Black Satin Read online

  Moving ever downstream, Abby lashed one arm across the hump of the raft and wept, her tears instantly erased by the icy splash of spray. What was she going to do? Oh, God, she prayed, oh, someone, help! She began to scream, “Help me! Oh, help me … oh …”

  Like a living thing, the river gathered itself beneath her and leaped forward. “Oh, help! Someone help me!” She felt the river surge and rise, and ahead she saw the white riffles and hanging spray that signaled the start of the next rapids.

  Saw them and was taken by them in the same second.

  The water was lifting and churning over rocks that were only dark, looming shadows beneath the white, foaming surface. “Oh, no, not again, no more—please!” she screamed, while the raft strained at her hold, leaping and jumping over the dark, crouched rocks, wrenching at her arms, pulling her faster and faster, the water always in her eyes and mouth and nose.

  And then the third shout came from behind, loud and insistent and commanding:

  “Let go of the raft!”

  And her mind, or the tiny section of her mind that wasn’t numbed by fear and panic and cold, remembered her guide’s instructions before they ever got on the river, the damned, damned river where she was about to die. Three rules if you fall in: Point your feet downstream to cushion the blows, hold on to your life jacket, and if someone yells “Let go of the raft!” then do it!

  “Oh, no. She couldn’t. She couldn’t! It was all she had that meant safety and hope. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.…

  “Let go of the raft! Now!”

  She released her hold, and the raft tore downstream like a demon creature bent for hell. Flying, springing, it crashed against the looming black canyon wall.

  Abby swung her arms wildly, the water swirling over her face, drowning her, choking her. But instead of the wall, her feet hit the torn rubbery side of the raft, and she bounced back away from the rocks and out into the middle of the river again.

  For a moment she hung there, shocked into immobility by the memory of those looming rock walls flying at her and away. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think: her eyes were wide with fear. She hung there in the deceptive, momentary calm of one of the deep, still pools between the rapids.

  The water was black there, deeper than she could imagine. She tried to kick, but her feet were numb: so were her legs. The icy numbness was sliding insidiously up her body to her waist, her chest. She felt the cold hand of death gripping her.

  Screaming, she flailed at the water, aiming for the canyon wall. Anything, anything was better than the water. The wall slid by, picking up speed like a phony backdrop in a grade B movie. Fast and faster now, as the river carved into the canyon walls at a sudden angle. She could see the spiked tips of the pines growing at the cliff top above her, the ribboned layers of rock exposed on the cliff walls, the white, churning water ahead. “Help!” she screamed, the water filling her mouth. Panic brought life to her legs, and she backpedaled desperately. “Save me!”

  Incredibly, another raft flew into sight, with a huge, dark-haired guide at the oars. She struggled toward this one hope. She saw the man straining against the pull of the river, his arm muscles bulging, his whole body fighting the current, fighting to save her, his arms, back, neck, hips locked in battle, slowing the raft, slowing it just enough perhaps to let her grasp the hands reaching out to her as she splashed closer. He fought the river, shouting “Swim, dammit! Swim!” in the same hoarse, urgent voice that had commanded her to let go of the raft. “Come on! Swim!”

  Abby tried, but her body was too cold to obey her commands, and the river was too strong. The guide shouted a curse as the river escaped the drag of his oars and the raft leaped into the rapids and was gone and she was pulled under the foaming surface.

  She felt a sharp stab of pain as she hit the rounded hump of a boulder and was flung over it. She gave up all hope and stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped praying. The river swept on with her as it snaked around its next turn, and then suddenly she was trapped in a tangle of tree branches leaning like a net across the water.

  As Abby felt the solid wood, sheer instinct took over and she scrambled up, sending loose gravel and rock hailing into the water. She felt the dead tree slip under her weight and climbed faster, planting one foot on the broken trunk, pulling the other up alongside, scrambling up onto the rocks until she could think, stop; and take control of her body. She dug her heels into the loose rock face of the canyon wall and spread her arms wide, her fingers prying a hold into the rock.

  She was out of the water. Alive. Oh, God …

  She started to shake and couldn’t stop. Her whole body was jumping with fear and shock; her teeth were chattering. There was nothing she could do. She wanted to climb farther but couldn’t, wanted to edge over just a foot or two to a notch in the wall that had grass she could grab hold of, but she couldn’t. She wanted to shout for help, but couldn’t; her teeth were clicking and wouldn’t stop even when she bit her lips hard enough to taste blood.

  A rock slid from beneath her left foot, and she screamed. She turned and pressed her body against the rock wall until it dug into her back.

  Suddenly she saw movement on the cliff top across the river. Wiping her face against her shoulder, she squinted through water and tears to bring the shapes into focus. Someone was there, gesturing, shouting. “Up … go up!” the person yelled, pointing to the top of the canyon wall forty feet above her; she shook her head in a short, nervous jerk.

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t answer.

  The person kept shouting at her. waving, yelling at her as if she were purposely not listening, not following orders. She saw it was her guide, the one who had lost control and let her raft flip, flinging her and the others into the river, and the others were with him: her pal Elaine and the two fellows they had met in Estes Park who had promised that a raft trip would be such fun! Oh, dear Lord, they were all there, safe, and she was down here, the wall crumbling into the river below her, the water just waiting, waiting to take her again.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears slid down her cheeks, ran into her open mouth. Everything hurt now. her legs, her stomach, her chest whenever she breathed. Help, she prayed silently. Someone help me. In all her life she had never been so afraid. It was worse than the most awful nightmare.

  Then she heard a noise above. Abby gasped, then held her breath and listened. It was a voice, a man’s shout, directly overhead. She tipped her head back against the rock wall and saw a rope uncoil from the edge above and to the right. And then that dark-haired rafter swung himself over and down, sending a tiny avalanche cascading harmlessly past her and into the water. She shuddered, cringing at the splash. “Hurry,” she begged.

  “Hold on! I’m coming to get you,” he shouted, and she let her head fall back and didn’t open her eyes until she felt his hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t be scared,” he said softly. “You’re okay now.”

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t, just kept her teeth clamped down over her bottom lip and tried to stop shaking. Tears spilled from her eyes.

  He touched her face, pushing the hair and leaves and dirt back from her cheek with blunt, strong fingers. “It’s okay now,” he repeated, looking into her wide, terrified eyes. Poor thing, he thought, poor little thing, but aloud he said, “Are you hurt? Tell me where you’re hurt.”

  Abby was shaking too hard to answer, so he gently ran a hand across her arms, down her ribs on one side and up over the other. Then he crouched against the rock and ran his hand over both scratched and bruised legs.

  She felt cold as ice, he thought, and those wide, unblinking eyes worried him. He touched her cheek. “You’re all right. Nothing’s broken. You had a bad time, but I’m going to take care of you; I’m going to get you out of here. I know you’re scared, but it’s going to be okay.” He kept stroking her face and talking, ignoring her chattering teeth, her silence. “Okay, now, I want you to take hold of this rope and pull up. I’ll be under you here, pu
shing. We’ll get you right up, just one foot at a time, hand over hand—”

  She shook her head wildly, panic blinding her. She could not, would not, move, knowing she would slide back into the river like a stone.

  He understood. “Okay,” he answered, soothing her with his voice, his hand. “Hey, it’s all right. I’ll help you.”

  A tiny, hiccuping sob broke in her throat.

  He knew he had to get her out of there, and fast. She was shaking, trembling, and there was blood on her legs, on her face. Narrowing his eyes against the glare of sun on water, he scanned the river and the canyon wall; his practiced eye said there was no way out but up. Okay, then, he’d get her up there. Now.

  After wrapping the rope securely around one of his wrists, he leaned close, close enough for his breath to stir her hair. “Listen to me. All you have to do is put your arms around my neck. I’ll carry you up. You just hold on.” He half-turned around, offering his broad back. “Come on. Climb aboard.”

  “I can’t.” She stayed rigidly unmoving, but her face was wet with fresh tears that clung to her lashes before rolling down her cheeks.

  “Shhh,” he said softly. “It’s going to be all right. Here we go.” He locked his free hand around her wrist and pulled it over his shoulder to his chest and pushed his bulk out and away from the canyon wall. She screamed, but her other hand snapped into place around his neck, and her body clung to his, her legs wrapping around his hips like a vise.

  Reaching down behind, he scooted her higher on his back; she didn’t weigh anything at all, even soaking wet.

  “Damn,” he breathed, letting himself think for a split second about how hurt she could be, about what could have happened with that damn stupid amateur as a guide. He’d like to rip his damn ears off! And with anger fueling his muscles, he pulled them both up the slippery, crumbling rock face, finding invisible hand- and footholds, climbing with the steadily mounting exhilaration that only an avid climber can know.

  If she’d loosen that choke hold around his neck it would be a lot easier, he thought, struggling for breath as his heart sledgehammered against his ribs. “Ease up,” he gasped out, a mistake, because the sound of his voice made her tighten the noose of her grip.

  She wanted to hold on more and more tightly, glue herself to this solid, warm, living back, climb right under his skin and hide there safe and warm. He was so big, so strong, so powerful. His voice helped to drown out the roar of water in her ears. The hardness of his muscles was better than the hardness of rock. The heat of him was better than the white glare of the sun. Her whole world narrowed to the feel of him, the safety of him, the coil and release of his muscles, the smell of his sweat. “Help me, please,” she begged, the only words her chattering would allow.

  “You’re all right,” he repeated gently. “Okay. We’re almost there.”

  “Don’t let me go. Don’t drop me!”

  “I won’t, don’t worry.”

  “I’m scared,” she whispered against his neck.

  “I know. But you’re all right now. Look, there’s Mike, waiting to help you up.”

  Sure enough, another man appeared at the top of the canyon wall and reached an arm down toward the two edging up toward him. “Almost there!” he called encouragingly. “Come on … come on.”

  “I’m comin’, dammit. You just get ready to give her a hand up.”

  “Okay, reach on up here. I’m ready for you—”

  She tried, really tried. But she couldn’t loosen her grip. It was like letting go of the raft all over again, and this time she just couldn’t.

  “Listen, trust me. Just reach one hand up and he’ll have you safe on level—”

  The rest of his words were choked off by her stranglehold on his neck. “I can’t!”

  “Damn!” He dug his toes into a crevice the size of a matchstick and shifted her weight on his back. “Okay.” he said with a gasp, “at least ease off on that hold; I can’t breathe, let alone climb! Hear me?”

  She pushed her face against his neck. He could feel her shaking, trembling, but her voice was a little steadier, as if she had really heard him that time. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, relaxing her grip ever so slightly. Instinctively, her legs tightened around his hips. He grinned despite it all; this was one hell of a situation, and just when things had begun to look boring.

  Then he started up again, every muscle and sinew complaining. The rope had cut into one hand, and his blood made the rope slick. His grip slipped once, just a fraction, but enough to make him catch his breath between clenched teeth; he heard her crying softly into his hair. He struggled to within two feet of the top, where Mike could reach down, slip his hands under her arms, and lift her straight onto the grass. Then he hoisted himself up and over.

  “How did you do that, man?” Mike asked, his voice a croak. He was grinning, pumped up with the vicarious excitement of the climb. “Hell, Gallagher, you’re a damn mountain goat!”

  Jack Gallagher grinned back, his chest heaving, his heart pumping hard and strong. He bent his head to catch his breath, rested his palms against his thighs, and smiled up at the other man from beneath dark brows. “It was that or swim,” he said, laughing. “Now, cut the talk. How’s the girl?”

  She was sitting on the grass, arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees, her forehead burrowing into them.

  Jack dropped down beside her, thinking he would let her cry it out while he caught his breath, but she looked up and took his breath away completely when her eyes met his.

  “Thanks,” she said softly, offering a shaky little smile. “Not that I know how to thank someone who just saved my life.” She could barely speak, and the words escaped in tiny pops as she found and lost her voice. “Oh, Lord, I really thought I was going to die down there.” Her mouth quivered, and she shook her head, looking away from the gorge and into the trees behind them. “I thought I’d never see home again, my family …” Tears slid out of the corners of her eyes. Quickly, she reached up and brushed them away with the back of her hand.

  He caught her hand between both of his and rubbed hard, trying to bring some warmth back to her skin. “Listen, you might feel better if you went ahead and cried.”

  She shook her head hard, sending her wet hair flying around her pale face.

  “You had a bad time down there,” he said coaxingly, knowing she realized it all too well, but knowing also, as she might not, that fear like that would claw its way out one way or another. “A good cry might help.”

  “If I started I’d never stop.” She pulled her hand away and wrapped her arms around her knees again, trying to hold herself together. Her shoulders lifted and jumped with the shakes.

  Without a thought, he pulled his “river rat” T-shirt up over his head and down over hers. “Here, put your arms through this. It’s not dry, but it’s a lot drier than you are. And we need to get you walking, got to get your blood moving again. Can you stand up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m having—trouble with sitting; I’m not sure how—how good I’ll be at standing.”

  “Here, we’ll give it a shot.”

  With Mike on one side and him on the other, they got her to her feet. Her knees buckled, and she sagged between them, shaky as a sapling in a high wind. Jack pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her waist. Her head came just to his shoulder, and her hair and face were cold against his warm skin. “I’d carry you, but if you can walk, it’s better. What do you think?”

  “I think I w-want to lie down and—and close my eyes and wake up to find this … was all a horrible dream.” Dry, ragged sobs were gathering in her throat, and her faint, determined little smile wobbled.

  “Later. Come on, let’s try again.” Holding her against his side, he took a few steps across the sunny glade, Mike trailing them. “There, that’s better.”

  “Yes—I think so.”

  “Good. Then let’s get this show on the road.”

  Gently, he swung her back to his side and started off on a slow wa
lk, talking softly. “Look at these pines. Did you ever see a forest this thick, untouched? Can you smell them? And that’s wild blackberry, there. It’ll bloom soon, and the berries are sweet as sugar when you pick them early in the morning.…”

  The sun was now directly overhead: Noon. It warmed the top of her head, dried her hair to a mess of sandy tangles, and lay like a blanket on her narrow shoulders. Her sobs faded to an occasional harsh hiccup, and her step steadied.

  “This is an old Ute hunting trail,” he said, using his voice like a sedative. “A hundred years ago they walked here, following the deer and elk.”

  She looked around, seeing for the first time the trees, the thick underbrush, the light filtering down like golden dust. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she said, “It’s pretty.”

  She knew he wanted her to talk, to relax, and she felt bound to try. “I—I’m from Florida, and we—we have pines there too. Lots of people don’t know that. And there are palms, and—and live oaks, and groves. Oh, nothing’s as pretty as an orange grove at first light. So green, and the scent of orange blossoms in the warm air—” Tears closed her throat. “I—I thought I’d never see any of it again.”

  “You will. You’ve got my word on it!” He slid his hand down her arm until he caught hold of her hand. “You’re going to be fine.”

  They followed the trail as it wound through towering pines that blocked the sun.

  “Here. Lean on me,” he said when she stumbled over a root. He could feel her exhaustion, the residue of her fear. Not waiting for an answer, he wrapped one burly arm around her waist. “Hang on, sweet thing. We’re almost there.”

  When the trail narrowed and angled downward, he explained calmly, “I’ll go first. Mike’ll be right behind you. Don’t worry.”