Down River

  "Mind if I come into your kitchen?" he asked, holding the swinging door ajar. "Tell you the truth, I'm starved, and Mitch told us to see you if that was the case. All this fresh air or my jet lag's making me hungry."

  She was surprised she hadn't heard him come in because she had sharp ears and usually sensed someone's presence, but this man moved so quietly. Jonas had a shaved head, which wasn't the wisest thing in Alaska, but it probably worked well where it was hot and humid.

  Mitch had joked, "I taught Jonas everything he knows, which means he's pretty smart." She thought the man's wide, dark eyes under his sleekly arched brows backed that up. Jonas was always watching others--keeping his own counsel, as Mitch had put it when he'd given her a pre-arrival rundown on their guests. Yes, she could see that Jonas Grant was always calculating what to say and do. Truth be told, she was wary, too, so she'd recognized that in him right away. And she liked the color of his skin, a lot like the Alaskan sun-and wind-burnished complexions of her people--that is, her former people, before so many turned their backs on her for what she had done.

  "Sure thing," she told him with a nod. "I'm fixing salmon tenders with strawberry dip, moose enchiladas and squares of fresh-baked bread with black raspberry spread for appetizers. You want something to drink, too?"

  "No, thanks--just hungry."

  As she fixed him a hearty plate, she glanced out the window to note no Mitch, but no kayak either. She squinted into the sun to see Ginger Jackson getting in her motorboat for the across-lake trek home. Ginger made all of the baked goods for the lodge and brought them each afternoon, especially the array of yummies for the breakfast buffet the next morning. How she managed to bake all that with a bum right hand was beyond Christine. The only bad thing about Ginger's baking was that she fed her brother Spike too much. In the summer, when he wasn't running the dogs but was mostly taking tourists flightseeing, he put on weight around his middle.

  Spike Jackson's red seaplane sat at the far end of the lake since some guests had complained about the early-morning noise when he took off near the lodge. If guests didn't want to drive or land at Talkeetna's airport, he flew them in from Anchorage. He also took people on what was called flightseeing. Earlier today he'd flown Mrs. Bonner, who had her own private pilot's license no less, to view the entire area from Talkeetna clear down to Wasilla. She'd said she wanted to see the little town where that spunky, ambitious Sarah Palin was from, who had come out of nowhere--though folks hereabouts didn't think of big-boom Wasilla or the capital, Juneau, as nowhere--to run for vice president of the United States. Mitch had mentioned that Mrs. Bonner had a brother who was big in Florida politics and aiming higher, so no wonder Mrs. Bonner was interested in Alaska's Governor Palin.

  Christine handed the filled plate to Jonas. "Thanks," he said with a big smile that flaunted lots of straight, white teeth. "My boy would say this really rocks--not the smoked salmon but moose in an enchilada."

  "How old is he?" Christine asked as she followed him toward the door to the big common room that comprised the living area and dining room. The lodge bedrooms were upstairs in two wings, guests to the east side, Mitch's suite to the west. Christine's room was at the back corner of the first floor, next to the small library loaded with books about Alaska and overlooking the stone patio with the barbecue, fire pit and Finnish wood-fired sauna and hot tub, and then the lake beyond.

  Actually, the Duck Lake Lodge--the original name for the lake was Dukhoe--was the most beautiful home she had ever had. Made of rough-cut local spruce with pine-paneled walls, it boasted a seven-foot bubble window overlooking the lake. The entire building and the outlying cabins were heavily insulated, so in the winter it was like being in a thermos that held heat from the big, central stone fireplace.

  The fourteen-foot cathedral ceiling above the common room had hand-hewn beams that soared above comfortable clusters of upholstered sofas and chairs interspersed with rocking chairs all set around woven area rugs in muted blues and greens. Snowshoes, quilts and antlers decorated the walls, except in the little library where Mitch had insisted she put the remnants of her collection of Yup'ik dolls on display. Her real realm, the kitchen, looked strictly modern, with new stainless steel appliances that would make a Fairbanks restaurant proud. Off and on, as needed, two women came in from Bear Bones to help with housekeeping chores.

  "My boy's nine," Jonas was saying in answer to her question. "He's been pretty sick. He's--" facing away from her, he either cleared his throat or swallowed something "--he's had chordoma, a malignant bone cancer in his spine, since he was five."

  "Oh. I'm so sorry. How hard for a young kid who wants to run and play."

  "Yeah," he said, turning back to face her at the bottom of the central staircase. "Doctors give about a seven-year life expectancy for that when it's first diagnosed. I'd love to have Emerson here to see Alaska--bears, moose and that rough river out there. Tell you the truth, I feel guilty spending even a few days away from him, but this big opportunity with Carlisle and Bonner..." Frowning, he cleared his throat. Christine saw his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "'Course, I'd do anything to help him survive, and those massive medical bills keep piling up. Well, didn't mean to bend your ear, but Mitch said you're easy to talk to."

  "Did he?" she asked, feeling warm clear to her belly. "It's because I don't say much myself. Now, you need anything else, you just let me know. And get some rest if you can because the summer nights not only come later here compared to where you're from, but the summer sun never quite goes down, even in these mountains."

  "What's that they used to say? 'The sun never sets on the British Empire'?"

  "Did they say that? Well, we gotta get all the sun and light we can this time of year."

  "In the long, dark winters, I guess you pay the price."

  "But that gives us the gift of the northern lights, the aurora borealis."

  "Yeah, I'd like to see that. Like for Emerson to see that, too. Mitch said you have a lot of Japanese tourists here because they believe a child conceived under the northern lights will be fortunate." He shook his head and started upstairs before he turned back, looking down at her over the banister. "Do they, you know, conceive the child outside in the winter, really under the lights?"

  Christine smiled and shook her head, suddenly feeling irrationally happy. She was very fortunate. She'd done what she had to do to protect herself. And she certainly sympathized with Jonas, because she understood doing anything to survive. "No," she told him. "In the winter, even the wildest Alaskans do that inside, in bed."

  He smiled sheepishly, thanked her again and went up the stairs toward the east hall guest rooms. Though she had a meal to start for about eight people, counting Spike if he was staying, she stepped out the back door and glanced down the familiar ridge path toward the lake landing. Lisa Vaughn had been no good for Mitch before and wouldn't be now. Iah, if only that woman hadn't come with these other lawyers to this haven Mitch had made for the woman he called his Cupid.

  3

  O

  nce Mitch managed to right the kayak again, he knew he had to abandon it. The current pinned the boat tight to the tree, though he knew it could capsize again. He had to get to Lisa, be sure she was breathing, then get her--both of them--warm. But he'd need some of the supplies that were stowed in the kayak for them to survive out here. They were going to have to hike back to civilization, and the only access road was on the other side of the river. Bracing himself as best he could with his paddle, with one hand he quickly unfastened the bungee cords securing the dry well at the front of the kayak, opened it and grabbed out the single wet suit. He wrapped it around his neck like a big scarf, then rummaged for the roll of duct tape he knew must be there. Finding it, he shoved it on his arm above his wrist. It was good for patching kayak cracks, but also for immobilizing sprained or broken bones. Being careful not to tip the kayak, he loosed the spray skirt and was surprised he was sitting in water. The cockpit was partly flooded, but he'd been so intent--and so
much colder from the waist up--he hadn't even noticed. His sweatshirt over his T-shirt was soaked and heavy.

  He half dragged, half hoisted himself onto the tree about four feet from Lisa. Holding on to protruding broken limbs, he crawled toward her. Her wet blond hair looked like a curtain covering her face. Though his instinct was to lift her into his arms, he reached down to feel for her carotid artery with two fingers. Her skin was so cold it shocked him, but he felt frigid, too, his fingers numb and fumbling.

  Yes! She had a pulse--faint, maybe fluttering, or else he was shaking too hard to tell. She was breathing, steady but sure, so he wouldn't have to do mouth-to-mouth. Gently, he pushed her sopping hair back from her face. She looked pasty and bruised.

  "Lisa. Lisa, it's Mitch. You're going to be okay. I'm here to take care of you and get you home--at least to my home, the lodge."

  Nothing. No movement, but a pulse and breath was enough for now. He'd seen his uncle revive one of his homesteader friends who fell in years ago, though that had been near lodge property where they could get help, as slow as it was in coming from Bear Bones.

  Praying their combined weight would not shift the tree trunk and send them barreling down the river with it, Mitch put his hands under her armpits. Slowly he lifted and laid her out on her back. Her legs flopped on either side of the trunk. Dragging her crawling backward, he inched along the log toward the low ledge where the roots of the tree had caught. Sunlight poured onto them. Sunlight! But it would not last long in this narrow gorge, even with the nights still filled with light.

  It seemed an eternity before he had her laid out on the ledge. He curled her up, hoping to preserve whatever core body heat she had left.

  "Land ho, sweetheart. You're going to be all right," he said as if to convince himself, but his voice broke.

  He ventured out onto the tree trunk again, still on all fours. Sprawled on his belly, he carefully reached down to unrig the trapped kayak's other dry-storage well. Besides the extra PFD he'd shoved in there, he wasn't sure what was stowed, but it was the first break he'd had all day. He pulled out a four-pound butane camp stove and a one-person tent, though he saw no sleeping bag. There were no provisions but a small, plastic, zipper-locked sack of what Christine called squaw candy--dried salmon. He tossed the PFD and food up on the ledge and, pulling his backpack up over his shoulder by one strap, carefully hauled the tent and stove along the trunk to safety.

  At least he had four ginger ales. Otherwise he'd be pouring boiled river water into Lisa. He could carry the tiny tent and stove with them if they could get off this ledge to hike out. But first things first.

  Huddled over her to make a windbreak against the breeze, Mitch removed her PFD and stripped her down to her black bra and panties--stunningly sexy even out here where they seemed so fragile and fancy. Despite her tan lines, she looked fish-belly white. Her beautiful body now seemed a cold, marble statue. He moved fast to cover her with the neoprene suit, not putting it on her yet because it felt cold. Rafters and kayakers often wore a layer of fleece under it to maintain body warmth, but she had been depleted of that.

  He unzipped the tent from its pack and formed it into a windbreak, making sure it didn't shade her from the sun on the wall and floor of the small ledge that made--he hoped--a lifesaving pocket of warmth. He needed her conscious to be sure she didn't drift away, so he kept talking to her as he moved her arms and legs to check for broken bones. She looked battered and bruised, but he was amazed she seemed to have escaped without any serious injuries, not even signs of frostbite.

  He tossed her clothes farther down the ledge to dry, then rubbed her all over with the neoprene wet suit, the only dry garment he had, since he was thoroughly soaked, too. He chaffed her fingers and toes in his hands, then wrapped her in the small canvas tent. She'd need his body heat--what there was of it--to come back, to survive, but he could put the wet suit on her later. He had to get hot liquids into her first. It was just as important to be warmed from the inside as out.

  With its burner protected by its little windscreen, the butane-fed, self-igniting cooker heated rapidly. He had a small pan, but, shivering, he ignored that for now. Somehow his stiff fingers got two of the cans of ginger ale open. He put them directly on the burner. When he realized the bag that had held the tent was still dry, he put it over Lisa's head like a too-big bonnet. So much body heat was lost through the head. He'd kidded Jonas about that, but the big guy never seemed to get too hot or too cold. Damn, what he wouldn't give for a hairdryer out here, and the lodge's hot tub.

  While the cans of ginger ale heated, he huddled close to the stove's burner to get feeling back in his fingers. Shaking in his haste, he stripped off his PFD and his own wet clothes. With one can of ginger ale in his hand, he managed to wrap himself and Lisa in the small tent as if it were a double sleeping bag. He pressed his hip to hers and threw one leg over her to warm her thighs. The sudden, sweeping impact of mingled protectiveness and possessiveness astounded him.

  A memory leaped at him of the day he'd really looked at her for the first time as a beautiful woman and not just as an associate at the firm. She had not been wearing much that day, either. In a way he'd wanted Lisa the moment he'd seen her on the beach, when he was coming in from windsurfing. What a shock to see Ms. Wet Behind The Ears Lawyer out of a business suit and wet all over.

  At work and especially in court, as if she'd wanted to hide from something, she'd often worn dark-rimmed glasses and her hair pulled back. Yet that day on the beach he saw classic features with a naughty tilt to her green eyes even sunglasses couldn't conceal. Her lithe body in that black bikini was so graceful, even when she spiked a volleyball with her long blond hair flying. Yet there was always something vulnerable about her.

  "That's Lisa Vaughn?" he'd said to himself that day. He'd decided right there he'd do what he shouldn't--date a colleague and hope she wouldn't only agree to see him socially because he was Graham Bonner's heir apparent at the firm. There was nothing on the books about not dating coworkers, though he knew it was a bad idea, and one Graham would frown upon.

  He soon learned Lisa was so much more than a beach babe or an ambitious attorney. She was bright and funny, though she had a problematic past she hadn't mentioned for the first few months they dated. She'd finally shared that she'd seen a shrink for years when she was a child and in her teens. The doctor had told her that her history, what she called her Darth Vader secret--her dark side--was a combination of shock fatigue and survivor's guilt from witnessing the drowning of her mother and little sister.

  Now, come hell or high water, he was not going to let her be a victim either of the Wild River or the wilds of Alaska. He had to get some of this warm liquid into her, so he lifted her head into the crook of his arm and pressed the heated can to her lips.

  "Lisa, drink this. It will warm you."

  He got some in her mouth. It dribbled back out, so he tried again. His chest pressed to her breasts and his cheek to hers, he spoke close to her ear. "Lisa, it's Mitch. You're going to be all right. You have to drink this to get warm."

  "M-M-itch."

  Thank God! He was so thrilled she was still in that stone-cold body he could have flown.

  "Drink this. You have to drink this."

  Her teeth began to chatter, and she quivered all over, actually a better sign than nothing moving. She was hopefully coming out of hypothermia, and he was shaking as if he was plunging into it.

  "Mitch." It was a mere whisper. She still didn't open her eyes and had barely moved her swollen, bluish lips.

  "Yes, it's Mitch," he repeated. "I'm here and I'll take care of you. Drink this."

  She sipped some. Praying he had enough warmth to give, he held her closer. The slant of sun helped so much. If you could find the right spot in July or August, get out of the wind, the sun could get the temperature up to the high eighties.

  She drank. He positioned himself ever closer, trying to get in contact with every inch of her. Hating that he had to let cold air i
nto their cocoon, he reached for the second can of soda, then thought to shove the first warm, empty can down at her feet like a heated brick.

  He took a quick swig from the second can, then poured more into her. When that was gone, she broke his heart by cuddling close, though she still seemed limp and cold. With her upturned face tucked under his chin, he held her tight again. He knew she wanted to sleep, but he had to keep her awake and talking. Hypothermic people often felt warmer, even stripped off their clothes before they went comatose and fell asleep forever.

  "Lisa, talk to me. Keep talking. How did you fall in the river?"

  Her eyes still closed, she frowned. "Dunno."

  "Did you stumble or trip?" he asked.

  A tiny shake of her head, but no answer. Of course, it wasn't unusual for someone in trauma to lose their memory of the horror of it. But since her memories of the ultimate horror of her life--the shock of witnessing the terrible loss of her mother and sister--were so vivid and, he knew, sometimes haunted her yet, surely she'd be able to recall how she'd fallen in.

  Suddenly, strangely, she went stiff in his arms. "I'm here," he said. "It's all right."

  Her eyes opened wide for one moment as if she was seeing something again. She shook her shoulders slightly. At least she was moving, but was she trying to shake off his arms from holding her?

  Then she frowned, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. "Pushed," she whispered. "Pushed in."

  "Someone pushed you in the river?" he demanded, much too loudly, because she flinched as if she'd been struck.

  "Yes. Pushed."

  "Pushed by whom?"

  "Didn't see."

  "Did you hear anyone?"

  "Heard the river--rush of river."

  She was talking, but she must also be hallucinating, he thought. The shock of it had made her--hopefully temporarily--delusional. He knew his staff and his guests. No way had someone pushed her in the river.