Sanctuary

for air. “In the water, I saw—I’m losing my mind, Nathan. I can’t hold on to it.”
    “Yes, you can.” Desperately he pulled her close. “You can hold on to me. Just hold on to me.” As she shuddered against him, he looked down grimly at the surface of the river.
    And saw the pale ghost staring up at him.
    “Jesus God.” His arms tightened convulsively on Jo. Then he shoved her back and slid heedlessly into the rising river. “She’s in here,” he shouted, grabbing on to a downed limb to keep himself from being swept clear. “Give me a hand with her.”
    “What?”
    “You’re not losing your mind.” Panting with the effort, Nathan reached out with his free hand and gripped hair. “There’s someone in here! Help me get her out.”
    “Oh, my God.” Without hesitation now, Jo bellied up to the edge, fighting to anchor her toes in the slippery bank. “Give me your hand, Nathan. Try to hold on to her and I’ll help pull you up. Is she alive? Is she breathing?”
    He’d gotten a closer look now, a clearer look. And his stomach lurched with horror and pity. The river hadn’t been kind. “No.” He spoke flatly, shifting his grip on the limb. His gaze lifted to Jo’s. “No, she’s not alive. I’ll hold on here, keep her from going downriver. You get to Sanctuary for help.”
    She was calm now, cold and calm. “We’ll get her out together,” she said and stretched out her hand.

TWENTY-FOUR
    I T was a hideous, grisly task. Twice Nathan lost his grip as he tried to free Susan Peters’s hair from the spearing branches that had trapped her body. He went under, fiercely blanking out his mind when her arms knocked into his belly. He could hear Jo calling him, concentrated on the desperate calm in her voice, as together they struggled to free what was left of Susan from the river.
    Ignoring her lurching stomach, Jo slid farther over the bank, with the water lapping and rushing over her chin when she hooked her arms under the body. Her breath came short and shallow as for one gutwrenching moment she was face-to-face with death.
    She knew the shutter in her mind had clicked, capturing the image, preserving it. Making it part of her forever.
    Then she hauled, grunting, digging knees and feet into the soggy ground. She let the body roll, couldn’t bear even to watch. She thrust her hands out, felt Nathan’s grip them, slip, clutch again. When he was chest-high out of the water, squirming his way free from the river, she rolled away and retched.
    “Go back to the cottage.” He coughed violently, spat to clear the taste of river and death from his mouth.
    “I’ll be all right.” She rocked back on her heels, felt the first hot tears flow down her icy cheeks. “I just need a minute. I’ll be all right.”
    She had no more color than what they had pulled from the river did, and she was shaking so hard he was surprised he couldn’t hear her bones clattering. “Go back to the cottage. You need dry clothes.” He closed a hand over hers. “You have to call Sanctuary for help. We can’t leave her like this, Jo.”
    “No. No, you’re right.” Steeling herself, she turned her head. The body was paste gray and bloated, the hair dark and matted and slick with debris. But she had once been a woman. “I’ll get something to cover her. I’ll get her a blanket.”
    “Can you make it on your own?”
    She nodded, and though her body felt hollowed out and frighteningly brittle, she pushed herself to her feet. She looked down at him. His face was pale and filthy, his eyes reddened from the water. She thought of the way he’d gone into the angry river, without hesitation, without a thought for anything but what needed to be done.
    “Nathan.”
    He used the heel of his hand to wipe the mud off his chin, and the gesture was sharp. “What?”
    “Nothing,” she murmured. “Later.”
    He waited until he heard her footsteps recede, waited until he heard nothing but the roar of the river and the thud of his own laboring heart. Then he pulled himself over to the body, forced himself to turn it, to look. She’d been pretty once—he knew that. She would never be pretty again. Gritting his teeth, he touched her, easing her head to the side until he could see, until he could be sure.
    There, scoring her neck, were livid red bruises. He snatched his hand away, drew up his knees and pressed his face into the filthy denim of his jeans.
    Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus. What was happening here?
    Fear was worse