RiverTime Read online

  RiverTime

  Rae Renzi

  RiverTime

  By Rae Renzi

  Casey Lord needs a break. Her great-on-paper boyfriend, Reed, is pressuring her to marry him—but she’s not sure if he sees her merely as an asset to help his political career. A river-rafting trip in the remote wilderness provides the perfect opportunity to clear her head. Until a flash flood sweeps Casey away from her group—and straight into the arms of Jack, a mysterious man also stranded by the flooding river.

  Jack won’t tell Casey his last name, and her innocent questions about his life are met with evasive answers. Yet they have to trust each other to survive, and as the pair await rescue, their uneasy truce slowly blossoms into friendship—and love. They agree to keep secret whatever differences may separate them in the real world.

  When rescue finally arrives, will it spell an end to their budding relationship or can they find a way to stay in RiverTime?

  Dear Reader,

  A new year always brings with it a sense of expectation and promise (and maybe a vague sense of guilt). Expectation because we don’t know what the year will bring exactly, but promise because we always hope it will be good things. The guilt is due to all of the New Year’s resolutions we make with such good intentions.

  This year, Carina Press is making a New Year’s resolution we know we won’t have any reason to feel guilty about: we’re going to bring our readers a year of fantastic editorial and diverse genre content. So far, our plans for 2011 include staff and author appearances at reader-focused conferences such as the RT Booklovers Convention in April, where we’ll be offering up goodies, appearing on panels, giving workshops and hosting a few fun activities for readers. We’re also cooking up several genre-specific release weeks, during which we’ll highlight individual genres. So far we have plans for steampunk week and unusual fantasy week. Readers will have access to free reads, discounts, contests and more as part of our week-long promotions!

  But even when we’re not doing special promotions, we’re still offering something special to our readers in the form of the stories authors are delivering to Carina Press that we’re passing on to you. From sweet romance to sexy, and military science fiction to fairy-tale fantasy, from mysteries to romantic suspense, we’re proud to be offering a wide variety of genres and tales of escapism to our customers in this new year. Every week is a new adventure, and we want to bring our readers along on the journey. Be daring, be brave and try something new with Carina Press in 2011!

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

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  Dedication

  I was introduced to the Grand Canyon by my dear friend Thelma Meltzer, who invited me and thirteen of her best friends to celebrate her seventy-fifth birthday with a six-day river-rafting trip down the Colorado River. What a celebration it was! This book is dedicated to her memory.

  Acknowledgements

  First novels require a big push because the bumps in the road, real or perceived, are many and large. I had a great deal of support and encouragement from friends and family, and I am grateful to each and every one of them.

  A few people deserve special thanks: Terry, for numerous three-mile talks on heroes, heroines and how a romance should play out; Garland, for her unflagging enthusiasm and absolute conviction that I should write; Karen Saxon, for many insightful suggestions and comments from a writer’s perspective; Missy for her constant encouragement during the early, quagmire-ish days; and Devon, for kindly helping me along the electronic path.

  A load of gratitude goes to my almost supernatural editor Deborah Nemeth, whose unerring guidance and eagle eye vastly improved the story. I also appreciate the whole team at Carina Press, who made this process interesting and fun.

  Finally, thanks to Karen, Brian and Devon for always being there.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  As a solution to vexing personal problems, death by misadventure had a certain grim economy, Casey allowed. An icy wave crashed over the side of the inflatable river raft she rode, hurling a tree branch into her side. Its rough bark scraped the skin from her ribs. She yelped in pain and choked on the river water that poured down her throat. Coughing violently, she snatched a gulp of air and scrabbled to regain her hold on the half-submerged cargo ropes only seconds before another wave shoved her under.

  A few long, lung-convulsing seconds later, the raft broke the surface like a breaching whale and began to spin, half in the air and half on the water. It slammed into a boulder, tipped, and jumped forward, bucking and kicking. The wild tossing flipped Casey’s legs this way and that, banging them painfully against the metal food lockers, threatening to wrench the ropes out of her hands. She gritted her teeth and hugged the ropes closer to her chest, trying to wedge her battered body between the raft bottom and the cargo hold.

  After what felt like an eternity, the raft gave up speed and slid behind the leading edge of the flash flood. Casey lifted her head, praying for flat, empty water. She saw instead, dead ahead, a mass of spiky basalt columns thrusting up toward the sky, bisecting the river with beautiful and deadly precision. To the right, the river cut through a narrow channel, deep and fast. To the left, it spilled into a wider course, slower but peppered with tumbled-down boulders. She scarcely knew which to hope for.

  The raft crashed against the rock columns and stuck. It began to shimmy with the pounding rhythm of the river. Casey stared with barely contained panic as the prow slowly lifted and folded toward her. Pinned against the boulder, going neither right nor left, pummeled by the relentless water—if the craft didn’t shift, it would soon capsize. She took a deep breath and scrabbled hand-over-hand onto the mound of cargo lashed down in the middle of the raft. Only acute awareness that doing nothing at all would be fatal gave her the will to drop the ropes and dive for the pr
ow with every bit of punch she could muster.

  It was enough. Her weight shifted the raft so it slid to the left, away from the rocks. Like a pinball, it bounced from boulder to boulder until it fetched up against a large one. The river boiled under it, lifting one side. Casey regained her grip on the ropes. The raft scooted toward the riverbank, teetered on its edge for a second, and fell flat with a loud slap.

  In the sudden, eerie silence, Casey jerked her head up and noisily sucked air into her lungs. The raft rocked in the current, gently sloshing water back and forth over her legs. The world seemed split—an unnatural stillness inside the boat overlaid by the growling roar of the river outside.

  She waited for another onslaught, but seconds stretched into minutes and nothing changed. She raised herself from her belly to her knees and relinquished her death grip on the cargo ropes to push dripping strands of hair out of her eyes.

  The raft was grounded on a sandbar behind a spill of enormous boulders that extended from the slopes of the canyon into the river. Beyond the sandbar was a short stretch of flat water, and then beautiful, lovely, wonderful dry land.

  Her hands were stiff, formed into claws by her grip on the ropes. She slowly straightened her fingers. The rope burns across her palms were hot but not bloody. Gloves. Next time, she’d wear gloves.

  The rest of her body seemed more or less intact. Everything moved, nothing felt broken, although a deep scratch down the outside of her left thigh streaked her leg with bright red blood. She rolled into a sitting position, tempted to rest against the pontoon, but a quick recap of her last few minutes set up a clamoring in her brain to get out of the raft and onto dry ground. With a shred of forethought, she fumbled her backpack free of the cargo ropes before dragging herself out of the raft and into the frigid water.

  Halfway to the bank, tremors suddenly took her, rattling her teeth. She stumbled out of the water, took five steps and collapsed face-first onto the beach.

  Never had sand up her nose felt so good. Feebly puckering her lips, she kissed the ground and rolled onto her back, reveling in warm, dry terra firma. She stuck a trembling hand into her backpack, found her zip-locked stash of chocolate and stuffed a hunk into her mouth.

  The combination of heat and chocolate worked its magic. “God bless chocolate.” Within a few minutes the shaking subsided, and her thoughts labored toward coherency.

  What now?

  The rest of her river-rafting group would be stranded on the cliff trail they’d hiked up after lunch—Casey alone had stayed with the raft, claiming a headache. The guide would radio for help, but it might take some time. She could be here a while—maybe even overnight.

  She wished Reed were here. He’d know what to do next. He’d have a plan, probably would have had one before starting on a raft trip. He was like that.

  Casey struggled upright and looked around. Rocks, shrubs, sand, a few scrubby trees scattered here and there, the jewel-bright confetti of wildflowers tossing in the wind, and the towering walls of the canyon reaching up to the heavens. It had the feel of an enormous cathedral, glorious and awe-inspiring, a place of unshakable peace.

  And very, very empty.

  She had gone on the river-rafting trip seeking just this—peace and quiet, a chance to take stock and reflect on her life, present and future, and to finally make the decision that had been gnawing at her for too long.

  She snorted. Well, the flash flood had certainly reordered her priorities. Reflecting on her life still topped the list, but it had undergone a sudden, piquant shift in meaning. With a flap of her hand, she consigned interpersonal decisions to the bottom of the pile. In this context, they were insignificant.

  Life—as in whether she survived—that was the next priority.

  For her birthday last year, a fellow student had given her a little book called The Worst Case Scenario: A guide to survival. It was intended as a jab at graduate school, but Casey had read it cover-to-cover. The author stressed four important points for survival—shelter, food, water, fire, in order of importance.

  So first, shelter. Struggling to her feet, she took a critical look at her surroundings. The beach stretched along a small clear stream that rambled down from the sandstone cliffs like a spill of broken glass, eventually finding a path into the river. At the moment the beach was partly underwater, but bits of grass poking up here and there hinted at its normal contour. Beyond the beach, terraced ledges stepped up to the canyon walls. Casey spied a dirt path—obviously, she wasn’t the first human to tread here—and was relieved to see that it led to a large open cavern hollowed out in the canyon walls.

  She picked up her backpack and plodded up to the cavern. It was larger than it looked from below, probably twenty feet tall, but wide and shallow, a bowl-shaped depression scooped out of the rock eons ago. The cavern walls, a smooth pinkish-gold sandstone with long curving swirls and striations, gave off the specific smell of the river, an unlikely mix of dust and dampness. In the back of the cavern, where it sloped down to meet the floor, ledges of sandstone poked out, like shelves waiting to be filled.

  “Good. This is good.” It was too open to be snug, but coupled with her tent would keep her dry if it rained. She glanced at the sky. It was clear now, but the wind was picking up, and a dark line of clouds—probably the source of the flash flood—stained the northern horizon. Sooner or later, shelter might be needed.

  Check item number one off the list.

  Food, second in priority, meant going back to the raft. Her mind mutinied at the thought of re-entering the water, but pitted against hunger? No contest. In spite of her slight build, she was a girl who liked her meals. She also needed to get more clothes, which meant digging out her dry bag.

  Having a clear goal spurred her on. She emptied her backpack, lining up its contents—sunscreen, sunglasses, a notebook, a pencil, chocolate, a T-shirt—against the back wall of the cavern, slung the empty pack over one shoulder and made her way back to the beach. With one foot in the water, she hesitated. It was achingly cold, worse this time than the last, but she had no choice. She set her jaw and waded in, counting the steps to the raft. At least here it was shallow, so she was only numb from midcalf down.

  As she started to clamber aboard, a splash of unnatural color on the other side of the stream caught her eye. Something bright yellow was wedged between two of the boulders, bobbing in the current. Someone’s washed-overboard gear, no doubt. Was it worth the effort to fetch?

  She sighed. Probably not, but she’d do it anyway, save one of her fellow river-rafters from the loss. She pushed off the raft and slogged across the stream toward the boulders, squinting at the object. What she could see seemed too rounded to be an ice chest, and too bulky for a tent. Maybe a backpack?

  Suddenly, Casey stopped in her tracks. Her brain rejected what her eyes saw—a bright yellow life vest wrapped around a body.

  “Oh my God!” She broke into a run.

  Chapter Two

  Fueled by adrenaline, Casey tugged at the body, hauling it away from the boulders and dragging it halfway onto the beach. She dropped to her knees beside it.

  It was a man. Young, bearded and much too still. Was he alive? Trying to ignore the thudding of her heart, Casey felt for his, sliding her hand under his vest. There was a faint flutter, and his chest rose slightly beneath her hand. His skin was icy-cold and his lips were blue, but he was breathing. She crawled around him and shoved, rolled and pulled until his body was clear of the frigid water.

  “Okay, okay, what now? Cold skin, blue lips…hypothermia?”

  She hovered over him, wishing she’d paid more attention to the short lecture by the river guide—it hadn’t seemed important at the time. He’d said that in these waters, hypothermia was a greater threat than drowning, and if the internal organs didn’t get warm quickly, then function shut down, with predictably fatal results.

  Casey stumbled back to the raft and pawed through the gear remaining on board until she found a sleeping bag that was still mostly d
ry. Holding it above her head, she slid out of the raft and sloshed back to the islet.

  The bag was down-filled and puffed out nicely when she shook it. She started to wrap it around him when she realized that his soaking-wet life vest and clothes should come off first. The fasteners on his vest released easily, but she had to wrestle the vest over inconveniently broad shoulders. He wore no shirt, for which Casey was grateful—one less struggle. She didn’t see any huge bloody gashes, or limbs bending in the wrong direction—that was a relief. No cuts or deep punctures on his stomach. Just a lot of muscles. Well-developed muscles.

  She reached for his shorts and hesitated, hands frozen over his zipper. A moment’s imaginative thought convinced her that warming up the organs that far down wasn’t crucial to his survival—though he might disagree on that point. After tucking the down sleeping bag around his torso, she sat back on her heels and scanned her patient.

  He was about her age or a few years older. His hair was plastered in long strands on his angular face and blended into an unkempt beard. High cheekbones and a strong jaw gave him a slightly exotic appearance, helped along by thick dark lashes. He was probably nice-looking underneath all that hair, but without seeing his eyes she couldn’t tell. She resisted the temptation to pull up his eyelids—it seemed rude—but allowed herself to trail her fingers lightly across his forehead. It was smooth as porcelain, and as cold. A sizable abrasion above one eye and to the side provided a possible clue why he was now unconscious.