Nehemiah insisted on praying for their safe journey as Bartholomew and Ariah prepared to take their leave of the Olwells the next morning. The sky had cleared and the day promised to be fair.
Bartholomew bowed his head, but instead of closing his eyes, he studied Ariah's demurely folded hands. Tiny hands, as delicate as the fairyslipper orchids that grew in the woods near the lighthouse.
As the wagon pulled away from the house, he leaned close to Ariah and let the rattle of chains and the rumble of wheels cover his words. "Be thankful we escaped after only one prayer. It's Sunday so the family will spend the entire day listening to Nehemiah read from the Bible and pray over everything from sin to the laying of the hens."
Ariah clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Bartholomew's eyes sparkled as he smiled down at her. He didn't try to analyze his unaccustomed feeling of joy.
That evening, as they pulled back onto the road after eating supper at the inn in Yamhill, the morning stage from Portland barreled past in a cloud of dust. Ariah coughed and fanned her hand in front of her face.
"By the time we get to Fairdale, the passengers on that stage will be at the Mountain House digesting the venison or salt pork and cabbage they get for supper," Bartholomew said when the dust settled.
"How much farther is it?"
"Nine miles. We've already come over fifteen since leaving the Olwells." He sidled her a glance and added, more casually than he felt, "Of course, if you'd taken yesterday's stage from Portland you'd be in Tillamook now, instead of having another forty-five miles to go."
"I'm glad you picked me up instead. The stage looks dreadfully dusty and uncomfortable."
"Are you truly glad?" he asked with an intensity that seemed to sizzle in the air between them. "It should have been Pritchard."
"Perhaps." She smiled with a measure of warmth he felt all the way to his heart, and added, "but it's been a lovely trip, and I've enjoyed your company."
Something tightened in his chest and he quickly glanced away. Her answer had meant too much, and he had desperately wanted to kiss her for her kindness.
Ariah caught the intensity of his expression before he turned away and knew she had pleased him. He was such an emotional man and yet proud. If he were a bird, he would have to be none other than an eagle, the most magnificent of all. But there was still too much sadness in his eyes, and she wished she could wash it away.
After awhile she said, "Mr. Monteer's wire didn't say why you were picking me up instead of him."
He searched her eyes for disappointment but saw only curiosity. "Mostly it was bad timing. The only way a keeper can leave the station for more than a day or so is to arrange ahead of time for a man to fill in for him. I had already arranged for my trip and couldn't cancel. Shipping the birds later would have interfered with mating season. I'm sorry he didn't explain it to you."
Her full lips quirked in a wry, sad sort of smile. "It was all rather sudden."
Too sudden, he wanted to say.
"It doesn't really matter," she said. "I've enjoyed getting to know you, Bartholomew."
The sound of his given name on her lips stroked him like a caress. He swallowed a surge of emotion and busied himself driving the wagon as darkness settled over them.
That night was spent at The Mountain House in Fairdale. By noon the next day it was raining, a gentle mist that seeped beneath their oil slickers. The temperature dropped ten degrees, forcing them to huddle together on the wagon seat, sharing body heat but very few words. From Fairdale the road went straight up, zigzagging across the snowy mountain face to the summit, seventeen miles to the tiny store and inn operated by the Rhude family. When the rain turned to snow Ariah and Bartholomew joined the Rhude children in an impromptu snowball fight before retiring to the rooms allotted them for the night.
Late the next afternoon, as the road plunged down the mountain, along with the South Fork of the Trask River, a battle more turbulent than the storm pelting them with icy rain was taking place in Bartholomew's head.
Two more miles would bring them to the turn-off for John Upham's farm. It would get them out of the weather sooner and off of a rough, muddy road that was rapidly becoming treacherous. The last thing he wanted was to risk Ariah's safety, yet he found himself mentally dragging his heels at the idea of stopping with the Uphams.
What it came down to, if he were honest with himself, was that he simply didn't want to share her. Or to explain one more time why they were traveling together. Tomorrow they would reach Tillamook and the home of the Ketchams where Hester was staying while he was gone. The next day after that would see them home at the lighthouse station. There would be no more time alone with Ariah, something Bartholomew wasn't ready for.
Without warning, the lead horse on the left, slipped and went down on one knee, nearly dragging down the sorrel next to her.
Ariah cried out and clutched her cold hands to her mouth. Bartholomew yanked back on the reins. "Whoa. Easy there, Snowdrop. Get up, girl, come on now."
The mare struggled several minutes before managing to stand firm on all four feet. Bartholomew wrapped the reins around the brake and climbed down. Twenty yards below, the South Fork of the Trask, swollen with snowmelt and rain, roared and tumbled and swirled. One slip and he would plunge to his death.
Ariah held her breath as he slogged through the slick muck, talking to each of the horses and stroking their trembling necks until they were calm enough to continue on. When he went to haul himself back up into the wagon, Ariah reached out to help, as though her puny weight could keep a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle, bone and sinew from falling into the watery abyss below.
Seated in the wagon again, he gazed down at her for a long time, lost in those bottomless forget-me-not eyes, his heart so full he thought it would burst from his chest. She was so close he could feel her quivering with fear and cold within her wraps.
How long had it been since anyone had looked at him with such concern? Not since '78 when his mother died, he supposed. Or was it six years later, the night he buried his father, when Hester crawled into his bed to comfort him? Guilt and a desperate kind of need had driven him to marry her the next day. Ever since, she had berated him for not supplying her with a better life. And punished him with a locked bedroom door. The result was a brooding, cynical man who expected little from life and gave little in return.
Until Ariah entered his life and made him feel again.
Now, staring into her sweet, delicate face, he didn't try to fool himself into thinking that she loved him. It wasn't that simple. Ariah Scott cared about people. Hell, she had more concern for animals than some people did for humans. But that didn't lessen the gratitude he felt for the caring he saw in her eyes at that moment. Instead, he drank it into his soul, like a dry sea sponge in water, and felt a tiny part of himself come back to life, the part all the years of nursing sick parents had drained, the part Hester had nearly killed.
The urge to take Ariah into his arms, to try to absorb her into his starving body, to lay his claim on her and make her his, was so strong he shook with the effort to hold himself still. He couldn't speak. Didn't dare speak. Didn't dare move. Except to give the reins a flick and shout, "Gee-up."
The wagon eased into motion and the world took on a semblance of normalcy until a rear wheel skidded in the slime and began to slip toward the embankment on the riverside. Ariah clasped her hands once more over her mouth and buried her face against his shoulder.
"Steady, steady," Bartholomew crooned to the horses.
The wheel wobbled, and then sank back down into an old rut carved by frequent use. Ariah let out her breath, straightened and dropped her hands to her lap. Gazing down at her, his control once more in place, Bartholomew flashed an encouraging smile.
"We're all right." He laid his big gloved hand over her smaller one and gave it a squeeze. "I've driven this stretch a dozen times in weather like this, and as you can see, I'm still here to tell about it."
She peeked up at him from under the hood of her slicker and bravely returned his smile. He debated whether or not to explain their options and let her choose. The ideal, as far as he was concerned, would be their own camp on the river. Alone. Foul weather precluded that; they had no tent, nothing to give them shelter except the wagon and a gutta percha tarp, which wasn't nearly good enough. The only other option, besides John Upham's place, was Trask House, five miles beyond. The Crenshaws would undoubtedly be curious about his traveling with a young woman, but they'd be too busy taking care of customers to do much prying, so Bartholomew would have Ariah mostly to himself until bedtime anyway. It was more than he'd have at John Upham's.
The question was, how bad was the road ahead? Darkness impeded his view. He couldn't allow his need to be alone with Ariah to place her in danger. Bartholomew glanced at her out the side of his eye, his mouth a hard straight line as he struggled with his conscience. The right thing would be to stop at John's like he'd said he would. The right thing would be to stop thinking of Ariah Scott as his.
Good hell, was that what he was doing?
There was no denying it; his need for her was becoming as great as that for food or breath. He had tried to fight it, but from the moment he first laid eyes on her, his soul had been soaking up her sweetness until he could think of nothing else. She was like an addiction now, worse than morphine to a wounded soldier.
His indecision carried them past Upham's. The road grew steadily worse. The instinct to survive took over his thinking processes, though he spared a moment now and then to curse himself for not getting Ariah to safety when he had the chance.
Two miles past Upham's the wagon rounded another bend and rolled toward an inward curve where memory told him a bridge crossed a rocky ravine. Full dark was upon them and Bartholomew's vision in the driving rain was poor.
Suddenly the lead horses pulled up short. Whinnying in panic, they tried to back into the horses behind them. Cursing under his breath, Bartholomew took firm hold of the reins and strained to see what was frightening them while he brought them under control. He saw nothing of the bridge or the road ahead. The flooding river was roaring so loudly he had to shout into Ariah's ear to be heard.
"Can't see what the problem is. Have to get down and take a look."
Ariah held tightly onto her terror as she watched him set the brake, secure the reins and climb down. He soothed each horse with a pat on the rump as he made his way past. Watching, Ariah prayed that should he slip, he would be able to grab hold of the traces and keep from plummeting into the swirling, raging waters below.
Mud sucked tenaciously at Bartholomew's boots as he worked his way to the lead horses. The wind lifted the hood of his slicker from his head and whistled shrilly in his ears. He swiped rain from his eyes and squinted into the murky darkness, seeing nothing. He dug a match out of his pocket and struck it on a bit of metal on the undercarriage that he hoped was dry. The match flared to life, creating a dim circle of light.
He peered into the rain and swore.
Where the old wooden trestle should have been—mere inches from where he stood—the road ended in a torrent of water and debris that plummeted wildly down a rocky gorge into the river below.
The bridge was gone.