Page 14 of Cry of the Wild

  "Can grizzlies climb trees?"

  He grimaced. "They usually just knock them down." He settled somber dark eyes on hers. "If we run across a bear, drop to the ground, pull yourself into the fetal position, tuck your head under your arms and play dead. If it mauls you, try not to move or cry out. If you're lucky, after a while, it'll grow bored and leave you alone."

  "And if I'm not lucky?"

  Sam's response to that was to scan the woods again. The worried look on his face was answer enough for Crysta.

  Chapter Nine

  During the return trip to the lodge, Crysta's legs grew quivery with exhaustion. The slightest projection in her path caught the toe of her sneaker, making her stumble.

  With no warning, Sam touched her elbow and nodded toward a grassy sweep of high ground. "I need to take five."

  He sat down and she stumbled after him, drooping to the ground like an overcooked strand of spaghetti. Despite the breeze coming off the water, her face felt hot, her forehead filmed with sweat. Sam stretched out on his back, head on his folded arms. With far less grace, she flopped over on her stomach.

  She knew he had stopped not for himself, but for her. His legs were accustomed to long treks; hers were not. She drew a shaky breath, running her parched tongue over dry lips, longing for a drink. The river water looked too muddy for consumption.

  As if he had read her mind, Sam removed a small flask from his belt and offered it to her. "Care to wet your whis­tle?"

  Crysta uncapped the canteen and took a drink. After wiping the mouth of the container, she handed it back to him and watched as he took a long swallow and sighed with satisfaction.

  "You okay?" he asked as he clipped the canteen back onto his belt. "This is quite a trek for someone not used to it."

  After she had tried so hard to keep up with him, the husky concern in his voice pricked her pride. "I'm fine. How about you?"

  The comeback was ridiculous. He would have to be blind not to see how trembly her muscles were. However, just be­cause her body had given out on her didn't mean she should lose her sense of humor. "If you don't think you can make it the rest of the way, I'll let you lean on me," she offered.

  She heard a choked laugh. "I appreciate that."

  Abandoning pretense, she rolled onto her side and tipped her head back to study his profile. Against the backdrop of thick grass and swaying Cottonwood, he struck a contrast to the wildness, yet seemed strangely a part of it. "Are we walking uphill?" she asked.

  "The incline is pretty slight."

  "Tell my legs that." -

  His firm lips inched into a wry grin. "I'm sorry. I should have stopped sooner. I had my mind on other things."

  Crysta wished her own thoughts could transcend the physical. The last mile or so, even her obsessive musings about Derrick had dimmed, edged out by muscle fatigue and the struggle to keep waling. "What other things?"

  "Derrick's papers. I've gone through at least half of them, possibly more. My instincts fell me there's something there, something I'm missing." He closed his eyes. "There has to be something. It's our only chance."

  Crysta made a fist in the grass, giving the tender shoots a twist. The bittersweet smell drifted to her nostrils, making her think of the times in high school when she had tussled with Derrick on their front lawn while he practiced his wrestling moves. The memories brought a lump to her throat. She needed to share the pain and seek reassurance.

  Since their talk at the site of the alleged bear attack, Crysta felt more at ease with Sam. She had revealed a side of herself she seldom shared with anyone, and he hadn't mocked her.

  "Sam, tell me honestly, do you think Derrick's dead?"

  He turned his head to look at her. "I did. Now that you've told me about your dreams, I'm not so sure." As if he sensed how desperately she needed a friend's assurances just now, his eyes softened, delving deeply into hers. "If he's contacting you, he can't be dead, can he?"

  "That's just it. Since I had that dream last night, he hasn't." A shiver coursed through her, cold as death. "There's just silence now—an awful silence. For as long as I can remember, I've always felt him. I can't explain. I sup­pose you think I'm insane. It's part of me I don't often share. People—even those I thought were good friends- tend to shun me if I talk about it." Her mouth trembled as she tried to form the next words. "I can't feel anything, Sam. It's as if Derrick's gone."

  "I don't think you're insane." His voice turned gravelly, but it soothed her in some indefinable way. "And even if I did, what difference would it make? Those people you thought were friends? You're you, Crysta. Your feelings, your relationship with Derrick, the telepathy thing—that's all uniquely you. Anyone who shuns you for being yourself isn't worth your time."

  "I'm frightened," she whispered.

  "I know you are."

  Such a simple answer, yet somehow, it was exactly what she had needed him to say. No judgments, no analytical preaching, no cruel gibes. She hadn't expected him to un­derstand, and perhaps he didn't. Maybe no one could. But that wasn't important. What counted was that Sam ac­cepted her as she was.

  She had been longing for a friend. Now she realized she had one. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Thank you for that."

  It might have been a silly thing to say, given his response, but he seemed to understand. He shifted onto his side and placed a hand on her cheek, his fingertips feathering lightly over her ear and the tendrils of hair at her temple. As re­cently as this morning, Crysta probably would have pulled away. But now the familiarity seemed right. She supposed circumstances might be fostering emotions between them that they might not feel at another time—Derrick's best friend and his sister, drawn together by fear and grief—but it didn't seem like that.

  His hand was large, warm, heavy. Even though she knew he only meant to comfort her, his touch made her skin tin­gle. She let her eyelashes drift closed, absorbing the solidness of him. He said nothing. When she thought about that, she realized there was very little else he could say. His touch was enough. It helped to know that he cared, even though he couldn't comprehend.

  "Maybe he's unconscious," she whispered raggedly.

  "Maybe," he agreed. "Or too exhausted to communi­cate. You're weary, too. That has to have some bearing."

  She was glad for his seeming acceptance, but she still had to face the reality that the channel of communication be­tween her and Derrick had gone dead. She might need to assimilate, deal with and accept what that might mean.

  "I love him more than a sister usually loves a brother. I guess it's not true of all twins, but with us, there's a close­ness, a sense of oneness." She opened her eyes. "Even when we fought, as brothers and sisters always will, the bond was there between us."

  "I know. Derrick and I go back a long way. I could tell you two had something special, just by the way he spoke of you."

  "I need to call my mother, update her. I'm not sure what I should say." Her throat closed around the words, making them sound tinny. "If he's dead, how will I—"

  Sam moved his arm slightly, his thumb grazing her lips to silence her. "Crysta, if he is dead, your mom will deal with it. You'll both survive and go on living, just like everyone else who's lost someone dear. Until you know for sure, though, you have to concentrate on finding him. Not on what people might think. Not on what you should tell your mom."

  She took a deep, steadying breath. "You're right. I know you are. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be." He withdrew his hand from her cheek and sat up, looping his arms around his knees. The wind ruf­fled his dark hair. "You're handling this better than most people would. If the roles were reversed, Derrick would be over the edge."

  Crysta pushed to a sitting position, keeping an arm braced behind her. "Yes, Derrick was—" She broke off, shattered that she was referring to her brother in the past tense. "He isn't so strong sometimes. Especially not since his breakup with Eileen. Emotionally, he's been walking a tightrope, and sometimes he—he loses his footing." Brushing hair from her
eyes, she stared hard at the river, still fighting tears. "He changed after she left. Then there was the car wreck.... Without Eileen, the only comfort he seemed able to find was at the bottom of a bottle." She glanced sideways at Sam. "You knew him then, didn't you?"

  "Yes. I visited him at the hospital, in fact. Drinking and driving. I couldn't believe it when I found out."

  "I'm surprised we didn't run into each other. I practi­cally lived outside the intensive care unit."

  "If I remember correctly, you had gone to pick up your husband at the airport that afternoon. We probably just missed each other. I didn't get to visit Derrick for long. I was lucky even to get in, not being a relative, but they made an exception because I'd come so far."

  Unpleasant memories assailed Crysta. Now that Sam mentioned it, she recalled that afternoon vividly—the grudging trip she'd made to the airport to pick up Dick, their ensuing argument over Derrick, Dick's ultimatum. She had been forced to make a choice that afternoon, a choice no woman should ever have to make.

  The memories still hurt, not because of any undying love for Dick—bitterness had killed that long ago—but because a marriage that should have been strong had crumbled. Crysta knew Dick had tried his best, and so had she. The problem was that no marriage could survive the intrusion of a third party, and Derrick had intruded constantly.

  Facing those memories now was too much for Crysta. She shoved unsteadily to her feet. "I'm rested enough to go on."

  Sam rose beside her, his eyes hooded. Crysta wondered if he already knew why her marriage to Dick had failed. Had Derrick told him? Unsettled by the thought, she struck off walking.

  Sam fell in beside her, setting his stride to match hers. The silence between them, at first uncomfortable, slowly mel­lowed. Then, without warning, Sam grabbed her hand fiercely. Crysta spun to a stop to find Sam looking over his shoulder. Tension radiated from him. His gaze, alert and suspicious, scanned the woods. Then, so slowly the move­ment was almost imperceptible, he stepped between her and the brush.

  "Wha—what is it?" she whispered. Envisioning a hun­gry grizzly, she clutched the back of his shirt and instinc­tively moved closer to him. "Did you hear something?"

  He motioned for her to be quiet. Crysta stared into the trees, afraid on the one hand, yet not nearly as frightened as she might have been had he not been there. After a mo­ment, he relaxed and resumed walking, keeping his hold on her hand.

  "My imagination, I guess. I thought I heard some­thing."

  Crysta had heard nothing. "A small animal, do you think?"

  He smiled. "Probably. I've gone so long without sleep, I must be getting wired. Jumping at shadows."

  His hand, callused and warm, tightened around hers. Crysta fell into step with him, acutely aware that the pace he had set was a comfortable one for her.

  Touched by his regard, she returned the pressure of his grip. He glanced up from his study of the ground ahead of them, his dark eyes molten and probing. The impact made her miss a step. He hauled back on her hand to keep her from stumbling, which brought her hip into contact with his thigh. Awareness once again crackled between them. She knew he felt it by the sudden tightening around his mouth. This time, though, he didn't increase his pace to put dis­tance between them, and he didn't pretend nothing had happened.

  Her heart picked up speed. This was crazy. And to say it was bad timing was an understatement. Sam Barrister wasn't her type, and she wasn't his. An Alaskan lodge owner and a fashion consultant? Ludicrous. So why was she feel­ing such a strong pull toward him?

  Crysta had no answer and no energy to explore her emo­tions to find one. Derrick was all that mattered. She couldn't lose sight of that.

  Todd Shriver's Cessna was floating up to the island when Sam and Crysta rounded the last bend in the river before reaching the lodge.

  "Looks like Shriver brought Riley back with him. I swear, Riley could keep every pilot in the area going with all the flights he makes."

  Crysta cupped her hand over her eyes, trying to spot the redheaded warehouse supervisor. "This morning he said he had to go on a beer run."

  "He does that frequently."

  "Does he have a drinking problem?"

  "I'm not sure drinking is the word. Guzzling might bet­ter describe what ails him. At any rate, the luggage restric­tions on the pontoon planes make it impossible for him to bring in more than one case of beer per trip, so he quite of­ten runs low and flies back to town for more."

  "How can he afford the air fare?"

  "His father died recently. I understand he inherited a substantial amount of money."

  Crysta wrinkled her nose. "It won't last long."

  "Nope, but that's not my business. I give him discounts because he stays here so much and brings so many friends. Maybe Shriver and the other pilots give him special deals, too."

  The sound of voices drifted on the air to them. Crysta veered toward the lodge, envisioning a tall glass of water and a thick sandwich. She tried not to think about her upcom­ing telephone conversation with her mother; some things were better left until you had to face them. No use borrow­ing trouble, as Ellen would say.

  "Hey, Barrister!" a masculine voice called.

  Crysta drew up beside Sam, watching as Todd Shriver came toward them, long legs scissoring along the muddy bank. Upon reaching them, the pilot passed an arm over his forehead, laughing and out of breath. "Guess I'm not as young as I used to be."

  Looking at him, Crysta tried to catalog his features to decide what it was about him that bothered her. He had an infectious smile, and he was quite friendly. For want of a better explanation, she decided it was not so much his looks, which were above average, but the fact that his face had no character lines. Lines upon the face were like words upon a page; they made a statement. Her tastes ran to men who were a bit older, she decided, with features that bore the marks of their emotions. Laughter, tears. A man or woman had no real depth until they had experienced the heights of happiness and the depths of despair. Evidently Todd still had all of that ahead of him.

  "Are any of us as young as we used to be?" Sam flexed his shoulders, making no attempt to hide his own exhaus­tion. "We've been on a long walk, Todd. Right now, we'd kill for a glass of water. Can it wait until later?''

  Todd's grin faded, and he turned his ice-blue gaze on Crysta. "Sure, no problem. Fact is, I'm staying over to do some fishing, so I'll be around longer than usual. Before we took off downriver in the boat, I wanted to offer my con­dolences to you, Ms. Meyers. I heard about what the searchers found." He shook his head. "A bear—can you believe it? And to Derrick, of all people."

  "It can happen to the best," Sam countered, his gaze in­tent on Shriver's youthful face. "Not often in these parts, though."

  "Which makes it all the more a shame. Why here? Why him? I'm really sorry." Todd inclined his head toward Crysta. "You can't know how much."

  Crysta noticed that the pilot kept glancing toward the river, as if he was worried that he might miss his fishing ex­pedition. She wanted to accept his condolences graciously, but part of her couldn't. Like Steve Henderson, she found it difficult to accept that other people went on enjoying life when her own was being torn apart. She supposed it was self-centered of her. To Todd Shriver, Derrick had been an acquaintance, nothing more.

  "I appreciate your concern," she said. "But let's not forget that his body hasn't been found. I still have hope."

  "I don't blame you there. Never give up hope." Shriver flashed a slow smile, calculated, she was sure, to make her pulse escalate. "And like I said before, if you need me to fly you around, it'll only cost you for the fuel." Glancing to­ward the river, he retreated a step. "Better go before all the boats leave without me."

  As Shriver walked off, Crysta gazed after him. More to herself than to Sam, she whispered, "Was I ever that care­free? Right now, the most important thing on his agenda is catching the biggest fish. There's a little-boy quality about him, isn't there?"

  "Shriver?" Sam
threw her a disbelieving look. "Most of my female guests go cow-eyed when he comes on to them like that."

  She shrugged. "Fish, women. To fellows like him, both are candidates for the trophy rack."

  Sam laughed, a little uneasily, she thought. "And what a way to go?"

  Crysta angled a grin at him. "Looks only run skin-deep. He's a little too young for my taste. Life's still nothing but a big game to him."

  Sam's answering grin warmed his dark eyes. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he pressed her into a walk. "He's not a bad fellow. It's nice to know, though, that not all women fall for a pretty fare. There's hope for guys like me, after all."

  Crysta threw him a sharp glance. Surely a man as hand­some as Sam couldn't truly believe himself to be homely. "Do you?" she countered. "Fall for a pretty face, I mean."

  He studied her. "Only if it belongs to an especially nice lady."

  The response, coupled with the intensity in his eyes, brought a rush of heat to Crysta's cheeks, and she quickly glanced at the ground to hide her discomfiture.

  While Sam stopped by the kitchen and asked Jangles to bring them a plate of sandwiches, Crysta put in a call to her mother, dreading the moment when she would have to ad­mit that she still had no idea where Derrick was. When her aunt Eva answered and explained that Ellen was asleep, Crysta sagged with relief. Being careful not to mention ei­ther of her dreams about Derrick, Crysta updated Eva on the situation.

  "I wouldn't mention the bear theory to Mom," Crysta warned. "I'm convinced Derrick's still alive, and hearing that would only upset her. Just tell her I've arrived, and that I'm—" Crysta broke off. "Tell her I'm doing everything possible to find him."

  "You worry too much about your mother's health. Sometimes I think she uses that heart condition of hers to manipulate you. One minute she's having an angina attack, and the next she's eating bonbons. I'm four years her se­nior, you know, and I have a heart condition, too. You don't see me clutching my chest every time things don't go my way."