Down River. Karen Harper

we knew somebody threw somebody over, but I’ve learned never to hold people’s pasts against them.”

      Christine wondered if she meant her own past. “No, he didn’t talk about her until just before they arrived,” she admitted, wishing Mitch had confided more to her. That was another thing she liked about Ginger—live and let live. But she didn’t like the way the woman was staring at her, still standing in her boat, hands on her hips, head tilted, almost as if she were accusing her of something. Christine had gone through enough of that.

      “What?” she challenged Ginger.

      “There!” Ginger pointed past her. So she wasn’t staring at her after all. “Maybe Mitch didn’t put the red kayak I saw here earlier into the lake. See? Someone shoved a kayak up or down here and to or from where? That ridge path above the lake and river?”

      Christine turned and looked, then had to shade her eyes and stand back a bit to see what Ginger was pointing at. She gasped and scrambled up the bank toward the path with Ginger right behind her.

      They looked at the path, then down it to the other side. Strewn there was the food and cooler Lisa had carried as well as the path of what could well be the kayak sliding down toward the river. A wolverine hunched there, too stubborn to move, bolting down the food, but that wasn’t what upset them.

      “Mitch decided to take her white-water kayaking?” Ginger screeched. “Is he nuts? We gotta make folks search the river!”

      “But this food strewn here.” Christine began, then stopped in midsentence. “Or maybe she just set the cooler down here and that wily wolverine opened it after they took off. But I can’t believe Mitch would do that.”

      The wolverine hustled away as Ginger skidded off the path and looked downriver, shading her eyes with both hands. “No one. Nothing!” she shouted up over the river’s roar, but Christine was already running to tell Spike before the searchers set out on a wild-goose chase.

      “Feel your way with your feet, one slow step at a time,” Mitch told Lisa as they edged into the cleft in the gorge, both facing the rock. “Don’t look down!”

      “I won’t!” she vowed, but she already had. About twelve feet below, she had heard and seen white water surging into the bottom of the cleft, then being sucked back out. She could almost feel it washing over her, like when she was in the river, or in her worst nightmares. But Mitch was just behind, talking to her, urging her on.

      Because she could feel the firm rock under her, she was glad she was barefoot, even though she ached all over, including the soles of her feet. Words from her grandma Colleen’s favorite Psalm came to her: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …

      Mitch had said she should lead the way out because he needed not only to watch where they were going, but watch her. They’d abandoned the kayak. All their other goods were strapped to his back, but he wouldn’t let her carry one thing.

      “You’re doing great,” he said. “We’re making good progress.”

      “I’m shaking. It makes me feel as if the wall is,” she admitted as she tried to find handholds, yet not push away from the rock face so she tipped back. Their yellow brick road out of here was only about two feet wide in places. She knew she had to do this just right, because if he had to make a grab for her, they’d both bounce down into oblivion.

      Finally, finally, the ledge widened, but then it came to nothing.

      “Mitch, dead end.”

      “So I see. But we’re almost out of the gorge. Just stay very still.”

      “I feel like we’ve already climbed Mount McKinley—Denali, you called it.”

      “Don’t talk.”

      He came very close to her, even putting one foot between hers where she was standing with her legs apart for better balance. He pressed her closer to the rock face. It almost felt as if she were sitting on his lap. She could feel his breath on her temple, stirring her hair. Her heartbeat kicked up even more than it had from fear. In the worst of extremities, why did she let this man who had deserted her and hurt her get to her like this?

      “I see a place just a ways down where we can get onto another ledge to make it out,” he said. “I’m going to take this weight off my back and drop our stuff down to the ledge below. Stand very still. I may have to press into you harder.”

      She closed her eyes and held her breath. Why a certain memory came to her then, she wasn’t sure, but she saw—and felt—Mitch standing behind her on his boat, Sea Dancer, to help her handle her fishing pole when a big fish had hit off Key Biscayne in that warm, sparkling water. It had been a very calm day, no waves, no white water, no turbulence. They had just started dating, and she’d thought he was so perfect then. A combination of GQ magazine handsome and Pro Football Today rugged. Whether in a tuxedo or cutoff jeans, the man reeked of masculinity with his dark hair, square jaw and thick eyebrows over deep-set, coffee-colored eyes. His voice, somehow both refined but rough, sent shivers down her spine. Then they’d landed that big fish together and—

      She felt him drop his pack and heard it hit below.

      “How far down?” she asked, not daring to turn to look.

      “Not too bad. I’m going to lie on my stomach, help you down to our stuff, then scoot down to join you. Here, turn carefully and sit on the ledge. You’ll have to look down, just for a sec, so you know what I mean.”

      As he held her, she turned and sat. Pressing her back to the rock, she looked down and gasped. The ledge was at least five feet below and only about four feet wide! Although no water churned beneath them now, their escape route had narrowed so much that if they slipped, they’d be wedged in jagged rocks.

      But looking left, she could see that from the lower level, they could work their way down to the valley that spread out below. And the most glorious sunset stretched across the sky, streaks of pink and orange and fuchsia. In blinding colors, it looked almost neon, like in The Wizard of Oz she’d been somehow thinking about—hallucinating—the part where Dorothy lands in Oz. This was the part where the movie went from being black and white to amazing hues.

      “Lisa, you ready?”

      “I better be. I don’t see we have a choice. And, at least this time, I’m ready to ride off with you into the sunset.”

      The minute that was out of her mouth, she regretted the choice of words, but he only said, “That’s one of the treasures of living in Alaska. This time of year, though you can’t see the aurora borealis clearly, that kind of sunset will last all night.”

      All night. It must be night now, she thought as she somehow found the courage—or sheer desperation—to turn on her stomach and inch her legs and lower torso over the edge while he held on to her. She scraped her thighs, belly, breasts and chin while he slowly dangled her lower. After what seemed an eternity, she stood alone on the ledge, praying silently for his safety, while he scooted closer on his stomach.

      “I said, don’t touch me in case I fall,” he gritted out, but she pressed her hands to the backs of his thighs, then to his hard buttocks as he came over.

      “On second thought,” he said when he finally stood beside her, “that felt great. Maybe you can boost me up there again and—”

      “We’re just hiking and camping buddies, remember.”

      “And we’re going to have the time to talk we’ve needed.”

      “I’d like to say ‘water over the dam,’ but it isn’t, is it? Not with either of us.”

      Pressing his lips tight together, he just shook his head, then bent to pick up their gear again. He slung the makeshift pack over one shoulder. “Let’s find a good place to rest, and we’ll get these shoes taped on you,” he said, sounding all business now, just the way he always had in the office or in court when she used to study how controlled he was, how self-assured.