The Sparrow

by Kristy McCaffrey

  He wanted her to trust him.

  She stopped near a large pile of boulders, and rested her hands on her hips while watching the river. “I wonder if there are any caves along the canyon.” When he didn’t respond, she turned around to look at him. “Maybe we should take a break and meet up later.”

  “I just want to know what the hell is wrong with you.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Are you sick? Because if you are, you need to tell me. In case you didn’t notice, we’re in the middle of nowhere. I need to know if I should get you out of here. I need to know it right now.”

  “I’m not sick.” Her quiet response underscored a sharp tone. She pushed past him. “I’m going to check out that side canyon.”

  Nathan watched her retreating backside, surprised at her dismissal of him.

  He retrieved his six-shooter from the boat and trailed after her.

  She moved fast, hopping and stepping around bushes and rocks as she moved further into the narrow canyon. Nathan could see her, but she was several hundred feet ahead of him. Glancing upward, he took note of the storm clouds forming.

  An outburst of rain immediately drenched him. He stopped to consider options. The location bothered him. Emma turned around, noticed him, and even from this distance he could sense her irritation that he followed. Did she think she could be rid of him that easily?

  He waved her toward him. Reluctantly, she complied.

  He watched and waited. A steady stream of rain drained from her hat. Her shirt became soaked and the white material revealed a nice outline of her breasts.

  “Ah, hell.” He shifted his gaze away from her then laughed. What else could he do?

  She approached. “What’s so amusing?”

  “You.” His anger dissipated.

  “You think it’s humorous I got caught in the rain?”

  “No. You’re just the most peculiar woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Why would you say that?” Her voice held a note of exasperation.

  Runoff careened down the nearby slopes. “I think we better get out of here.”

  She craned her neck in a circle. “Flash floods. I should’ve thought of that sooner.”

  He grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her to higher ground. Nathan’s gaze flew upward as rocks crashed and rolled toward them.

  “Everything’s sliding!” Emma yelled.

  “Get down.” He pushed her under an overhang that offered scant protection then sat beside her.

  The streams of water soon turned into streams of mud, then into streams of mud and rock. Emma screamed when a large boulder bounced nearby. Nathan put an arm around her and drew her as close as he could. She turned her face into his shoulder as a loud, roaring noise filled the air.

  All they could do was sit and hope they wouldn’t be buried alive, or knocked from the slope by the muddy avalanche pouring over them and into the rushing flood waters down below.

  Emma shielded her face with her hat. Nathan covered her head with his forearm and splayed his fingers into her hair. He shouldn’t touch her like this, but he was here to protect her.

  And that’s what he’d do.

  Chapter Eight

  The rain stopped as quickly as it started and they returned to the boat. Blackmore suggested they head downriver a bit more before making camp, which suited Emma just fine. Feeling self-conscious about her wet clothing as well as her behavior, she retrieved a blanket and wrapped it around herself. When a boulder had exploded beside them, Emma threw herself into Nathan’s arms like a witless idiot who’d never before seen a rainstorm.

  As Nathan rowed, Emma sat in the back of the boat and looked elsewhere, engrossed in the canyon walls and the late day shadows.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Pardon?” She remembered the blanket clutched tightly around her shoulders. “Yes, a little.”

  “I’ll build a fire tonight.”

  Emma couldn’t look him in the eye. While in his arms, she had memorized his strength and the feel of his fingers in her hair. He’d protected her, and she felt a compelling need to repay the act, her wayward mind leaning toward all the ways a woman could say thank you to a man. A kiss came first and foremost into her thoughts.

  Nerves gripped her, and she shivered.

  “There’s your cave.” Nathan nodded to his left.

  Emma observed the large opening in the cliff wall. It didn’t sit too high, but still appeared a challenge to access.

  “Varmints probably live there,” he said and continued to row. “Wouldn't make a good place to sleep.”

  Emma nodded. It seemed that was all she was capable of at the moment. It wasn't critters that concerned her. While the opening to the cave had to be several feet across, it would still be small enough a space to make her lie next to Blackmore all night.

  As they floated around a slight bend in the river, Emma caught sight of a waterfall spilling directly from the reddish-colored canyon wall. An abundance of plant life made it appear forest-like, and a pile of rocky boulders stood guard at the base of the cascading water, a sentinel guarding its precious commodity.

  She remembered Powell’s book. “This must be Vasey’s Paradise.” Glad her voice returned, she stared at the lush landscape within an otherwise barren terrain.

  “Should we stop?” Nathan asked.

  “No. There’s not much of a beach anyhow.”

  Another bend in the river revealed a large cavern to the left. As they floated closer, Emma scanned the immense opening.

  “I’d say that’s a beach.” Blackmore guided the boat to the long, sandy shoreline.

  “Powell wrote of this,” she said. “He said if it were a theater, it would seat fifty thousand people.” It was grander than she imagined.

  “He might be right.”

  Emma stepped from the dory and strained to see deeper into the cave. Poor visibility made it difficult, but it looked more like a covered alcove and not a true cave. “This would make a nice place to live.”

  Nathan dragged the boat out of the water. “I was thinking the same thing. We’ll camp here tonight.” He stood and walked several yards. “I don’t think you’d want to live here permanently though.” He pointed to dark lines along one of the interior walls. “Those are water marks. This cavern probably floods periodically. I’m sure those people who lived in the ruins we saw upstream figured that out in no time.”

  Emma silently agreed and walked further inside. The sand, which extended in all directions, slowed her down. Her inspection revealed nothing interesting—it was simply a vast grotto, a lonely and empty shrine. Perhaps the Anasazi used this place to pray to a River God, for surely the Indians who lived along this corridor had felt the power of the other world in such isolation.

  She returned to the boat to help Blackmore unload supplies and set up camp. They ate a dinner of hot biscuits, canned tomatoes, red beans, and strong coffee, then Nathan disappeared back to the boat.

  She rummaged in her belongings until she found her wire-rimmed glasses, her journal, and pen and ink. She hadn’t added any entries since their journey began; it was past time she did. The fire provided enough light as she sat cross-legged beside it and went to work.

  Blackmore returned, and Emma did her best to ignore his presence.

  “Where’s your gun?” he asked.

  “In the boat,” she answered, frowning at him. He’d just been down at the dory.

  He retreated back to the river and returned with her old revolver.

  “Hold this.” He handed her his gun as well as hers.

  Her journal slipped from her lap as she attempted to grasp the firearms. Blackmore unfolded a blanket and laid it on the sand on the opposite side of the fire. As he retrieved both weapons, his hands brushed against hers, sending a spark of awareness through her. It was hardly a touch, but the frisson of electricity surprised Emma. No vision, just a jolt.

  She glanced at him as he sat and went to work dismantling both
guns, cleaning and inspecting each weapon. Determined to focus on her journal writing, Emma put her awareness of him aside.

  She began writing a description of the journey—had it only been four days since they left Lee’s Ferry? She wrote of the river, the animals, and as much topographical information as she could remember. A few times she wrote about Blackmore, but forced herself to stop. What if he read it?

  She shifted her thoughts to her mama, a subject she wasn’t quite sure how to approach. The night her mama died there had been a cacophony of noise, and then a silence so deafening Emma was certain she’d lost her hearing. Mary told her the awful news, that mama and papa were gone. She’d held Emma, had squeezed her until she couldn’t breathe, and all Emma wanted was to smell the sweet scent of her mama when pressed against her breast.

  Emma hadn’t recalled that night so vividly until now. She wrote it all down to hide the sudden urge to cry.

  And what of her mother’s betrayal? It had happened before Emma was born. She paused and considered the supposed events of her mother’s life. It would seem her own birth signaled…what? An effort by her mama to redeem herself? To show her husband, Emma’s pa, her true devotion to him?

  A mother’s love. Why hadn’t her mama ever come to her in a vision to offer guidance, to explain the past, to bathe Emma in the love she so desperately missed all these years?

  The void left from her folks’ passing ached in her heart. She thought of Molly and her miraculous rise from the dead. The bad and the good. Dark versus light. One could not exist without the other. Maeve had taught her that.

  Emma always strived to make sense of the world and all that occurred around her, but she was at a loss to explain what any of this meant. She rubbed her forehead, glanced at Blackmore, and decided to pursue a more mundane curiosity.

  “Where were you born?”

  Without looking at her, he carefully laid a piece of the six-shooter on the blanket. “Missouri.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “One sister.”

  Emma waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “What’s her name? Where does she live?”

  “Jane. She lives in California.”

  His fingers reassembled the weapon and Emma liked watching him work. “Do you see her often?”

  “No. But I was heading there before I found you. She just had a baby.”

  “That’s wonderful. You must be very happy for her. A girl or a boy?”

  “A boy.” He glanced up at her. “His name is Jackson.”

  “That’s a strong name. How did you learn about river boating?”

  He took a small rag and polished the barrel of her gun. “My pa ran a small business on the Mississippi River, delivering supplies. I helped him when I was old enough.”

  “Why didn’t you stay?”

  “I left after my pa died.”

  Emma paused. She sensed the wall around Blackmore's heart and was reluctant to intrude without permission. A normal person, however, would offer sympathy. And normal she would be around Nathan.

  “I’m sorry. How old were you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “How did he die?”

  Blackmore stopped, and stared at the weapons before him. “He drowned.”

  “Really?” This surprised Emma.

  Blackmore fixed his gaze on her. The flame from the fire increased the shadows on his angular face. "Life is full of unexplained things.”

  “I know. That must’ve been very hard for you.”

  “No harder than anyone else’s life.”

  Emma looked at the fire.

  Nathan began putting the two guns back together. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I told you something about myself. Now it’s your turn. Tell me something about you.”

  “You already seem to know most of my background.”

  “I didn’t know you wear glasses,” he said.

  Her hand flew to her face and nearly knocked them from her nose. She’d forgotten about the frames and quickly removed them, feeling self-conscious. “Only when I work in my journal.”

  “You must go through several pairs a year.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “They must break every time you slap them off your face.”

  A small laugh escaped before she could stop it.

  “What was it like living in San Francisco?” His fingers locked and clicked gun pieces into place.

  “Fine, I suppose. I don’t think I was cut out to be a city girl.”

  Blackmore smiled and her heart skipped a beat. The man definitely had a certain charm.

  “Any hobbies?” he asked.

  Emma thought for a moment. “Not really. I like to read. I read a lot.” Well, that made her sound interesting. Time to change the subject. “What’s it like being a Texas Ranger?”

  He set the firearms aside. “Long days. Cold nights. Little pay.”

  “Then why do it?”

  He reached for the last of the driftwood and placed two more logs into the fire. “I thought it was a way to do the right thing. And I liked not being tied to one place.”

  Emma knew that feeling as well. Was a wandering impulse imprinted on certain individuals at birth? Or did Nathan run from the difficulties in his life as she did?

  “What were you like as a child?” he asked.

  She thought for a moment. “Quiet. I kept to myself. What about you?”

  Straight-faced, he answered, “Quiet. I kept to myself.”

  She half-smiled. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

  He watched her with amusement. “I’d never do that.”

  “How did you and Matt Ryan become friends?”

  “We both joined the Army around the same time.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in Missouri to help your ma?”

  Blackmore poked the fire with a crooked stick. “I probably should’ve.”

  Emma waited and wondered if he would elaborate. Finally, he did.

  “I really wanted to leave. I needed to. I was young and full of anger and idealism. I needed an outlet for it.”

  “And you no longer feel these things?” Emma asked.

  He pushed the burning driftwood around in the sandy fire pit. “I suppose.” But his tone echoed resignation, along with a lingering undercurrent of animosity.

  Emma shifted uncomfortably. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, fortifying herself. She sensed the cracks in Blackmore’s emotional armor. “Will you ever go home?”

  He stared into the fire, expressionless. “I consider Texas more home than Missouri.”

  “I think home is less an actual location than a place inside yourself.”

  He looked at her. “You talk like an old woman at times.”

  Emma smiled. “I’ve often thought when people are born, they’re born empty. Ready to start from scratch on this earth, to acquire knowledge as they go, not understanding the intricacies of their lives until they’re very old.” She pulled the blanket tighter. “But for me, it’s as if I was born already half full. A curse or a blessing. I haven’t decided which.”

  The silence between them crackled, as loud as the snap of wood and combustion from the fire. She wasn’t sure why she had told him so much, except that a part of her wanted him to really know her. A part of her wanted to tell him everything.

  “I can’t imagine your life being anything but a blessing, Emma.”

  The sentiment brought a tight constriction to her throat. To hide her sudden vulnerability she stood, removed the blanket then fashioned it into a bed and laid down. After a moment, Blackmore lay on the ground as well.

  Emma stared at the ceiling of the cavern and listened to the river flowing in the background.

  “Sleep well, Nathan.”

  “You too, Em.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nathan awoke early. Emma still slept, her face turned away from him, her dark hair in disarray. She mu
st have unbraided it during the night. He liked her this way, relaxed and natural, her rumpled appearance far more enticing than any perfumed saloon girl. Not that he spent much time with such women, although there’d been a few. But generally he preferred less flash.

  He left her, sweetly slumbering, and walked to the river. Sunlight had yet to reach the canyon corridor. Opposite their camp an exposed inlet cradled a sandbar—not quite large enough to beach a boat—and led to a cave-like indentation. Nathan wondered if critters made homes in areas like it along the water. This place was so barren and isolated, but at the same time offered a strange solace to the soul. It was beginning to grow on him.

  Using a knife Emma had brought for cooking and a bar of soap he’d located among her supplies, he set to work shaving his face. After he scraped as much of the whiskers as possible, he rinsed his cheeks as well as the knife. He moved to the left of the cavern where there was just enough beach to get him out of Emma’s line of sight should she awaken. He stripped out of his clothes.

  Wading into the water, he scrubbed and rinsed his shirt and trousers, then laid them across a mass of rocks. He reentered the water, soaped himself completely, and washed his hair. He returned to shore and lay back on a blanket, enjoying the cool chill on his skin in the pre-dawn haze.

  A faint snarl brought him to full alert. Slowly, he sat up and looked behind him.

  A mountain lion crouched several feet from him among a pile of boulders, her gaze focused and lethal. She looked to be eight feet long or more, and was clearly an adult capable of defending herself to the death. Her whiskey-colored eyes never left Nathan’s face, her light brown hide almost the same shade as his rocky refuge. Had she not growled, Nathan might never have seen her.

  But the mountain lion’s clever hiding place also impeded a swift escape. Nathan knew if he spooked the cat, the creature would most likely lunge directly at him. If the animal ran into the protection of the cave, she would plow directly into Emma.

  Nathan carefully rose to his feet, grabbing the blanket as he did. He wrapped the material around his waist. His gun—and Emma’s—was in the cave. He moved backwards in snail-like fashion in that direction.