Lower California Crossing of the Platte River, June 1856

Icy-cold water crashed over Birk Macauley, sucking him down into the dark, murky Platte. The raging, snow-fed current shoved him downstream with gleeful abandon, seizing his clothing and boots, using the weight to hold him under. He kicked and thrashed uselessly. Terror filled him. Seconds ticked past; his lungs felt close to bursting. The waning light above his head taunted him. The surface. Air. So close. So far.

With a desperate kick he broke through the surface of his watery grave. Struggling to keep his head above water, he gulped great lungfuls of air and glanced around wildly for his wagon, but the swift-moving torrent swamped him, and pulled him ever farther downstream. He slapped his palms against the water’s surface, grasping for something—anything—to hold on to. His fingers slid through the frothy-white water as he tumbled in the arms of the capricious river. He suppressed the overwhelming need to breathe. A hazy gray film engulfed him. This was it. He was going to die.

Without warning, a hard object slammed into him. He gasped, drawing water into his lungs. Clutching the large log that had collided with him, Birk held on for dear life and rose to the surface, coughing, choking and spewing water. His chest and ribs ached, the rest of his body was numb with cold. He felt himself sliding off the log. Desperate, he clung to it, his cheek resting against its rough bark.

Tired, so tired. His vision blurred and his body shook uncontrollably, but inside raged a fury every bit as savage as the river carrying him farther from his wife. He cursed Eirica, shouted his fury into the growing darkness that surrounded him and left the banks shrouded in a cloak of gray mist.

Damn her. This was all her fault. Renewed disbelief swept through him. The bitch had defied him, left him while he slept off the effects of drinking too much rotgut the night before. How dare she? She and them brats belonged to him. His nails dug into the log, impervious to the pain. Curses and promises of retribution tore from his lips. It was her fault he’d been banished from the wagon train, her fault he’d been forced to cross the Platte unaided to fetch her and his children back.

In its frenzy, the river spun him dizzyingly around and around, using icy fingers to try and wrest his lifeline from him, but Birk hung on, cursing and fighting against the grip of death. The swells of dark water continued to slap at him as the last of the light faded, leaving him in the midst of a freezing watery hell. One thought echoed through his mind during the deepening night, giving him the strength to live: revenge. The bitch would pay.