“I don’t—Henry, neither of us has a timepiece.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. Not thirty minutes. Before the sun dips over those trees.”
She was already nodding, her fingers pulling away from him. “You take this side of the falls, and I’ll take the other.”
His empty hand felt like a loss. He was absurd. He hated feeling this way, hated how much more of her he wanted now that he knew what was possible. “Don’t tumble into the water. I’m not certain my extra shirts have dried.”
She quirked a grin, her teeth flashing, and he made his way in the opposite direction of where his feet and his hands and his ridiculous heart wanted him to go.
It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, though, when he heard the sound. It was clear over the sounds of water, a sharp crack and a snap. And then a scream.
Henry spun, his boot slipping in muck and rotted leaves, and ran back the way that he’d come.
He was back on the trail, his heart in his throat, before he remembered to shout for her. “Margo! Was that you? Answer me, damn it! Margo!”
But God—God. Matilda, if she was there, had not seemed to hear their shouting. Perhaps Margo would not hear him either. She would not know he was coming for her. Christ, Margo could be calling out for him right now, and he would not know it.
He made himself stop, think. Listen for her.
“Margo!” he shouted again. “Can you hear me?”
He waited, refusing to breathe, until his lungs burned with the effort, his chest tightening with the need for air. If she had responded, he could not hear her.
He inched down the trail she had taken, shouting Margo’s name and pausing in between to listen for her response. He wanted to run—to pray—but instead he made himself walk softly so that his footsteps would not overshadow the sound of her voice.
And then, halfway back to the waterfall, he heard her.
“Henry?”
Her voice sounded calm, blessedly calm. “Margo! Where are you?”
“Just off the path—by the big oaks. What are you—”
He couldn’t make out the rest of her words. He was off the path and around the trees, mindlessly searching for her small form, the red beacon of her hair. When he finally spotted her, twenty paces away, her green dress flirting with the shadows, he wasn’t quite sure how he crossed the distance between them. He was by the trees, then suddenly he had her in his arms.
She squeaked.
“Tell me you’re all right.” He said it into her hair, breathing her in as his hands searched her body. “Tell me you’re not hurt.”
She pulled herself free—or half-free at least, enough to look him in the eye. “I’m not hurt. I’m perfectly well. Henry, what on Earth—”
He dragged her back into his arms and pressed his face into the curve of her neck. “Oh Christ. Margo. I heard a crash. I heard you scream.”
She wiggled, but he could not let her go. Not yet. Not until every part of his body had felt every part of hers. Until his body knew her to be safe.
“I climbed a tree,” she explained, “to see if I could spot Matilda. I thought perhaps they’d wandered farther than we’d imagined. Unfortunately, I chose an entirely unsatisfactory tree to climb, and the thing nearly came down on my head.”
“It didn’t—”
“No. It didn’t. I told you, Henry, I’m perfectly well. I’m sorry you were frightened—I never expected that you would hear me.”
Now he pulled back, just enough to give her shoulders a little shake. “Damn it, Margo, you took ten years off my life.”
Her face was flushed pink, her lips a cherry-colored curve. Where fear had been, coiled in his chest and sparking in his brain, new feelings rose instead. Hotter. Darker.
Her chin tipped back, a familiar gesture of defiance. “You didn’t need to come after me. I was fine.”
“I didn’t need to—” His fingers were tight on her upper arms, and she was so fragile, her flesh yielding beneath him. It made him furious, blackly furious—he couldn’t think. “You could have been killed!”
