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Page 48
Her arms continued their sluggish stroking ahead of her. After what seemed like hours, her hand struck something solid. The pier!
She pulled her head from the water and sucked in a deep, welcome breath, practically gagging in relief. Wheezing to catch her breath, she looked around. The men in the bateau were still a distance offshore. "Hey!" one called. "She's on the bank."
At least she was better off than Matilda; the screenplay's heroine had been followed right behind by the ruffians.
Gasping for air, she dragged herself from the water. Her heavy, dripping skirt still weighed her down, keeping her from running as the men also reached the shore, not very far downstream.
No, she was not better off than Matilda.
Terrified, her heart hammering, she tried to think what to do. How could she hurry in her waterlogged clothes? Yet she didn't dare take the time to remove them. She had to run. But where? Along the shore? Into the woods?
And then she remembered.
This was the time in the screenplay that Thorn had come to Matilda's rescue, tall and broad-shouldered, aiming at the marauders with his Pennsylvania rifle.
There was hope.
"Help!" Mariah cried. Although there had been differences, much of what had, so far happened followed the screenplayeven if it had all occurred in her unconscious mind. Thorn would come. He had to.
Seeing the two men approaching, she sped into the thick of the great green forest ahead. Dead leaves carpeted the ground, and only a little light trickled in among the thick branches. She barely noticed the odor of moldering leaves, still fighting for breath as she tried to find a place to run, to hide.
"Help!" she cried again, her voice a mere whisper. "Please, Thorn."
And then, as if he'd heard her call him, there he was, standing directly before her in the forest. He was every bit as tall and wide-shouldered as she'd imagined him. His hair

 
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