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Dropping onto the closest stone, Bree stretched out. In that instant the current caught the still body and washed it beyond reach.
Filled with terror, Bree stood up and leaped into the river. With quick, powerful strokes she swam through the water. The moment she saw Tully's head, she reached down, caught his hair, and pulled him up. One hand under his arm and the other treading water, she kicked. When they broke the surface, she held up his head and kept kicking.
With one arm across his chest and swimming with the other, Bree started for shore. She had only one thought—getting Tully to breathe. But in that moment the full force of the current caught her. The powerful rush of water took them downstream.
Go with the current, Daddy had taught her. Don't fight it. Let it carry you toward shore. But time for Tully was running out. Her panic growing, Bree looked around for help.
The surrounding countryside lay empty, even of sheep. And now Bree faced another fear. How long could she hold him up?
Then, just as she started slipping under the water, she felt the river bottom. Setting down her feet, she found firm ground and headed for shore. With her last ounce of strength she dragged Tully onto a broad, flat rock.
As he lay on his stomach, Bree turned his face to one side and pounded his back. When Tully gagged, water poured from his mouth. Coughing, he started to breathe.
Relief stronger than any current poured through Bree. He'll live!
Then the boy raised his head. For the first time Bree caught a good look at his face. It isn't Tully!
A ripple of shock washed through her. If it's not Tully, who is it?
A red bruise on the boy's forehead marked the spot where he hit his head. Now his gasps for air became long gulps. Turning his head toward Bree, he muttered two words she didn't understand.
Puzzled, Bree watched the boy. Still catching her breath, she dropped down on the grassy bank next to him. Even her knees felt weak. Never had she felt so glad to touch the green sod of Ireland. Who could the boy possibly be?
On this side of the river, grass and stones gave way to steep hills. In the brief time they had been in the water, the sun had disappeared. A cloud of mist drifted between the mountains.
As though feeling the change in air, the boy rolled over and sat up. He seemed close to Bree's age, but the sun had given him a deep tan. His blond hair hung in a loose cut just below his ears. Most of all, Bree noticed his strong square jaw. Whoever this stranger was, she felt sure he wouldn't be afraid to express his opinions. But now his blue eyes looked confused.
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"What happened?" he asked.
"You fell and hit your head."
"Where am I?"
"On a river that flows to the Irish Sea."
"Who are you?" the boy asked.
He spoke in Norse, a language used by traders, and Bree answered the same way. Her father, a great Irish chieftain, was also a merchant who traded with people from other lands. From the time Bree and her older brother were little, their daddy had taught them to speak Norse.
Instead of giving her name, Bree jumped up. "There's a spring nearby. I'll get you water." Moving quickly up the hill, Bree reached the spring and found the clay cup left for any passerby. Filling it with water, she returned to the boy.
"Thank you," he said when he had drunk deeply.
Bree only nodded. She was angry now—angry at the danger this boy had caused. "What were you doing, crossing there when the river runs so high?"
"I could have made it."
Bree couldn't believe her ears. "Don't you understand what happened?"
"I'm a strong swimmer."
"You hit your head." Bree's voice curled around her words. "You weren't breathing."
When his angry gaze met hers, Bree's temper flared. "You would have drowned without me!"
"I swim every day."
The blue eyes had changed. Not so confused, Bree told herself, glad that he seemed to be returning to normal. But his voice held a swagger that upset Bree even more.
Watching him closely, Bree understood why she had thought the boy was Tully. The same blond hair and blue eyes. The same look of knowing what they want and going straight toward it. But there the similarity ended.
What is it? Bree asked herself. Then she knew. While Tully was always kind to her family, the look of this stranger was sharp, almost cold. Even now, after nearly drowning, he wore a prideful air.
"So where do you do all this swimming you're so proud of?" Bree asked.
For an instant the stranger didn't speak, as though thinking about his answer. Then his words came in a rush. "Around my home."
"And where is your home?" Bree had lived near the river all her life. She had never seen the stranger.
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