Mary Connealy (11 page)

“Be careful!” She sounded exasperated. “There isn’t room for anyone else down here.”

Despite his shock, Braden grinned. “You sound okay.” He lay on his stomach and scooted out far enough so that he could look around a scrub cedar and see Amy looking up, her expression disgruntled as if she wondered what took him so long.

Twelve

“What in the world took you so long?” Amy began her cautious ascent, ignoring her shredded hands, dried blood, throbbing skin. She’d been planning to climb up as soon as someone came to find her. After just a couple of months with the Raffertys, she knew to expect them, and she feared facing whoever had pushed her, so she’d waited. Yes, for once she’d waited. She breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for Braden’s presence.

She reached the curve in the rock face and got a firm grasp on the stunted tree. Pulling herself up to use it for a foothold, she stopped. With five feet from her outstretched hand to the top, there wasn’t a handhold in sight. Her stomach twisted as she thought of being stranded on this sheer rock with her battered hands, trying to back up. The places she’d found to hold were little more than half-inch wide ledges in the rough stone and then this tree with its rough bark and piercing needles. Now, instead of the mortal danger she would have faced had she refused to wait, she had Braden.

He reached for her. She reached back. Their hands met in the middle and locked together. The pain of his solid grip on her battered hand told her she was alive and safe. She met his gaze and had no fear of letting go of her last anchor. Braden would hang on. He’d pull her to safety.

It struck her again just as it had earlier. Yes, she loved him. And he was a fine man, worthy of her love. It was she who didn’t measure up. She could work from sun to sun—and that said a lot in an Alaskan June—but she’d never be the genteel lady who’d won his heart. Amy felt sure that the harder she worked, the more she underlined her unfitness for him.

Braden pulled her up, catching her other arm when it came within reach. Once he had her securely, he slid his arm around her waist and tugged, rearing back on his knees as she came over the ledge. They tumbled onto the trail together. Braden jumped to his feet. He stayed close, as if ready to grab her should she fall back over the cliff.

Amy climbed more slowly upright, every joint in her body aching. Braden kept a steady hand on her arm. They looked over the dead drop, then Amy turned away, shaken to think how close she’d come to dying.

“Thank God, you’re all right.” Braden’s heartfelt words brought her head up. His eyes skimmed over her bruised, bleeding face; then he clamped one hard hand on her waist and pulled her into his arms.

“You could have died.” Braden’s head lowered. “I could have lost you.”

Their lips met.

Braden broke the kiss. Amy’s eyes flickered open as Braden stepped away, turning toward the cliff. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and stared into space. Where a moment ago, she’d been warm, now the cool, dry Alaskan air chilled her lips.

Amy knew what would come next. Regret. A list of her inadequacies—a list of Maggie’s virtues. She spoke before he could.

“Do not touch me again.”

Braden’s head rose, and his eyebrows arched. “I–I won’t. I’m sorry.”

Regret. Already. Now here came a list of her inadequacies. She headed him off. “Fine. As long as we are clear.”

Amy crossed her arms. “Now what are we going to do
about this?”

Braden’s eyes dropped to her lips.

“Not that!” Amy snapped.

Braden looked her in the eye, his face flushed.

“What are we going to do about the man who pushed me off that cliff?”

“What?” Braden pushed his battered Stetson back.

“I stayed down there because I feared he might still be here.”

“He?”

“The man who pushed me off the cliff.” Amy looked around. She’d be on her guard now like she should have been all along. She was lucky she had survived to be more careful.

“A man pushed you off the cliff?” Braden looked around.

“Did you think I fell? Do you believe I am a clumsy city woman who trips over her own feet?”

“Uh, yes, I mean, no, not clumsy,” Braden said. “But you’re from the city after all.”

“I am from Alaska. This is my home. I am as sure-footed as a bighorn sheep, and I do
not
trip over the side of a cliff by accident.” Amy clenched her jaw and fists in the same breath and turned away from him. She forced herself to be practical. Looking for tracks, she saw the solid rock underfoot. There’d be no tracks. Even off the trail, the shrubs grew out of tumbled rock.

“How long ago did this happen?” Braden’s sharp, wary voice got her attention.

“I have been on that ledge for at least four hours.”

“Four hours?” His brows slammed together as he studied her scraped face. “How did you hold on so long?”

“What choice did I have?”

He frowned, then looked into the underbrush, going straight to the most obvious hiding place. “No tracks. Whoever did it picked the perfect spot.”

Amy had already learned of Ian’s skill in the wilderness. But Braden also looked comfortable studying the trail, searching for signs left behind by the attacker. She watched him run his hand over the ground as if he could feel the presence of someone from hours ago. Father had tracked like that.

Braden turned to Amy. “What did he look like?”

“I did not see him. I just heard someone run up behind me. Then he pushed.”
And laughed like in Seattle.
She opened her mouth to tell Braden this wasn’t the first attack.

“He? You saw a man?”

“No, I just said I did not see anyone.”

Braden crossed his arms. “Then how do you know a man pushed you?”

“Because. . .because. . .” Amy faltered.

Braden’s eyes narrowed.

“Because I suspect I was pushed by the man who stole my father’s cabin.”

Braden shook his head as if her answer disgusted him. “You’re obsessed with your father’s cabin.”

“My obsession did not push me over that cliff.”

Braden fell silent. Amy didn’t like the look in his eyes.

Braden looked down at her hands and reached for them. “You’re hurt.”

She saw her palms, scraped raw. He turned them over, revealing several bleeding fingernails broken below the quick. Next his eyes focused on her face. “You’re scraped here, too.” He touched her cheek with a callused hand.

The teachers at the mission had warned her to hold herself apart from men, and she always had. Now Braden’s gentle touch only brought pain because she knew he had judged her unworthy. She enjoyed the touch even as she knew she should push him away.

“We need to get you home. Can you walk?” Braden slid one arm around her waist as if he planned to pick her up and carry her.

Hurt by his kindness when she knew it carried no affection, Amy stepped out of his reach. “I have been sitting all afternoon. I am rested as a bear awakened from his winter sleep by the chinook. What about the man who pushed me?” Amy started down the trail.

Braden jogged to catch up with her. “You’re sure you were pushed?”

Amy stopped so suddenly Braden plowed into her back. She stumbled from the impact, and Braden caught her arm to steady her. She shook off his hand. “What do you mean, am I sure?”

Braden’s fair skin turned pink, and he seemed very interested in the rock he kicked under his toe. “It’s just that, well. . .you didn’t really see anybody. Maybe you slipped, or maybe a branch fell out of a tree and hit—”

“What branch?” Amy turned back to the site where she’d fallen. “Would it not be lying there if it fell out of a tree and hit me?”

“Not if it fell over the cliff, too.”

Speechless, Amy stared at Braden until finally the silence brought his head up. Once he looked at her, she asked rigidly, “Do you think I am a liar? You called me such this morning.”

Braden shook his head until the red curls peeking out from under his hat danced. “I didn’t say you lied.”

“Then you think I am stupid.”

“Amy, I. . .” Braden pulled his Stetson off and slid the brim around and around through his fingers.

“Do branches sound like running feet?” She slugged him in the shoulder, and he looked up.

“You never said anything about running feet.”

“I did not know I stood in front of a judge giving testimony. I thought I spoke to a friend who had some. . .” Her voice broke. Shocked at her weakness, she cleared her throat and went on. “Some respect for me.”

“Now, you know I respect you. I saw that smokehouse you built.”

Amy’s eyes narrowed. “And you came running over to help me as if I were some fragile flower about to be crushed under the stones, even though I had obviously already built most of it alone.”

“I just thought it looked like. . .like. . .” He went back to playing with his hat.

“Like hard work?” She slapped the hat out of his hands and only through sheer strength of will kept herself from stomping the crown into the stone path when it hit the ground at her feet. “Is that what you were going to say? You did not think I would want to do any hard work? As if I am lazy?”

“No.” He looked up from his hat, glaring at her. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just hard. It’s not woman’s work. I didn’t mean no offense.”

“You call me a clumsy—”

“I didn’t.”

“Stupid—”

“You’re not stupid.”

“Lazy—”

“You work hard. I never said—”

“Liar.”

“Well, you should have told Ian—”

“Is that about it? Perhaps you would toss me back over the cliff before my inferiority destroys your family.”

“Now, Amy lass, don’t be—”

“Let me tell you something about women’s work, you stampeding
g’oon
hunter.”

“Stampeding what?

Amy might not have said it if she hadn’t been so insulted. “
G’oon.
It means gold. You’re one of the stampeders, are you not? One of the crazy men invading my beautiful Tlingit land for that golden rock.”

“Your Clink It land?” He pronounced the word in a clumsy fashion. “What does that mean?”

“It means while you are calling me clumsy and lazy and stupid and a liar—”

“I did
not
say you were—”

“I am born to this land. I have learned how to find the true wealth in it without tearing out its heart with a pickax. My mother was a Tlingit.”

“A what?”

Amy jammed her fisted hands on her hips and flinched when her scraped palms protested.

Braden caught one of her hands, and she wrenched it away. “One of the native people who lived for centuries in harmony with the snow and darkness before you came with your big steamer ships and soft ways.”

“Soft ways?” Braden scooped up his hat and clapped it on his head. Dust puffed out from the brim.

“And I learned how to live in Alaska from her and my Russian father. Each of them alone is stronger than all you Raffertys put together.”

Braden narrowed his eyes. “Y–your mother was an Eskimo?”

Amy remembered as she saw Braden’s strange expression that her father had warned her people would treat her oddly if she told them of her native and Russian blood. Amy crossed her arms. Well, now came her chance to see how Braden reacted. This was his test, not hers.

“My mother is half Tlingit, I am one quarter. We’re not
Eskimos
. That is a word your people use for all of us because you are too lazy to learn who we are, even while you insist there is a difference between your Irish, your Scots, your English, your Swedes, and your Germans. There are dozens of different groups up here. I am from the Tlingit nation. I know rugged land. I know narrow mountain passages. I know the difference between a falling branch and a running man.”

Braden shook his head. “Then why haven’t you said anything before? I mean, you said you grew up here, but I had no idea your roots went so deep.”

“My name is Amaruq Simonovich. My father is a Russian fur trader, not a man to die easily. Not a man to sell a cabin he does not own. An old friend gave over the lovely spot out of the wind to my father. Papa comes and goes following the fur seasons. He has lived in that cabin for more than twenty years, but it is not his to sell. It is only his to live in.”

“Amaruq? I heard Wily call you that, but I thought I’d just misunderstood. Then Amy—”

“My father wished to have me live as an American in Seattle.”

“You
are
an American,” Braden said indignantly.

“Father feared that I would be treated poorly as both a Tlingit and a Russian. So I abided by his wishes. But I am proud of my heritage, and I know this land. And I never want to speak to you again.”

Amy whirled and charged down the trail. She nearly reached the bottom before Braden caught up with her and grabbed her arm.

“Listen, if you really think a man pushed you off that cliff. . .”

Amy jerked her arm loose and jammed her elbow into Braden’s gut. It was like hitting iron. He had the nerve to smile as he caught hold of her again.

She defiantly tilted her chin.

Speaking as if he were addressing a two-year-old, he said, “If someone pushed you off a cliff, you’d better not go running away on your own.”

“I would rather—”

“If you’re tellin’ the truth. . .” Braden cut her off, his good humor evaporating. “Then stay with me.” His eyes challenged her.

To dash past him back to the cabin would be to admit no danger existed. She thought of those pounding footsteps, and a shiver ran down her spine. She knew Braden felt it because his grip softened. He rubbed the length of her upper arm as if to warm her.