Just Once (11 page)

She was waiting beside the raft as he took the last stroke and felt the sandy bottom beneath his feet. He stood on the shoreline with his hands on his knees drinking in deep drafts of air. Jemma hurried over to him. When he straightened, he found her standing there staring at him, her blue eyes wide as gold pieces. Her shirt had dried some, but not completely. He fought to ignore it and kept his eyes trained on her face.

“Is the raft loaded?” He barely managed to gasp out the words.

“It is, but I’m afraid I can’t do this.” She had her palms pressed together at her waist as if in prayer.

The damp material clung to her breasts, outlining every lovely facet. He swallowed hard.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to, Jemma. I can’t leave you here and we can’t go on without crossing. The longer we stand here jawin’, the harder it’s gonna be to make yourself do this.”

“I have to pray first.” She fell to her knees in the lapping water at the river’s edge.

He watched her cross herself, press the palms of her hands together, and roll her eyes heavenward. She knelt there for a good three minutes. Hunter glanced at the river. The Texas ponies were hobbled on the opposite shore, but he didn’t like leaving them vulnerable very long.

“Finished?”

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Hunter gazed up at the sky. The wispy clouds that he had noticed earlier seemed to be gathering in on each other. A storm upstream would mean trouble. He looked back down at Jemma kneeling there in the water. “What in the hell are you waiting for?”

“I’m trying to think of a saint who drowned.”

He wished to God he could fathom the way her mind worked.

“All right. Why?”

“I try to direct my prayers to one of the saints who can understand my plight and will intercede on my behalf. Do you understand?”

“Not really. Just get to praying.”

“I will as soon as I can think of one.”

Hunter reached behind his head, gathered the wet hair in his hand, and retied the leather thong that held his queue. As he squeezed the water out of his long hair, he reckoned
he
had to be a saint to put up with this.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to pray to someone who didn’t drown, if that’s what you’re trying to save us from?”

She frowned, giving it serious thought. “A saint who drowned would have more empathy.”

“Why don’t you just go straight to the top and pray to God so we can get out of here?”

She looked at him as if he were a simpleton. “God, Mr. Boone, has a lot to do. That’s why going through an intermediary helps.”

“Ah.”

Her hands were still folded, palms together, fingers pointing to heaven.

“Put in a good word for me.” Tired of waiting, his loins aching even though he couldn’t see her breasts since she had fallen to her knees, Hunter waded farther into the river and stood by the raft to check the lines. Finally, he heard her mumbling behind him. When she was finished, she joined him beside the raft.

“Well?” he asked.

“I couldn’t think of a drowned martyr, so I prayed to Peter, the fisherman, because he was around boats a lot, and then for good measure, I prayed to St. Christopher, who watches over travelers.”

“Could he swim?”

Her perfect brow creased again. “I don’t know.”

While she stood there mulling over his question, he reached out and checked the ropes that anchored the provisions to the center of the raft. Jemma had done a fine job of tying them. The knots were not recognizable, but they were creative and effective.

“Climb aboard,” Hunter said, ready to help her pull herself out of the water and up onto the raft. When she was well situated, he reached around her and began to tie her to the supplies.

“What are you doing?” She squirmed in his arms.

“Tying you to the raft.”

“Do you have to?”

“I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t think I had to.”

“Are you tying yourself to this thing?”

“I can swim. Besides, I’ll be in the water steering the raft across.”

“In the water?”

“Like a rudder.”

Once she was as secure as he could make her, Hunter took off his possibles bag, the horn that held his gunpowder, and his hat and lashed all of them atop the pile. He then took hold of the raft, carefully positioned himself, and shoved it out into the raging current.

Chapter 6

Her heart was pounding so hard in her throat that it threatened to choke her. Jemma clung to the bundles in the center of the raft, too terrified to close her eyes.

Hunter shoved off and instantly the river had them in its grip, whirling them out into the murky depths. The shoreline sped past; the hickories and maples along the banks blurred and merged as the craft raced downstream. She didn’t know how he managed to propel the crude raft toward the opposite shore, but while the current pushed them downstream, they gradually edged toward the northern bank.

Relief washed over her when she spied the ponies, but the raft swept past the grazing animals. Hunter’s head appeared and disappeared as he continued to use his body and strength to guide the raft toward the opposite shore. Jemma wriggled to her knees, prepared to help him land. They were almost there. The rope was cutting into her waist, hampering her movement; she feverishly worked the wet knot.

“We passed the horses!” She pointed as she tried to shout over the roar of water.

Hunter, concentrating on his grueling task, could do little but glance in her direction. Jemma waved and smiled.

“What in the hell are you doing?” he shouted back. They had almost made it to safety. He was head and shoulders above water, straining, shifting his weight and legs. His hair was plastered to his head.

“We’re almost there. I … the rope was cutting into me.” She was about to yell that he needn’t be so bossy, when she saw him glance away and his eyes widen as he shouted, “Hold on!”

Before Jemma could think—let alone act—the raft crashed into a log lodged in a sandbar. The force of the impact sent her flying over the side, over a huge tree branch that looked like a grasping, skeletal hand. Eyes open, all she could see was dappled sunlight streaking through the murky water. As she tumbled headlong through the churning depths, her arms and legs flailed around like a rag doll’s. Her lungs felt as if they were about to burst.

She tried fighting the current that tugged on her oversized clothing and the heavy brogans on her feet. When her head suddenly broke the surface, she barely had time to gasp in a mouthful of air before she was sucked under again. Her lungs burned. Blinding light flashed behind her eyelids. She kept her arms extended, hands in front of her, feeling the water, terrified of crashing into another log or a submerged rock. Images of the countless alligators they had seen farther south intensified her terror.

She was going to die. She was certain of it. Her craving for adventure would be the death of her. Her father would mourn her, never knowing she had perished in a watery grave in unnamed wilderness.

As her death became a certainty, her terror slowly receded, replaced by overwhelming calm. This time she had pushed the saints too far.

She would meet her end with only two regrets: one, that her impulsiveness would cause her father endless grief, and two, that she would die a virgin.

*       *       *

The raft ricocheted off the log in the sandbar and rammed into the shoreline, where it battered into the reeds and lodged on the thick undergrowth.

Hunter dove toward the spot where Jemma had gone under. His every muscle burning from the exertion of guiding the raft, he let the current take him downstream, bobbing up every now and again to fill his lungs with air. He thought he saw Jemma’s golden head of curls a few yards downstream, but she disappeared so quickly he couldn’t be certain.

His mind raced ahead of the current, offering up flashes of hideous premonitions. Jemma fighting the water, soundlessly screaming, calling his name, expecting him to come to her rescue. Jemma lying on the muddy riverbank, her perfect lips purple, her angelic face ashen, lying with sightless blue eyes turned toward the heavens. She had entrusted her life to him and he had let her drown. He should have warned her to sit still, to leave the rope alone. It was all his fault. He had lost her while her kisses of the night before were still warm on his lips.

He let the river carry him a good mile downstream before he realized that if he didn’t make his way to shore quickly, he would end up losing his own life. Exhausted, he finally reached the riverbank and, on hands and knees, pulled himself through the reeds, where he collapsed. His heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst and he would die face down in the mud. Finally, the pounding slowly receded to a dull, aching thud that echoed Jemma’s name.

Hunter forced himself to drag his bone-weary body up out of the water. He rolled over on his back and blinked water out of his eyes. Above him spread a cloudy sky shot through with streaks of sunlight. Finally, when he was able to breathe evenly again, he sat up and shoved his hair off his face. The leather thong that had kept his hair tied back was gone. His hair dripped muddy water on his shoulders. His leather pants were heavy with water, slung low on his hips. He glanced at his feet, relieved to see he had not lost his moccasins.

He looked downstream, hoping beyond hope, aware that the chances of finding Jemma alive were slim. There was no sign of her along the bank, so he began walking upstream again, back to the raft and the horses. She could have washed up on the opposite bank, but before he tried to fight his way across, he would search for her along the way, then load the supplies onto the horses and head back downstream until he found some sign or was forced to abandon all hope.

Cursing fate, he blamed himself. Jemma was so vibrant, so full of life. For the entire trek, she had done just what he had asked of her, and admittedly he had pushed her hard. She had met every challenge with courage and few complaints. He should have taken better care of her, should have warned her not to budge during the crossing. All his life he had been responsible for his family, his mother, his brother; later, Hannah and the children, then Lucy. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

As he started plodding through the mud along the riverbank, each step he took echoed the heaviness and guilt squeezing his heart.

On hands and knees, Jemma hung her head, heaving and retching until the watery contents of her stomach stained the ground. She gulped down a sob and tried to stand, but her arms and legs had minds of their own. As she sat there violently trembling on the riverbank, it took her a while to realize she had truly survived. She was safely on land and the nightmare—of the muddy water swirling before her eyes, of her fight for air, of praying for a foothold or a chance to break the surface of the water—the struggle was all behind her.

She had lost a shoe and a stocking, but somehow she was safe. She crossed herself and offered up a prayer to both St. Christopher and St. Peter. One of them surely must have helped her reach the shore when she had not an ounce of strength left. She watched the water surge by, and as she gathered strength she speculated on what might have happened to Hunter. If he had been thrown from the raft when she was, he might very well be injured or even dead. The thought chilled her to the bone.

Jemma rested her arms on her knees and buried her face in the crook of her elbow. Hunter Boone was too much a part of this frontier wilderness to meet his end in such a colorless, tragic way. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t.

But if the worst had happened and he was gone, then she was on her own, without food, shelter, or transportation. Without a guide, she couldn’t go on without getting further mired in the wilderness.

She was a fool, she quickly decided. She had acted impulsively, intent only upon having a grand adventure without thinking of the consequences. She had almost lost her life and had perhaps caused Hunter to lose his. No story her grandfather ever told came anywhere near the soul-shattering reality she had faced fighting the river’s depths.

Adventure was definitely not all it was touted to be.

Even if he was furious with her, she would give anything to see Hunter right now, even if he cursed the day he laid eyes on her. He simply
couldn’t
be dead. Glancing around, trying to get her bearings, she realized she needed to get up and moving or she might miss him.

She reached down and pulled off her remaining shoe and sock and tossed the hateful things aside, thankful to be rid of them. The stocking hit the water and floated downriver. Although she was still shaking like a leaf, her legs held when she tried to stand. She ran a hand through her soaking-wet hair and her palm came away bloody. She stared at the blood, shivered, and then quickly swiped it on her wet trousers. She ignored the cut, afraid that if she stayed there hidden by the rushes much longer, she might miss Hunter. There were miles of riverfront to search.

If she didn’t find him—

She wouldn’t let herself think of that. Not now. Not when the reality of being stranded alone without supplies or any means of protecting herself was too horrifying to face.

Jemma turned and started up the bank. Her foot slipped on the muddy incline and she nearly sprawled facedown, but caught herself in time. She struggled up again and continued to climb the steep bank until she could pull herself over the top. When she did, she straightened and immediately felt light-headed. She closed her eyes, weaving on her feet.

When she opened them again, her vision was still blurred, but she could make out someone walking toward her.

“Hunter!” She thanked all the angels and the saints. Too dizzy to move, she waited for her vision to clear until at last she recognized the man who had nearly reached her side.

“Oh, no. Not you.” Jemma groaned and fainted dead away.

She was gone. St. Theresa of Algiers had disappeared without a trace, swallowed up by the Homochitto River. Exhausted enough to fall out of the saddle, Hunter refused to stop searching the riverbank until dusk. There would be time enough then to rest his weary body—dark, empty hours that would stretch unmercifully, hours filled with the horrible memory of those last few moments of Jemma’s life.

Whoever she really was, wherever she was from, her secrets had been swept away with her. There might be someone who cared for her, someone who would shed a tear over her passing, but he had no idea how to contact them. Hell, he didn’t even know her last name.

She was just Jemma. His St. Theresa of Algiers.

Hunter blinked and turned his face up into the gently falling rain. Ridiculous, mourning a girl who didn’t know the truth from a gold piece, a girl with a head full of crazy notions and the world’s best imagination. A week ago he had not known of her existence. Now, all he wanted was to see her dimpled smile again, to watch her hair glisten in the sunlight, to hear the sound of her voice.

Aching, discouraged, Hunter dismounted. The mucky soil squished beneath his moccasins. The ponies stood un-moving in the rain, their heads down, expressions blank. He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm and then stretched. The muscles along his shoulders were becoming increasingly stiff and sore from poling the raft across the river.

He took up the lead pony’s reins and started off again when an odd-shaped black rock near the water’s edge caught his eye. He blinked and then stared at the dark brown lump.

It was Jemma’s shoe.

He slipped down the bank, slid the last few feet on his rear end and grabbed up the brogan. It was sopping wet, the toe curled up and the heel worn more on one side than the other. Definitely the shoe he had bought at the levee. The leather was cold against his skin.

Cold and empty.

As Hunter held Jemma’s shoe, cradling it against him, he refused to believe he had seen the last of her. If her shoe had washed up, why hadn’t she? He wished he had listened more closely when she told him about the legion of saints she prayed to. At this point, he was willing to try anything.

The water lapped gently against his feet. He looked down, hoping for a sign, another shoe, anything. A cluster of broken reeds drew his attention. His gaze scanned the riverbank to the right. Rain had gathered in a group of muddy depressions not far away. He leaned closer, confirming the fact that he was looking at footprints. Small, barefooted footprints.

He slapped the shoe against his palm and stifled a joyous shout, fearing he’d spook the horses. Jemma was on dry land. She was alive.

Perhaps she was stumbling around alone and disoriented, but at least she was alive. Determined to track her down, he knew that she was exhausted, maybe even in shock. She wouldn’t get far. Hunter bent close and traced her footprint with his fingertips. He climbed the riverbank and stopped dead still at the top. The small prints were intermingled with another, larger set made by someone wearing moccasins. His heart missed a beat. She wasn’t alone anymore. The tracks led away from the river toward the piney wood with its maze of Indian and buffalo trails.

Hunter hurried over to the horses, loaded and primed his rifle, and hung it over the lead horse’s saddle horn. He strapped his hunting knife to his side and made sure his shot bag was fastened to the belt at his waist. He was ready.

Picking up the reins he stayed on foot, running ahead of the ponies. Head down, he followed Jemma’s footprints, searching the trampled, wet ground for signs of her.

“St. Genevieve, you’re the only one I haven’t called on lately. If you’re watching, help me. Please.” Jemma hastily crossed herself as Many Feathers, in all his toothless glory, shook his fist to make some point or another before he shoved her inside his crude dwelling.

Jemma squinted and looked around the dark interior. The place was nothing more than a hovel made of stakes shoved into the ground, plastered with mud inside and out—giving it a dank, musty smell that mingled with the smoke from a fire burning low in the middle of the single room.

“And St. Genevieve, please hurry.” It wasn’t often that she invoked the patron saint of disasters who had saved the Parisians from Attila and the Huns, but she was desperate. Being locked in an Indian hut in the middle of no place left little room for hesitation.

As her eyes became adjusted to the gloom, Jemma noticed a low platform of oak saplings covered with woven cane mats and skins. Obviously the old man’s bed, it looked big enough for four. She shivered involuntarily.