Page 10 of A Rugged Beauty
Upstream, the water rushed. Here in this bend, it pooled deeply, but the banks widened just beyond.
There were cuts in the mud, dry summer grass trampled and smaller bushes dismantled. Like someone—or two someones—desperate to escape the river had pulled themselves out of the water as quickly as possible. The large spots of flattened grass might indicate they'd laid there for a long time. Recovering?
He looked upstream where rapids flowed with white foam. The dangerous rocks, the fast-moving water. It’d be easy to get caught on something underwater and drown.
For a moment, his mind pictured a fragment of swirling water choking him, dragging him by the boots.
He blinked and the image was gone. Was it real? Something he'd experienced? Or a figment of his imagination?
If they'd been swept away by the river, it was a miracle they'd survived.
He moved from the river's edge in a slow circuit back to where the campfire had been. Caught sight of two or three broken twigs where the two of them might've brushed against a bush or tree while they'd walked.
There was nothing else. No hoof print. No boot prints that didn't match his or her dainty footprint.
Thirst drove him back to the river, though he kept to the shallows. She sat on a wide, flat rock, worrying one corner of herapron between her fingers while sunshine bathed her head and shoulders.
He squatted and brought water to his mouth in cupped hands. The moment it hit his empty stomach, the water threatened to come right back up. He breathed deeply through his nose and finally, his stomach settled.
He stayed in his squat, eyes on the water, as his disjointed thoughts tumbled. Then he pulled the little book from his pocket and untied it.
He flipped through the pages more slowly this time. Names of places, number of miles. Some notes on the landscape or game animals. At the bottom corner of one page was a sketch of a wild bird. A grouse, his memory supplied.
It was no help. Not unless he could remember what the names meant. Where was he going?
Or maybe this wasn't even his book.
He tied it closed and put it in his pocket. When his fingers brushed against the knife, he pulled it out of his pocket. Turned it over in his hands.
The initials H.T. had been carved into the handle.
"What's that?" she called out.
"Knife. I found it where the slicker was hanging. It's got a set of initials on it."
She wrinkled her nose when he told her what they were.
"It was too much to hope that you'd recognize if they belonged to me," he said.
"Should I call you H?"
He shrugged. "I don't even know whether it's my coat. My knife."
She stayed on her rock, the sparkling water sending rays of light shining off her skin in reflection. "Is there anything we do know?"
He told her his best guess: that they'd been swept downstream, that they'd tried to dry off by the fire and eaten berries at some point.
Her shoulders straightened. "If we were swept downstream, does that mean we could follow the river back... somewhere?"
He straightened and rubbed his forehead beneath his hat.
"The safest thing to do is to stay where we are," he said. "And wait to be found."
She frowned so big he could see it from where he stood.
"That doesn't feel very safe." Her words were barely audible over the babbling water flowing over stones. She pressed one hand against her stomach. Was she having the same hunger pangs he was?
They needed sustenance.
