The Waterfall by Carla Neggers

huge maple, her binoculars slung around her neck. It was a perfect climbing tree. Up high in its branches, she would have a tremendous view. She could perch up there and bird-watch, enjoy her solitude.
    What the hell, she thought, and with both hands, she reached up and grabbed hold of the lowest branch. She’d always loved climbing trees as a kid growing up in suburban Virginia.
    When she lived in Washington, she’d had a job organizing unique trips for a Washington museum, and it had seemed such a natural way to combine her degree in anthropology with her love of the outdoors. She’d discovered a passion and a talent for understanding what people wanted and translating it into trips they couldn’t stop thinking about once they opened up one of her brochures, something that had served her well when she’d decided to go out on her own. Many of her Washington clients had followed her into her own business.
    She swung onto a low branch and climbed higher, the maple’s rough bark biting into her hands. Bark had never bothered her at twelve. She moved carefully, having no desire to fall out of a damn tree on her evening off.
    She found the perfect branch and sat down, her feet dangling. Even without binoculars, the view was spectacular—woods, fields, stone walls, brook, her yellow farmhouse tucked on its narrow stretch of reasonably flat land. Not too far from here, Calvin Coolidge was buried in a hillside cemetery so as not to take up precious flat land for farms.
    Balancing herself with one hand on the tree trunk, Lucy removed the binoculars from her neck. Maybe she’d see a hawk floating in the hazy sky.
    But as she put the binoculars to her eyes, she heard something in the woods around her. She went very still. The noise didn’t sound like a squirrel or a chipmunk, or even a deer. A moose? The pre-Wyoming incidents came back to her, making her question what she would ordinarily take in stride. A noise in the woods. Big deal.
    Without making a sound, she swiveled around to see what was under and behind her. Brush. More trees.
    And Sebastian Redwing.
    She gulped in a breath, so startled she lost her balance. Her binoculars flew out of her hand as she grabbed the tree trunk to keep herself from falling.
    The binoculars just missed Sebastian’s head. He caught them with one hand and looked up. “Trying to kill me, Lucy?”
    â€œIt’s a thought.” She caught her breath, but was still shaking. “Damn it, Redwing, what the hell are you doing here?”
    â€œYou wanted my help. Here I am.”
    The heat and humidity must have gotten to her. She was imagining things. Sebastian was konked out in his hammock in Wyoming with his dogs and horses. He wasn’t in Vermont.
    She swooped down to a lower branch and swung to the ground as if she were twelve again—forgetting she wasn’t. She dropped in a controlled but hard landing. Pain shot up her ankle. Her shirt flew up to her midriff. She swore.
    Sebastian wrapped an arm around her lower back, steadying her. She could feel his forearm on her hot skin.
    His gaze settled on her. “Easier going up than it is coming down.”
    â€œI’ve been climbing trees since I was a kid.”
    He smiled. “That’s bravado. You almost sprained an ankle, and you know it.”
    â€œThe key word is almost. My ankle’s fine.”
    If she’d injured herself, he’d have carted her off to the emergency room. There’d be no end to her humiliation.
    â€œWhat were you doing up there?” he asked mildly.
    â€œBird-watching.”
    â€œBirds have all hightailed it before the storm hits.”
    He still had his arm around her. “You can let go now,” she said.
    â€œYou’ve got your footing?”
    â€œYes.”
    He released her and took a step back. He wasn’t dusty. The dirty cowboy hat and scuffed cowboy boots were gone. He had on good-quality hiking clothes, including