Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [89]
“What’s that?” He pointed to the tall A-frame structure at the pinnacle of the hill behind them.
“The bell tower.” She tugged on his hand leading him toward it, aware that was the spot Tommy had first kissed Laura, the recollection strong in her consciousness.
Sadly, the fifteen-foot tower was now neglected, same as all the support and maintenance areas of the whole complex. Benches had been built into either side of the open A-frame, where people could sit and wait for the lockmaster. She explained, “Anyone wanting to be locked through, landed and rang the bell, and eventually the lockmaster came and would start the locking process. People going downriver would pull in, then the water would lower and the gates opened on that level. Those coming upriver entered and had to wait while the lock filled. I can recall swimming here and having to get out while the barges were passing through, how dangerous the water was rushing from—”
Asha caught herself. She realized she’d never seen a barge locking through. But Laura had. Jago never said a word. Even so, she saw comprehension in his eyes. She wondered if he felt any of the past that swirled about them like the mist conjured by the falls. The air was so laden with moisture; it beat down upon them like rain, mixing with the tears that trickled down her cheeks.
He pulled her to him, kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead and each eyelid in turn, in a quiet desperation that touched her soul. Then his mouth claimed hers again, this time with searing passion, and something gentler: the rare, elusive power of love—their love and Tommy and Laura’s. He backed her against a rounded column of the tower and kissed her.
The beauty, the poignancy lanced her heart.
Suddenly the bell rang out, causing them to break apart. Curious, they glanced up, wondering what had set the old metal clapper to sounding. The pull-rope had long ago broken off, dry-rotted with age and exposure; someone would have to stand on the bench to reach it. Looking at the wooden planks, it was doubtful they would hold weight. The breeze was not strong enough to move the heavy bell.
Shaking his head in perplexity, Jago turned her to face the waterfall. He locked his arms about her, flexed his strong muscles and pulled her back tightly against his chest. For several minutes they just stood like that, him rubbing his cheek against the side of her head. Swaying slightly, they soaked up the contentment of being with each other, and just enjoyed the sound of the falls.
“What’s on the other side?” He leaned his head, his mouth next to her ear and nodded toward the cliffs of the far bank. “Up there?” His tone was casual, but she picked up a sense of quiet purpose within the words.
“Just the cliffs. Men often get dropped there, so they can fish from the ledges. Others tie up where we did and then walk across the waterfall.”
“You’re kidding. What madness is that?”
“Crossing as you see it now, you’d be swept over. It’d be a miracle if you didn’t die. However, during summer the water often gets so low you see the riverbed on the upper pool. I’ve seen it where the bottom is showing about a third of the way from this shore. When it gets like that, there’s no flow over the weir. No falls. There’s a service path, a lip along the front of it; you can easily cross then. Sometimes, men are foolish enough to walk that with the water running high. But with the force of that water—millions of gallons a day—you don’t play with it.”
“What’s behind the cliffs?”
“A forest.”
“And beyond the forest?”
“Farmland along Highway 27. I should imagine that’s near the Buena Vista turnoff.”
“Bue-nah viztah? Don’t you mean bwe-nah vees-tah,” he teased about the way the locals pronounced names.
She smiled. “I was here visiting mum once at the lodge, and they had tornado warnings on the radio. The announcer was new to the area, and he gave the alarm for Garrod County, with the normal French pronunciation. The DJ came on and said to tell them it was Gar-rod County, with the hard