Title Page
THE OLD FOOTBRIDGE creaked and groaned under her weight as she made her way in the darkness to the center where the water would be the deepest. She could hear the roar of the creek rushing beneath her, but she tried not to think about what she was about to do.
The Montana spring air had a sharp bite to it tonight. She shivered but kept walking, the bundle in her arms cradled protectively against her chest. The creek was much higher than the last time she’d been here and running much faster. She felt another shiver, this one from fear.
She’d forgotten the distance from the bridge to the creek’s surface. The water would be icy cold, stealing her breath away, as if that was the worst of her problems. For a moment, she looked downstream. All she could see was darkness. Large old cottonwood limbs leaned out over the stream, casting even blacker shadows over the inky water.
Tucker Cahill was late. Maybe he wasn’t coming. She wished he wouldn’t, but she knew this cowboy. He’d come. They always did.
Reaching the middle of the bridge, she stopped to wait. The wind was strong here. It swept her long blond hair into her eyes, but she didn’t dare let go of the bundle in her arms to brush it aside.
Instead, she stood, buffeted by the tempest of her emotions more than the rising gale. She knew that if she wasn’t careful she could lose her balance and be pitched into the water below before it was time. There was no railing on the footbridge. One misstep and she would be over the side, falling for what would seem like forever before she struck the powerful current and was swept away.
She glanced toward the opposite end of the bridge. What if he’d changed his mind about meeting her tonight? He was already suspicious. One clear thought surfaced as she waited. She didn’t want to do this anymore. Couldn’t. It had to stop—and it would—tonight.
Sensing Tucker, she glanced toward the shoreline and saw movement. She watched as seventeen-year-old Tucker Cahill made his way along the creek bank. The big handsome cowboy moved in long, determined strides. Of course he’d come, because he didn’t want to let her down. He was already that kind of man at seventeen. She felt a mixture of shame, anger and disgust.
