“Fine. Maybe you’re right,” Heath muttered, his jaw tight. “But that doesn’t change the fact that something happened between Richard and Mikhail over the gorge, and now Richard’s dead, and everything is ruined.”
“I don’t know why you think everything is ruined. And as for what happened between Richard and Mikhail, we might not have heard every word they said to each other, but it’s not hard to imagine.” They were passing the base of a mountain that towered over the water, and it would have been beautiful...had she not wanted to climb over the packs separating her and her brother and wrap her hands around his neck. “Richard decided to argue with Mikhail, because that’s all Richard ever did where Mikhail was concerned. Then at some point in the argument, he lost his footing. We all saw Mikhail lunge for Richard to keep him from falling. And while I’m sorry he’s dead, I can’t blame his death on anything other than his obstinance.”
“I agree with Bryony,” Dr. Ottingford said from the front of the canoe.
Bryony whipped her head around to look at the scientist, her cheeks warming despite the cold air. So much for being quiet enough that only Heath could hear her.
“Richard knew everyone was upset with him for hiding the fact he was looking for gold. Before that, he was petulant and selfish,” Dr. Ottingford continued, craning his neck to blink at them from behind his thin wire spectacles. “And yesterday he picked the wrong location to pitch one of his fits. He probably did so on the middle of the bridge because then none of us could hear him. But he wasn’t paying close enough attention to where he was at, and he tripped over one of the branch nubs. I saw Mikhail try to grab him before he fell, just like Bryony did. The only person who should be blamed for Richard’s death is Richard himself.”
“Well, you better hope the rest of the Caldwells see it that way.” Heath plunged his paddle into the river with enough force that water splashed against the side of the canoe. “Because you can rest assured they’ll demand a full investigation into Richard’s death.”
Bryony crossed her arms over her chest. “They can investigate all they want. The only thing they’ll find is that Richard picked the wrong place to throw one of his petty little fits.”
And they would. Even if Heath thought something more might have happened on that makeshift bridge, she, Dr. Ottingford, and her father were all witnesses to what had transpired. And Mikhail would certainly have a rational explanation for what happened. She hadn’t asked him about the details last night after his nightmare, but the man viewed his responsibility to guide their team with the utmost seriousness. And he’d tried to grab Richard before he fell, which had put himself in danger of falling too.
So no, she wasn’t worried about whatever investigation the Caldwell family might ask for. Surely four other testimonies would outweigh Heath’s.
* * *
Bryony barely spoketo Heath for the rest of the afternoon. Any time she so much as looked at her brother, all she could think of was how he thought Mikhail was responsible for Richard’s death.
The rational part of her brain knew that Heath would come to his senses after a day or two, but she still didn’t like the fact that Heath was so quick to blame Mikhail—nor did she understand it.
The river moved faster and faster as the day wore on, but even though they’d made good time, Mikhail insisted they press on until late afternoon, saying he wanted to camp as close to the canyon that lay upriver as possible.
She and Dr. Ottingford had switched positions in the canoe somewhere around the middle of the afternoon, leaving her to paddle at the front while he rested. By the time Mikhail finally signaled for them to stop, her arms burned, her shoulders ached, and her hands felt numb from hours of paddling. She didn’t know how Heath or Mikhail or even her father had paddled all afternoon without a single break.
The moment she stepped onto the sandy bank dusted with snow, she could have crawled into her bedroll and fallen asleep instantly, but Mikhail said they needed to set up tents, since he wanted to camp by the canoes and they didn’t have any trees to protect them on the beach.
So that’s exactly what she did, set about putting up her tent—until Mikhail approached her.
She picked up her mallet and was about to drive a stake into the ground when his gloved hand wrapped around hers, holding the mallet midair. “Are you all right?”
She turned her head to look at him, his large hand still covering hers over the handle of the mallet.
“I’m fine. Why?”
He didn’t answer, just stared down into her face with his haunting golden eyes. Then he shook his head. “Of course you’re not all right. You barely slept last night, and you look about ready to fall over. Here, let me finish this while you go gather some firewood.”
He tugged the mallet out of her hand, then nodded toward the forest lining the beach. “You shouldn’t have to go far. Gather some moss and small branches, the dryest wood you can find.”
She wasn’t about to complain. Walking through the woods would at least keep her awake a little longer. But had she really looked that tired? So tired that Mikhail had stopped putting up his own tent to come help with hers?
She pressed a hand to her cheek as she stepped into the brush that created a buffer between the beach and trees. She must look a fright.
And why did that matter? It wasn’t as though Mikhail had ever once seen her at her best. She hadn’t brought any fancy dresses into the wilderness, just serviceable skirts and trousers to wear beneath them so her legs wouldn’t get scratched as she moved through the trees. She didn’t even have any ties left for her hair. It had hung loose and free, a tangled mess that took her half an hour or better to brush each night.
And yet he still came up to her and offered to help with her tent and looked at her as though... as though... Well, she didn’t know precisely how he looked at her, only that it caused her entire body to feel warm.
She stepped over the ground, looking for small twigs and places where moss peeked out from beneath the dusting of snow, while ignoring the way her back and arms ached. Maybe they’d feel better after a night’s rest.
She tried not to take a long time gathering wood. The sooner Mikhail built that fire, the sooner she could pull her boots off and warm her frozen toes. But she ended up wandering deeper into the forest than she expected, looking for small scraps of wood that would get hot quickly.
When she spotted a fallen tree with dead branches scattered around it, she headed that direction. She had just bent down to pick up a couple more pieces when something rustled in the brush to her left.
She froze, every muscle in her body tensing, then forced herself to blow out a breath. The sound was probably a rabbit or squirrel, something innocent.
The brush rustled again, louder this time, and something innocent didn’t scurry out from the dark cluster of trees to her left. Oh no. What stepped forward was none other than an Indian man holding a shotgun pointed directly at her chest.
