Lover's Leap

by Pamela Browning

  It was rough going in these parts with the undergrowth so close to the steep riverbank that they had to claw their way through it in places. Sometimes they had to climb over rocks, and other times they had to crawl through narrow passageways between boulders. In places, tangles of kudzu vine, that scourge of the South that gobbled up everything in its path, made their passage next to impossible, and they had to tear at the vines with their hands to clear the way.

  When the terrain finally flattened out, they found themselves walking side by side. A thin stream of sunlight had managed to slice through the fog; it slanted across Tate Jennings’ face, casting his features into sharp relief. Maggie decided that although she had probably never met him before, he definitely resembled someone she knew.

  Maggie eyed Tate warily. “Have you, um, lived in the woods long?”

  “A little over five months. I’m reclaiming my Cherokee heritage,” he said in a wry tone of voice.

  She shot him a curious glance. “You sound like you’re mocking yourself,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Yes and no. I took leave from my public relations job to live in the woods as a six-month experiment.”

  This came as such a surprise that Maggie didn’t reply until they had walked some distance.

  “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  He seemed amused. “In the woods, you know what the hazards are and you learn how to deal with them. Cities are far more dangerous. Think about all the carjackings, burglaries, rapes, kidnappings—”

  “I’d rather not,” Maggie said hastily. Atlanta, where she lived, was a perfect example of a place where all of the above could happen and often did. She changed the subject.

  “I suppose you live in some sort of house? With modern conveniences?” she ventured.

  He laughed. “The stars provide a roof over my head. The river and ponds and forest supply my food.”

  Maggie indulged in a ladylike snort. “You call that a six-month experiment? It sounds like six-month madness to me.

  “Maybe so,” he said, and she knew from his tone of voice that he didn’t appreciate her scoffing at his way of life.

  “I mean, don’t you miss television? Ice cream? Cappuccino machines?”

  “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, at least at first. I still have my apartment in town, and I check in there every once in a while. But I don’t need it. I like making do with less.”

  “You never said why you wanted to take off into the woods in the first place,” she pointed out.

  He seemed reluctant. “Personal reasons,” he said.

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  “All right. I’m employed as head public relations honcho for Consolidated Development Corporation. My father died recently, and I asked for some time off as I was entitled to do under company policy.”

  Maggie knew of the Consolidated Development Corporation, or Conso, as it was called locally. Conso was an international company that specialized in developing resorts. One Atlanta paper had called Conso a “boon to the Great Smokies, an engine of economic development.” Its executives, who had developed several successful retirement communities in Florida, were some of the most prominent movers and shakers in the South.

  “That’s a high-powered job,” Maggie said. As a woman who fully appreciated the material things in life, she couldn’t imagine walking away from such a secure position to live in the woods. Maybe he was putting her on, but she didn’t think so. He seemed totally serious.

  “I’ve been assured that my job will be waiting for me when my six months’ leave is over. If…” He looked for a moment as if he had been going to say something but had thought better of it, and now his mouth was clamped shut.

  “You think you won’t go back?” she asked sharply.

  “I think we’d better walk single file. Keep an eye out for copperheads. They tend to coil on rocks when the ground gets soggy.” He moved into the lead, and Maggie, who realized that he had effectively put an end to the discussion, switched to the train of thought that he had so abruptly thrust upon her. She was terrified of snakes, and she thought she’d gladly trade a good old carjacking for a coiled copperhead any day. She concentrated on planting her feet exactly where Tate put his.

  Not that he seemed to think he was in danger. Each nimble and silent step that Tate Jennings took seemed calculated, calibrated for the terrain, and he walked soundlessly. He moved fluidly, with no wasted motion. Maggie strained to emulate him but found it impossible. In her wake, twigs snapped, leaves rustled, birds squawked, and the whole woods burst into a cacophony of sound to mark her passing.

  “Did you learn that after you came to live in the woods?” she called out to him.

  “Learn what?”

  “How to walk like an Indian.”

  “I told you I’m part Cherokee.”

  “So it’s inborn? That silent stalking?”

  To her surprise, he laughed. “Maybe so,” was all he said.

  As he forged the way through thickets of oaks and mountain laurel, Maggie became mesmerized by the slim turn of his ankles, the burgeoning muscles of his calves, the strong hard contours of his thighs and the way they met the curve of his bare buttocks. She was seized by a primitive reaction that seemed to originate somewhere apart from her emotions; she told herself to ignore it. Didn’t she have enough problems right now without adding a sexual dimension to them? But at one point when Tate slowed down and she caught up, it was all she could do not to reach out and touch that smooth bronze skin.

  He swiveled his head, a smile on his lips. “Anything wrong?” he said.

  If he really could read her thoughts, she was in deep trouble. She shook her head. She thought he slanted a knowing look at her out of the edges of his eyes, but he didn’t say anything else.

  When they came to the place where Tate had said they should cross the river, he said, “I wish we had a rope. Then I’d go across by myself to secure it, and you could hold on to it as you came over.”

  “I wish we had a canoe,” said Maggie.

  His eyes flared. “Throwing it up to me won’t bring the canoe back,” he told her.

  “What will? Those Little People of yours?”

  “I doubt it.” He bit the words off sharply.

  “I still want to know why you jumped off that cliff, Tate Jennings. It was a fool thing to do.”

  “All right, maybe under normal circumstances it would be, but I had my reasons, which, if you insist, I’ll explain later. Now are we going to stand here all day and argue, or are we going to cross the river?” He was angry, she could tell from his tone of voice, but by this time, Maggie was satisfied with even so grudging a promise of explanation for his foolhardiness. Having accomplished that, she now felt free to turn her attention to the crossing of the Little Deer River.

  “How would you suggest we go about this?” she said, staring at the mist rising from the river. She didn’t like the looks of the increasingly muddy water, which seemed to be rising by the minute.

  “Give me your hand. It’s safer if we hold on to each other.”

  Reluctantly Maggie extended her hand, and Tate enveloped it in his warm grip.

  “We’d better do it this way,” he said, moving his hand upward to grasp her wrist, and she did the same with his although her fingers were too small to encircle it.

  “Hold on tight,” he cautioned, and she nodded mutely.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded again, and he waded into the river. Gingerly she followed him until the water surged around her chest.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve crossed here lots of times,” he said reassuringly. His voice was amplified by the fog and echoed eerily off the rocky banks. Lots of times… lots of times…lots of times. Maggie made herself feel her way carefully along the river bottom, sliding her sneakers up and down the curves of the rocks. The water was cold and fresh with torrents from the abundant spring rains.

  Tate seemed unaffected by the temperature of the water; he plunged ahead
, glancing back at her occasionally as she navigated in his wake. “Careful—there’s a big rock here,” he said once, and she skirted it carefully. Another time she lost her footing, gasping as the water rose to her neck. She was only five feet four inches tall, and she worried that the water was too deep here for her to make it safely across.

  Tate hauled her toward him with a viselike grip and supported her in the circle of his arm until her feet found the bottom again. “This is the deepest point,” Tate said reassuringly, answering her question before she even had a chance to ask it, and he held on to her tightly until she could proceed.

  “Only a few more steps,” he said when they had nearly reached the shore.

  “Do those Tsagoblins of yours live in rivers?” she asked him through teeth that clattered like castanets. “Is it their idea of fun to pull people underwater?”

  “Oh, there are Little People who live everywhere,” he said, looking back at her with a twinkle in his eyes, but she ignored the twinkle and racked her brain for something sarcastic to say. Before she could think of anything, they had reached the shore, and Tate helped her out of the water.

  “Sit down for a minute,” he ordered, gesturing at a convenient flat rock, and she did, lowering herself on shaky legs. She felt exhausted.

  “Your lips are blue,” Tate said, sitting down beside her. Water ran off his body in rivulets, but he didn’t seem cold at all.

  She stuck out her hand so he could see it. “My hands are blue, too. I think I’m turning into a Smurf,” she said.

  “You, uh, have a clever way of putting things,” he said. “How much farther is it to your place?”

  “A mile. M-maybe more.” Her teeth were striking against each other so hard that she was sure the enamel was rattling right off.

  “You can’t go on like this. We’d better get you warm,” said Tate.

  “So what are you g-going to do? Rub two sticks together and start a fire?”

  He looked at her as if he’d like to snap back a retort, which, considering the sarcasm that dripped from her every word, she could understand.

  “There’s another way,” he said, and before she could object, he drew her gently into his arms and held her close.

  She pushed him away. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t let you—”

  “It’s a survival tactic. In the absence of a fire or a blanket, of course you can do this,” he said comfortably, pushing her head down so it rested against his smooth chest. She held herself aloof at first, then relaxed. Here she was being cradled in the arms of a fellow who seemed convinced of the existence of an Indian tribe of Little People and who was wearing only a loincloth. Her best friend Bronwyn, if she were in Maggie’s place, would be laughing her head off at the absurdity of all of it. Maggie didn’t dare laugh. She wasn’t sure how Tate would take it.

  Her cheek exactly fit the hollow between Tate’s solid pectoral muscles, and his heart beat slowly and steadily beneath her ear. Below that, his bare stomach was tight and fit Below that—she bit back a giggle. One part of her wondered, if Tate Jennings would jump into her canoe, what on earth would he do next?

  “Feeling better?” he murmured after she stopped shivering, and she said, “Um-hmm.” She did not, because of the laughter that seemed to be forming into a lump in her throat, trust herself to say actual words.

  “Let’s move,” he said, and for one regretful—and possibly stupid—moment, Maggie wished he wouldn’t take his arms away. Once he did, she wondered suddenly how he had made her feel so warm and so safe. Safe was not a feeling with which she felt familiar lately.

  Here the path along the riverbank was wide enough for them to walk abreast. At the moment a companionable feeling existed between them, much to Maggie’s surprise, and she liked it. She had felt so alone ever since Kip left, and being alone was an unaccustomed condition for her after two years of being one half of a couple.

  “You wouldn’t have to be alone,” Bronwyn had pointed out before Maggie left Atlanta. “You could move in with me.”

  But Maggie hadn’t wanted that; if she had moved into Bronwyn’s noisy apartment, she wouldn’t have been able to think about what she was going to do with her life. And Bronwyn was her boss at the advertising agency, so there would have been no getting away from the constant barrage of advice that was Bronwyn’s way of offering support. No, Maggie had thought it best to retreat to the cabin on the lower slope of Flat Top Mountain that had belonged to her family for generations, there to contemplate the changes in her life. And in her body.

  “Is it only my questions that you don’t like to answer, or do you ignore everyone?” asked Tate, and Maggie realized that he’d been talking and she hadn’t even heard him.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. I haven’t been around other people much lately, so I may have lost the knack of conversation,” Maggie explained. The excuse sounded lame even to her.

  “I’ve been living alone in these woods for five months now, but I still hear people when they talk,” he pointed out.

  “That makes us different, doesn’t it?”

  He muttered something under his breath, and she strode quickly ahead.

  “We’re almost there,” she said when she saw the gray cedar shingles of the cabin roof through a lacy screen of dogwoods. “This place has never looked so inviting. I’ll be glad to get into dry clothes.”

  Tate’s voice held a trace of laughter. “That’s not a problem for me.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes, but he didn’t see. She moved ahead rapidly now that she was walking on familiar ground, eager to reach the cabin. At the door, she adopted a matterof-fact air before she turned to him. “Okay, I’m safely home, and you can leave. What are you going to do about my canoe?”

  “Do?” he said.

  “About replacing it. It’s the least you can do, considering that you’re the one who is responsible for losing it.”

  “Perhaps it will be found safe and sound below the falls tomorrow. I’ll ask the local people to look for it.”

  She couldn’t believe the irresponsibility of the man. A gentleman, she thought with rapidly rising indignation, would have offered to buy her a new canoe.

  “I thought you wanted to put on dry clothes,” he said.

  She did. She would. Thoroughly exasperated by this time, she pushed the cabin door open and stepped wearily inside. As always, she felt comforted to be there; the place had a way of reaching out and enfolding her, welcoming her home.

  “We’ll continue this discussion after I’ve changed,” she said. When Tate hesitated uncertainly on the doorstep, she felt compelled to say, albeit ungraciously, “Come on in. You might as well. Aren’t you cold?”

  “Only wet,” he said. By this time, his hair was beginning to dry into a long, flowing mane. When he shook his head, it separated into silky black strands that slid across his bare shoulders. For some reason, the movement and sheen of it fascinated her.

  She decided to take pity on him. “Do you want to put on something dry?” she said. She cast a skeptical and cautious glance at the loincloth.

  “I don’t have any other clothes with me,” he reminded her.

  “If you wish, you can put on any of the clothes you find in the box in the utility room. They’re about your size. I don’t suppose you drink tea, do you?”

  “Every now and then,” he said.

  “Well, go in the kitchen and put the teakettle on. The utility room and a half bathroom are off the kitchen. There’s no shower, but you can wash off in the sink if you like. I’ll be out in a minute.” She went into the bedroom and shut the door before she realized how foolish she had been.

  She had just invited a half-naked man whom she didn’t even know into her cabin, which at present was supposed to be her safe refuge from the world. Bronwyn would say she was crazy.

  Well, maybe she was. It wasn’t something she could categorically deny. If she’d been normal, she’d still be in Atlanta spinning out sparkling ad copy for unappreciativ
e clients. Come to think of it, she thought ruefully, if she was normal, she’d find a job that she liked better. But she’d developed expensive tastes in the seven years since she’d graduated from college, and there wasn’t anyone else she could depend on to support her upscale life-style. Especially now.

  Maggie peeled out of her wet clothes and stared for a moment at the expensive silk shirt. It was ruined. She tossed it and the designer jeans on a convenient chair before heading for the closet. The full-length mirror on the bathroom door reflected her image as she passed.

  Her hands moved protectively to cup the slight curve of her abdomen. She’d had a close call today; she could have been swept into the rapids past Lover’s Leap and over the falls. It wasn’t something she liked to think about, especially now that she was harboring a new life inside her— a new life that had become infinitely precious to her in the past couple of weeks.

  I’m going to have a baby, she told herself for the umpteenth time, but this time it was with a sense of amazement rather than despair. Maybe the hormones of early pregnancy were doing a number on her or maybe she was temporarily insane, but the idea of a cute little dumpling of a baby was actually pleasant. Well, mostly pleasant, if she didn’t linger on thoughts of labor and delivery, which more or less terrified her. But there were a lot of babies being born everywhere, and most women had more than one. Maybe giving birth was not the ordeal that it had been cracked up to be.

  And after the birth of the baby, which she now imagined dressed in a pale aqua ruffly something with a matching cap—well, how could she think about an event that wouldn’t happen until six and a half months from now? The baby was on its way, and she would give birth to it. Okay, so she’d temporarily lose her figure, as Bronwyn had pointed out. And it would be hard to rear a child all by herself. But it wasn’t as if other single mothers didn’t do it. It wasn’t as if other women hadn’t found themselves in this Awful Predicament. It wasn’t as if she were planning to try something completely new.

  It only felt like it.

  Chapter Two

  Tate knew what Maggie Macintyre wanted, and he was going to give it to her. Eventually.