can’t believe Mitch would do that.”
The wolverine hustled away as Ginger skidded off the path and looked downriver, shading her eyes with both hands. “No one. Nothing!” she shouted up over the river’s roar, but Christine was already running to tell Spike before the searchers set out on a wild-goose chase.
“Feel your way with your feet, one slow step at a time,” Mitch told Lisa as they edged into the cleft in the gorge, both facing the rock. “Don’t look down!”
“I won’t!” she vowed, but she already had. About twelve feet below, she had heard and seen whitewater surging into the bottom of the cleft, then being sucked back out. She could almost feel it washing over her, like when she was in the river, or in her worst nightmares. But Mitch was just behind, talking to her, urging her on.
Because she could feel the firm rock under her, she was glad she was barefoot, even though she ached all over, including the soles of her feet. Words from her grandma Colleen’s favorite Psalm came to her: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…
Mitch had said she should lead the way out because he needed not only to watch where they were going, but watch her. They’d abandoned the kayak. All their other goods were strapped to his back, but he wouldn’t let her carry one thing.
“You’re doing great,” he said. “We’re making good progress.”
“I’m shaking. It makes me feel as if the wall is,” she admitted as she tried to find handholds, yet not push away from the rock face so she tipped back. Their yellow brick road out of here was only about two feet wide in places. She knew she had to do this just right, because if he had to make a grab for her, they’d both bounce down into oblivion.
Finally, finally, the ledge widened, but then it came to nothing.
“Mitch, dead end.”
“So I see. But we’re almost out of the gorge. Just stay very still.”
“I feel like we’ve already climbed Mount McKinley—Denali, you called it.”
“Don’t talk.”
He came very close to her, even putting one foot between hers where she was standing with her legs apart for better balance. He pressed her closer to the rock face. It almost felt as if she were sitting on his lap. She could feel his breath on her temple, stirring her hair. Her heartbeat kicked up even more than it had from fear. In the worst of extremities, why did she let this man who had deserted her and hurt her get to her like this?
“I see a place just a ways down where we can get onto another ledge to make it out,” he said. “I’m going to take this weight off my back and drop our stuff down to the ledge below. Stand very still. I may have to press into you harder.”
She closed her eyes and held her breath. Why a certain memory came to her then, she wasn’t sure, but she saw—and felt—Mitch standing behind her on his boat, Sea Dancer, to help her handle her fishing pole when a big fish had hit off Key Biscayne in that warm, sparkling water. It had been a very calm day, no waves, no white water, no turbulence. They had just started dating, and she’d thought he was so perfect then. A combination of GQ magazine handsome and Pro Football Today rugged. Whether in a tuxedo or cutoff jeans, the man reeked of masculinity with his dark hair, square jaw and thick eyebrows over deep-set, coffee-colored eyes. His voice,somehow both refined but rough, sent shivers down her spine. Then they’d landed that big fish together and—
She felt him drop his pack and heard it hit below.
“How far down?” she asked, not daring to turn to look.
“Not too bad. I’m going to lie on my stomach, help you down to our stuff, then scoot down to join you. Here, turn carefully and sit on the ledge. You’ll have to look down, just for a sec, so you know what I mean.”
As he held her, she turned and sat. Pressing her back to the rock, she looked down and gasped. The ledge was at least five feet below and only about four feet
The wolverine hustled away as Ginger skidded off the path and looked downriver, shading her eyes with both hands. “No one. Nothing!” she shouted up over the river’s roar, but Christine was already running to tell Spike before the searchers set out on a wild-goose chase.
“Feel your way with your feet, one slow step at a time,” Mitch told Lisa as they edged into the cleft in the gorge, both facing the rock. “Don’t look down!”
“I won’t!” she vowed, but she already had. About twelve feet below, she had heard and seen whitewater surging into the bottom of the cleft, then being sucked back out. She could almost feel it washing over her, like when she was in the river, or in her worst nightmares. But Mitch was just behind, talking to her, urging her on.
Because she could feel the firm rock under her, she was glad she was barefoot, even though she ached all over, including the soles of her feet. Words from her grandma Colleen’s favorite Psalm came to her: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…
Mitch had said she should lead the way out because he needed not only to watch where they were going, but watch her. They’d abandoned the kayak. All their other goods were strapped to his back, but he wouldn’t let her carry one thing.
“You’re doing great,” he said. “We’re making good progress.”
“I’m shaking. It makes me feel as if the wall is,” she admitted as she tried to find handholds, yet not push away from the rock face so she tipped back. Their yellow brick road out of here was only about two feet wide in places. She knew she had to do this just right, because if he had to make a grab for her, they’d both bounce down into oblivion.
Finally, finally, the ledge widened, but then it came to nothing.
“Mitch, dead end.”
“So I see. But we’re almost out of the gorge. Just stay very still.”
“I feel like we’ve already climbed Mount McKinley—Denali, you called it.”
“Don’t talk.”
He came very close to her, even putting one foot between hers where she was standing with her legs apart for better balance. He pressed her closer to the rock face. It almost felt as if she were sitting on his lap. She could feel his breath on her temple, stirring her hair. Her heartbeat kicked up even more than it had from fear. In the worst of extremities, why did she let this man who had deserted her and hurt her get to her like this?
“I see a place just a ways down where we can get onto another ledge to make it out,” he said. “I’m going to take this weight off my back and drop our stuff down to the ledge below. Stand very still. I may have to press into you harder.”
She closed her eyes and held her breath. Why a certain memory came to her then, she wasn’t sure, but she saw—and felt—Mitch standing behind her on his boat, Sea Dancer, to help her handle her fishing pole when a big fish had hit off Key Biscayne in that warm, sparkling water. It had been a very calm day, no waves, no white water, no turbulence. They had just started dating, and she’d thought he was so perfect then. A combination of GQ magazine handsome and Pro Football Today rugged. Whether in a tuxedo or cutoff jeans, the man reeked of masculinity with his dark hair, square jaw and thick eyebrows over deep-set, coffee-colored eyes. His voice,somehow both refined but rough, sent shivers down her spine. Then they’d landed that big fish together and—
She felt him drop his pack and heard it hit below.
“How far down?” she asked, not daring to turn to look.
“Not too bad. I’m going to lie on my stomach, help you down to our stuff, then scoot down to join you. Here, turn carefully and sit on the ledge. You’ll have to look down, just for a sec, so you know what I mean.”
As he held her, she turned and sat. Pressing her back to the rock, she looked down and gasped. The ledge was at least five feet below and only about four feet
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