Chapter 5 - Whispers in Savannah
""Daniel, you can't cross that!"" Marcus grabbed my shoulder with a vice-like grip as I approached the flooded bridge. ""The foundation is giving way! If you get swept into that current, the undertow will pin you against the fallen trees downriver!""
""She's over there, Marcus!"" I roared, tearing my arm free. ""She walked across before the water crested! Her car broke down and she walked!""
I didn't wait for his response. I stepped onto the wooden planks.
The icy water immediately surged over my knees, pulling at my trousers with the force of a freight train. The wood beneath my boots groaned, vibrating with the terrifying energy of the river. I gripped the splintered guide rail, moving forward inch by inch, fighting the roaring current that threatened to rip my legs out from under me.
Halfway across, a submerged log slammed into the bridge's support beams. A sharp crack echoed over the thunder, and the center span dropped six inches into the water.
I lost my footing.
The cold swallowed my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. For two horrific seconds, the current swept me downstream, rocks tearing at my clothes and flesh. I lunged desperately into the dark, my fingers catching the thick, twisted roots of an old willow tree anchored to the far bank.
With every ounce of strength left in my bruised body, I hauled myself out of the mud, coughing up brown river water, gasping for air in the freezing rain.
Behind me, the center section of the wooden bridge collapsed with a sickening crash, swept away into the black torrent. I was trapped on this side of the mountain. And I had never felt more grateful.
I scrambled up the muddy embankment on hands and knees, clawing through briars and wet ferns until I reached the clearing.
The cabin was small, built of dark cedar logs with a stone chimney puffing thin, fragrant gray smoke into the wet sky.
I stood on the porch, trembling from adrenaline and hypothermia, my soaked clothes sticking to my skin. Through the small front window, I saw her.
Emily was sitting near a stone hearth wrapped in a heavy wool blanket. She had a mug between her hands, staring into the flames. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, curling slightly from the dampness, and beneath the oversized knit sweater she wore, the soft, distinct curve of her belly was undeniably real.
My hand hovered over the wooden door. For all my wealth and authority, I felt like a beggar standing outside the gates of heaven.
I knocked twice. Softly.
Inside, she froze. She set the mug on the low table, her face draining of color. She didn't look afraid; she looked profoundly, deeply tired. She stood up slowly, her hand resting instinctively over her stomach, and walked toward the door.
When she pulled it open, the warm amber light of the cabin spilled over my face.
She looked at me. Looked at the river mud caked on my cheeks, the torn fabric of my three-thousand-dollar suit, the blood dripping from a scrape on my temple.
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She didn't scream. She didn't drop her gaze.
""You shouldn't have crossed that bridge, Daniel,"" she said, her voice barely louder than the rain tapping on the tin roof. ""I told you not to look for me.""
