Looking down through the broken upper door, he saw her. She was a slip of a girl, drenched in mud and ice-water, her fine woolen dress ruined, her eyes wide with terror. He saw the crutch floating uselessly in the corner of the cabin, and he saw how her left leg was wedged beneath a twisted iron bracket.
"Hold onto me," Gideon said. His voice was close now, low, steady, and utterly devoid of panic.
"My leg is trapped!" she sobbed, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. "It doesn't move right anyway... I can't push!"
Gideon lowered himself down into the dark, flooded carriage interior. He didn't ask questions. He reached deep into the icy water, found the twisted iron bracket, and wedged his massive, scarred hands beneath it. He set his legs, braced his shoulders against the ceiling beam, and strained with a mighty roar.
The iron bracket groaned, bent, and yielded under his immense physical strength.
With her leg freed, Gideon pulled Emmeline up into his arms. She was shockingly light, like a wet bird, her weight diminished by starvation of affection and cold. He wrapped her tightly against his broad chest, holding her with one powerful arm while his other hand grabbed the rope anchor.
"Hold your breath if we go under," he growled into her wet hair. "Keep your arms around my neck. Don't let go, no matter what."
"I won't," she gasped, locking her fingers together behind his shoulders with every ounce of strength she possessed.
Gideon swung them out of the disintegrating carriage just as the willow trees gave way. Behind them, the carriage frame folded like a paper toy, smashed into pieces by the force of the river, and vanished down the mouth of the gorge.
Gideon fought the current step by agonized step, his boots finding purchase on the slick river stones beneath. The water tried to tear them apart, but his hold on her was absolute. Minutes later, he dragged them both out onto the muddy riverbank, breathing heavily, river water streaming from his clothes and beard.
He laid her down gently on a dry bed of pine needles under the big oak tree. Emmeline lay there, gasping for air, her skin deathly pale, her left leg resting uselessly in the dirt.
Gideon knelt beside her, his sharp grey eyes scanning her quickly for broken bones. He saw the thin, withered calf of her left leg where her wet skirts clung to her frame. He saw the absence of a crutch. He looked up at her face.
Emmeline flinched, pulling her skirts down defensively, waiting for the look of pity, disgust, or disappointment she had seen on every man's face her entire life.
"Your family?" Gideon asked, his voice harsh from exertion. "Where are the people who belonged to that carriage?"
Emmeline swallowed hard, the bitterness of the truth tasting like ash in her mouth. "They... they left," she whispered. "My father said he was going for help. But he didn't look back. He left me to drown."
Gideon stared at her for a long moment. He didn't express pity. He didn't sigh or offer empty comfort. He simply looked at the sheer steepness of the riverbank, looked at her frail, shivering body, and then looked into her dark eyes, which were filled with a fierce, quiet will to live.
"You held on," Gideon said softly, pointing a thick finger at her hands. "Most ladies from town would have fainted and drowned in the first minute. You kept your hands locked around my neck while the ice nearly killed us."
He stood up, scooped her easily back into his arms, and lifted her onto his chest as if she weighed nothing at all.
"Where are you taking me?" she whispered, trembling against his warm canvas coat.
"Up the mountain," Gideon replied, turning his back on the roaring river. "To a place where people don't get left behind."
The journey up Bear Mountain was a long, silent crawl through dense stands of Douglas fir and giant blue spruce. Gideon walked with a slow, tireless gait, carrying Emmeline as if she were no heavier than a bundle of firewood.
Emmeline kept her cheek pressed against his heavy wool jacket. She could smell pine resin, woodsmoke, cured leather, and the raw, clean scent of the high mountain air. For the first time in her life, she felt entirely safe—not because she was surrounded by silk cushions and stone walls, but because the arms holding her felt stronger than the mountain itself.
They reached a wide, high clearing surrounded by snow-capped peaks. Resting in the center was Gideon’s homestead: a magnificent, hand-hewn cabin made of thick round logs, with a massive stone chimney puffing warm gray smoke into the crisp air. Nearby stood a sturdy timber barn, a woodpile stacked high as a house, and a small glass greenhouse built against the sunny face of the rock wall.
Gideon pushed the heavy oak door open with his boot and carried her inside.
The interior was warm and filled with the deep, comforting smell of roasting meat and cedar wood. A massive fire crackled in the stone fireplace. Gideon brought her straight to a wide, low bench covered in thick black-bear pelts right beside the hearth.
"Sit," he commanded gently, laying her down.
He walked over to a cupboard, pulled down a large earthen crock, and poured a steaming mug of hot spruce tea sweetened with wild honey. He thrust it into her cold hands. "Drink this. It will drive the frost out of your stomach."
Emmeline cupped her numb fingers around the warm clay, taking small, desperate sips. The warmth spread rapidly through her core.
While she drank, Gideon paid no attention to social delicacy. He dragged a low wooden stool over, knelt down, and pulled off her soaked leather boots. When he peeled away her wet stockings, revealing her left foot—smaller than the right, turned slightly inward, with thin, underdeveloped muscle—Emmeline reflexively pulled her leg back, hiding it beneath her wet skirts.