Where Heaven Begins - By Bittner Page 0,85

and the tail coming to her knees. She was thankful for that much. She rolled up the cuffs and wrapped herself in the blanket again, holding it closed with one hand as she picked up her things with the other and came back around to the fire. “You can look now.”

Clint turned again, and the look of pure appreciation and desire in his eyes made Elizabeth’s blood flow surprisingly warm. She felt her cheeks burning.

“I’ll change into dry clothes and then rig up some kind of scaffolding that we can set over the top of the fire,” he told her, “away from the flames but close enough to catch the heat. We’ll lay everything on that.”

Elizabeth ducked inside the tent, quickly crawling inside her blankets. She waited while Clint changed into dry clothes, then worked outside building some kind of frame to hang their clothes on. It took nearly an hour before he ducked inside the tent and crawled into his own blankets.

“I built up the fire more. I’m just glad we actually found enough wood, considering how used up most things are on this trail.” He began coughing again. It took several seconds for him to stop.

“This is the worst thing that could have happened to you,” Elizabeth lamented.

“Well, my head hurts more than anything else. I washed off the blood as best I could.”

They faced each other. “You have quite an egg on your forehead. It’s purple and still bleeding some.”

“What about your back?”

“It hurts. I’m sure it’s just bruised. We’re very lucky, you know.”

Clint watched her lovingly. “I know.” He leaned closer to kiss her, then turned away, the cough returning. “Let’s get some rest.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, listening to the rushing waters nearby. So many miracles, she thought. God most certainly was hard at work keeping them safe.

Chapter Forty

Hear, O Lord, when I cry with my voice: Have mercy also upon me, and answer me.

—Psalms 27:7

A rainstorm kept us from breaking camp for another three days. Luckily our clothes dried almost completely from the heat of the fire that first night, before the downpour began.

Today is our third day back on the river. Clint’s cough is much worse, and he’s fevered again. He lay sick the entire time we were camped, and has been getting sicker ever since we left. I pray for him constantly, as in spite of his worsening condition, he continues to insist he can handle steerage while I watch Devil.

The rain has turned to snow, and it is getting very cold again. All either of us wants now is to make it to Dawson alive.

Elizabeth closed her diary and put it into one of Clint’s bags, as her own carpet bags were still missing. They would probably never be found. She would arrive in Dawson with literally nothing but the clothes on her back. Even her Bible was gone. Thank God she had, for some reason, shoved her diary into one of Clint’s bags before the accident on the rapids. It was damp, but intact.

“Let’s go!” Clint yelled.

Elizabeth grabbed hold of Devil’s reins again and hung on as Clint shoved the raft into the water.

Three more days. Men in a boat that had passed them going in the other direction yesterday had told them they were only about three days from Dawson. Now those three days seemed like an eternity. There was absolutely no time to spare. Clint’s face was flushed and his eyes bloodshot from fever, but he insisted on standing at the rudder and doing the steering while Elizabeth stayed beside Devil to keep him steadied.

Elizabeth was worried sick about Clint. He’d never really rested enough after being so sick back in Skagway. Now, having to weather the blowing snow and the searing cold of the water that splashed up and kept his pants damp could surely kill him in his condition. She thought it amazing that he was able to stand all day steering the raft, and she suspected he was only doing it out of a stubborn effort not to show any weakness in front of her. Besides that, they were both desperate just to finish their long, cold, tiresome, dangerous journey.

Twice she’d called out to others in passing boats to ask if one of them might be willing to help steer their raft so that Clint could rest, but none would help. All were too anxious to reach their pots of gold, and Elizabeth’s heart ached to think what little Christianity lay in the hearts of men

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