Chapter Two.

Catherine hadn't realized that the current was so strong. When she'd watched men poling their small craft past the trading post it hadn'tlooked that difficult. Now she strained her arms trying to lift thepole from one side of the dugout to the other, finding to her dismaythat more often than not she had no control over which way the smallboat moved.

Matters worsened when she heard the distant rumbling of thunder. Like faraway cannons firing, the muffled sound announced the coming stormover the sound of silent moving water. Black, billowing clouds slidquickly over the moon, closing out the thick green forest on the otherside of the river. With the darkness came fresh gusts of strong aircurrents. Lightning brought scattered bursts of light in thedistance.

The water began to swirl, as if some great hand were stirring it fromthe bottom, slinging out foam-edged ripples that slapped the boat backand forth. Catherine gave up any attempt to direct the craft and satdown, holding on to the sides as it whirled and twisted like a leaf inthe current.

Not once, from the time she'd left Petersburg, had Catherine been afraid. But now she had a feeling that the grandadventure she'd been ready to embrace was likely to be her last. She was beginning to understand Charles's fear of this great river.

Catherine couldn't imagine what Charles would be feeling if he were inthe pirogue with her. He'd been terrified enough over making the slowjourney upriver, before the storm. According to the captain, Charleshad spent most of his time on the pallet of skins in the center of thecraft, worrying because he'd never learned to swim.

That image had added to her already grave doubts. Even now, toCatherine, there was something wonderfully alive about the spray on herface, the wind behind her that bounced the craft along like a leafdipping on the currents of wind. Though she recognized the danger, shewasn't truly afraid.

Even through its most crucial moments, the journey was oddlyexhilarating. There must be something wrong with a woman who might befacing death, yet felt so alive, Catherine thought. If she were goingto die, she would do so sharing the kind of adventure she might havehad with Patrick.

Patrick. For a moment, as clearly as if he were sitting in front ofher, she felt his presence and the strong certainty that he was aliveand waiting for her. She so wanted Patrick to still be alive, couldshe have failed to accept the reality that he was probably lost to herforever?

"Don't worry, Catherine," she said aloud to bolster her sagging courage.

"You're going to find Patrick and get married. He'll build you a finehouse in New Orleans just as you planned."

It would be a fine house, she decided, calming herself, as if she werein the eye of the storm and seeing the future clearly. And a new life--with Patrick.

The boat took another swing about, snapping forward again, thenbouncing across the top of the waves as the heavens opened and thestorm hit full force.

In minutes, Catherine was being thrown from one side of the boat to theother. It was all she could do to hold on to the sides. For one brief moment she decided that she was being punished for her wickedness. If she survived the journey, she'd apologize to Charles and-and. no, shewouldn't promise to go through with the wedding.

Promising that would be a sin. It wouldn't be fair to Charles.

It was beginning to look less and less likely that she'd ever seeeither Charles or Patrick again. Then, just as Catherine was ready tosay her final prayer, the pirogue slammed into a fallen tree thatextended into the water. The roots were still embedded--albeit un firmly--on the riverbank, but Catherine could see and hear the muddyearth being washed from around its base.

Her small craft caught the branches and remained tethered there. She heard shouts in the darkness. As the lightning flashed she caught abrief glimpse of a flatboat rushing by. The boat Charles had hired?

No, she'd released it first; the vessel should have been in front ofher.

Dared she call out? Little good that would do, the boat was alreadypast and not even an experienced crew could stop their momentum andmove the big trading boat back upriver to where Catherine had beenensnared.

Suddenly the tree gave way and her boat moved off down riveragain--still connected to the tree. Catherine clothing was plasteredto her body. The brisk wind was cold, slamming the raindrops painfullyagainst her face like sand in a storm. Her hands were growing numb.Soon she wouldn't be able to hold on and she'd be swept overboard.Knowing how to swim wouldn't save her now.

She'd been fooling herself all along. She was lost.

"Oh, Patrick," she cried, "why didn't you make love to me? I'm goingto die without ever having known what it would be like."

From his place on the cliff Patrick watched his men moving toward theflatboat aground at the end of the spit of land now underwater. This was only the first of many in this storm that would be caught onshifting fingers of earth just beneath the surface of the river.

His men would pretend to help the victims by taking them to shore.

Then, after the rescue, the boat and its goods would be theirs. The crew would be lucky. There were no floaters in the water when the pirate, Stone, boarded a ship. He only wanted goods and information.

Goods meant money, the only power the Spanish understood. After he questioned them about Captain Loez, the crew would be set free.

Then, in a flash of lightning, the river lit up like daylight. That was when he saw it, the pirogue, caught in the branches of a tree likea snared bird. Straight ahead was Necktie Bend, the sandbar and theflatboat. There was a slight form in the boat--a child perhaps hangingon for dear life.

Patrick descended the hill and mounted the horse corralled on the back side of the cliff in the area known by all the river pirates as theDevil's Punch Bowl. There was no time for a saddle. He was probably al n ready too late. Nevertheless he urged the horse into a madgallop along the bank. For once he was glad to have the lightning, forwhen he reached the sandbar where he'd expected to find the tree, itwasn't there. Somehow it had cleared the narrows.

Where was the tree? Where was the boat?

Another mile and the river would pass Natchez, where the water wasdeepest. Perhaps that depth would slow the current and save theoccupant.

Patrick peered at the rushing water through the rain, his heartpounding in his throat. As a sea captain he knew what it meant to becaught in a storm, to be swept up by angry water that held you at its mercy. He knew what it meant to be a child alone and afraid. Then he saw the pirogue slam into a temporary barrier of debris near the shoreand hang there, its occupant knocked into the bottom of the boat.

Reining his horse to a stop, Patrick slid to the ground and plungedinto the icy current. For a moment it took his breath away. Because the tangle of limbs and trees extended to the shore, Patrick knew thathe would be swept by the eddy into the crush of flotsam. Taking a deepbreath and shielding his face he allowed the swirling current to bouncehim against the shore and hurl him into the tree trunk.

Catching a limb, he held on, gradually moving himself toward theboat.

The occupant had disappeared from sight, washed overboard, most likely.After what seemed like an eternity he reached the pirogue, caught theside and pulled himself over. The occupant was lying in the bottom ofthe boat, apparently lifeless.

The tree was groaning. There was a crack, and the mass dislodgeditself and was swept away once more. Patrick lifted the victim's head from the water, then flung himself over the prostrate figure, becominga human shield. Time passed. Patrick didn't know where they were. He only knew that the body against which he. was pressed, though cold andstill, was alive.

He could hear a low moan now and then.

At last there was an abatement in the storm. The water still rushed down river, but the rain had stopped and Patrick found that he couldsit up. There was no pole for directing the boat and the shallow craftwas half-full of water.

He had to get the child out of the water and warm her up, or she'd die.Lifting the lifeless form, Patrick pulled the slight figure against hischest and drew her close. With one hand Patrick tried to bail water from the boat but it was filling faster than he could bail.

They were going to sink.

He reached down and pulled the waterlogged figure farther up againsthim. Then he realized his mistake: this was no child--this was a woman.

"Damn! A woman!" A woman, alone, was the last thing he'd expected.

The pirogue was still moving but it was sinking lower in the current.

They'd reached deep water, and ahead he could hear the sound of musicand laughter. Natchez-under-the-Hill. He had to get to shore. He'd take her to Bella. She always took in the abused and neglected. She would know what to do with an unconscious girl.

Patrick swore again. Getting himself to shore was one thing, buttowing a body through the current was something else. Still, with thedeep water up ahead, if he could float, and angle his body toward theshore, perhaps he could use himself as a rudder. It was the onlychance the girl had.

Using his jacket, he tied her body to his, her back to his chest, liketwo joined spoons. He said a small prayer and fell backward into thecold water, gasping as the current momentarily covered his face. Small though she was, she seemed uncommonly heavy. It was her clothing, herskirt that threatened to drown them. With difficulty, he managed todrag it off and let it sink.

Now, flying headfirst down the river, Patrick tried several adjustmentsof his arms and legs until he found a position that seemed to angle himslightly toward the far shore.

The sounds of music were lost in the roar of the water. His ability tojudge distance and position were swallowed up by errant waves thatcrashed over them and spun them around. Still, little by little, thedarker shadows of the shoreline began to inch closer, until at last hishead crashed against something solid.

Another blow to his head left him half-addled. Not now! Not when theywere so close. He didn't want to think he'd found a log that wouldkeep him from reaching shore. Frantically he reached behind. Wood, awooden beam. No, he decided, piling. He was beneath a dock, or abuilding. They'd made it.

"Ahoy, the dock!" he yelled.

"Help!" The current still tugged at his body, trying to dislodge histenuous hold.

"Help! Somebody up there, there's a man and a girl down here!"

"Where are you, matey?" Thank God, somebody had heard him. Moments later a rope was thrown down and he managed to tie it around both himand the girl before he lost his grip on the piling. The current sweptthem beneath the pier to the other side. Slowly, their rescuer managedto pull them back through the posts and up to the wooden dock.

Patrick began to breathe a sigh of relief when the rope made a suddendownward bobble. Then, in an attempt to regain their lost ground, therescuers gave a mighty jerk, pulling Patrick's head into the bottom ofone of the dock supports with a crunch.

"Take us to Heaven," he managed to say, as they pulled him over theside and laid him out on the dock. Then he slid into darkness.

Catherine stretched, winced and allowed her fingertips to slide backand forth across the satiny sheet that covered her.

She could hear voices, hushed in conversation. Feminine voices."Is she going to be all right, Isabella?""I think so. It's Stone I'm worried about. He has a nasty knot on his head, a cut over his eye and he's still asleep."

The first voice was young and a bit crude. The second, more polished

and older. Catherine wondered where she was. She decided that she'dprobably like this Isabella, who was concerned about Stone."Stone!" Catherine opened her eyes. It all came crashing back to her, the boat slamming into the tree, throwing her down, hitting her headagainst the side. From then on, everything seemed hazy. She had animpression of a man, of being close to a man's body, of the strongsensation of familiarity and trust. Then came water and more water,and finally darkness.

"Stone?" Catherine repeated, her voice gravelly as her throat protested her trying to speak.

"Well, she's awake now," the younger woman said.

"All it took was hearing Stone's name. It'll bring the dead to life again."

"Sally! Stop that. Our guest would probably like some hot soup.

Please fetch it for her."

The woman, Isabella, came to stand beside Catherine's bed. She turned a warm smile to Catherine, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You're a friend of Stone's?"

"I've never met him."

"Well, for two strangers, you certainly were close when they pulled you

out of the river last night."

Though her green eyes were narrowed in concern, Isabella was still very beautiful. She had an astonishing mass of flaxen-colored hair that was

arranged in exquisite curls, cascading down the sides of her face and across the soft pink wrapper she was wearing.

"Last night?" Catherine frowned, forcing her unwilling mind to focus

on the fleeting memory of her rescue.

"I'm afraid I don't remember.

Please. " She swallowed hard and licked her lips.

"Please tell me what happened."

"Two sailors fished you out of the water, wearing only your

petticoat.

You were tied to a man who apparently was trying to get you to shore.

Don't you remember? "

"Only my petticoat? My money--it was sewn in the hem of my skirt. He must have taken it."

Isabella swallowed a smile.

"I don't think so. The man who rescued you wouldn't steal your money or your skirt."

Isabella held a glass of water to Catherine's lips and lifted her headso that she could swallow. The water was soothing, but movement onlymade her head swim. She sank back into the soft pillows with a moan.

"I don't remember anything after my boat hit the tree. What did theman say?""He hasn't."A cold sense of dread fell over Catherine."Is he dead?""No, he's just unconscious. He had a lick on the head. Don't worry.

He's a very strong man. He'll be fine, I'll see to it. "Catherine felt herself slipping back into sleep, but she recognized thenote of distress in Isabella's voice. It was the same kind of falseconfidence she'd felt when she'd tried to convince herself that Charleswas a fine prospect as a husband.

The second time Catherine awoke she found the girl called Sally sitting by her bed.

"Are you ready for a little broth, darling?"