An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(18)

It was not the wind, nor the distant roar of a stag. It was a human cry, one filled with fear.

He hesitated only a moment, then cupped his hands around his mouth, filled his lungs, and shouted.

“Dalla!”

He waited, holding its breath as his voice echoed through the trees off to the right and bounced off the rocky outcroppings to the north, then floated down the small, narrow valley into the distance. Nothing.

Then, dimly, to the east, he heard the cry again. He headed in that direction, resisting the urge to break into a run or hurry his steps. He had no doubt she was not far, maybe a few hundred yards at the most.

He walked twenty paces, then paused to call out again.

Her answering shouts sounded closer. He slightly adjusted his direction and carefully proceeded. The landscape was dotted with boulders; some small and about the size of a human head, others jutting upward, casting weird shadows into the mire. Finally, he broke into a small clearing, standing in the shadow of a large, shoulder-high rock. There, maybe twenty yards away, he saw her, struggling in a bog, sunken down to her chest, arms outstretched and trying to reach for shrubs and clumps of grass at the edges.

“Stop!” He ordered. “Stop moving!”

In her panic, she gazed at him, shaking her head, still struggling, as if trying to wade through the thick, cloying, slippery mud in her effort to reach the side of the bog she had fallen into.

“I said stop, you're making it worse!” he repeated, his tone harsh. “Listen to me, Dalla, or you're going to sink down even further!”

Her wide eyes latched onto him, her mouth open in panic.

He spoke again, softening the tone of his voice to keep her calm. “Now, don't make any sudden moves, but very slowly, lean back, like you're trying to float on the surface.”

She stared at him a moment and then shook her head. “I can't—”

“Do it!” he hissed. “Slowly now,” he said, stepping closer, carefully placing his feet as he did so. “Very, very slowly.”

She gave a brief nod, saw swallowed hard, keeping her arms raised slightly above her head, then stopped struggling and leaned her shoulders back, very slowly, as he had directed, her shoulders and head ever so slowly angling toward the surface of the bog.

He knew it was going against every instinct she had to not struggle, to trust him, to lean back rather than continue striving to reach for a clump of grass or anything to pull her out.

He'd fallen into one of these once, many years ago, when he and his brother had first ventured into these northern highlands. He knew what to do. He slowly swung the saddle bag from over his shoulder and placed it on the ground. He reached inside for the short piece of rope. He often used it to tie his gelding to a tree or as a hobble, depending on his needs. It was a bit shorter than his own height, but perhaps it would do.

He wrapped one end of the rope around his hand, his grip tight as he slowly made his way around the lip of the bog, again carefully placing and testing one footfall after the other, testing his weight and surface below.

He made his way around the rim of the bog, now facing her back, her head and shoulders slightly perpendicular to the surface.

“Dalla, I want you to reach very slowly over your head with your left hand. Slowly now.”

Ever so slowly, she obeyed, lifting her left arm over her head, turning slightly to look at him.

“Don't try to look at me. Don't move anything but your arm. Keep your movements very slow.”

She followed his instructions as he uncoiled the rope, gauging the distance between his position and her outstretched hand.

“I'm going to throw you the end of a rope. Don't reach for it. Don't lunge for it. Don't try to grab for it. I'm going to try and make it land between your head and your shoulder, draping over your chest. Do you understand?”

“Y—yes,” she replied.

“Remember. Don't grab for the rope if it doesn't land between your head and your outstretched arm. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she choked out.

He gave the rope a gentle toss, but his first throw was a bit off. The end of the rope hit her head.

She cried out, jolted.

He warned her again. “Try not to move. It may take a few tries, but I'm going to get you out of there.”

She said nothing.

He tried once more, tugging the rope back toward him, coiling it loosely again, and then made another toss. This time the rope bounced against the back of her left shoulder.

He shook his head. He had to try to get a little bit closer. Even a few inches would help. He crouched down onto his knees, looked for a solid chunk of earth that he could brace his left hand on, bearing the weight of his upper torso, giving him the few inches forward he needed. After testing several unsuitable spots, he finally found one. His knees planted, his left hand bracing his upper body, he tried again.

This time, the few inches he had gained proved beneficial. About six inches of rope landed between her head and her upraised arm, draping over her chest. He heard her catch her breath, a half sigh of relief escaping her throat.

“Very slowly, Dalla. Very slowly, reach for the end of the rope with your left hand, grab onto it, and then do the same with your right hand.”

Her garbled cries echoed loudly now. The clouds continued to clear. Even as she reached for the rope, ever so slowly as he had instructed, he saw her torso dip another inch or two deeper into the bog. She began to panic.