by Ilsa J. Bick
“Well, I could say something snarky like what am I, chopped liver, but we only just met, and I’m tired. So, listen.” Pulling in a long breath, she scrubbed her face with her hands. “I don’t pretend to have all the answers here, and this is a lot to process. So why don’t we do this? Let’s turn in and talk about this in the morning. Deal?”
“Okay.” His eyes itched again. Christ, don’t bawl. He was glad of the darkness. “Deal.”
“Excellent. If it starts to snow, though, you wake me up and we’ll bed down together in the tent. It’ll be cramped, but extra body heat will warm us both up. In the meantime, I’ve got an extra air mattress we can inflate to get you off the ground. It’s one thing to stay frosty, another to freeze. You can have one of my hot water bottles, too.”
Jesus, no one had been this kind for almost as long as he could remember. “You always this prepared for trouble?”
“Not always.” A shadow crossed her face, and her eyes took on that hooded look again. “But I’ve made enough mistakes and let down my guard enough times I prepare for the worst.”
“And hope for the best?”
“I just prepare for the worst.” She peered at him. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”
He honestly didn’t know. Maybe yes, maybe no. He didn’t want to lie or prevaricate, though, not to her. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You mean, can you dodge what I just asked?” She shrugged. “If you need to. Shoot.”
“You’re still active duty somehow. I just kind of sense it. Except you’re here, stateside, and we both know it’s not the same. So, how have you kept it together?”
Something like a smile flirted with her mouth then vanished. “What makes you think I have?”
12
After an hour and a lot of scrubbing, Sarah decided that stain was never coming out of that wall. You watch—digging out a dustpan, she went over the floor again, keeping her eyes sharp for any stray bits of glass she’d missed the first time—another year or two, and there’ll be stories about how someone was murdered up here. She suspected the NPS would not be amused. Maybe she should drive to Rexford and get some paint. The interior was a little dingy, anyway.
She piled the rest of their dishes in a washbasin then set that aside and put on another big pot of water drawn off the cabin’s cistern to boil. She’d set the foil-wrapped huckleberry pie on the potbelly stove to warm but now moved that to rest on a cloth spread on the table. The kettle she always kept on low simmer was still half-full, and she filled a thermos, added a teabag, and a couple spoons of sugar. Turning off the Coleman—no need to waste fuel—she let the dogs out of the spare room where she’d put them while she swept up glass. Then, pulling on a parka, she took up a flashlight in one hand, tucked the capped thermos into a parka pocket, and said to the dogs, “Be good, kids. Back soon.”
She stood on the porch a moment, taking in the night. In the few hours they’d been inside, the air had turned much colder. Ice pecked her cheeks. There were no stars or moon. This high and so removed from Lonesome, there was no light pollution to speak of. The darkness was complete, as seemingly void as the space between stars.
Stepping off the porch, she snapped on her flashlight and started for the tower. In the chill hush, the sound of broken stones under her boots seemed incredibly loud. It would be easy to believe she was the last person on Earth. There had been plenty of cloudy nights this past summer and early fall, but she’d never felt quite this still and alone.
Following her light’s blue-white beam, she climbed to the top, pushed open the trap, and stepped onto the catwalk. Shutting the trap again—it was a very long way down—she swept her light along the walk then rounded the corner to the section facing north.
“Turn off the light.” His voice came from her right.
She did. Pocketing the flashlight, she put a gloved hand to the rail and let that guide her. It was so dark that the only reason she knew he was there was this sense of a something denser and even darker. They stood together in silence for a moment. Up here, the air felt even colder, and she blinked against flecks of snow. “I brought you tea,” she said, finally. “Would you like some?”
She heard the rustle of his coat as he shifted. “That would be nice. Thanks. Here.” She felt his hand grope along her arm. “Give me the flashlight, and I’ll hold it steady so you can see.”
They said nothing more as she dug out her light and handed that over before uncapping the thermos to tip out hot tea.
A loud liquid sound as he swallowed. Then, a sigh. “Ah, that feels good. Cold up here. Even with the stove, I don’t know how the lookouts did it.” He extended the cup. “Want some?”
“Thanks.” She drank, fiddleheads of orange-scented steam unfurling against her cheeks. The tea was strong and sweet. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. Me, too.” He touched a finger to a bandage on her right palm. “You okay?”
“I’ll live.” Handing back the cup, she waited another beat as he swallowed back more tea. “You were right. What you said.”
“Well”—a slight grin as he drained the cup—“I said a whole bunch, so...which part?”
“Pretty much all of it. You’re right. What I’m doing is selfish and not helping because it’s about me, not Soldier.” She recapped the thermos. “That doesn’t mean I know what’s best to do right now for either the dog or me, but I can’t move to a desert island or set up housekeeping in a fire tower. It’s not fair to the dog.”
“Or you.” She’d snapped off her flashlight again so she saw only his afterimage, a purplish-white silhouette, every time she blinked. “Could you make it work back in Kalispell?”
She shook her head before she remembered he couldn’t see her either. “Probably not. I’m gone five days out of every seven. Daisy tolerates the drives just fine, and she’s so good no one minds her running around when we stop. It’s Soldier who’s the problem. He travels fine; that, he’s used to. In some ways, I think he enjoys it because it reminds him of going to work. You know, he has purpose.”
“Everyone needs purpose.” A pause. “Even a dog.”
Especially this dog. “It’s how Soldier deals with the rest of life that’s a problem. I still don’t know what I want to do long-term, but maybe it would be good to get back to a routine. Go back to work and do something I actually know how to do.”
“Josie said you guys aren’t doing too badly at search and rescue, though. Given Soldier’s training, I’ll bet he’s a natural when it comes to actual bodies.”
“Cadaver dog, yeah. But I kind of want him to search for the missing, not the dead.”
“Aren’t both about bringing closure?”
“Sure,” she said—and wondered why her throat had closed to a straw. “Maybe it’s that finding the dead is so…so final. There’s nothing more to hope for.”
“Except the rest of life and everyone in it.”
How did we get onto this? “Anyway, doing either means my life still orbits around the dog, and I think we’re agreed that’s not good.”
“True.” A beat. “You could leave him with me.”
She looked over, surprised. His face was invisible, only so much black upon black, but she had the sense he was looking at her, too. “You’re gone all day.”
“Not all day, and not every day. I work shifts. I have days off. Look, I’m a single guy with a big old ranch house, no animals, and plenty of land off a lonely country road with no loggers and only the occasional car. My nearest neighbor is a mile away. It’s not like Soldier doesn’t know me. What’s the downside?”
“Nothing, but...” There really was no downside to this at all. But Soldier, living with someone else? With Hank, of all people? “I guess I never thought about it before.”
“Well, think about it now. It might solve some problems, too—like it would show the state licensing people you take what’s gone on with the dog seriously.”
She knew he was right about that. “What about seeing him?�
�� Whose dog would he be?
“See him whenever you want. Lonesome’s on your way from A to B, right? It’ll be like shared custody of the kid we never had.”
She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing, and, in a second, he joined in—and then she knew they were friends again. And this could work, it really could. Why had she never thought of asking before? All of a sudden, she felt lighter and less alone, the weight on her shoulders not as great. Because Hank’s right. I’ve been so busy clutching Pete all to myself, pushing everyone away...but there’s Hank here, too, right here. She didn’t have to go this alone.
When they’d stopped laughing, she said, “Can I think about it? I’m inclined to say yes, but...”
“Take your time. It’s not like I’m going anywhere tonight or tomorrow either depending on how much of a dump we get. Good thing I brought all that food.”
“Speaking of which, we’ve still got pie, and it’s warm.”
“Now you’re talking. I’ll let you in on a secret. I was ready to come down a half hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I forgot my flashlight. Come on. I’m freezing my ass—” His head suddenly went up, and, in the dimness, she saw that he’d turned to stare north. “Did you hear that?”
She thought she had. She also wasn’t quite sure. The sound, while distinctive, was fleeting.
But then it came again. A faint but unmistakable crack that traveled well on the icy night air. And then she was sure.
“My God,” she said. “That was a shot.”
13
“You think he’ll still be there in the morning?” Jack asked.
Don’t know. If Gabriel had an ounce of sense, he would be. If he didn’t… Nothing she really could do about that.
Shivering a little, she shoved a hot water bottle deep into her mummy bag. One thing she hated about late fall camping was how cold a tent could get. Still, in her decidedly unglamorous silk long johns and thick socks, she would be much better off than Gabriel. She was almost certain snow would come before daybreak. She threw a glance at the front flap of her tent, zipped up tight. The tent, also winter-weight, would give her plenty of protection, and she really was prepared for the worst.
What she wasn’t prepared for was this man.
“What’s your spidey-sense’s verdict?”
Not as black as before. Part of that was the food, getting him hydrated. Talking had helped the most, though.
“Dowell would be proud.”
“That pissant,” she muttered. Unzipping her parka, she stripped out of her flannel shirt. She did not want to be Gabriel’s shrink, but—she reached under her silk top to unclasp her bra—the boy had some serious issues.
“They might understand if he simply turned himself in. He’s got prior service, and he was clearly good enough the Guard wanted him. Probably help more, though, if a couple shrinks gave him a diagnosis. Makes it easier for the military to forgive and forget. They may not even put it on his record, depending.”
“But he’s still got the basic problem,” she said, shrugging off her bra. God, that felt good.
“Which is?”
He needs to feel like he’s part of something. She understood that.
“Ah.” Jack’s breath sighed along her neck. “Like I’m a part of you?”
Don’t. Gabriel’s right outside. Though a fluttering started in the pit of her stomach and her breasts, free now, the skin so sensitive even the thin silk was the most exquisite torment, ached for his touch. I’m serious. We need to talk this through. And then, aloud, putting some steel behind it, she hissed, “I’m serious, Jack.”
“You think I’m not?” His hands slid around her back to cup the warm globes of her breasts, and as she moaned and arched against him, his thumbs brushed her nipples back and forth. He let out a low laugh, his breath hot against her skin. “I have been waiting for this all day.”
Oh God. So had she. Thoughts of the man beyond her tent, what would happen tomorrow morning and the day after that...everything was swept away in a sudden tidal wave of lust as Jack tugged off her silk shirt. The cold didn’t matter; she was burning up, her breath coming faster, more urgently, and then she wasn’t thinking at all but feeling, letting herself go, drowning in a surge of sensation as he nuzzled her ear then trailed along the side of her neck to the knobs of her spine, his lips never stopping, always moving. Somehow, he’d shed his clothes, and then he was there, solid and real against her back, his arms wrapping around, drawing her in, holding her close. Gasping, she pressed her back against his muscled chest and then bowed, her body taut and quivering. She felt him, already hard and urgent, pulsing at the small of her back, but when she tried to reach for him, he stopped her.
“No, no,” he murmured, corralling her questing hand. “You first.”
“But I want...” I want you, I want this. Oh, please, please... Eyes tight shut, she was panting, her chest heaving. Lancets of heat shot through her thighs, and then he was guiding her, his hand firmly on hers as he guided her, slid their intertwined hands over her shuddering belly, and then she felt how slick she was. She ached for his touch. “Don’t, Jack... Don’t stop, don’t...” She let out a little cry as his fingers and her fingers together roamed and teased her moist lips, and then his fingers were inside, searching, probing as his thumb circled and stroked and then faster and faster. “Ah, God, Jack, Jack...” She was moaning and heaving against him, her body moving in liquid, fluid arches of muscle and slick, sweaty flesh. “Please come into me. I want to feel you inside. I want...”
“I know what you want, but I told you.” His tongue flicked along her jaw, and then he knotted his other hand in her hair and bent her back so the tip of his tongue skimmed her lips, darted in for a lick, and then his mouth covered hers, and she was sighing in his mouth, and he was drinking her in, their tongues thrusting, exploring. He pulled back just long enough to whisper, “You first. I want to hear you come.”
And then she wasn’t hearing anything else except the ragged rush of her breath, feeling nothing but his fingers, and then she was arching, lost, her whole body gone molten. The liquid waves of her desire roared, crashing through her body, up her throat, and then she was coming, the explosion bright and hot like a rogue sun gone nova.
She wanted to scream out her pleasure, his name. Perhaps, in another time and place, she would’ve. At the last second, though, she stoppered her mouth with the fist of that strong right arm and bit down hard enough that, had she been any other woman, her flesh would’ve torn and then her mouth fill with the warm and brackish tang of blood.
But she was another kind of woman, if not entirely, at least in part—and so she did not bleed but muffled her cries as she came again and then again, her sweaty body heaving and bucking and writhing: shuddering, under a phantom’s embrace.
14
The hot water bottle Mac had given him was slowly giving up the ghost, but that was entropy for you. Mummied up in his bag, his hands tucked into his armpits, Gabriel lay awake, staring at glowing orange embers and the play of light on aluminum. The snow had started, but it was light and intermittent, the few flakes that blew in on a slant of wind melting instantly on his cheeks. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, just annoying and a little distracting. Hard to settle down and actually rest—not that he thought he’d get much sleep tonight, not with all that had gone down. Despite how good it felt to tell Mac, confession solved nothing.
Ducking his head, he rubbed his face against his sleeping bag to smear snowmelt from his face. Shouldn’t get wet. That would bring on more problems than he cared to deal with right now, thanks. That was the thing most people didn’t get about the wilderness...not that he was any kind of expert...but while cold was a killer, not keeping yourself dry killed you faster.
Should feed the fire. Even as he thought that, though, he could feel his reluctance to move. He was tired. Plus, as soon as he unzipped his bag, all that good pent-up heat would quickly escape. He remembered in
basic when they’d built shelters and did the whole wilderness survival thing, the most sleep you ever really got on your own came in snatches, a couple of hours here and there. A lot depended on just how well you built that fire, but even the best blazes couldn’t survive a storm.
Should he ask to sleep in her tent, then? From where he lay under his shelter, he had a good view of Mac’s tent just across the way. He’d heard her moving around earlier, watched the yellow firefly glow of her flashlight flit over fabric. And then he’d seen her shadow, not stark and finely etched as a daguerreotype but still clear enough that when she shucked out of her shirt, he could make out the solid wedge of her back and then, for an instant, the curve of a breast.
Jesus. The spit dried up on his tongue, and he felt himself getting hard almost at once. Stop it. He ducked his eyes away then, got himself under control...although he really hadn’t wanted to. My God, even on a backcountry trail after a week and change in the mountains, there was something wild and beautiful, almost feral, about her. As if she were a woman apart, different from any other he’d ever met.
And you’re an idiot. She hadn’t given him any encouragement, no signals at all. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that if he tried anything—not that he would, but just supposing—she’d probably break his arm. Worse, he was a deserter, and no catch.
She was a little odd, though. So careful, watchful. Granted, if the situation were reversed, he would be a touch leery of a guy like him, too. She was also... guarded? Yeah, as if she was holding something back, a little removed. The way she sometimes seemed to be listening to someone else was strange, too. As much as that reminded him of the few guys he’d known who were actively psychotic, listening to voices no one else heard, she was way too with it. Of course—Q.E.D.—it wasn’t as if psychosis precluded a person’s ability to wander around the woods. Look at him. Pot calling the kettle black.
