Page 13 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

13

DANGLING BY A STURDY THREAD

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F landers fought sleep like the enemy it was. He'd never been one to nod off during his turn at watch, and that was precisely what this was. Watching for a miracle with death looming at dawn. But the warmth of Brigid against his side, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and the exhaustion of the past two days without sleep conspired against him.

His eyelids fell like heavy stones and he struggled to lift them again. He blinked rapidly, then pinched his thigh and rolled his shoulders. Anything to stay alert.

The stars above the pit shifted slowly, marking the passage of time and causing his eyes to lose focus. He counted them, named them, tried to remember the stories James had told him about the clusters and patterns. Anything to keep his mind working.

But in the end, sleep ambushed him from behind.

He woke with a start, disoriented. How long had he been unconscious?

The pit was alive with silent movement—shadowy figures shifted in the darkness. For a moment, he thought they might be under attack, but then he saw the women were moving with purpose, not panic.

Brigid’s heat still lingered beneath his arm, but he couldn’t see her. He reached out and caught the feel of her hair, wrapped his hand around her arm.

She started. "What's happening?"

He finally made out her precious face. "Our friends have returned."

A wooden pole, sawn lengthwise, had been lowered into the pit, its surface wrapped with rope at intervals to provide handholds. Above, silhouetted against the night sky, he could make out several heads peering down.

"They're getting us out.”

One by one, the women approached the pole. The youngest lass shimmied up with surprising speed. Another woman followed. Then another. A steady stream, like ants marching up a stick.

These weren't pampered ladies but working women, their bodies strong and capable.

He positioned himself beneath the pole, ready to catch anyone who might fall, but none did. They climbed with the agility of squirrels, disappearing over the edge of the pit where helping hands pulled them to safety.

Soon, only Gerts and Brigid remained.

Brigid stepped aside. "Yer turn.”

The older woman shook her head, her face pale even in the darkness. "I cannot."

Flanders smiled kindly. "But ye must."

"I shall fall. I ken I will!"

"Then I shall catch ye."

She shook her head again, more firmly this time. "I cannot balance on something so narrow. High places turn my legs to water."

Above, the face of Wolfy’s father appeared and he hissed, "What's the delay?"

"She's afraid," Flanders called up.

A long moment later, a rope snaked down into the hole with a large loop tied at the end. Flanders caught it and turned to Gerts. "Up with yer arms, then."

With quaking hands, she did as she was told. He looped the rope around her middle and tied it securely. "Now, hold tight. They'll pull ye up."

She gripped just above her head, her eyes still pleading. "I'll fall."

"Ye won't. The rope will hold. And they will not let go."

With a nod to the men above, Flanders watched as they began to haul Gerts upward. She let out a squeak of terror as her feet left the ground, her body swinging wildly as she tried to find purchase against the pole.

"Stop kicking," Flanders hissed. "Just hang still."

But Gerts couldn't help herself. Her feet danced a frantic jig in midair, sometimes connecting with the pole, sometimes missing entirely as her body rolled back and forth against the wall. Each impact sent her in a new direction, at times, her body twirled like a leaf on a string.

"Sweet Odin's beard," she gasped, her voice a strangled whisper. "I shall surely die!”

"Ye're ten feet off the ground," Flanders countered. "Hardly in danger."

Her legs continued their mad dance, and she let out another squeak as she spun again.

"Up is all that matters, woman. Ye’re doin’…fine.” He tried very hard not to laugh, but it wasn’t easy, despite their dire situation. He wondered if she’d ever get her wide eyes shut again.

Brigid pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling her own mirth.

Finally, Gerts reached the top, where strong hands grabbed her arms and hauled her out of sight.

"Yer turn," Flanders said.

Brigid approached the pole, but he caught her arm and pulled her back to him. "Be careful," he said, suddenly terrified to let her go. Then he kissed her, hard and sure. If it was his only chance, he wanted her to remember it.

Her response was just as fierce. Then she pulled back and sought his eyes. "Let’s get out of this hole, aye? Then I’ll thank ye to do that again."

His heart hammered against his ribs as she began to climb. Each movement she made drove him mad. She moved too slowly. She moved too fast.

She would fall!

She would get caught!

Something would happen and he’d be the only one left behind. This was all just too good to be believed. Surely, Heslington was waiting at the top, toying with his hopes, poised to dash them to bits.

Odin save him, he would lose his mind before the night was over.

Brigid reached the top and hands reached for her. Then she was gone and all was silent. Too silent. Deathly silent.

Wolfy’s father looked for him, then waved impatiently.

Flanders retreated, got a running start, and hurried up the pole barely touching it with his hands. He vaulted over the top and landed with his feet apart, prepared for an attack. But it wasn’t Heslington waiting for him….