Forbidden River (The Legionnaires #2.5)(34)

Crack. His hold released and he fell back, taking her with him. Her skull bounced on his shoulder. The noise emptied from her head, like she was back underwater. He twitched and was still. She lurched up and rolled away, the effort like swimming against the current. He lay motionless, legs splayed. Beneath his head, thick blood hobbled through the stones. She pushed onto hands and knees, swaying. He stared at the sky, one eye bloody, the other clear. A deep red puncture hole between his eyes.

Her name. She could hear her name. She could hear the waterfall crashing, hear a dog barking, feel the spray peppering her, but it was all so distant.

Her name. Again. She spun, her butt plonking down on the stones. The world kept turning for a second. Her gaze locked on something on the opposite bank. Someone.

“Cody?” she croaked.

He threw something to the ground—the rifle—strode into the river and dived. He churned across with strong strokes, his head flicking side to side. She pinched her cheeks. Wasn’t that how you checked if you were dreaming? Her skin was so cold it felt like someone else’s fingers on someone else’s cheeks. Maybe she was delirious. Hypothermia could do that. Maybe she was dead. The fall, the washing machine, the knife...maybe she was dead three times over.

The Cody hallucination reached the bank downstream of her and staggered up the stones. He was shirtless, his chest slick, shorts clinging to his thighs. Totally how she’d picture him if she were dreaming, right down to the tattoo. A strap was slung diagonally across his torso, a dry bag on his back.

He bent over Shane and shoved two fingers against his throat, then turned to her. Eyes deep and brown, just as they should be. If this was heaven, she was all for it—but would she have to spend eternity this cold? He stepped over the body, dropped to his knees before her and took her cheeks in his hands, searching her eyes. His palms were so warm. She began to shiver.

“Tia. Oh God, Tia.” Husky, but yep, that was his voice. He pulled her into his arms, pressing her cheek against his chest, their legs in an awkward tangle, his lips on her hair. Her shin throbbed but that was the least of her concerns. How was he so warm after swimming through that ice bucket? There it was—the flaw in this vision.

He drew back, holding her upper arms, and swept a worried gaze down and up. He touched the side of her neck. His fingers came away bloody. She shot her hand to the spot.

“Just a scratch,” he said. He shook his head and swore. She knew what he was thinking. A few more seconds...

“Are you...?” she started.

“I’m okay.”

“But are you...real? Alive? Am I alive?”

His eyes creased in the corners.

“He shot you. I saw.”

“He didn’t shoot me.”

“But... I...” Her bottom teeth hammered her top teeth.

He unrolled the bag. “We gotta get you into dry clothes.”

“You just wanna see my...tits.”

“Damn straight, Cowgirl,” he said, but his smile was forced.

She was in trouble, wasn’t she? She sat like a baby while he stripped her, barely able to lift her arms or hips to help. He rolled on layers of clothes—leggings, socks, his navy top, still smelling deliciously of him, a fleece... As he dressed her, the shivering released its hold and she could almost feel her blood begin to flow again, hot and thick. He shrugged into his own clothes and helped her to a flat rock in the sunshine, out of the breeze, away from Shane. She lay on her side, the stone warming her, her body tingling and buzzing. Life, returning. A second chance. And Cody...

He pulled something from a pocket. The rescue beacon. “Permission to set this off?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He rolled the bag and stashed it under her head, settled in behind and drew her close. Spooning. The sun on her face, his chest against her back, his thighs under hers, his arm slung over her.

“Je ne t’abandonnerai jamais,” he whispered.

“Mmm-hmm.”

As she relaxed, her body ached and stung. But she was alive. He was alive. They were together and it felt so right.

“How did you...?” Her throat closed.

In a low murmur, Cody caught her up. He’d managed to swing the kayak on descent and survive the waterfall. He’d paddled to the beach and built a target for Shane—stuffing the sleeping bag and mat into his spray jacket, helmet and gloves, and fixing it all in place with duct tape and the spraydeck, with the paddle taped across the top. He’d attached the wire to the front of the boat, hid behind a rock and yanked it through the water when Shane arrived on the bridge, to make it look like it was moving on its own momentum.

“With the haze from the waterfall, I figured even the scope wouldn’t give away that it was a dummy. I was climbing up to find you when I heard you on that shelf. And then you fell.” His voice cracked. “I saw the rifle land in the trees and went after it. When I got back you were on the stones, and he was...” He swore.

“You’re alive,” she said.

He laughed, his chest rumbling under her back. “Yep.”

“You’re here.”

“Yep.”

“What happened to ‘Yes, ma’am’?”

“Happy to ‘Yes, ma’am’ you whenever you like.”

“Maybe just sometimes.” His forearm tensed under her hand. Yeah. That sounded like this thing would continue beyond the river. They both knew it wouldn’t.