He shot an arm forward, reaching out to grab her before she tumbled any farther. Not that she would have plunged down an angry, steep rock face that meant certain death if she fell. There was just an angled slope dotted with trees and brush. But he didn’t need Miss Wetherby—or anyone else—breaking a leg or some ribs.
He caught her around the middle, hauling her up against his chest and pulling her away from the edge of the trail.
She stood in his arms for a few seconds, her breathing ragged. “There was a... a root. I’m sorry. I should have been watching the trail better.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Good.”
“Ah... you can let me go now.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to, not with how his mind was replaying the scene. One instant she’d been by his side, perfectly fine, and the next...
“Mr. Amos.” She touched his arm. “You can let me go. Truly.”
Voices sounded from behind them on the trail, and he looked back to discover that somehow he and Miss Wetherby had walked ahead of the others, putting them out of view of the rest of the party.
He released her, then waited for Dr. Wetherby and Dr. Ottingford to appear ahead of Heath and Richard with the trunk.
“Look out for that root.” Mikhail pointed to where a large, dark root had grown up from the ground, creating a perfect loop to catch a person’s foot.
“I see it there. Thank you,” Dr. Wetherby said.
Mikhail waited until everyone had gone around the root before continuing down the mountain, eyeing the narrow game trail to find the path with the surest footing. He also moved Miss Wetherby to the inside of the trail so if she stumbled again, she’d slide into him rather than down the side of the mountain.
They walked in silence for several minutes, the sound of a raven cawing and squirrels nattering filling his ears.
When she spoke again, her voice was soft, even a bit tentative. “I really am sorry about the root. I don’t suppose you’d ever be so stupid as to trip over something like that.”
“It could happen to anyone who isn’t paying attention.”
“Thank you for saving me.”
He gave her a curt nod. “That’s my job.”
He kept walking, but he could still feel her studying him with those innocent hazel eyes as she worked to keep pace beside him. “Have you ever almost slid off the side of a mountain?”
He gave his head a small shake. He didn’t want to like her, not even a little. Her presence alone posed a risk—and put him in danger of failing to keep the promise he’d made to himself on that very first expedition all those years ago.
He really should tell her to go back and walk by her father, but for some reason, he found himself opening his mouth to answer yet another one of her questions. “It’s been a while since I almost fell off a mountain. I’ve traipsed up and down enough of them to be pretty sure-footed.”
“Like the Indians.”
“Like the Indians.”
“You could almost be one. You’re dressed more like an Indian than a white man, and you move as quietly as one.”
He glanced down at the fur parka and mukluks he’d traded his half siblings’ relatives for. They covered sealskin trousers that were sewn in a white man’s style, but not with white man’s fabric. The only thing not Indian about his clothing was the cotton shirt beneath his parka.
“I dress differently when I’m in Sitka.”
She blinked at him, almost as though she couldn’t imagine him in a town, seated at a dining room table and eating with a fork and knife. “I imagine your clothing is quite comfortable in the woods and keeps you a good bit warmer than wool.”
He stopped midstride. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head, more of those dratted red waves cascading about her face.
