Nope. He wasn’t going to give her the chance. Once he hunted down Hamish, paid the measly amount of cash, signed the deed and hired the minister, he’d boot her right off his land. She shivered, as if she heard his thoughts, her arms tightening around her waist to ward off the tepid spring breeze.
“You’re going to catch a cold standing there all day in wet clothes.” He started toward her with the intention of moving her away from the edge of the bank, but stopped himself. No doubt, if he touched her he’d catch the illness that had plagued his father.
“I don’t sicken so easily.”
He imagined not. Just as well. She was none of his concern, even though he wished she would move farther away from the edge. One slip and she’d be back in the water. He hadn’t had the urge to rescue a damsel in a long time, and he’d do well to pay heed to the dinner bells clanging in his head. He couldn’t allow the urge to take root. Wouldn’t. The rain quickened its pace. Turning from her, he headed up the path, away from the strings drawing him back toward her, away from the gleam in her milk-laden, coffee-colored eyes that he couldn’t quite comprehend.
“Why are you looking for Cameron Sims?”
He didn’t need to turn around and see the glare in her eyes, not when fire singed the back of his neck.
“Mr. Murray, I demand you stop, right this minute.”
Demand? Thankful she was definitely not the woman Hamish intended him to marry, he felt the knot of uncertainty that had been balled up in his gut release. She was neither biddable nor undemanding.
“Mr. Murray, I’m warning you.”
He had never been partial to brown eyes, but hers stirred emotions buried deep beneath a thick layer of mistrust, and if he wasn’t careful he’d find himself leg-shackled at the altar with a beautiful lady and a gun pressed against his spine. He flinched at the memory. “To marry her,” he muttered beneath his breath.
“Mr. Murray!”
Before he could shake off the memory, he found his foot lassoed and his body jerked upside down. The bucket and the rifle flew from his hands, hitting the ground. A loud crack split the air.
Her scream punched Duncan in the gut as the smell of gunpowder wafted around him. He twisted his upper body around to search for her. A plethora of green and brown clouded his vision as he fought against his spinning and throbbing head. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, hoping to gain his bearings, but no one object came into focus. “Miss? Miss!”
Nothing. Inhaling a deep breath, he wrapped his free leg around the one caught in the trap and spread his arms out wide until his swinging, upside-down body slowed. Careful not to start the movement all over again, he craned his neck until he spied the spot where she’d been standing.
She was gone.
He muttered beneath his breath as the mound of yellow fabric bobbed downstream and around the bend. The report must have startled her, causing her to lose her footing and fall back into the river. He should have insisted she move away from the edge. He should have pulled her out of the water and held on to her until her feet were on firmer ground.
Why wasn’t she hollering for help?
Unless she couldn’t.
He jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out his penknife. Swinging his body upward, he tried to grab hold of the rope above his foot and ended up renewing the back-and-forth motion. He tried again, and again. The sky, declaring war on his situation, began pouring buckets of rain, stinging his eyes. The rope bit into his ankle. If he were a praying man, he’d ask for a bit of mercy, but he’d discovered long ago that God, mercy and Duncan Murray had nothing to do with each other.
Perhaps the good Lord would listen for the lady. “God, if you’re willing to bend your ear to a black-hearted Murray like me, not for me, for her.” The line attached to his leg jerked him upward, and then dropping, he started swinging again. “That woman needs some h—”
The trap released from its mooring without him even making a jab at the rope. Like a wounded bird falling from the sky, Duncan fell, hitting the ground with a hard thud. His breath rushed out of him and he laid there stunned.
A toothless, gray-bearded Hamish, in an oversize patched coat, hunched over him. Had the old man come to bash him in the head again?
“Ye messed that one up, ye did.” Hamish squinted as he glanced toward the river. “Best go get her, as I ain’t none too good at swimmin’.”
“You have some answering to do, my friend,” Duncan said as he rolled to his feet and ran down the path. He dove into the river, icy water engulfing him. He pushed through the water several paces until the current began to quicken and swirl around his legs, seeking to drag him under the surface. Unless she knew how to swim, it would be impossible for her to navigate the waters with her small stature, especially with yards of sodden fabric weighing her down. He dove beneath the murky water and swam toward the last place he’d seen her yellow dress.
The current thrust him around the bend where the banks of the creek widened near the place he’d crossed with Hamish on his ferry only the day before. Spying a heap of yellow lying on the wooden raft, Duncan cut through the water. He grabbed hold of a corner post to keep from being sent farther downriver. Resting his forehead against the hewn wood, he drew in a few calming breaths, and then he glanced at the lady.
She lay on her back, her hand across her midsection. If it weren’t for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, he’d assume she enjoyed resting on her perch much like the water turtles who gathered on rocks to sunbathe. However, the sun remained hidden far behind the clouds and the heavy rain.
Duncan swiped the water from his eyes and pushed himself onto the anchored ferry. The back of his head pounded with the fierce clang of a hammer hitting a rail tie. Leaning on his elbows, he circled his neck, stretching the tense muscles, trying to relieve the thundering in his skull. However, if he was to be honest with himself, which he made a point to do—after all, if a man couldn’t tell himself the truth, he wasn’t worth a fleck of dust—he hoped to settle the fright right out of his bones. He’d known the woman less than a quarter of an hour, and already she’d torn more emotion out of him than any lady of his acquaintance since he’d left Scotland, ten years ago at the young age of seventeen. She’d made him care about her well-being and play the knight.
He could hear her laughter in his mind before he’d even completed the thought. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d still be standing on the bank, hands on hips, commanding him to halt. Her ability to navigate the creek, in a gown no less, and pull herself to safety, impressed him. He should have listened to her. Then he wouldn’t have dropped the rifle.
“I suppose I owe you an apology.”
The sound of the creek rushing around the bend roared in her silence. The tap of each raindrop smacking the surfaces around him increased in intensity. Her lack of sarcasm unnerved him. An uneasiness pricked the base of his neck.
“Miss?” He glanced over his shoulder and noticed her spectacles no longer rested on the bridge of her nose. He turned more toward her and took note of how her hair had come completely loose from its knot. His thoughts jumbled into a knotted ball of yarn. Before he could halt himself, he reached out to tap her shoulder and found his fingers brushing against her hair. Not one, but all of his fingers became captivated by the drenched ringlets. He could almost imagine spending his days like this, with her lounging on a crude, rickety raft in a muddy creek instead