Cry of the Wild

  "So you haven't any idea what they were upset about?"

  "Even if I did, it wouldn't be my business to repeat it."

  She gave a shrug, feigning an unconcern she was far from feeling, questions burning within her. Pressing O'Keefe for answers right now might be unwise. He could relate her cu­riosity to Sam, forewarning the lodge owner that she knew he had quarreled with Derrick. Crysta preferred to spring that knowledge on Sam when he didn't know it was coming and when it might be to her advantage.

  She studied the trees, filled with resentment toward Sam, pretending she had run out of things to say. "Well, I guess I should at least try to sleep. It was nice talking to you, Mr. O'Keefe."

  "Same here. And, once again, I'm really sorry about your brother. He was a favorite around here, a real nature en­thusiast and a helluva nice man to work under. I'll miss him, in more ways than one."

  Crysta bit back a rebuttal. Derrick wasn't dead. She just knew he wasn't. Not yet.

  Chapter Six

  A delicious smell wafted to Crysta as she approached the lodge. Curious about who would be up cooking at this hour, she followed her nose, circling the building until she came upon a plump Indian woman busily placing trays of salmon on racks in a makeshift smokehouse. Though Crysta had little interest in salmon-smoking techniques, she was keenly interested in learning all she could about Derrick's last visit here. If this woman worked at the lodge, she might have answers to some of Crysta's questions.

  "Hello," Crysta called softly.

  Stooped over a burdensome tray, the woman turned slightly at the waist and fixed her black eyes on Crysta, her square face expressionless. Making no attempt to be friendly, she grunted and returned her attention to her work. She was bedecked in jewelry, her arms striped with colorful bangles, her neck with gaudy strands of beads and ivory pendants, her earlobes weighted with dangling ovals of scrimshaw. Even her black braid was interwoven with handmade jewelry.

  "I'm Derrick Meyers's sister."

  "I know who you are," the woman replied, her voice toneless.

  "You have me at a disadvantage."

  The woman ignored that.

  "If you know who I am, then you must know my brother."

  She graced Crysta with another glance. "I knew him."

  Crysta's heart caught, and she glanced uneasily at the ground, struck speechless by the woman's ill-concealed animosity. What reason could the Indian cook have for dis­liking her?

  "He would not want you here."

  The words were spoken so softly that Crysta almost thought she had imagined them. She looked up, confused and shaken. "Why do you say that?"

  "Because it is true. The Tlingit Indians speak only truth. You walk in the shadow of the great black bird, Crysta Meyers. Death is your companion. Go home. Back to the living. There is nothing for you here but sorrow—great sor­row."

  So she was a Tlingit. Crysta knew very little about the Alaskan tribes, but it seemed to her she had once read that the Tlingit hailed from the southeast section of the state. If so, this woman was a long way from where most of her people lived. "Wh—what do you mean?"

  "What I said. Go home." The woman returned her black gaze to the salmon racks. "Go now, before it is too late."

  With that, she closed the smokehouse door and walked toward the lodge, an emptied tray swinging in one hand, her colorful gathered skirt swirling around her plump calves, her braid bouncing along her spine. Crysta longed to pur­sue her and demand that she elaborate.

  She longed to but didn't. The people at Cottonwood Bend were not what they seemed. Sam Barrister had quarreled with her brother right before he disappeared. Now this In­dian woman spouted veiled threats. Crysta had a bad feel­ing, a very bad feeling.

  She circled the lodge and retrieved her bundle of cloth­ing. As she drew up at the front entrance, Sam Barrister was coming through the doorway. He was looking back over his shoulder and speaking to someone, so he didn't see her. Though Crysta tried, she couldn't sidestep him quickly enough to avoid a collision. Stunned, teeth snapping to­gether on impact, she dropped her clothes, staggered and would have fallen if not for Sam's quick reaction.

  Seizing her shoulders, he righted her. "Are you okay? I should have been watching where I was going."

  "I—" Crysta closed her eyes, then opened them, still disoriented. "I'm fine, just a little rattled."

  Focusing on the lodge owner's dark face, Crysta could have sworn his concern was genuine. His grip on her shoul­ders tightened, hinting at the leashed strength in his hands. She looked past his arm into the dimly lit lodge. "It seems to be my day for unsettling encounters. I just had a skir­mish with a Tlingit."

  "A Tlingit?" One of his eyebrows shot up. "Jangles?"

  "Is that her name? She was so busy trying to scare me, she didn't introduce herself."

  Sam's mouth quirked. Releasing her, he bent to pick up her clothes. "Don't mind Jangles. Her heart's in the right place. She's just a little abrupt at times."

  He called that abrupt? "She threatened me."

  "Jangles?" He looked amused by the thought. "That doesn't sound like her. Threatened how?"

  "She told me to go home, back to the living, before it was too late. Something about walking in shadows."

  Sam pressed the bundle of clothing into her arms, his ex­pression turning wry. There was something different about him, but she couldn't pinpoint what. She only knew he was even more attractive than she had first thought, which was unsettling, and she missed the comforting warmth of his hands on her shoulders, which was doubly so.

  "Probably her superstitious nature coming out," he of­fered. "Some of the natives are frightened by death or any dealings with it. Maybe she's afraid because you've come here searching for Derrick."

  "Are Tlingits particularly superstitious?"

  "Most Indian cultures are rife with superstitions."

  Crysta had to admire the neat way he had avoided giving her a direct answer. Somehow, she felt sure Sam knew as much about Tlingits as he did about Alaska. She wondered if he would be equally evasive when she cornered him about his quarrel with Derrick.

  Shoving the door open wider, he stepped aside to allow her through. "You're sure you're okay?"

  Crysta's mind raced, trying to sort the questions she wanted to ask him. All she could manage was a weak "I'm fine."

  Since she couldn't just leave him standing in such an awkward position, bracing the door open, she ducked un­der his arm, amazed, even in her agitation, that he was so tall. So large a man would have no difficulty overpowering someone Derrick's size. It was an unsettling thought, but one she couldn't banish once it slipped into her mind.

  Sam inclined his head, then continued on through the doorway before Crysta could voice any of the questions she had hoped to ask him. When the door swung closed behind him, she stood staring at the wood. Only then did she real­ize what was different about Sam Barrister. He had show­ered, changed clothes and shaved. The brown plaid shirt he wore was far more flattering than the grungy sweatshirt he'd sported earlier.

  After stowing her soiled clothing in Sam's apartment, Crysta returned to the front of the lodge. On the check-in counter, she spied a rack of maps, some of them the for­estry type that plotted the surrounding wilderness. Helping herself to one, she sat at one of the long dining tables, smoothing the large map open on the planks. Within sec­onds she was absorbed in the spidery network of lines, try­ing to decipher the small print and pinpoint where along the river Derrick might have been when she had dreamed of men chasing him.

  "I don't believe Derrick is dead. I know he isn't." The words ate at Sam. After sharing a few pleasantries with Riley O'Keefe, Sam stared downstream, his thoughts frag­mented. What if Crysta was right and Derrick was out there someplace, alive and in need of help, while he wasted pre­cious time going through a briefcase for clues?

  In his mind, Sam relived every detail of his initial search for Derrick, which had culminated with his finding Der­rick's shredded backpack and
scattered camping gear. Had he overlooked something, some telltale clue?

  Torn, Sam cast a furtive glance at the lodge, then saun­tered toward the trees. One thing was for sure, he didn't want Crysta to realize he'd given credence to anything she said. If she found a single chink in his armor, she'd work at it until he confessed everything. And then she'd be in on this until the bloody end.

  The word bloody stuck in Sam's thought grooves like a scratchy needle on a phonograph record. He circled the lodge, then struck off through the trees, hoping the indirect route would prevent anyone from noticing his departure. It was quite a trek to the spot where Derrick's gear had been found, a good twelve miles, but Sam knew he could pace it off, do a more thorough search of the area and return be­fore anyone became unduly alarmed by his absence. Some­times, though not often, his long legs were an asset.

  A movement caught Crysta's attention, and she glanced up from the map. Through the window, she saw Sam Bar­rister skulking through the cottonwoods and casting furtive looks over his shoulder, as though he didn't want to be seen. With the mystery of her brother's disappearance foremost in her thoughts, Crysta deduced that the lodge owner's se­cretive excursion involved Derrick. She didn't take time to think beyond that.

  Shooting up from the bench, she raced outside, deter­mined to follow Barrister without his knowing it. She could only hope Riley O'Keefe, who still sat on the riverbank, had drunk so many beers that he wouldn't notice her as she slunk around the sauna and darted into the woods.

  Before long Crysta was cursing Sam Barrister for his lengthy stride. Not an easy man to tail. She was forced into a trot half the time, just to keep him in sight. Along the riv­erbank, the brush was thick and tall. While it provided her with necessary cover, it presented a problem when it came to following someone.

  Sam disappeared from view. Crysta strained to catch a glimpse of him through the tangled undergrowth, then in­creased her pace, cringing at the noise she was making. At a run, it wasn't easy to be quiet, and she had no ready ex­planation if he should turn around and discover her.

  Three miles later, Crysta's side ached from exertion. She stopped a moment to catch her breath, scarcely able to be­lieve Barrister or any other man could cover ground so quickly at a walk. Peering through the trees, she once again tried to spot his brown plaid shirt. He was nowhere in sight. Momentary panic set in. Not only did she hate to lose him, but she wasn't too thrilled about being out here alone.

  A crackling noise made Crysta whirl to look behind her. Footsteps? Frustrated by the low rushing sound of the river, she strained to hear, eyes scanning the woods for move­ment, heart racing, her senses bombarded by unfamiliar smells and sights. Poised for flight, she felt the muscles in her legs quiver. Suddenly, all the conversations of that morning came back to taunt her. What if everyone else was right and she was wrong? What if her brother was indeed dead?

  One word bounced off the walls of her mind. Bears. Still, if there was anything as big as a grizzly out there, surely she would see it. Or hear it. A renegade bear wasn't likely to be furtive before it launched an attack. A picture of Derrick's shredded shirt flashed in her head, and her stomach lurched. She listened a few more seconds, flinching when leaves, caught by the wind, rustled overhead. Nothing. Whatever she had heard, it was gone now. She hoped.

  A more cautious person probably wouldn't be out here. It was a fault of hers, acting before she weighed the conse­quences. She drew little comfort from her proximity to the river, by which she could retrace her footsteps. After all, bears ate fish, didn't they?

  Bears or no, Crysta knew she was out of her element and should follow the river back to the lodge. But she didn't want to. What she wanted was to dog Barrister's heels and see where he was going. Was she going to let thoughts of a four-legged man-eater scare her off?

  Determined, she slogged through a narrow slough, wet­ting her jeans to the knee. Common sense told her that since

  Barrister had followed the river this far, he wasn't likely to alter his course. If she discovered that he had, she could turn back.

  She ran across a stretch of marshy grass and back into the brush, darting right and left through the maze of dappled cottonwood trunks and undergrowth. Straining for a glimpse of the lodge owner up ahead, Crysta was taken to­tally off guard when a dark shape hurtled out at her from the thick brush.

  A bear? Fright flashed through her, but there was no time to react. One instant she was on her feet, and the next she felt as if a brick wall had mowed her down. She spied a blur of brown plaid. Then coarse wool grazed her cheek. Sam Barrister. When she tried to move, she found herself vised in a tangle of muscular arms and legs. The instinctive scream that had welled in her chest came out as a grunt when he rolled, flattening her body with his, slamming her face into the dirt.

  It quickly occurred to Crysta that Sam Barrister must think he had tackled a man. She was proved correct an in­stant later when he clamped a palm over her breast and froze. The contact made Crysta's nerves leap.

  "Son of a— What in the—?" He jerked his hand away. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on someone like that? It's a good way to get yourself hurt."

  With her face buried in dirt and moldy leaves, Crysta couldn't have replied if she wanted to. It was all she could do to gather her wits and regain her shattered composure. Her skin still tingled from the touch of his hand, and the unwelcome, purely feminine reaction at such an inoppor­tune moment made her unreasonably angry, with him and herself.

  Twisting her face to one side, she spat out dirt and other things she didn't want to identify. Then she ran her tongue over her throbbing front teeth, none too sure they were all intact.

  He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, then rolled, came up on one knee and extracted his arm from around her. "I could hear you but couldn't see you. If I'd known it was you, I—" He let out a ragged sigh. "I'm sorry. I just reacted."

  Crysta pushed up on her elbows, shoulder throbbing, scraped cheek afire. He reached to help her, seeming uncer­tain where to touch. By the flush rising up his muscular neck, she guessed that he was as unsettled as she by the physical awareness that had flared between them.

  "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to—is anything bro­ken?"

  "I'm fine." Squelching her anger, which she knew was due more to embarrassment than outrage; Crysta gave her sleeve a tug and brushed debris from her hair, taking ad­vantage of the brief silence to mend her shattered dignity. Testing her shoulder, she said, "You pack quite a wallop."

  "It never occurred to me it might be you, and with ev­erything that's been going on, I decided to act first and ask questions later."

  Crysta focused on only part of what he said. As she flicked the leaves and dirt off her favorite denim shirt, she countered, "Exactly what has been going on?"

  The flush on his neck deepened. He flexed his shoulders, bracing one arm on his upraised knee. The breeze ruffled his dark hair across his forehead, and Crysta had a sudden urge to smooth it with her fingertips. She stifled the wayward impulse, determined to ignore the attraction she felt to him. For some reason beyond her comprehension, she was drawn to this man in a way that defied all her attempts to squelch it.

  Frustration mounting, Crysta fired another shot. "You've been keeping things from me. I know you have."

  His eyes met hers, teeming with indefinable emotion, but he said nothing.

  "You quarreled with Derrick right before he left. Do you deny that?"

  "No."

  "What did you argue about?"

  His jaw tensed. "That isn't any of your concern."

  His response so infuriated Crysta that she shot to her feet. How could she allow herself to be attracted to this man? He clearly wasn't being up front with her, and his reasons for that remained to be seen. She could only assume the worst.

  "Not my concern? My brother is missing! Anything in­volving him is my concern! Don't play games with me, Mr. Barrister. I don't appreciate it."

  "
Sam."

  "I hardly think we should be on a first-name basis. I want answers."

  "I'm your brother's best friend, have been for nearly ten years. Doesn't that count for something? How can you possibly think I had anything to do with what happened to him?"

  "If that bothers you, then level with me!"

  For a moment, Crysta thought he might do just that. The shutters lifted from his dark eyes, and she saw pain re­flected there. In that instant, she would have sworn he loved her brother, possibly as much as she did. With Derrick's life at stake, though, she couldn't afford to go on intuition. She also wasn't sure, judging from the tangle of her emotions when she was near this man, that she could trust her in­stincts.

  "How about your leveling with me?" he retorted. "What makes you so sure Derrick's alive? Why did you come to Alaska when I asked you not to? Why are you acting as though someone hurt your brother when you've been told repeatedly that he was the victim of a bear attack? And why on earth did you follow me out here?"

  Crysta clenched her teeth to keep from answering those questions. A part of her wanted to tell him everything. She also reasoned that she was out here alone with him. With his size as an advantage, he needn't engage in a war of words for long. On the other hand, he had to realize that two disap­pearances in less than a week were bound to raise eye­brows.

  Reassured by that thought, she said, "If you're so cer­tain my brother was killed by a crazed bear, Mr. Barrister, then why aren't you carrying a gun?"

  She could see the question caught him unprepared. Her determination bolstered, she rapped out another question. "Where were you going?"

  "For a walk."

  Crysta knew that no one would take such precautions to avoid being seen simply to go for a walk. She braced her hands on her hips. "I know whatever it was you intended to do somehow involved my brother, and I want to know what it was."

  He gave her a look far too innocent to be genuine. "You must read too many mysteries. I came for a walk, that's all."