Ben trotted ahead of me down the chipped and cracked steps of the longest stone stairway in history—probably the oldest one, too. It wound back and forth and followed the steep bank of the creek gorge cut just below Minnehaha Falls. This was a longer walk than I had in mind, though it was nice to see the falls. Old trees clung to the uneven slope; some of them had fallen over and lay rotting. The place was thick with branches and leaves. I thought they were mostly elms and oaks, but you couldn’t prove it by me. They crowded over us, turning things greener and greener the farther down we went. It was like we headed into another world, or maybe another time. Sweet.
The cool, moist air at the bottom smelled kind of musty. The falls were going like mad. They thundered and sent up a cloud of spray. It was pretty amazing.
“Ben, hold up,” I called. He’d crossed over an old stone bridge without a glance at the tons of falling water. I’d only been to the falls once before, on a school field trip, and I didn’t remember what they’d told us. It seemed like a fairyland back then. I called again and figured he couldn’t hear me. So, I ran to catch up. “Ben, what’s the rush?”
“What?” He stopped.
“I was hoping to look around a little.” I caught my breath. “You know, like watch the falls. Enjoy the view.” I was out of shape. I had a brown belt in judo but hadn’t been to the dojo for months, not since Dad died.
“The falls?” He looked up, like the flood of water gushing over a cliff surprised him. “Okay. I’m down here a lot, so I’m used to it.” He waved his hand at the water and said, “There it is—Minnehaha Falls.” He gave me a second to appreciate the view, then turned and headed down the path again.
“Hey, wait! What’s the hurry? I wanted to read the plaque.”
“What for?”
“Flash! To get some information?”
He halted and turned back at me. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, how about the name. Minnehaha? I remember something about an Indian legend.”
“People like to say it’s Indian for ‘laughing water.’ Minnehaha.” He laughed out the last part but didn’t sound amused.
“I get that part.”
“The translation comes from an 1849 book titled Dacotah by Mary Eastman. The ‘ha ha’ part is actually Dakota for ‘waterfall.’ The source is Lake Minnetonka—”
“And ‘minne’ means water,” I said.
He looked a little surprised that I knew that much.
“So the name actually means ‘water waterfalls’?” I said.
“Yeah. I guess so,” he said. “The Dakota had the run of the place until the whites came. The Dakota are Indians.”
“I know!” I snapped.
“Longfellow wrote a romantic poem about all this, but he was never actually here, so I guess you can take it or leave it. It was the first Minnesota state park, but Minneapolis runs it now. Anything else?”
“Jeez, are you always this enthusiastic?”
He heaved a big sigh and looked a little apologetic. “Okay, look. You can stay here and watch the falls. I’m going downstream to check the mussels. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” He went off down the path again.
“Wait, I’ll come with.”
The dirt path wound through tall trees and outcrops of rock beside the creek. Roots crossed a hard-packed path. Lots of people have used it. The roots stuck up like speed bumps. I banged my toes, but Ben picked his way along. The creek splashed over its rocky bed to our left and the tree-covered walls of the gorge rose above us. Twenty minutes earlier we had been walking past bungalows with manicured lawns and trimmed juniper bushes, gardens full of daylilies and plastic yard gnomes. Now, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tarzan swung across the path.
The ravine widened as we went. The ground on either side of the creek became thick with bushes. The place smelled damp and moldy; maybe wild was a better word. There was something eerie in the air, like electricity. I wasn’t sure how to describe it. I caught sight of a shadow moving through the leaves across the creek from us, something big. It snorted. When I stopped, it vanished.
I shouted, but Ben was nearly out of sight. I ran after him. I don’t freak out easily, but this place was working on me. “Ben!”
“What?” Ben’s pace didn’t leave room for talk, or breathing. The walls of the gorge spread out, and I was glad to see more blue sky.
I caught up with him. “I, ah . . . there was a . . . oh, never mind.”
I probably imagined it. Ben wasn’t a patient guy, and the last thing I wanted was for him to think I was seeing things. Through a break in the trees ahead, I glimpsed a longer stone bridge arched over the creek. Beyond it, the creek spread out over a bed of rocks and splashed around a tiny island. The bridge led to a big meadow on the other shore, surrounded by trees.
I stopped dead. The most gorgeous guy I had ever seen strode onto the opposite end of the bridge and stopped halfway, leaning against the low bridge wall. He watched us with a half-smile. His pants were tight leather and his dark-green vest did nothing to hide a beautiful set of tan arms. Leather boots nearly reached his knees. Slim and muscular, I gave him a fifteen on a scale of one to ten. But it was his face that got me—high cheekbones, long curly red hair, full lips, and melt-my-soul pale-blue eyes. I wasn’t talking cute. I was talking throw-me-off-the-bus-I’d-drink-his-bath-water beautiful.
“Good day, Master Preston,” he said with an Irish accent that nearly stopped my heart. “Who would this doe-eyed vision of loveliness be?” He nodded to me.
Oh, my God!
Ben noticed that I’d stopped. With a muttered curse, the first I’d heard him use, he clomped back to me and took my arm. “Don’t pay attention to him,” he said to me.
I fought his grip and whispered, “You must be out of your mind!” I smiled at the stranger, and he bowed to me. “You know him?”
“Yes.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to introduce me,” I hissed, still struggling to slip out of Ben’s grip.
“He can be bad news,” Ben said.
“For bad news, he has a great front page.”
The stranger strode toward us. At the edge of the bridge he stopped and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. Cathal Corkin. At your service.” He bowed again and came up with a killer smile.
Ben started to tell me not to give my name, but it was too late. “Wendy Adair,” I said, and for some reason I tried to curtsy. Seeing him close up, I was not sure what age he was. He might have been fifteen or twenty-five.
“Wendy Adair?” Cathal rubbed his chin in thought. “The fair lass of the ford by the oaks. Wendy, I do believe we share some history. I’m kin to Ryther-u-fin.”
I had no idea what he meant, but I’d share history with him any day.
Ben tugged me off balance to get me walking. “She’s not sharing anything with you. Switch off the glamour, Corky.”
I tried to twist out of Ben’s hold, but he was surprisingly strong. I said, “Let go! Listen, you wanted to ditch me at the falls? I’d be glad to stay right here until you get back.”
He dragged me along and said, “There’s a lot more to Corky than what you see.”
“More! How could there possibly be more? He’s perfect!”
Ben pulled me along for a few more seconds, then stopped and faced me. “Wendy. Listen to yourself. You just met the guy, and you sound like a dorky, love-sick eight-year-old.”
He was right. My thinking was not my own, and I was surprised. I’d never been boy-crazy. I didn’t tell Ben that, but he must have seen me return to normal because he let go of my arm.
“He’s gorgeous,” I said. It was no excuse, but it was all I could think to say.
“I’ve seen him when he’s not so gorgeous,” Ben said, and looked back at the bridge. It was empty. There was no sign of Cathal. Ben didn’t seem surprised and said, “Let’s go.”