"Kristine Kathryn Rusch - Incident at Lonely Rocks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

a rope to themselves.
He watched her, his mouth dry.
Then she gripped the cord, much like he was, and tugged just a little. He
started to pull, but as he did, she placed her feet on the cliffside wall and climbed
like she’d done this before.
She was using his strength and his balance to give her a foundation, but she
was pulling herself up. One hand over the other, one step at a time, she was coming
up that hillside.
He kept the cord taut, praying it wouldn’t separate, praying he had the right
ones—the ones that wouldn’t fray.
What if they frayed whenever pressure was applied to them?
God, he had to make that voice in his head shut up. He hadn’t realized how
very annoying it was until now.
The woman stopped halfway and shook one of her hands like it hurt. He bit
his lower lip, tasting blood.
C’mon, honey, he thought. Just a little more.
He didn’t want to pull and dislodge her.
She put her hand back on the cord and continued, shaking that hand whenever
it wasn’t the dominant one.
 As she got closer, he realized she wasn’t as young as he thought. Her face
had that unnatural thinness that middle-aged smokers or those weird vegetarians who
didn’t eat anything good or people with cancer had. Her skin was tan and sallow at
the same time, but he figured that might be because she had been on the ledge. Her
hair was tangled with leaves and brush and dirt.
He could hear her breathe, which reminded him to do it. He breathed, feeling
the strain in his back as she got closer.
Finally she was within his reach. He bent over the guard rail—metal poking
into his stomach—and offered her his hand. He had as firm a grip as he could on the
cord with his other hand.
She looked at it, like she was unwilling to let go of the cord. Then she let go
with her bad hand and reached toward his, missing his fingers entirely and clamping
onto his wrist.
He had no choice but to take her wrist. Considering how wet her hand felt
against his skin, this was a better choice. No sliding apart—no bad movie moment
when their hands touch and then separate, followed by a scream as she fell to her
death.
He tugged, the muscles in his back pulling as he yanked her from an odd
angle. She scrambled up the side, collapsed against the guard rail, and let him pull
her over it.
He had to grab onto her belt to do it. They fell backward. He took the brunt
of the fall, landing on asphalt and still-wrapped cord. Pain shuddered through him,
the familiar pain of a bad tackle, and his eyes watered.
She lay on top of him, and for a minute, he wondered if he’d hurt her. Then
she rolled off and let out a huge sigh.
“Oh God,” she said in a curiously flat tone. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he lied. He wanted to stay on his back, but he didn’t dare. As Coach
Stevens used to say, only babies rested.
He sat up. She was peering at him as if she didn’t quite recognize him, as if
she didn’t remember what he had done.
He smiled reassuringly, but she didn’t smile back. Instead, she wiped at her