of rushing water finally made sense.

  He sat up and held her against him.

  “It’s a rapid. We’re in trouble.” She pushed away from him and scrambled to the bow.

  A quick assessment showed the boat going in backwards and about to strike a sizable obstacle near the center. No wonder Miss Hart jumped to the front.

  “Hold onto something!” He positioned himself at the oars, and tried with all his strength to turn the craft around so they could enter the rapid headfirst. Then, they were in, and Nathan knew there was nothing more to do but hang on for the ride.

  The stern struck the rock and the force threw the boat straight into the violent waves. Nathan came off the bench, turned, and braced his knees beneath it to anchor himself. He slid the oars into the boat, the paddles stopping their progress inside the locks, and leaned on them so they wouldn't dislodge and become lost in the river. He watched both Miss Hart—clinging to the front of the boat—and the incredible drop of the rapid. He hoped they could maintain a headfirst direction, lessening the chance of the dory tipping.

  Down they went—ten, maybe fifteen, feet—foaming whitewater everywhere, swirling and chaotic. Nathan felt his stomach drop.

  Twelve-foot waves crashed into a cross-current, creating a savage hysteria of whitewater. It would be a miracle if they stayed in the boat.

  “Hang on! Hang on tight!” He fought the impulse to throw himself onto Miss Hart; he didn’t dare lose his handholds. Glimpses of rocks filled his sight and the rapid continued to bounce the boat around like a stick.

  Another crashing wave. The dory slid sideways. Up, down, up, down. The boat jerked with such force that Nathan watched helplessly as Miss Hart was thrown into the rushing mass, her scream stifled when she hit the water.

  He saw her head surface before another devastating wave flipped the boat and sent him in after her. Surfacing, he lifted his feet to avoid getting caught by a rock underneath.

  “Emma! Emma!” He couldn’t see her. Grabbing the overturned boat, he held on as it slipped swiftly through the water. He winced when his hip hit a rock.

  “I’m here,” she yelled, to his left.

  He couldn’t see her. “Lift your feet! Don’t drag them!”

  Water filled his mouth, his nose, and his eyes. He hung on for what seemed an endless swim. Finally, a quarter-mile down, the water calmed and he dragged the boat to shore. Relief washed through him when he saw Emma not far behind him. He went into the river to help her.

  He guided her to sit on the beach, then dropped to his knees. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, trying to catch her breath. “But you must be.” Raising an unsteady hand to his face, she ran a fingertip along his brow line then down the scar on his left cheek. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m trying to kill you.”

  Nathan stilled from the touch, unable to feel angry toward this woman.

  “Thank goodness you came to at the last minute.” She removed her hand. “You might've drowned.” She sounded distressed, shaken.

  “Not likely,” he said, trying to reassure her. “The life vest would’ve kept me afloat. What happened?” He didn't remember anything until just before they entered the rapid.

  “I saw a snake, and I jumped. Then I accidentally hit you with the oar.” Her body trembled with great force.

  Nathan grabbed her hands. “It’s all right, Emma.” The look on her face told him she knew he used her first name, knew that a social boundary had been crossed, but the shaking calmed. He rubbed his thumbs across her chilled skin.

  He truly was in trouble. Life suddenly seemed incredibly bright with an oar-bashing, adventure-minded young woman in it. He wondered if he’d survive it.

  Reluctantly, he released her hands. “I may have to forbid you from using the oars, though.” He stood to assess the boat and the rapid they just survived.

  Emma pushed to her feet. “I’ll help you.”

  Together they flipped the vessel and took stock of what was missing. One oar remained in its lock, the other broken in half. The two extra oars were gone, as was the blanket Emma had used for shelter, and both of their hats. But the rawhide bags were still tied on.

  All in all it wasn’t bad, although the broken paddle needed to be fixed.

  “We didn’t lose any major supplies or food,” he said. “You’ve got yourself one hell of a boat.”

  Emma looked at him in surprise. “Thank you.”

  "We'll camp here tonight. I think we've had enough for one day."

  "I won't argue that."

  * * *

  Emma stared into the fire. As the flames danced, she wondered if the future would blaze into sight.

  She hoped it wouldn't. She didn't want to know what tomorrow held.

  A wave of tears threatened so she closed her eyes.

  She wouldn't cry in front of Blackmore, despite his disappearance into the night once again. They’d unloaded the boat completely to dry the contents—food, clothing, ropes, and weapons now lay scattered around the beach they occupied—then Blackmore set to work fixing the broken oar. Emma gratefully planted herself at the campfire since more work would ensue later before bedding down for the night. The food needed to be put away so as not to attract vermin.

  Maybe she shouldn't have stopped to rest. Activity kept her fears at bay. Now they all but consumed her thoughts.

  What if she and Blackmore drowned today? Her heart pounded as she recalled the terror—the strong current, the complete loss of control, the very real possibility that either of them could have been seriously hurt. Panic gripped her, squeezing her chest and suffocating the resolve from her bones, from her limbs, and from her heart.

  She shouldn't have come.

  Good grief, she hit Blackmore with an oar again. It was a wonder he didn't toss her into the river. Guilt and embarrassment washed through her, and she remembered the other uncomfortable connection she’d made. When she touched him on the bank at the base of the rapid, she’d traced her finger across the thick, long scar that lined his cheek. Instantly, the cause of the injury flashed into her mind.

  With Blackmore’s hands tied behind him, the Comanche warrior cut his face with a knife. He fell to the ground. He was further beaten. The captivity had lasted several months, maybe more.

  Quickly, she'd pulled her hand away, feeling as if she intruded on a personal memory. She suspected Blackmore had never shared the details of this experience with anyone. An overwhelming desire to comfort him gripped her. A desire for something more also blossomed.

  She wouldn't let herself put much stock in these feelings. It would only make her believe she was meant to be his lover, her visions unerringly of him. If she ever told Blackmore th
is, he would surely laugh in her face. She didn’t think she was ready to handle such a confrontation.

  Besides, wasn’t she supposed to save herself for the man she married? The idea had been drilled into her periodically by her aunt, although less so after her sister, Mary, had married and then mysteriously gave birth to a baby eight months later. Trying to keep it from Emma had been pointless; she knew Mary was pregnant even before her sister had ascertained her condition.

  Maeve had told her, "Marriage is an act of voicing one’s intentions. Such vows can be exchanged privately between two people prior to marriage, and still be as strong as the day they say them in a church."

  Emma closed her eyes. If Blackmore wanted her, and she him, there was no divine reason to deny it. She knew her aunt wouldn’t agree with that line of reasoning, so better to stop these thoughts right now. It was dangerous territory. Blackmore couldn’t be her imaginary lover; her visions weren’t always so precise. And just because she had foreknowledge of a tall, dark, and powerful man didn’t mean she should throw herself at the first tall, dark, and powerful man she met.

  She needed to keep her wits about her; a lapse could prove deadly.

  Bethany came to mind.

  Emma had been the one to find her, the girl's pale skin cold to the touch, her eyes open, watching the world—and her assailant—as she died. Emma felt it, the struggle before Bethany's life ended, the panic and the fight. The truth sickened Emma, had drained her resolve for days, maybe weeks, she couldn't remember now.

  Bethany lived ten short years on this earth, her breath taken by her own father.

  Leaning her head back, Emma looked to the stars that filled the black sky. Twinkling lights of far off places. Dream of the stars, Button. She had, and with it came a gift that was both a blessing and a curse. She possessed knowledge of happenings long before those around her had a clue. But she hadn't known about Davis Walker, Molly's real father.

  Emma glanced around for Blackmore, but there was no sign of him. Her head pounded and she rubbed her temples.

  She tried to recall Walker, but only vague memories of a large man, an unhappy man, came to her. He had three sons—the eldest, Cale, had worked from time to time at their ranch, and had been sweet on Mary.

  How had she not seen the relationship that existed between her mother and this man?

  She tried to recall her pa. Robert Hart had been strong and kind, and she loved him dearly. Had he forgiven his wife? He’d loved Molly as well as Mary or Emma, but had often said his middle daughter was the maverick in the family. Molly was wild—preferring to trail after the Ryan and Walker boys instead of playing dolls and dress-up—but she had the dark hair all of Rosemary's daughters possessed, as well as their mother's moodiness. Perhaps the differences in Molly were too subtle for even Robert Hart to notice.

  In the end, did it matter so much?

  "You all right?"

  Emma jumped. Blackmore materialized from the shadows.

  "You look a little pale." He sat across from her and began whittling a large piece of wood with a knife he retrieved from her supplies.

  Emma repositioned her legs and returned her gaze to the fire. "I'm fine."

  A breeze blew the flames into a swirling dance.

  "I think we can recover from this," Blackmore said, his concentration on the wood he shaped into an oar. "Maybe we'll find the missing gear down river. I think we should run more rapids. If we're prepared, we should be fine."

  "Run more?" Emma's voice was nothing more than a croak.

  "As long as I'm in charge of the oars." He glanced up at her.

  Emma stared at the twinkle in his dark eyes.

  "I do better if I'm conscious," he added.

  She nodded slowly. How could the man be so relaxed about the day's events?

  Blackmore paused. "Did that chop scare you?"

  Emma cleared her throat. "No,” she answered defensively. “I’m a strong swimmer. I've been to the ocean in San Francisco many times."

  "Then I'm wrong."

  "About what?"

  "I’d been thinking you're naïve, but maybe you're just brave as hell."

  Surprised, Emma didn't know what to say. Did she dare believe him? Did she dare believe in herself?

  "Get some sleep," he said. "I'll store the gear."

  She wanted to argue, to not shirk her duty, but she knew she needed rest. How would she find it, however, with Blackmore's presence so sharp in the boundaries that surrounded her?

  She looked at him, his hands nimble and strong as he worked on the oar, and felt the distance between them. Whether he did it on purpose or not, he gave her solitude. She knew better than to waste it. She’d need all her strength for whatever tomorrow brought.

  "Thank you, Mister Blackmore."

  "Call me Nathan. We almost drowned today. I think certain formalities can be dropped." His gaze met hers, the connection flaring in intensity for a brief moment. Then he looked back to his handiwork and the awareness dissipated.

  Formalities. Emma lay down, faced away from him, and closed her eyes in relief. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to break down the barriers—flimsy social obstacles as they were—between them, but life was different down here. And she didn't have the wherewithal to deny his request.

  Nathan. His name filled her mind as sleep claimed her.

  Chapter Six

  They were on the river by daybreak. Luck was on their side—half a mile downstream Nathan spotted the missing oars and hats caught in a pile of boulders to the right. It put him into a good mood.

  Emma remained quiet. He'd always been one to back off when Matt or one of the other Rangers needed time to himself, but this was the first instance of giving a woman slack on the bridle. Everything to do with Emma, however, was a first for Nathan. She was an enigma to him—a handsome woman, possessed of youthful ignorance and a haunted wisdom, fearful and brave, and a liar to boot.

  Did she lie to deceive? Nathan didn't think so, but then perhaps that was his own wishing on stars mentality.

  The river wound its way through tapered rocky areas and they encountered several riffles, hardly anything to be of worry. Emma gripped the side of the boat during these jaunts until Nathan was certain she must have fingertips full of slivers. But as they navigated each one without mishap, she slowly began to relax.

  The canyon walls rose high to the right, bleached into tan shades, and overhanging ledges lined the shoreline, covering an occasional beach. Slanted flapjack rock soon became visible at water level, and black smudges marred the monotonous browns of the canyon's palette.

  “So this is Grand Canyon?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered. “This is Marble Canyon. We haven’t entered Grand Canyon yet.”

  The speed of the water picked up pace.

  "We'd better stop." Emma's voice rang with uneasiness. So much for getting her to calm down.

  They passed a small twisting canyon to the left but the swift current made it impossible to get the boat to shore. The walls of the canyon pressed closer and the river narrowed. No doubt they were headed toward a rapid. They'd need to ride it out for now.

  "Can't we stop?" she asked.

  Big boulders stood sentry along the river corridor. Nathan shook his head. "I don't think it's a good idea." The dory might be smashed but he didn't say it aloud. "We can do this, Emma. Be my eyes." Rowing with his back to their path, he could only look over his shoulder, but the growing expression of horror on her face didn’t put him at ease.

  Was she going to break down on him? This would be a hell of a time for it.

  She leaned to the side to look over his shoulder at what was coming, and her chin jerked up and down in a nod.

  "We don't want to slide over any boulders under the water, so guide me between them, if you can." He pulled a hard stroke to the left.

  "All right." More nodding. "More to the left. Well, that would be your right."

  Nathan made a mental note to teach her boating terms.

&
nbsp; The dory bounced up and down and water splashed onto them as they entered the whitewater. Nathan put all of his strength into rowing to keep the boat from spinning around.

  "You need to come more to the right. My right!" She jabbed her hand into the air to indicate the direction.

  Nathan grunted as he fought the current.

  And then it was over.

  He rowed the dory into the calm water that followed. Emma took off her hat and pushed wet hair from her face. Nathan paused to catch his breath.

  "That wasn't so bad. But how about we use the terms port and starboard when you're telling me which way to go."

  To his surprise, she laughed. His chest tightened. A brilliant flash filled his mind and childhood memories flooded his thoughts. As a boy, he'd been determined to run his own riverboat on the Mississippi, to follow in the footsteps of his pa. It was all so clear back then. The same hopeful exuberance slammed into him, awakened this time by the woman sitting across from him.

  "I know boating terms," Emma replied. "I'm sorry, I panicked. I'll try to do better. It's just that this river unsettles me."

  "We can abandon the boat and climb out." But as Nathan said the words, his heart rebelled. This was the first boat he'd captained since losing his pa, and it felt good to be on the water again.

  Emma contemplated his suggestion, squinting as the sun beat down on them. She returned her hat to her head. "No," she said quietly. "I want to stay."

  A woman after his own heart.

  Nathan suppressed a smile, and began rowing.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon they approached the head of what appeared to be another nasty rapid. They secured the boat at a beach on the right bank of the river, then scouted the whitewater. They both agreed the boat would need to be lined through it.

  “Maybe we should make camp and do it in the morning,” Nathan suggested.

  Emma considered it, but something inside made her want to push on. “We’ve still got several hours of daylight. I’m of a mind to keep going.”

  Nathan nodded. “You’re the boss.”