But as he neared the wagon, floating downstream in the current, he pulled his rope off the horn, tethered one end of it there, and leapt down off Cleo’s back, carrying the rest of the coil.
“You know what to do!” he called to Ward before he waded out into the current, letting out rope as he moved closer to the wagon.
Ward nodded at him, and that was the last time he looked back.
The wagon was still floating, but he didn’t know how much longer that piece of luck would hold out. And he mentally kicked himself for the thousandth time. He should have reminded Carrie to block the wheels of her wagon. Hell, he should have blocked them himself. Her wagon had been well up from the water’s edge, but on a slight incline.
But who could have known it would rain so blasted much and so hard? Who could have known the water would rise so fast, and that the ground beneath the wagons would turn to slick, slippery mud?
He should have, that was who.
The water, having gone from ankle- to thigh-high, was suddenly over his head. He fought to pull himself to the surface—and also, to remember to hang onto that rope. Just as he thought his lungs would burst, his head cleared the water. He began to swim for the wagon, aided by the current, and finally grabbed the driver’s bench with one hand. He heard a cheer go up behind him, on the bank, but didn’t look back. He wasn’t done yet.
He quickly looped the rest of the rope around the bench, tying it off hard, while he shouted, “Chrissy? Chrissy, you in there?”
A tiny, drowsy voice answered, “Yessir?”
Wasn’t that just like a little kid, to sleep through something like this?
“You just hold still, baby,” he shouted before he turned back to Ward. “Toss me another!” he called.
Ward’s loop sailed out and just about settled over Jason’s head. It would have, too, if he hadn’t shot a hand out to catch it. This one, he tied to the whiffle bar, diving under water to do so. When he came up, Saul was ready for him. Just like that, another loop rocketed out from the bank. It landed on top of the driver’s bench, which he tied it round.
He signaled the men, and one by one, the ropes went taut and the wagon stopped moving. Thank God. A glance over his shoulder showed him that Morelli had switched horses, and was sitting on Cleo now, holding her steady.
Then, at last, Jason said, “Chrissy, honey, come here. We’re gonna take a little swim.”
Her head popped up and she blinked. “Is that you, Mr. Fury?”
He nodded and held out a hand. “Come on, baby.”
“Where’s Rags?”
The dog. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of it. He said, “He went on ahead of us, Chrissy. He’s all right.” He hoped to hell it wasn’t a lie.
At last, he felt the little girl put her tiny hand in his.
* * *
Rags had indeed jumped from the wagon, but swum the wrong way. Now he was a hundred feet downstream from the wagon, swimming desperately for the bank.
Jenny kept pace with him, encouraging him. “Good boy, Rags! You can do it.” She had run past Jason, who had already been tying the first rope on the wagon seat. There was nothing she could do there. But she’d heard a faint, terrified yip from downstream, and had followed the sound.
Her skirts felt like lead, weighing her down, holding her back, and she stopped to strip out of them. Nobody would see her clear down here.
Rushing ahead in nothing but her chemise and pantaloons, she splashed into the muddy water. Rags was tiring, she could see it. He’d stopped barking, and was now stroking only intermittently.
“Rags!” she shouted. “Don’t you dare die! What will Chrissy do without you?”
The water was up to her waist, but she kept moving forward. For not the first time, she blessed her papa for throwing her into Folger’s Creek one spring afternoon, long ago. Her mother had been fit to be tied, but she’d learned how to swim. Even if she had got her new Easter dress soaked through.
A few more steps and she reached the drop-off. She went under the surface, but unburdened by a rope and guns and heavy boots, she bobbed right up to the surface, blinked muddy water from her eyes, and began to swim for the now-limp puppy.
* * *
Jason made his way slowly up one of the ropes, with Chrissy clinging to his neck, and giggling. He was glad somebody was enjoying this.
As he pulled his way toward the bank, which seemed a lot farther off when he was trying to get to it than when he’d swum out to the wagon, the men on the ropes slowly backed their horses, helping him a little.
“Mr. Fury, I don’t see Rags,” came Chrissy’s voice. “Where is he?”
“Let’s worry about Rags later, all right, sugar?” he said, just as he felt his boot touch the bank. He stepped up on its spongy surface, and was suddenly in water that was only hip-deep. Ward whistled his admiration, and Saul and Dr. Morelli both broke out in big grins.
As Jason shifted the little girl into one arm, he wished he could be as happy as they seemed. They might haul that wagon a piece, but sure as anything, the tongue was going to sink in and stick it, and keep it stuck.
* * *
At last, Jenny reached the pup and latched onto him, pulling him toward her. He let out a weak yelp, letting her know he was still alive. His curly coat, usually black, tan, and white, was now a sodden, solid, dirty brown from the water, and his usually hard, muscled body felt like a dishrag.
Still, she clasped him to her and began to stroke, one-armed, for the bank. Progress was slow, and she feared she was far from the wagons by this time. She was tiring, too, and each pull toward the creek’s edge took more and more out of her.
She began to wonder if she’d ever set her feet on the earth again.
One stroke. Another. The bank seemed just as far away.
And then she felt something, something wet, but warm. Rags, licking her cheek. “We’ll make it, boy,” she whispered, and got a mouthful of water for her trouble.
And then she heard a faint whistling sound, and a plop.
And Matt’s voice. “Put it around you, Jenny!”
Suddenly, she realized what he was talking about. His rope floated only a few feet from her. She stroked again, and managed to get her hand on it, then her wrist through the loop. She hung on for all she was worth.
“Got it!” she shouted weakly.
The rope began to pull her toward shore with what seemed like magical swiftness.
“Let go of the damned dog and grab it with both hands!” Matt yelled. “I’m gonna pull your arm off!”
“Just keep going,” Jenny called back, and tightened her grip on the puppy.
Matt said something she couldn’t make out, but he kept pulling. And he was right. By the time she made the bank and was able to stand up, her arm felt as if it had been wrenched from its socket.
“You all right?” Matt asked, once she had walked clear of the water. “You’re naked!”
“I’m fine, thank you, and I am not naked! I have my underwear on.”
He said, “Could’a fooled me.”
She looked down at herself just as the lightning flashed overhead. The water had made the cotton of her underthings clinging and nearly transparent. In shock and shame, she figured that at least he couldn’t look at her if she was behind him.
She shifted the puppy to her bad arm and held the other up to Matt. “Give me a ride back to my clothes, please.”
Matt reached down and hauled her up behind his saddle. “Real shame, if you ask me,” he said, then clucked to his horse.
And despite herself, Jenny felt a strange and not unwelcome tingle zipper its way up her spine.
* * *
Chrissy having been delivered into the hands of Dr. Morelli, Jason took the last rope and prepared himself to go back into the water.
“What are you doing?” Saul asked, over the thunder.
“Gonna dive down and hook up the tongue,” Jason said. The wagon’s tongue was the pole that came off the whiffle bar and extended up, bet
ween the two pairs of horses that pulled the wagon. And it was stuck in the creek’s bed already. They had made no further progress on getting the wagon out.
Ward hopped off his horse. “Lemme go this time, Jason.”
Jason shook his head. “I need you out here, Ward, holding pressure on the wagon.”
“But—”
“Doc, give me your rope, and snug up the other end around your saddle horn.”
Morelli hesitated a moment, but then did as he was told. Jason tossed him one end of the rope, uncoiled several loops to give him sufficient slack, and then waded in.
When he made his way to the wagon’s bench, he took a deep breath before he dove down. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see anything, so he felt his way down to the whiffle, then along the tongue until he found the closest ring to the end.
Quickly, he threaded the rope through it, but ran out of air before he could tie it off.
He broke the surface gasping and sputtering, but before he could dive down again, he heard Saul call out, “Tie it there, Jason! Tie it at the surface!”
At first, he thought Saul was crazy, but then he realized that the end going to the saddle horn was taut. “Right!” he called back, and pulled on the other end of the rope until it, too, was taut. He pulled so hard, in fact, that he felt the wagon’s tongue come free from the creek’s bed.
“Hold that horse still,” he shouted to Saul, and kept on pulling until the end of the tongue broke the water’s surface. Then and only then did he tie it off, at the ring, then turn for shore to the shouts of the men and the giggles of a little girl, who was having the time of her life.
He made it out of the water just as that terrier pup of Chrissy’s came galloping up the side of the creek, barking and yapping and carrying on. He looked like he hadn’t had such a happy time of it, but he was delighted to hear the little girl’s laughter.
“Rags!” she cried gleefully. “Rags! Mr. Fury, you were right!” Morelli let her slide to the ground, and the pup flew into her arms.
“I’ll be danged!” Ward muttered.
“Miracles happen all around us,” said Saul, with a shake of his head.
“All right, everybody,” said Jason as he swung up on Dr. Morelli’s horse. The battering rain was punishing them all. “We don’t have this rig out of the soup yet.”
Chapter 19
The next morning found the men digging again—or at least as much as they could, the water still being high—most of the women washing out muddy clothes, and Carrie English’s belongings all sitting out in the sun to dry.
As for Carrie, she was grateful. Grateful her child had been saved—which she was told was due to Jason Fury in its entirety—grateful her possessions were only damp, not lost forever, and grateful that her daughter’s only companion, a little terrier mix, had survived.
Matt MacDonald had told her she had Jenny Fury to thank for that. He’d said she’d swum right out, brave as you please, caught the floundering dog, and brought it safely to shore.
She wondered if he was sweet on Jenny. Of course, he was the only man, outside of her brother, who was of a suitable age for Jenny. What was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? And she certainly was pretty. She had her brother’s wheat-blond hair and good looks and elegant carriage.
And his good heart, it seemed.
Carrie hoped the creek wouldn’t go down too fast. After all, some of her things were still dripping. Her mother’s breakfront was going to be all right, too, she thought with a sigh of relief. It had been her grandmother’s before that, and had made the trip, by sailing ship, all the way across the ocean from Ireland. A great many hopes and dreams were tied up in that old piece of furniture.
Rags ran past her, followed by Chrissy.
“Mr. Kendall’s coming, Mama,” Chrissy said as she went by.
Instinctively, Carrie’s hand went to her hair, to straighten it.
“All right, baby. Go play,” Carrie said.
* * *
Jenny sneezed again, and snuggled down farther into her quilts. After all, hadn’t Dr. Morelli told her to stay in bed today? He hadn’t said she couldn’t read, though, and Moby Dick was under her pillow.
But somehow, she found she couldn’t concentrate on Captain Ahab and Starbuck or the great white whale this morning. All she could think about was Matthew MacDonald.
She loved him, and she couldn’t tell a soul, although she was bursting to.
There was a knock on the wagon’s tailgate, and then Megan’s head appeared above it. Megan said, “Morning!”
Jenny said, “You’d best keep your distance. Dr. Morelli thinks I’m getting a cold. You know, from last night.”
“We all ought to have one, then,” Megan replied. “I’ve never been so cold and wet in all my born days.”
Jenny couldn’t stand it anymore. And Megan wouldn’t tell, would she? She said, “Megan, I have something to tell you. But you’ve got to promise that you won’t tell a living soul, that you’ll take it to your grave!”
Megan cocked a brow. “Well, that sounds important!”
“It’s the most important thing I’ve ever had to say in my whole live-long life!”
Megan sat down and leaned forward. “Well, I promise then. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Megan, I . . . I’m in love with your brother.” There. It was out.
Megan blinked, but otherwise there was no change in her expression.
A scowl came over Jenny’s face. She had expected quite a bit more than that! “What?” she demanded.
“Jenny, you’re my very best friend, and I love my brother, but . . .”
“But?”
“But I don’t think he’s the kind you ought to fall in love with, that’s all.”
Jenny’s hands twisted her quilt. “And just what kind is that?”
* * *
“Morning, ma’am,” Salmon Kendall said with a tip of his hat.
“Won’t you sit down, Salmon?” Carrie replied, pointing to a barrel set out to dry.
Salmon sat, looking generally nervous, and took off his hat. He passed its brim, over and over again, through his long fingers.
Carrie waited and waited, and finally broke the silence. “And what can I do for you this morning, Salmon?”
“Nothin’,” he said, then quickly added, “Well, quite a bit.”
“Yes?” she urged.
“Well, it’s just that last night, when you . . . you know . . . I got to thinkin’ ’bout . . .” Suddenly, he stood straight up. “I . . . I gotta go.” He slapped his hat back on his head and turned on his heel.
Carrie watched after him. If he wasn’t a man with marriage on his mind, she’d eat her hat. Maybe his, too. But she wondered if it was her he really wanted, or just another woman to take his wife’s place. It was very soon, she realized. Perhaps too soon.
She would wait and see.
* * *
Megan hopped down from the Fury wagon, feeling terrible. She was a traitor to her brother and a traitor to her best friend, all at once. To her brother, because she should have stood up for him instead of talking him down—even though he deserved it—and to Jenny, because her feelings were real and true, and Megan had dashed her tender hopes.
Or at least, she thought she had. Hoped she had. And hoped she hadn’t.
She walked back to her own wagon, then changed her mind before she reached it, altering her path to take her down by the creek. Jason would be there. It did her good just to look at him. Maybe, if she stared at him long enough, she could think what to do.
When she reached the creek, Abigail Krimp had a blanket all laid out, and invited Megan to join her. Megan was grateful for the chance at a dry perch.
Abigail proved a little too chatty, though. Mostly, about Jason.
“Isn’t he just the handsomest thing?” Abigail said, so close to a swoon that Megan was embarrassed for her.
“Who?” she asked, although there could be little doubt about whom Abigail had spoken. She was star
ing straight at Jason.
“Mr. Fury, of course!” Abigail replied, and stifled a giggle.
Megan, disgusted, started to stand up to leave. If anybody had a right to gush over Jason, it was her. Not some Johnny-come-lately floozy, which was what her father called Abigail.
But Abigail grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back down. “You don’t have to go so soon, do you? I think he’s about to take off his shirt.”
* * *
Jason splashed water over his face, then wiped himself as dry as he could with his sweaty shirt. It was past noon, and they weren’t done yet.
The water had receded nearly back to yesterday morning’s levels, which gave him hope, but the men were tired and sore and out of sorts, and weren’t moving as fast as they had the previous day.
Still, he held out hope that they’d finish by mid-afternoon. He wanted to get across this creek today, by God.
Wiping his brow on a bandanna, Saul Cohen came up next to him and momentarily rested his shovel against a rock. “I didn’t think it was supposed to be so hot this early in the season,” he said.
“It’s not,” said Jason. “We just got lucky.”
“We’re lucky with both heat and water,” Saul mused. “It could be worse. There could be more snakes.”
Jason said, “Yeah, I suppose there could.” Just that morning, Rachael had killed a rattler hiding in their temporary woodpile.
Saul helped himself to a dipper of fresh water from the bucket. “How many more?”
Jason cocked a brow. “How many more what?”
“Branches of this river?”
“None.”
Saul pursed his lips. “But other creeks, other rivers?”
“Yes.”
Saul picked up his shovel. “With fords or ferries or bridges already there, one could hope. Just so it shouldn’t be boring.”
Jason lifted his shovel, too. “These treks rarely are, Saul. Boring is what you pray for.”
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