“In that case, I’m flattered.”
“But not interested.”
Here was where she could lightly say “Sorry” and that would be the end of it. Instead, unable to lie, she closed her own eyes and let the silence grow between them.
She felt him move as he heaved himself up; then he was propped on his elbow, leaning over her and blocking the sun. “You’d better say no,” he murmured, flattening his hand on her stomach. The heat from his palm burned through her wet clothing to her chilled skin; then he slipped his fingertips under the waistband of her jeans and she felt the heat go all the way through her.
“Not that I intend to do anything right now, anyway,” he continued. “We need to get back to the truck. A rock’s a damn uncomfortable place for what I want to do, our clothes are wet, my balls are so cold it may take me a week to find them, and we don’t have any condoms. But in a few hours things will be different, and if you don’t want to go anywhere with this, you’d better say no right now.”
He was right. She should say no.
But she didn’t. Despite all the good reasons she’d given herself just a moment before . . . she didn’t.
Instead she opened her eyes and turned her head toward him as he bent down to her. His lips were cold; hers were colder. But his tongue was warm, and the kiss was almost shy as he gently explored her mouth. His left hand tangled in her wet hair and he slowly deepened the kiss as he caught her waist and rolled her toward him.
The touch of that whipcord body sent a pool of warmth spreading through her insides. It was almost enough to dispel the chill, but still she suddenly shivered as the aftermath began to catch up to her.
He lifted his mouth and smoothed her hair back from her face, his gaze intent as he watched her. “We have to get to the truck and get warm. The sun will be going down soon, and we don’t want to get caught out here in wet clothes.”
“All right.” He moved back, and she struggled to a sitting position. “Do you think Norman will call the authorities, have them looking for our bodies or something?”
“I doubt it. I don’t guess you heard what he yelled.”
“I heard someone yell something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.”
“He yelled, ‘Good luck.’ “
Astounded, she blinked at him. Then she began snickering as she slowly climbed to her feet. She guessed Norman wasn’t the type to worry about what happened to anyone except himself.
Swaying, she took stock. The backpack he’d been carrying was long gone, of course. She was aching from head to foot, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the battering force of the water or if it was sheer muscle fatigue. She was lucky; she didn’t think she’d hit anything hard enough to injure herself, and she thanked God for the depth of the river, which had probably saved their lives. If it had been shallower, they likely would have been killed on some rocks.
Both her sneakers were gone, as was one sock. How that other sock had stayed on she couldn’t imagine. Her wristwatch was ruined, the face crushed. Likewise her sweater was gone, but she’d only had it around her shoulders, not buttoned.
Diaz was looking down at her feet. “You can’t walk like that,” he said, and began unbuttoning his denim shirt. He stripped it off, then took a knife from his pocket and sliced off the sleeves. Going down on one knee in front of her, he draped a sleeve over his thigh and patted it. “Put your foot here.” Gingerly balancing on one foot, she placed her other foot on the sleeve, and he swiftly wrapped the ends of the sleeve around and around it, then tied a knot on top. After repeating the process with her other foot, he said, “How does that feel? It isn’t like having a leather sole, but is it enough protection for you to walk? If it isn’t, say so instead of tearing up your feet.”
She walked across the rock, testing the thickness of the fabric. Like he’d said, it wasn’t like leather. She could feel every pebble. “How far do you think it is to the truck?”
He glanced at the sun. “If I’m right, we’re not all that far. The truck was downstream, and the river carried us in that direction.”
“But there was that bend to the left.”
“And then this bend to the right. I’d say . . . maybe a mile.”
A mile through a mountainous forest, virtually barefoot. He evidently came to the same conclusion she’d reached, because he shook his head, then looked around. Abruptly he took out his knife again, and went to the tree. He stabbed the point into the bark, then began slicing downward.
“What are you doing?”
“Cutting off a sheet of bark to use as a sole.”
She stood to the side and watched with interest as he carved off a square of bark roughly ten inches by ten inches. She sat down and began unwrapping her feet. He split the square of bark in half, then knelt on one knee in front of her again. He balanced one slab of bark on his other knee, with the smooth underside up, and laid the sleeve over it so she’d have a double layer of cloth between her foot and the wood. Then he rewrapped her foot, binding the bark to the bottom with two swaths of cloth, and tied the knot on top again. After repeating the process with her other foot, he stood and pulled her to her feet. “How does that feel?”
“Much sturdier, though I don’t know how long the bark will hold together.”
“Anything is better than nothing. If it falls apart, I’ll cut some more.”
They left the riverbank and set out at a right angle into the forest. She had to walk gingerly, because the makeshift shoes didn’t give her feet any support, but the bark at least protected their tender bottoms from the worst abuse. She tried not to step on sticks or rocks, tried not to make the bark flex very much, which would cause it to break apart. That made their pace necessarily slow, when they couldn’t afford any delay.