The Middle of Somewhere(72)

Perhaps that was why she had confessed, and would confess again. Not because she held out hope for forgiveness—it wasn’t in her even if it was in Dante—but because there would always be morning. When she had told Dante everything, their relationship would die. The sadness of the fact sat heavy and full in her heart. But the unfathomable emerald lakes and the towering mountains that cared nothing for the heavens into which they reached, proved the next day would be a new one and she would begin again. Even if it was alone.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





By noon they’d covered ten miles and dropped thirty-five hundred feet in elevation. Woods Creek followed them much of the way, a cascading rush of white water pausing briefly in bottle green pools, only to tumble down noisily once more.

The trail veered sharply left. Dante stopped and Liz came alongside to stare at the elaborate suspension bridge before them. Tall wooden towers on either bank anchored steel cables supporting a narrow walkway thirty feet above Woods Creek. Undergrowth blocked Liz’s view of the far bank, but she estimated the span to be a hundred feet.

“How weird to find such a fancy structure here,” Dante said, not having read the guidebooks.

“How convenient.”

The McCartneys arrived and Liz led them, single file, up the dozen wooden steps to the beginning of the span. A sign warned them to cross one at a time.

“Looks like you’re first,” Linda said to Liz.

The construction inspired confidence, as cables had been strung horizontally at both waist and knee level, and reinforced vertically every four feet. She placed her hands on the lateral cables and stepped carefully onto the wood slats. The bridge undulated. She concentrated on staying centered and walked with measured steps to minimize sway. Far below, foaming torrents of water exploded against boulders.

“Take your time,” Dante called over the roaring current. “I’m in no rush.”

Two-thirds of the way across, she spotted a pair of sunglasses lying on the bridge. She crouched slowly to pick them up, aware she was risking losing her balance, but feeling compelled nonetheless. Before her hand touched the glasses, she knew they were Brensen’s. He was never without them. She examined them in her hand, and a shadow of apprehension passed through her.

“Liz!” Dante’s shout was nearly drowned out. “What’s wrong?”

She tucked the glasses into her shirt pocket and, hands on the cables, carefully pulled herself up. As she rose, her attention snagged on an object near the water’s edge. Something dark blue, on top of a half-submerged log. An arm. Beyond the log was a boulder. A hiking boot, toe pointed to the sky, protruded from behind.

Her stomach rolled, and she gripped the cables more tightly.

Paul shouted, but the river carried the words away.

Her mouth went dry. She scanned the riverbank ahead, searching for anything out of place. There wasn’t much vegetation on this side, and few places to hide. Level with the bridge was a campsite with picnic tables and two bear lockers. Empty.

Dante and the others were calling to her, their voices increasingly frantic. The bridge rocked—someone stepped onto it—and she bent her knees to absorb the wave. It had to be Dante, or maybe Paul, coming to see what the problem was.

“Stop!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, and continued across, keeping her focus on the tower in front of her, and a strong grip on the cables in case the bridge moved again.

She stepped off the bridge onto the landing, checked her surroundings again, and turned, placing a hand on the cable supports to steady herself. Dante was halfway across, his face dark with concern. She avoided glancing at Brensen—if that’s who was lying in the river—because she feared she’d alarm Dante and cause him to lose his balance. He stared straight ahead, walking more briskly than she expected, and was soon at her side.

“What’s wrong? Why did you bend down?”

Liz led him down the wood planks and onto firm ground. She glanced over his shoulder. Linda was crossing.

She fished the glasses out of her pocket. “Aren’t these Brensen’s?”

“I think so. But why—”

“I saw something from the bridge.”

“What ‘something’?”

“Someone. In the river.”

“Doing what?”

Her mouth was cottony. She gripped Dante’s arm. “Lying there.”

“What? We should go help them! Show me!”