“Yes.”

  Her face blanched. “I heard him in the woods,” she said slowly. “He’s way faster than me. Maybe I could find a spot behind the ridge. And you could hide my trail when you leave—”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  Her gaze held his, her eyes sad but resolute. “It might be the best option for us though. If we separate, you can move quicker.”

  “I’m not leaving you. We’re making good time.”

  “Am I moving fast enough though?”

  “Sure, you are.” He reached down and filled the water bottle, not meeting her eyes.

  “Then why did you put all those energy bars in my little pack, and why do you keep filling the water bottle even when we’re walking beside the river?”

  She was way too observant and he wanted to comfort her, wanted to sweep the fear from her face and let her stick her feet in the damn water. But time was ticking. And his senses were tingling as if Dwight were closing in. “It’s just in case,” he said.

  “In case you leave me?”

  “In case you have to leave,” he said gruffly, hating the thought. “If Dwight comes, you’ll have your little pack and I want you to run and hide.”

  “I will not! I’ll stay and help you fight Dwight.”

  “Keep your voice down,” he said. “And unless you can flap your arms and fly across the river, you have to do what I say.”

  He probably shouldn’t have phrased it like that, but she was tough enough to take it. Besides, she wasn’t listening anyway. Her head was up, staring across the river. “I think maybe we can cross it,” she said slowly.

  He followed her gaze, aghast. The river was a careening rush of water, jetting over black rocks and swirling whirlpools. “No way,” he said. “We’d have to be crazy.”

  “That’s just it. Dwight won’t follow. He’s not that desperate.”

  “I’m not either.”

  “But we have your lariat.” She rose, her eyes shining with hope. “It won’t even be that difficult. All you have to do is rope a boulder on the other side. You can do that in your sleep.”

  She had more faith in him than he did. He dragged his gaze off her hopeful face and studied the opposite bank. There were several good-sized boulders, the most suitable sat several feet in the water. But it was still a considerable distance.

  “Doubt my rope would reach that far,” he said. “Even if does, if we lose our grip we’ll drown. And the force of that water is going to make it hard, especially with your shoulder.”

  “We’ll cross together.” She hurried to his side and gave his arm an encouraging squeeze. “Then we can wave at Dwight from the other side.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, still studying the distance. He’d have to wade out as far as he could, but if he could find an extra ten feet, his loop might reach the rock. And Allie was an excellent swimmer. He’d peeked in more than once when she was conducting water aerobics.

  He was concerned about holding the rope in the middle of that powerful rush of water. But there were several rocks midstream so maybe they could take breathers behind them where the force of the water was divided. If he could keep his feet—and keep his hold on Allie and the rope—they might make it.

  “You’re right.” He scooped up his lariat, boosted by her optimism. “We’ll take your little daypack. Leave the rest of our stuff here. You repack our supplies and hide the saddlebags while I snag a rock.”

  He strode knee deep into the cold water, already shaking out his lariat. Then he paused and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Good job, Allie,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Allie stuffed Carter’s saddlebags beneath the roots of an upturned tree, still warmed by his compliment. He was stingy with his praise but when he gave it, it meant a lot. She made an extra effort to hide her tracks. She didn’t want Dwight rooting through them, didn’t want to leave that slimy murderer anything of value.

  By the time she returned to the riverbank, Carter was waist deep in the river, trying to lasso the boulder. His back was to her, his concentration obvious. He stood wide-legged, fighting the water buffeting his body. He threw his rope with accuracy but it splashed in the water, several feet short of his target.

  She tugged at her lip. Perhaps she’d misjudged the force of the river. Carter had been right. He was struggling just to keep his feet, and his lariat was too short. On his last throw, his loop was too small to circle the rock but if he made it any bigger, it wouldn’t reach far enough. And he needed to concentrate, not battle the rushing water.

  She waded into the water, sucking in her breath at the shocking cold. It soaked her boots and jeans, chilling her to the core. And he’d had been standing in it for at least ten minutes, fighting to keep his balance while making a difficult throw.

  It was a struggle for her to move in the current, but she finally reached his side. She shifted behind him, wrapped her arms around his lean hips and braced her legs.

  “Try now,” she said, raising her voice over the thunder of the river.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, giving her hand a quick squeeze. “Can you walk out a little further? I need a couple more feet.”

  “S-sure.” Already her teeth were chattering, and the frigid water was incredibly powerful. She wasn’t sure if she was anchoring him, or if he was the pillar, but somehow they inched along the rock-strewn bottom until the raging water pounded at her chest. She closed her eyes, not daring to look as he gathered himself for another attempt.

  She felt his arm move. Then heard his shout of exultation.

  “We did it.” He raised his arm in triumph as he tightened his loop around the boulder, the end of the rope wrapped securely in his other hand. “Go grab the little pack. Then we’ll cross.”

  Nodding, she eased toward the shore, barely able to feel her frozen legs. She planted each foot, taking wary steps, feeling for rocks, aware the slightest stumble would result in the current sweeping her away. But now they had a rope. And with Carter holding her, she knew they could cross. Soon they’d be safe.

  She was still waist deep when she caught a blur of movement. Someone was sprinting along the shore, bolting over the rock like a charging bull. It took a scrambled moment to comprehend that it was Dwight. It took several more seconds for her frozen legs to turn and stagger back to Carter.

  “He’s here!” she called. But in her panic her foot slammed into a rock, leaving her staggering. The angry current instantly grabbed her legs and yanked her sideways. Icy water filled her throat, drowning her warning. Somehow Carter snagged her arm.

  Then she was in front of him, his left arm locked around her waist while his right hand clung to the rope. He edged further into the current. She tried to keep her feet moving, tried to keep her balance, but water jetted against her chest and soon only the tips of her toes scraped the bottom.

  How close was Dwight now? Twenty feet? Fifteen?

  Her boot hit a rock, then another, and the next second she could no longer touch bottom. She grabbed a breath of air and went under. She popped her head up and sucked in another frantic breath, trying not to fight the water or Carter’s hold. It would be easier for him if she didn’t wiggle. Despite her pool training, it was hard not to panic, even harder not to twist and check for Dwight.

  But they were mid-river now. Surely he couldn’t follow. He didn’t have a lariat, only a hatchet. And then Carter’s arm slipped from her waist and the current seized her, dragging her beneath the surface.

  She blindly reached out and clung to his belt as her feet were yanked downstream, her body buffeted like flotsam. It took all her strength to hang on. Carter must have needed both hands to hold on to the rope. His body was taut and she could sense the effort he was making simply to stay erect. He was working with the current though, moving sideways, edging closer to the opposite shore.

  The rushing water slammed her leg into a jagged rock and her lungs were bursting. She fought to raise her head above the water again, to grab another life-saving breath. She desperately needed air, could no longer feel pain in her legs or shoulder, only a terrible ache in her lungs. She could feel Carter wrapping something around her waist, then the press of the rope against her palms.

  Seconds later, the current seized her. She kicked in panic even as her hands closed around the rope and she was able to raise her head above the water for a precious second. Her right knee slammed into a rock, then another. She rolled onto her back, keeping her boots pointed downstream, trying to maintain her grip on the rope. She lost it once, regaining her hold only because Carter had wrapped the rope around her waist. It felt as if she was stuck in a blender of churning water, helpless to do anything but grab breaths of air whenever the water tossed her to the surface.

  Endless minutes later, the river spit her out, and she was bobbing in a shallow eddy. On the other side.

  She stumbled to her feet, gasping for breath and glancing around for Carter. But there was no one in the river, only a sodden cowboy hat bobbing downstream. And Dwight silently watching from the other side.

  She stumbled along the shoreline, desperately searching. Carter should have kept hold of the rope, not wrapped it around her. He must have thought she needed it more. But he’d be all right. He was stronger, taller; he probably came out further upstream, closer to the big boulder.

  She couldn’t spot him anywhere on the shore, or in the river. Now even his hat was gone. And a different kind of chill gripped her. Spots blackened her vision and her breath came in panicky gasps.

  She glanced wildly around, checking both sides. Dwight was staring at something in the water, his expression intent. She followed his gaze then gasped in horror. Carter was still mid-river, clinging to a toothed rock. Water spilled over his back, staining with red as it swept around the hatchet jutting from his shoulder.

  She charged into the water, already to her waist before she heard Carter’s voice. “Stop, Allie. Stay there. It’s too strong.”

  He was right, of course. She had barely made it across, even with the rope. But she couldn’t just stand there, watching, until he lost all his strength and was swept away. Now she understood why he’d pulled her in front of him. Why he’d wrapped the rope around her. That bastard Dwight had thrown the hatchet. She had felt when Carter flinched but hadn’t understood why.

  She glanced around, searching for something. A branch maybe? But he was at least twenty feet out, an impossible chasm. And he had no rope.

  But she did.

  “Hang on,” she called even as she twisted and raced to the boulder. The loop had tightened around the base of the rock and her hands were cold and clumsy. But she managed to loosen the rope, pulling it back and recoiling as she stumbled back into the water.

  “Hang on,” she repeated, knee deep now. His eyes held hers and she caught a flash of rueful amusement. He didn’t think she could throw the rope. Maybe he was right. She’d only successfully roped a trash can and this was much further.

  But she remembered his voice and all the elements of his lesson: Twirl with your wrist, extend your hand, aim and follow through. So she ignored the rushing water, ignored Dwight’s taunts from the opposite bank, even ignored Carter who was imploring her to return to shore.

  Three, four, five revolutions. She added a few extra swings because the wind was blowing and she was so damn scared of missing. Wasn’t sure if she’d have the strength to try again. Then she extended her arm, taking a step forward for momentum, and let the rope fly.

  It shot out straight and true. She saw the surprise in Carter’s face, then he gambled and let go of the rock, grabbing the rope and pulling it over the shoulder of his good arm. A moment later, he was shooting down the river and she was sprinting toward the closest tree, knowing she had mere seconds before the lariat was ripped from her hands. She managed to loop it around the tree trunk before the rope tightened and she dared to look downstream.

  Carter was underwater, then up. His head disappeared, but the rope was angling him toward shore. She dug her heels into the dirt, bracing herself against the rope, and let the powerful current do the rest. She didn’t want to think about his shoulder, or the protruding hatchet, or the pain it was causing. She just wanted him safe on this side, with her.

  And then he was staggering from the water, thirty-five feet downriver, the exact distance of his trusty lariat. Hooting in triumph, she dropped the rope and ran toward him, even as she thrust her middle finger in the air at Dwight.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Allie’s triumph was short-lived. She dropped to her knees, gripping Carter’s hand and staring in horror at his shoulder. The hatchet was gone, ripped out by either water or rock, but the wound it had left was ugly. And Carter wasn’t saying anything, just staring at her with the oddest expression.

  “Let’s find a good place to sit,” she said. “And I’ll use a piece of my shirt to bandage your...cut.” Although calling it a cut was definitely a euphemism.

  “I never thought you could make that throw,” he said, his eyes still locked on her face. “How’d you do it?”

  “Practiced after your first lesson,” she said, ripping at the wet hem of her shirt. “With a trash can.”

  “I wish all my students were that keen,” he said. “Dwight sure made a mistake tangling with you.”

  The sincerity in his voice was moving but she had no time to appreciate the compliment. His wound was raw and bloody, and already flies were circling. Carter though, seemed totally calm. He sat down on the ground and stared across the river, smiling as Dwight scurried back along the shoreline, retracing his path.

  “Looks like he’s finally giving up,” Carter said. “Probably going to skip the country.”

  Allie barely glanced up, too busy struggling to rip a usable piece off her shirt. “He’s on foot,” she murmured, “so I guess he couldn’t catch his horses.” Smart animals.

  She finally succeeded in tearing a strip of cotton from the bottom of her shirt. Unfortunately, the thin band wouldn’t reach all the way around Carter’s shoulder. It barely covered the wound. “How far away is the bridge?” she asked, rocking back on her heels in frustration.

  “About six miles. But it’s impossible to reach from this side. Too many chasms. We’ll have to wait for rafters, or riders on the opposite bank. How bad is it?” He peered around, trying to inspect his wound but that only caused blood to saturate the cotton.

  “Don’t move,” she said, wishing they had their supplies. On the other hand, even if she’d had time to grab the little pack, it would have been ripped off her back. The water had been too powerful.

  “Maybe hikers will walk by,” she said hopefully. “Or maybe Monty will come back.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes,” Carter said. “Why don’t you just cover that cut up, sit down by me and relax.”

  She stared helplessly at the gaping wound. Rest, ice, compression, elevation: None of her usual first aid would work. The cotton bandage was already soaked and moving his shoulder only made it worse. He might think they could relax, but he was uncommonly pale and the slick sheen on his forehead wasn’t entirely from river water.

  She tugged at her lower lip, fighting her panic.

  “Don’t worry, Allie,” he said. “It’s impossible for Dwight to cross. You’re safe now.”

  The satisfaction in his voice made the back of her eyes prick. He couldn’t see the jagged flesh on his back. And they had no antibiotics or bandages. Nothing except what they’d worn into the river...which included the horse bandages on her feet.

  She yanked off her boots and unwound her foot wraps. They were wrinkled and soggy but they’d be long enough to bind his shoulder.

  “Sit up,” she said, undoing more of his buttons and lowering his shirt further off his shoulder.

  “If you use those bandages,” he said, “you’ll hurt your feet more. Can’t you tie my shirt over my shoulder?”

  His shirt was already drenched with blood but she just made an agreeable sound. “This will work better,” she said. “In case we’re here for the rest of the day.”

  He didn’t argue so perhaps he knew his injury was worse than she made out. His pain must be excruciating. They both knew help wouldn’t arrive until after the race had ended. Worse, the river probably wouldn’t be the first place they searched.

  Carter winced when she began wrapping but then didn’t move again. It was awkward trying to keep the fabric snug, but she soon figured it out. And though it wouldn’t win any awards, the bandage was tight and fly-proof and it made her feel like she’d done a little first aid, however rudimentary.

  She rocked back on her heels, surveying her handiwork. “It’s best to stay in a sitting position,” she said. “Keep it elevated. I’ll wash your shirt in the river before you put it back on. That will help keep the flies away. And I’ll use the torn strip to tie on a stick. Kate said to always put out a marker when you’re hurt, especially because rafters are going fast and might not notice unless it’s really obvious.”

  She tried to keep his attention off their predicament, chattering about a range of subjects, from her appreciation of his delicious trail bars to how she’d never ever been to a rodeo, even as she washed his shirt and laid it on a rock. The afternoon sun was drying their clothes so they should be comfortable enough during the cooler night. At least she would. Carter’s wound was deep and he must be in considerable pain. And the thought of infection was terrifying.

  Right now, he seemed fine, listening to her talk with a half-smile on his face. When she couldn’t see his back, it was easy to admire his chiseled chest. And pretend he was healthy.

  “Sit down and relax, sweetheart,” he said, raising his good arm in invitation. “You’re running on adrenaline.”

  She hurried over and burrowed into his side, desperately telling herself he’d be all right. He was acting so normal and he was in super shape.

  “You were right about Dwight,” Carter said, “and his axe throwing abilities. I should have anticipated he’d throw the hatchet.”