The Simple Wild

  He chuckles. “They don’t usually bug you unless you do something stupid. But that’s why I bring a gun when I camp.”

  “And what, load it and tuck it under your pillow?” I shake my head. “Hell, no . . . You couldn’t pay me to sleep out here and I don’t care how experienced the person I’m with is.”

  “No?” A pause. “Even if you were with me?” He throws that out there so casually, and yet his words weigh heavily with meaning.

  I swallow against the sudden flutter in my gut, unprepared for this quick turn of conversation, even though I’ve been rubbing my sweaty palms against my thighs in anticipation of it ever since we pushed through the doors of Wild. Jonah’s been all business since takeoff, though, his fists gripping the yoke tightly to keep the plane steady against crosswinds that I was sure would sweep us off the runway.

  He’s been on the radio with other pilots almost constantly, heeding their warnings and navigating around patches of fog and heavier rain. Based on some of their reports, it doesn’t sound like this weather system is in any rush to leave this side of the state.

  Flying with Jonah today has been nothing short of tense, and an entirely different experience than the last time. I can’t tell if it’s because it feels riskier with the unstable conditions outside . . . or if it has more to do with the conditions brewing inside this cramped fuselage.

  Even though I know it was a mistake, I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. The rain, the turbulence . . . all competing with thoughts of Jonah’s mouth on mine, and the way he was breathing when he pulled away.

  And now we’re in this misty valley and he’s talking about us having sex. I mean, he didn’t say that exactly, but that’s what I heard, and I’m suddenly picturing the two of us stretched out naked on an air mattress with the door to our orange dome tent wide open to this great wilderness.

  And it does sound insanely romantic.

  “That might be okay.” My eyes are locked on the river. I sound almost shy. When have I ever been shy with a guy who’s so obviously flirting with me? Who I’m pretty sure has been flirting with me the last couple of days and I completely missed it. Who is making my nerve endings tingle and parts of me ache to be touched. Is he as turned on as I am?

  Have his legs fallen apart that wide because he’s got a—

  “Might be?”

  I push the illicit thought away with a throat-clear. “Yeah. You’re a much bigger target for a bear, and I’m pretty sure I can run faster than you.”

  The deep chuckle that carries through the headset sends shivers down my spine and makes me smile dumbly. I’m becoming addicted to making him laugh.

  Unfortunately, the playful conversation dies down as the drizzle grows harder and the wind begins to pick up. Jonah grips the yoke more tightly, his furrowed gaze on darker clouds ahead.

  “Those don’t look good.”

  “No. They don’t,” he agrees. “That’s the thing about up here. The weather can turn on a dime. But we’re not far off our checkpoint. We’ll make it there.”

  “Okay.” I realize that I trust him completely. It seems like a stupid time to ask, but, trust or not, I need a distraction from the constant jolting. “So . . . Marie. What’s going on there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I turn to watch his profile for clues. Maybe Dolores is right and he’s too pretty now, because those full lips of his don’t belong on a man like him. Neither do those lashes, which might be as long as my fake ones. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  Blue eyes flicker my way for a split second before returning to the sky. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious.” I echo his words from earlier, when he asked about Corey.

  He smirks. “Marie and I are friends.”

  “Even though she wants more?”

  “Does she?”

  I roll my eyes. “Stop playing dumb. You know she does.”

  He flips a switch on the cockpit panel. “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re such a Fletcher.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means just come out and ask me what you really want to know, Calla.” He sounds annoyed.

  “Fine. Did you two ever date?”

  “Nope.”

  I hesitate. “Did you two hook up?”

  “Define ‘hook up.’ ”

  “I guess that answers that,” I mutter, more to myself, letting my gaze drift to the mountain ridge.

  “She kissed me once.”

  “And . . .”

  “I can’t give her what she wants. I’m not at that place in my life.” He doesn’t seem at all bothered to be telling me.

  “She’s really pretty,” I hazard.

  “And smart, and caring. But I just want to be friends with her. She knows it. I’ve been clear all along.”

  I can’t suppress my sigh of relief fast enough.

  “I take it that’s the answer you wanted to hear?”

  I turn away to hide my sheepish smile. He’s too damn observant. And blunt. And inherently decent, if he hasn’t taken advantage of the tall, blond, leggy veterinarian’s attraction to him, at least once, in a moment of male weakness.

  “What else do you want to ask me?” he murmurs.

  I hesitate for only a second. What’s the point of stopping now? “Why did you kiss me today?”

  “Because I wanted to, and I knew you wanted me to.” Such a simple, straightforward answer. Exactly what I’ve come to expect from Jonah. He pauses. “Am I wrong?”

  “No.” Unfortunately there are too many obstacles trailing it that I’m struggling to ignore. “Don’t you think it’s a bit risky? I mean, that it might complicate things, with everything else going on? Plus, I’m leaving in . . .” My voice drifts as realization dawns.

  I’m leaving in a week. It’ll be a nice, clean, uncomplicated end to whatever is happening between us.

  A soft “Oh . . . right,” slips from my lips. “Of course.” That’s exactly what he wants. And here I am, reading way too much into one kiss, especially from a guy I despised a week ago. This is why I don’t do hookups.

  “Of course, what?”

  An orange bush plane suddenly appears in the sky, traveling toward us. It grabs Jonah’s attention and splices our conversation. A moment later, the radio is crackling with a call-out from him, delivering an ominous warning about hellish headwinds and torrential rain around the ridge bend that he barely outran.

  I feel my face fill with worry. “Are we turning around?”

  “Can’t. We’re here, anyway.” The right wing tips and we begin to descend.

  Chapter 21

  “This is definitely the right place?” I mutter, huddled within my slicker, my head bowed as I trail Jonah along a narrow footpath that cuts through the forest of spruce trees and leggy ground cover. It’s a trek from where we left the plane. My jaw is sore from clenching my teeth so tight with that bumpy landing, and my leggings are soaked from rain that’s coming down more sideways than straight.

  “It’s the only place around here.”

  A branch snaps somewhere to our right, loud enough to carry through the downpour. “Jonah . . .” I hold my breath as my head whips around, my eyes searching the trees.

  “Relax. Our plane would have spooked most things. It’s probably the Lannerds.”

  “Right.” I speed up to close the distance between us all the same, shielding my eyes with my hand as I take in an archway. Someone constructed it out of tree trunks and rope. A hand-carved wooden sign dangles from the center; a set of antlers sits on top. It’s fitting and oddly welcoming, out here in the middle of the middle of nowhere.

  A small log cabin sits up ahead. It looks to be well cared for and supplied, the pile of cut logs and twiggy brush stacked by
a simple wood door substantial. On the right is a rustic shelving unit that holds various boxes, tools, string, work gloves, and two black tanks with FLAMMABLE warning stickers plastered to them. Various tools hang on the exterior wall from pegs, protected from the inclement weather by a wide overhang.

  “ ‘Public Shelter Cabin,’ ” I read from the sign above the door, my eyes drifting to the enormous set of antlers mounted above it, and the snowshoes on either side. “Is this for anyone to use?”

  “Pretty much. It’s been here forever. Since, like, the 1930s, I think. It’s mostly used during the Iditarod. That’s one of the big dogsled races in Alaska,” he adds, rapping his knuckles against the door. “Hello?” He waits three beats and then yanks the door open and walks in.

  It smells exactly how I’d expect a ninety-year-old cabin in the mountains to smell—like musty wood and damp soot.

  “They haven’t made it here yet,” Jonah declares, followed by a sharp, “Fuck.”

  There’s certainly no evidence to suggest they’re here now. The three tiny windows are all boarded up from the outside by plywood. The bunk beds in the far corners—simple frames of wood slapped together and bolted to hold—are absent of any sleeping bags.

  The wooden picnic table beside the woodstove is bare of supplies. There are supplies here—lanterns hanging from hooks, rolls of toilet paper and tubs of baby wipes stacked on shelves, a jug of Crisco oil sitting on a long makeshift counter next to an array of pots and pans—but I suspect those were left by previous inhabitants, or by the caretakers.

  “Maybe they left because we were late?”

  He crouches down to open up and peer inside the woodstove. “No . . . with all this rain, they’d need a fire, and this hasn’t been used in a while. Besides, they knew the pickup date would be pending weather.”

  “So, where are they, then?”

  He stands and pushes a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back. “Good fucking question.” His jaw clenches.

  “Do you think they’re lost?”

  “They wouldn’t be the first.” He drums his fingertips against the table in thought. “They had a sat phone, but they didn’t use it.”

  A darker, more sinister thought strikes me, after our earlier conversation. “What if something got them? You know, like a bear?”

  “That doesn’t happen too often,” he murmurs, but he’s wearing a troubled frown. “You didn’t notice any tents or rain gear or anything when we were flying in, did you?”

  “No. Nothing.” The last sign of another human being—aside from the guy in the plane—was a fishing boat anchored on the river, a good ten minutes before we entered the mountain range.

  He studies the dusty, worn wood floorboards intently. “They should have been here on Thursday night for a Friday pickup. That means they’re almost two days behind.”

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  “Through Rainy Pass. They gave me a map. They could be stuck up there because of the heavy rain, or they could have slipped along the muddy terrain. The river could have swelled on them . . . Who the fuck knows.” Jonah wanders out the door to stand under the overhang, his gaze drifting to the mountain ridge that looms, in thought.

  “You’re not thinking of going back up to look for them, are you?” When he doesn’t answer me, I know that’s exactly what he’s thinking. “You are not going up there in this to look for them.”

  He curses, his hands smoothing over his beard. “No, I’m not.”

  Relief overwhelms me.

  He pulls out his satellite phone from his pocket. “I’m gonna call this in.”

  I huddle against the door frame, listening to rain beat against the roof and Jonah explain the situation to someone—my dad, I’m guessing. The connection must be poor, because Jonah is speaking loudly and repeats himself several times, emphasizing “no hikers,” “heavy rain,” and “staying here.”

  “What’d my dad say?” I ask when he ends the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

  “He’s gonna notify the state troopers. They’ll have to start a search as soon as the weather cooperates. Nothing else I can do right now.”

  “Alright. So, now what?” I shiver against the damp cold. I still haven’t warmed up from this morning’s berry picking.

  “Now . . . you and I are stuck here until we can fly out.”

  Something about the way he says “you and I” draws another shiver from me, this one not from the cold. “For how long?”

  His chest lifts with a deep inhale. “Could be for the night.”

  “The night?” My eyes rove the cold, musty little cabin, stalling on the wooden base of the bunk beds. There’s no mattress, no blankets, no pillows—not that I’d use anything left here.

  No electricity, no plumbing.

  “You think you can handle that, Barbie?” I turn back to find Jonah’s piercing gaze settled on me.

  Something tells me he’s talking about more than just the rugged conditions.

  My stomach does a flip. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Prove me wrong, then,” he challenges, taking a step forward, well into my personal space. I stand my ground, my heart beginning to race. Thoughts of missing hikers and bears and outhouses and bad ideas vanish, replaced by a simple one—that I desperately want him to kiss me again.

  I tip my head back and gaze into intense blue eyes.

  “You’re Wren’s daughter.”

  I frown. “Yeah . . .” What’s he getting at?

  “About what you said in the plane. I know where you were going with that.” His brow furrows lightly. “You’re Wren’s daughter. I wouldn’t use you like that.”

  “I’m not following.” But my stomach is tightening with anxiety, that the next thing out of his mouth will be something along the lines of “You’re right, it was a mistake and we should cool it.”

  Because, despite already seeing the end of the ride ahead, I’m ready to jump in the car and experience the thrill.

  “I’m saying that I might take risks, but they’re always worth it. Got it?”

  “I think so?” Not really.

  My gaze drifts to his mouth. Ask me if I want you to kiss me again. Please.

  Abruptly, he pulls back. “We’ve got to set up camp. I’ll start a fire when I get back.”

  “Back from where?”

  “The plane. We need my gear!” he hollers into the wild.

  I watch his retreating back, his shoulders hunched against the pelting rain as he marches down the path toward the plane.

  Leaving me out here in the woods, all alone.

  “Wait!” I run to catch up to him.

  “You should have stayed put,” Jonah mutters, crouching in front of the woodstove, shoving thin strips of wood into its mouth, the floor around him wet from the rain that drips off his body.

  I probably should have, I admit, wringing water from my hair as I lean against the open door, taking in the tall weeds and wildflower blooms that bend under the rain’s pummel. Jonah had just dragged out a nylon bag from the undercarriage when the skies seemed to open up with a deluge. We jogged all the way back, but it didn’t matter. My rain boots, the slicker, none of it offered enough protection.

  “Do you always fly with this stuff?” I eye the gear Jonah dumped on the floor, trying to ignore the beige case that holds a gun.

  “Have to. A lot of it’s law. Besides, you get stranded out here once and you learn to be more prepared next time around. We’re lucky, though. We could be stuck in a cold plane for the night. Instead, we’ve got this cozy little paradise.”

  Our definitions of “paradise” are very different.

  I hug myself tightly as Jonah strikes a match. Within moments, my nostrils fill with the comforting scent of burning wood. The flames begin to crackle.

  “It’ll take a bit to warm
up in here.” Jonah strolls past me, out the door, and around the corner. And I find myself holding my breath against the hope that he would have stalled there, would have looked down at me, smiled at me, grazed a hand against mine.

  Anything.

  There’s an odd prying sound.

  “Jonah? What are you doing out there?” I call out with a frown. I assumed he was going to relieve himself, something I’ll have to do when I can’t avoid that log outhouse any longer.

  Suddenly daylight streams into the cabin through the tiny window on the left. Within minutes Jonah has the other two windows uncovered, too.

  He reappears, his hair plastered to his forehead, raindrops dripping from his beard. “We need to close this door if we want to dry out.” He pulls it shut behind him, herding me inside.

  Despite the small portals in the walls, it’s still dark in here, and it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the heavy shadows.

  Jonah checks the fire, decides something, and then shoves a log into it. The fire grows.

  “You’re a regular Boy Scout, aren’t you?”

  “I know how to survive, if that’s what you mean.”

  And thank God for that. I imagine being stranded out here with Corey. Last fall, the idiot threw wet logs onto a lit bonfire, and then nearly set himself on fire while pouring gasoline over them—and the flames—to try and get them to burn. Even I, a city girl, knew he was asking for trouble when he reached for that gas can.

  I doubt any of my ex-boyfriends had particularly strong survival instincts. I can guarantee none of them have ever shot a gun.

  But here’s this rugged Alaskan pilot, his handsome face stony with focus, totally in control as he prepares our camp for the night, probably going through a mental checklist.

  And I’m just standing here.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “There’s a sleeping bag and mattress roll in there. Lay it on the floor over here.”

  “The floor?” I cringe at the worn boards.

  “Trust me, it’ll be more comfortable than those bunks. Plus it’ll be warmer here, near the fire.”