Colorado Hope(10)

He’d tucked three corners over the front stack of crates, knowing the few trunks were mostly watertight. But when he worked to slip the tarp under the last large crate, he lost his footing.

He glanced down and watched the ground whisk his legs out in a torrent that raged beneath his feet. His hands flailed in surprise, finding nothing to grab on to. The road disappeared.

With the force of a tornado, he was pulled into water as thick as porridge. A gasp slipped out of his mouth. From of the corner of his eye, he watched the front end of the wagon slip down out of sight, as if the ground had sucked it in, and then the bench followed, with the wagon almost tilted vertically upright, its back end in the air.

Anger and frustration roiled like another river, inside him, filling him with fury and determination. He would not let this puny river best him.

The roar of water surged around his ears as it dragged him down, and freezing wet waves engulfed him, smacking in erratic abandon at his head as he struggled to stay afloat, his mouth filling with dirt-choked water. With effort, he managed to extricate his arms from his coat sleeves and shrug himself free of its weight. He did not panic.

But his aggravation and annoyance sought to undo him. And his worry for Grace—whom he was leaving behind and who he knew would try to run after him to save him. No, Grace, don’t, he wished he could yell out to her. He knew if she came near the river, she would die. There was no question about it.

But he could not tell her, so he prayed. Please, Lord, don’t let her move an inch. Keep her safe in the storm, in the shelter of your arms. His heart hurt. If only his own arms were now wrapped around the woman he loved.

Somewhere in the distance, as if miles away, he heard a scream. It was Grace’s voice, and as the water yanked and pulled at him, thrusting him into an eddy and down a slipstream that spilled into the Poudre River, he realized he had never heard her scream before. The sound was a keening, mournful cry that rent his heart.

He took short, shallow breaths in the icy water, keeping his chin upraised. He’d tumbled in rivers before—many times. Some more fierce than this one. It took a moment to suss out the pulse of the water—its speed and force and turbulence. Rivers danced and jerked in a rhythm to the rocks and rain and temperament of the land. Thankfully, he knew this stretch of the river ran flat, then eventually widened and joined the South Platte at the confluence just north of Greeley. There would be no jagged rocks or cascading waterfalls. Nothing too dangerous. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

With chattering teeth he rode the undulating waves that tossed and tumbled him, always righting himself, sucking air, going under. He was freezing in the rushing snowmelt. He could no longer feel his extremities as he tried uselessly to paddle toward the northern shore, but it ever eluded him. Fear pounded his temples. What if he couldn’t get out in time to make it back to Grace before nightfall?

He doubled his efforts to reach the shore, but he was tiring quickly. Every time he clawed at the steep bank, a surge of water dragged him back to the center of the current, as if it had a mind to deny him his goal. He kicked hard at an angle against the current, playing with it the way he imagined a fish might as it spawned in desperation upstream, to its mating grounds. He was a salmon yearning for his mate, with only one goal in mind, a singular need pulling him. His arms stung with pain, and every sharp intake of breath was a knife in his chest.

He couldn’t just roll onto his back and ride it out, knowing at some point the river would slow and spit him out like an unwanted fish miles downstream. He’d die of exposure soon if he didn’t scramble out. And every mile the river carried him was a mile he would have to trudge his way back to Grace. He was already too far from her.

But the river had other intentions, and Monty had neither gills nor a strong tail to help him work his way upstream. The water fought him like a formidable foe, and Monty lost miles as he struggled, helpless and weak. He would have to relent and let the river carry him. He had no choice. He berated himself for his foolish decisions, for his bad choices this day. For endangering Grace and their baby.

As he rolled over resignedly onto his back, he gasped. He stared upriver, horrified.

Barreling toward him was another tree, bigger than the one he’d seen earlier. Branches of the massive pine thrust out from a dark rolling trunk as thick as a cow. Sharp, angular branches windmilled through the rapids, churning water as if it were soft butter.

Monty sucked in water. He coughed, spit, flipped over and swam downstream with all his might, to outrun it. But he knew it was to no avail. Within seconds he felt a heavy crash on his back and arms, felt bones snap. He screamed in pain, and reflexively rolled into a ball, hot throbbing engulfing his back. He went under as he saw black spots fill his vision.