Black Satin (LS 675)

by Donna Kauffman

  She stumbled again as she heard the rising roar of the water below. The canyon wall was not nearly as steep there. It was strewn with boulders and an occasional clump of trees that partially hid the view, but Abby knew instinctively that the river was waiting below.

  “No!” She jerked free of both men. “Don’t make me go near the river. I won’t go down there.”

  Jack stepped in front of her, blocking the sight of the drop with his body. “It’s okay. Our camp is just below here.”

  “No!” She spun and clambered back up the trail. her words thrown over her shoulder. “I don’t believe you!”

  The two men exchanged a quick glance. In three strides Jack was behind her. He grabbed her by the waist and held her as she struggled against him. “It’s all right. Trust me.”

  “Let me go!” She pushed against him with her hands and head, trying to get away and back up into the safety of the trees.

  “Sorry,” he said, and lifted her up in his arms, trapping her against his chest.

  She screamed, hit at him with her fists, kicked and struggled like a wildcat.

  He just held her tight and half-walked, half-slid the rest of the way down to the river’s edge.

  At the bottom, his flock of tourists was waiting near his raft. Giddy from their own thrilling ride down the rapids and the unnerving sight of the girl in the water, they crowded around, worried and curious, knowing it could have been any one of them in her place. “How is she? Is she all right? Gee, look at her—”

  “She’s fine. Everyone go get some lunch,” Jack commanded.

  Abby heard the talk, the hush, the sounds of the others hurrying toward camp. Opening one eye, she peeked up at her rescuer. That determined little smile trembled on her lips. “I made a damn fool of myself, didn’t I?”

  “Hell, no. You were fine.”

  “Fine?” She blushed. “I was a wimp. Screaming. Crying. Oh, I never do anything like that, really. I just wish you’d never seen it.”

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “It does to me.” She released her hold on his neck and looked away. “You can put me down now.”

  He held her in his arms for another second, then set her down gently. “There’s no reason to be embarrassed. It was a natural reaction; you were scared, wet, cold.” He rocked back on his heels, studying her. “And you’re still scared, wet, and cold. Let me get you some food, some warm clothes—”

  “I can manage now. I’m fine. Really.”

  “Sure?” he asked, knowing better.

  “Sure,” she insisted.

  He shook his head, grabbed his waterproof pack from the bottom of the raft, and led the way to camp.

  “Do I look all right?” she asked, tugging her fingers through her hair.

  “Why? Having your picture taken for the cover of Vogue?”

  “Sports Illustrated,” she teased back.

  His grin lit the sharp planes and angles of his face.

  For the first time, Abby really looked at him. He was exceptionally handsome, his face and body carved by sun, wind, and water into a harsh ruggedness. There was no slack to the man, no softness; even his eyes were the gray of rock, of granite. Dark brows, dark hair, dark glint in his eyes. But he had a Tom Sawyer grin.

  “Thanks,” she said, biting her lips. “Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m just sorry it ever happened. But take my advice and go easy on yourself this afternoon.”

  “Oh, I intend to. I’m going to take a walk in the woods, sit in the sun, read a book—”

  “I was thinking more of a good, solid sleep: A shot of Scotch and out.”

  “But I’m fine. Really—”

  Her words were cut short by a screech from across the bridge that spanned the river there at Renner’s Ford.

  “Abigail, oh, Abby! Are you all right? Oh, Abby, you had us so scared!”

  Elaine came racing over the bridge, grabbed her. and hugged her tightly. She was followed by the guide who had been responsible for the accident and the two young men from Estes Park. “Heavens, I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again! Wasn’t that awful? Terrible? We got out right away and then I couldn’t find you and I didn’t know what to do, and I kept imagining all these terrible things, but there wasn’t anything we could do”—she glanced at her three companions for confirmation and raced on—”so we climbed up and followed the river, and my knees are all scraped, and I’ve got a thousand blisters, and then we saw you down there on the rocks. How did you ever get out of there? Jeff thought they’d have to call in a helicopter or something.”

  “He saved me,” she said, turning her pale, heart-shaped face to Jack. “I—I don’t even know your name.”

  “Jack Gallagher.”

  “Jack Gallagher,” she repeated, feeling her throat close with stupid tears. She shook her head, blinking hard, and held out her hand. “I’m Abby Clarke, and this is my friend Elaine Shaw, and these are—”

  He let go of her hand, finished with introductions. His pack was heavy, and he was hungry. And he had something to take care of first. “Excuse me. I’ve got work to do. And, Jeff—I want to talk to you.” He led the other guide away, then turned and called back over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, hear me?”

  Abby nodded. She watched him stride away. There was dust in his dark hair, and his broad back was scratched and cut.

  That’s my fault, she thought suddenly, feeling again the slip of loose gravel, her rising hysteria. Sickness welled in her stomach, and the world spun.

  “Are you okay?” Elaine demanded. “Gee, I bet you were scared to death! I would have died, just died! When we saw you across the river, I almost fainted! Didn’t you hear us telling you to climb? We were screaming our fool heads off, and you didn’t even try.”

  Abby stared at Elaine, her chest aching with her shallow, teary breaths. Good old feather-headed Elaine. Abby shook her head in disbelief. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t even move.”

  “Then how the heck did he get you up that rock wall?”

  “He—he carried me.”

  “Wow! No kidding? Oh, I’d like to get my hands on that brawn!”

  Abby turned away, away from the river, away from Elaine, away from the two young men in their wet khaki shorts and polo shirts. “I’m going to get some dry clothes from the van. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah. Meet you at the food!”

  Leaning against the door of the van, she wondered briefly if she had the strength to climb inside. But she knew it would be warm in there. Quiet. She pushed herself up and staggered down the aisle. In her backpack were a change of clothing, a sweater, socks, an extra pair of tennis shoes, a hairbrush. Hugging the pack to her chest, she made it out of the van and to a lean-to marked: “Ladies Only: Keep Out. You Bums!”

  Inside the air was close, stifling. Without warning, her stomach coiled in a knot. In another minute she knew she’d be sick. Quickly, she pulled open the door and stumbled out.

  Jack had been sitting on an overturned barrel with a cold beer in his hand, watching for her. Now he rose, waved the others back, and strode across the clearing. He caught her before she fell, and held her against his chest, cradling her gently. “Damn stubborn woman. I thought I told you to take it easy.”

  “I—I was just going to change my clothes.”

  “In there? I’d suggest you spend as little time in there as possible!”

  “But—but—”

  “Stop arguing with me.”

  That was all he said. Dark eyes flashing, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her up the path to a tent pitched in a circle of pines. Inside was a cot. He sat her on its edge and disappeared. In a moment he was back with a towel and a bucket of water. He waited while she splashed water on her face and neck, then washed her hands and arms, and splashed some more on her throat.

  “Not feeling too good, huh?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I’m ever going to feel good again.”

 
; “You will, if you’ll just listen to me. I’m talking from experience.”

  “Oh, you make a habit of rescuing drowning women?”

  “I make it a habit to see no one needs to be rescued! No, I meant firsthand experience; the river’s knocked me around a bit, too.”

  She looked up at him, too exhausted to ask questions. Everything ached. Everything hurt.

  She just nodded in surrender.

  “Here,” he said, pouring amber liquid from a bottle into a dusty glass. “Drink this.”

  She did, and gasped as it burned a path down to her stomach.

  “One more,” he said, filling it again and handing it back.

  Tears stung her eyes, but she drank it all.

  “Good. Now get out of those clothes. I’ll wait outside. And put on something loose and comfortable.”

  “But this is all I have,” Abby whispered, pulling a T-shirt out of her backpack.

  “Here.” He fished in a trunk and came up with a huge faded sweat shirt. “Try this.”

  Her arms felt heavy as lead and her head was beginning to whirl, but she didn’t dare disobey. She pulled off her wet and muddy clothes, including her bra and panties, and slipped into his sweatshirt. The heavy cotton hung in folds across her soft breasts and narrow waist, its ragged lower edge coming all the way to the middle of her thighs. She could see that her legs were scraped and filthy, her knee caked with blood and beginning to swell, but she couldn’t figure out what to do about it. Her feet were bare and cut. She must have lost her shoes and socks in the river—she couldn’t remember. The liquor had the world spinning; if she had to sit up for another minute, she would faint.

  Trying to keep the dirt off his bed, she leaned her head down against his pillow.

  All she wanted was the comfort of her own pine bed, the boards polished smooth by her father’s hand. And her quilt made from squares of calico and hopsacking, homespun and denim, and the one square of her mother’s wedding gown, yellowed now but the satin so smooth, smoother than anything she had ever touched as a child and therefore precious. She wanted it now. Needed to feel its warmth and promise of safety. Needed to be held and loved—

  “Ready?” Jack called from outside, scattering her thoughts.

  “Ready.”

  “Now,” he said, filling the door of the tent with his body, “sleep!”

  “Ah, a man of many words.” She laughed softly, liking him for his directness, his strength.

  “So I’ve been told.” He grinned back. “Good night.” He stepped close and began to unfold a blanket.

  “Oh, but I’m a mess! I’ll get your bed dirty.”

  “It’s seen worse.” He tucked the covers up to her chin.

  “But where will you sleep?”

  “You sure do know how to worry, don’t you? How the hell did anyone talk you into getting in that raft?”

  “I don’t even know how I g-got talked into C-Colorado!” she stuttered, her teeth beginning to chatter again. “Oh, no! What’s happening? I thought you said I’d feel b-better.”

  “You will. Later. You’ll probably feel worse for a while, but you’ve got to ease up and let it all out. There’s no other way to get rid of that kind of fear. Here, I’ll hold your hand for a while.”

  “Oh, you d-d-don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m just cold.…”

  “Damn stubborn woman,” he said, and climbed into bed next to her. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up against him.

  She rubbed her face against the front of his shirt. “What if this is a dream and I’m still down there?” she wailed. “Please—please save me.”

  He held her tighter, wrapped one hard leg around hers to stop her shaking, and stroked her hair. His hand was cool, his body warm and solid and wonderfully real. “It’s all right,” he whispered into the top of her hair. “All right. I’ll save you.”

  He held her until she fell asleep.

  Read on for an excerpt from Linda Cajio’s

  The Perfect Catch

  ONE

  “Whoooo! Struck him out, the stinkin’ loser!”

  Elaine Sampson clamped her hand over her mouth and flopped back into her seat, horrified at her outburst. It didn’t matter that the crowd at Veterans Stadium was roaring its own approval as the Atlanta Braves batter walked away dejected from the plate, struck out by Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Curt Schilling.

  “Mom!” her son, Anthony, exclaimed, staring at her with a thirteen-year-old’s complete mortification for his mother’s embarrassing action. His face was bright red as he glanced around to see if anyone was looking.

  “Hot damn! Leave her be, sugar,” Cleo Burfield said to Anthony. The big black woman patted him on the back in commiseration. “First home game of the season and your mama’s ready for action.”

  Anthony grinned at Cleo. If Cleo approved, it was cool.

  “Never thought I’d hear that from you, Elaine,” Mary Ososa said, pressing her rosary beads one after the other in silent prayer as the next batter faced Schilling. Mary was as prim as Cleo was sassy, although she was grinning at Elaine.

  “It’s about time we heard that from her, Mary,” Jean Keenan said, laughing. “We’ve been the Widows’ Club for nearly two years now, and she’s never lost it before at a game.”

  “I’ve got to stop listening to the morning guys on WIP radio,” Elaine muttered, slouching down in her seat. She still couldn’t believe she had shouted like a fishwife. Her, a seventh-grade schoolteacher with a master’s degree, for goodness sake. But the Phils were the Phils. They had to win their home opener.

  The two men in the row in front of her had turned around at her outburst, and she realized they were still staring at her. Their more formal clothes gave them away as businessmen attending the game, probably in their company’s block of seats, a business entertainment phenomenon of the last few years. “Suits,” the fans called the corporate types, because they just sat and did deals, barely watching the game. Certainly they never cheered for the team, either team. They never clapped for a player. And they always left before the eighth inning, to beat the inevitable traffic jam. Even worse, by getting season tickets to choice seats, they moved more fans to the upper levels of the stadium, out of the lower 100, 200, and 300 levels. Elaine felt lucky her little crowd still managed to get in their same 300-level row year after year when they bought their own season tickets.

  One of the men in front of her, with the perfect hair pulled back in a tiny male ponytail, and with the perfect tan, and with a pierced hoop earring in one ear, glared up at her as if she had uttered absolute filth at him. She knew he was thinking she was one of “those” kinds of fans, abusive and without manners in general. The other man, although wearing an expensive suit and also sporting a perfect, if shorter, haircut, looked less urban-plastic than his companion. He was older, for one thing—around forty, she judged. His face was lean and rugged, with age lines beginning around the mouth. His hair was dark except for a few silver strands at his temples, just one or two, as if he’d earned them early rather than through the normal aging process. Elaine had noticed him before, when he had sat down. Throughout the opening innings, she had found herself catching glimpses of his profile, which had somehow piqued her curiosity and made her wish she could get a fall look at him.

  Her wish had now come true. As the man stared at her, her heart beat at lightning speed, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her brain turned to complete mush. But her insides were swirling with a deliciously warm sensation that left her breathless. The intensity scared her, for she hadn’t felt like this in a long, long time.

  His eyes held her own gaze. They were a deep brown, the same color as the eyes of a fawn she had once nursed to adulthood. Gentleness, though, wasn’t in the depths of these eyes. They were hard-edged … speculating … impossible to turn from.

  Panic shot through Elaine as if she’d just found herself teetering on the edge of a cliff. The noise of the cro
wd faded to a vague mumble until the world seemed to darken and close in around her and the man. He glanced lower, his gaze traveling down and back up again, taking in her red Phillies cap with her ponytail poking through the gap in the back, her hooded sweatshirt, jeans, thick white crew socks, and sneakers. He couldn’t see much of her body, not with the way she was huddled in the molded plastic seat. But every inch of her felt the shock of his gaze. Here she was, a thirty-seven-year-old widow with one adolescent son, and she couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her like this. She ought to be flattered, but she felt as vulnerable as a rabbit under a wolf’s paw. She also wished she was ten pounds slimmer and in a strapless gown. Heck, this kind of male assessment came along once in a blue moon, and she ought to look good when it did.

  “Mom … Mom!”

  The man turned forward again, finally breaking their locked gazes. Elaine blinked. She took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to regain her equilibrium. The world came back into focus.

  The bright lights of the Vet blazed down on the field, illuminating the players. The crowd’s cheers were suddenly deafening, the salty odor of popcorn and the sweet scent of soda overpowering. People all around her were on their feet, screaming at the top of their lungs.

  Curt had struck out another one.

  She grinned at her son, who was cheering and hugging Cleo. She knew he would die a thousand deaths before he hugged his own mother in public. Cleo was different.

  “Bottom of the fourth, and my boy’s coming up!” Cleo announced proudly.

  “If Lenny Dykstra really was your boy, we’d have the story of the year,” Jean said, chuckling. She was tall and angular where Cleo was short and busty.

  “I couldn’t be his mama!” Cleo laughed with glee. “Lenny’s Mr. Excitement. Whenever he’s at bat, he gives me that sexual high.” She belatedly put her hands over Anthony’s ears. “You cover your ears, baby, you’re not near ready for this. But, oh my, if my Luther were still alive, I’d be saying ‘Get ready, Luther, tonight’s your lucky night!’ ”

  The three older widows erupted into laughter. Anthony grinned. Elaine, normally used to this banter, found her face turning red because of the man in front of her.