Wanted by Kathi Oram Peterson

Author:Kathi Oram Peterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published: 2013-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The bone-chilling, smothering waters of the Snake overcame Faulkner as he plunged deep into the river. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, and couldn’t hear because his ears quickly filled with water. He didn’t know which direction to go or if he was up or down or right or left. He was in a vast, dark underworld.

Faulkner’s foot collided with a rock, and he suddenly knew he was at the bottom of the riverbed. He pushed himself up, seeking life-giving air. Breaking the surface, he sputtered and gasped. Frantic, he treaded water as he tried to gain his bearings. He’d landed in an eddy of the river, the main current farther out. He dog paddled to shore and grabbed hold of a large, porous rock. It took all of his strength to pull his body out of the river.

He was numb all over, even his wound. The night’s chill air breathed over him, and he shivered uncontrollably. Though Faulkner knew he was lucky to be alive, he was wet and miserable. He could sit there all night and wallow in his misfortune, or he could find a trail out of here.

Forcing his legs to do his bidding, he rose to his feet and faced the hill. The climb to the top was insurmountable covered with brush and looming trees cast in dark shadows. What was hiding there waiting for him? He couldn’t imagine. But he had to try to climb out because he couldn’t very well retrace falling down the waterfall.

As he walked, the numbness shielding his wound faded and his side throbbed. His boots sloshed as he slipped in a rut, knocking him to the ground, jolting his stitches. Needles of pain pricked through his wound. Feeling defeated, Faulkner curled his legs to him and sat in the bushes, listening to the river, the crickets, and the frogs. He tried to peer through the inky darkness to find a trail but couldn’t make one out. Rhett had said the trail had been washed away by the river. There was no way out of there.

His scanned the large rocks and the waterfall. Could he somehow climb through the water and up the rocks? There appeared to be a ledge of some kind. But the water would knock him off. Defeated, with nearly every muscle in his body exhausted, Faulkner was at the end of his rope, hanging on to a very frayed and worn knot. Please, God. I’m grateful I’m not dead, but I need some guidance.

Shivering from the cold, his eyes drew to the sparkling moonlight on the river. If he weren’t freezing and didn’t feel like roadkill, and if he weren’t running from the law and worried about Jo and Rhett, he might find the scene . . . pretty.

An old song came to mind about the moon and a river wider than a mile. Had the writer found himself in a similar circumstance?

Doubtful.

And the song had been about romance. Faulkner’s story was many things, but romantic was not one of them.

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