A Soldier's Pledge

by Nadia Nichols

  “No more talk about last night, Jack,” she said. “I would’ve had the same reaction as you did if I woke up thinking I was alone in a tent, and felt something wrapped around me. I’d have done the same thing. Well, I wouldn’t have been able to toss you through the air like that, but you get my drift. You didn’t hurt me. Let’s just put last night behind us and move on. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

  He’d obviously rehearsed something to say to her, and her words caused him to pause. At length he nodded. “Okay. Hope you don’t mind that I raided your dry bag to make breakfast.”

  “No,” she said, and then noticed that he was wearing both his boots. “You found your leg!”

  “Yup. River’s so low it was sticking up out of the water. Hard to believe I almost drowned there yesterday. I rigged up the z-drag. It’s all set to go. We can give it a try after breakfast. Oatmeal and toast coming right up.”

  The sun was so bright the inside of the tent was a kaleidoscope of colors, but of all the prisms that shined and danced, his eyes were the prize. They were clear and hazel. They were beautiful. And his eyelashes and his mouth and his strong jawline and the way several days’ worth of beard shadowed it. And the strength of him, the raw strength of him, his shoulders, forearms, wrists and hands, so strong. She’d discovered just how strong last night. She’d seen his powerful torso bared to the universe and scarred with war wounds, and she’d seen his leg and the bloody battlefields written upon it, and could only feel gratitude and admiration for a man who would give everything he had in the name of freedom.

  “That sounds fine,” she said. He nodded, backed out of the tent and zipped the door, leaving her to her morning coffee when what she really needed was more Jack Parker. Much more. She felt her face with the fingertips of one hand. Her skin was covered with gouges and welts and scratches that were healing now, but she must look like Frankenstein. The swelling had mostly gone from around her eye, but she was sure it was still black. The cut on her lip was almost healed. In another month or so, she’d be back to her old self. She took a sip of strong hot coffee and let the caffeine percolate through her. In another month, where would her old self be? Where would Jack be? Would they be walking different paths in different worlds after sharing this incredible journey together?

  She pulled on her cargo pants and fleece pullover in stages while she finished her coffee, and then exited the tent to join Jack beside the cook fire. She’d packed a bag of dried fruit and nuts and was pleased to see he’d added half of it to the oatmeal.

  “Almost done,” he said. He was sitting on a smooth river rock beside the fire. While she’d been sleeping, he’d been working. She could see the z-drag rigged to a tree along the shore a little downriver from their campsite.

  They ate breakfast in dedicated silence. They could have eaten twice what she’d packed. When they got back to the trapper’s cabin, Cameron vowed to herself that she was going to cook a decent meal, one that would fill them both and stick to their ribs for a while, and when they were done eating that meal she’d start fixing another. Maybe she’d make something sweet. She’d noticed the raspberries were ripening. A raspberry cobbler would taste mighty fine. They could share a very domestic afternoon at a cozy log cabin in the Northwest Territories. Assuming Walt had summoned help, it would take the rescue crew a day to reach the trapper’s cabin by boat. Maybe even two days. They’d have at least that much more time together.

  She held that thought as she cleaned up the breakfast dishes at the river’s edge. Jack was getting antsy, making adjustments to the ropes he’d connected to the canoe’s snub line. Cameron didn’t think it would be a successful morning and was more than willing to put off trying to retrieve the canoe, except that there loomed the very real and unpleasant specter of having to walk all the way back to the trapper’s cabin. So she packed away the breakfast kit and washed her hands and face at the river, and then got down to business.

  “I already tried doing it myself,” Jack said as she took a grip on the line. “I couldn’t budge it.”

  “Figured as much,” Cameron said, getting into position. “You obviously need my muscle.” Jack was behind her. They would both heave on the rope and hope the z-drag provided enough leverage to pull the sunken canoe from beneath the fallen tree.

  “On the count of three,” Jack said. “One....two...three!”

  They pulled mightily on the z-drag, gaining nothing.

  “Again,” Jack said. “One...two...three!”

  Together they threw their combined weight against the line in a mighty heave, and this time it gave so suddenly they both crashed backward to the ground. For a moment they lay stunned, then Cameron scrambled to her feet, hoping to see the canoe floating to the surface, buoyed by the flotation bags in stem and stern. There was no sign of the canoe, but as Jack regained his feet and pulled in the slack rope, he retrieved a splintered piece of wood, part of the thwart the snub line had been tied to.

  “Well, I guess that’s that,” she said as Jack began to disassemble the ropes. “No more pistol, canoe, satellite phone, deluxe tent, emergency kit or sleeping bag.” She unfastened the rope and carabiner from the tree and walked back to the tent. While he coiled the lines, she crammed his sleeping bag into the stuff sack and rolled her wool blanket and dropped it into the dry bag. Taking down the tent took moments. Within thirty minutes, they were ready to depart. Jack hoisted his pack and shrugged into it while she did the same with her dry bag.

  “Where’s your hat?” he asked. “Did you throw it in the river?”

  Cameron shook her head. “I was afraid we’d encounter it again if I did.” Jack cast around and spied it in the bushes where she’d flung it. He retrieved the hat and placed it on her head while she radiated silent disapproval.

  “We’re not leaving it here,” he said. “Both of us almost died trying to retrieve the damned thing. Besides, it looks like it might rain later today. Ready?”

  She nodded, and they started walking downriver.

  * * *

  WALT WAS JUST finishing breakfast when he heard the slam of the car door, glanced out the office window and groaned. The very pregnant Tedlow woman was waddling up the path toward the trailer, one hand holding her stomach, the other pressed into the small of her back. Now what did she want? She’d gotten her sightseeing flight, seen firsthand that Cameron and her brother were camped out together in her brother’s tent, sharing some afternoon delight, and she’d paid him the hefty flying fee without quibbling. She should be on her way back to Montana, not slowly hauling herself up the three rickety steps to the construction trailer’s little porch.

  “Walter?” she said, tapping at the door. “Are you in there?”

  He opened it and motioned her inside. “I thought you’d be halfway home by now.”

  “I was going to leave, but something just didn’t set right about yesterday, when we spotted Cameron.”

  Walt poured himself a second cup of coffee and held up the pot. She shook her head. “I’ve had an acid stomach all morning,” she explained. “Anyhow, what made me start thinking about it was that we never saw my brother, we only saw Cameron. I mean, it was broad daylight. Jack would’ve been up. And the way she was waving, don’t you think that was a little overly enthusiastic? Desperate, even? I think she was signaling for help.”

  Lori Tedlow looked as if she hadn’t slept all night. There were dark circles under her eyes. She stared intently at Walt, waiting for him to calmly explain away her fears. Walt sighed and took a sip of coffee. What could he say to her? How could he explain this so she wouldn’t be embarrassed? She was pregnant. She must understand about sex.

  “Cameron knows how to signal for help. She’s a young woman,” he began slowly, “and like all young women she has healthy...appetites. You saw what she was wearing, so you had to guess what they’d been doing inside that tent. Sure, we did three flybys, but if you
r brother was trying to get dressed, he still wouldn’t have had time to make an appearance. And another thing. Cameron didn’t know you were aboard. She was waving like that because I warned her before she started this trip that she might not be able to rope and tie your brother. That waving was just her way of telling me she’d bagged her man.”

  Lori was frowning. “So you think all that jumping up and down and arm waving was just pure showing off?”

  “Sure, a victory wave. Well, part of it might have been her waving me off so she could get back to business. My guess is she’ll be giving me a call in four more days, and I’ll go pick the both of them up. Soon as she calls me, I’ll call you. You can fly back up here and be waiting for your brother when we get back. How’s that sound?”

  “You think it’s going to take four more days?”

  Walt grinned broadly. “At the rate they’re traveling, it could be more than that. They’re having themselves a fine old time out in the beautiful wilderness. That’s good therapy for your brother, and he couldn’t be traveling with a more qualified guide, who also happens to be an excellent cook. I know they have plenty of food and some real nice bottles of wine because I helped Cameron load it all into the canoe.”

  “But I didn’t see any canoe. Did you?”

  Walt hesitated. “No, but I was kind of focused on Cameron. I wasn’t looking for it. Besides, the canoe would’ve been real hard to spot pulled up along that shore.”

  Lori hesitated, shook her head. “Something just doesn’t feel right,” she said. “I didn’t sleep at all last night thinking about it, and I have this churning in my stomach.”

  “That’s called a baby,” Walt said, pleased with his wit. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Trust me. Right now those two are having the time of their lives.”

  * * *

  THREE HOURS INTO the walk back to the trapper’s cabin, the rain Jack had predicted started to fall and the uneven ground became slippery. They were lucky that all the tributaries that fed into the Wolf River had been small and easily crossed, but even so, the miles passed slowly. Cameron was tired and getting careless, and she slipped several times before tripping over a blowdown and landing hard, facedown, the breath knocked out of her. Jack was up ahead, out of sight. He was leaving her behind yet again.

  She pushed herself up, rolled over onto her side and drew one leg up to lever herself to her feet. A bolt of pain shot through her knee when she pushed off the ground and the leg straightened, causing her to gasp aloud and drop back. She’d never hurt one of her knees before. Never even twisted an ankle to the limping stage. She tried to get up again, and again the pain left her staring in disbelief at a leg that had betrayed her for no apparent reason.

  Jack was probably already out of hearing. Rain spattered down, muting the sound of the river. She twisted her hips with a little hitch to sit up straighter and leaned down to check her leg. The kneecap felt out of place. A cold sweat chilled her brow. The pain was really bad, and she couldn’t straighten her leg at all. This was crazy. She was in great shape. It hadn’t been a bad fall. She’d taken far worse than this without any consequence. She couldn’t have broken anything, but neither could she get back on her feet, and she was feeling more desperate by the moment.

  This couldn’t be happening to her. Nobody could encounter this much bad luck in one canoe trip. She was a competent guide, good at what she did. She shouldn’t be having all these problems. Her entire self-reliant life was falling apart, and she was turning into a Calamity Jane. She’d jinxed herself when she’d bragged to Walt she’d have her quarry safely delivered to the banks of the Mackenzie River in four days. She’d been so arrogant, so sure he’d be an easy mark. And now her quarry, the wounded warrior with the prosthetic leg, who should have been so easy to bag, was leaving her behind. Walking away.

  In the future, she’d stick to flying and leave the bounty hunting to someone else.

  “Jack!” She shouted his name at the top of her lungs, then took out her whistle and blew it.

  After what seemed like a long time, she heard him returning. He shrugged out of his pack, knelt beside her and asked, “What happened? You okay?”

  “I fell climbing over that blowdown and now I can’t straighten my leg.”

  He felt her knee gently through her wet pant leg. “Your kneecap’s dislocated.”

  “But that’s not possible,” Cameron said, realizing as she spoke how foolish she sounded. “I didn’t do anything bad enough to dislocate my knee.”

  “You must’ve twisted your body to catch yourself when you fell. That’s usually how a kneecap goes out. Sharp twisting changes of direction. Basketball players are prone to this particular injury, and you’ve been through a lot lately.” His hands were on her knee, palpating as he spoke, almost as if he knew what he was doing and had done it before. This was totally annoying, having him take care of her.

  “I can’t get up. It shouldn’t hurt this bad, but it does.”

  “Knee injuries usually do. I’m going to roll up your pant leg to get a good look. Feels like it’s already starting to swell.”

  She was wearing her baggy nylon cargo pants, and he peeled the cloth back easily, rolling it above her knee. She propped herself onto her elbows and stared. He was right. Her knee was already visibly swollen and definitely out of place. His warm, strong hands bracketed the injury as he studied the situation, then he glanced at her with a serious expression. “I’m going to straighten your leg and put the kneecap back where it belongs.”

  Cameron lay back down and clenched her fists around whatever she could grab, roots and branches, and then she nodded. “Okay. Go ahead. Do it. Get it over with. I’m ready.”

  “This is going to hurt,” he warned her.

  “Dammit, Jack,” she snapped. “Don’t tell me how painful it’s going to be, just do it and get it over with!”

  He manipulated her knee back into position quickly, but the bolt of pain was so bad she almost cried out. She lay still afterward, bathed in a cold sweat, staring into the gray sky while rain flattened her mosquito netting onto her face and her stomach roiled with nausea.

  “You did great,” Jack reassured her. “Your kneecap’s back where it should be, went right back in. Sometimes they don’t, and it takes several tries. You were lucky. I’ll put a wrap around it to give it some support. You okay?”

  “Never better,” she said faintly.

  She lay there, a silent victim of her own self-pity, and let Jack wrap up her leg while the rain pattered down. His pack was an endless source of supplies. Along with a spare leg, he even had an Ace bandage that he produced like a rabbit out of a hat. Other than protein bars and packages of dried noodle soup, it seemed the only things he carried were first aid and emergency gear, all of which had proved very useful. Black flies and mosquitoes swarmed around them as he first rolled her pant leg down, then wrapped the bandage around her knee and over the wet pant leg. She knew she had to make it to the cabin. She couldn’t lie there indefinitely, but she dreaded the rest of the journey. They still had a ways to go, at least another hour.

  “That too tight?” he asked when he was done with the wrap.

  “It feels fine.”

  “Good. You ready?”

  He helped her to stand, and she leaned against him for several long moments while he steadied her. Her knee felt a little strange, but the intense pain was gone. She moved away until she was standing on her own, still clinging to his hand just in case. She shifted her weight onto the injured knee. Bent it slowly, cautiously. Straightened it again. She blew out her breath. “Fixed,” she said. “Thanks, Doc.”

  Jack put on his own pack and then shouldered her duffel. He paused to rearrange the mosquito netting over her hat and gave the brim a tug to seat it properly on her head. They exchanged a long silent gaze through a haze of olive-drab insect netting, and a million w
ords passed between them. Two million. Then Cameron took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I’m ready,” and took her first step, then her second. She walked ten steps, then paused and looked behind. Jack nodded encouragement. She nodded back and kept walking.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON before they reached the trapper’s cabin, and the rain was still coming down hard. That last hour of hiking had taken two hours at her slower pace. She was still limping along in the torrent, head down and miserable, when she heard Jack swear aloud.

  She looked up and stopped. The cabin was in front of her, and the solid log wall was a welcome sight, but something looked different about it. Very different. With a sinking feeling, she saw that the screening hung down from the closest window. There were items strewed about the clearing—food items: the shredded remains of a loaf of bread; a bag of sugar ripped apart, the sugar spread on the ground beneath the window with the torn screen; the last one-pound bag of coffee, empty, the grounds blending into the dirt and mud.

  “Oh, no,” she said, her heart sinking as realization struck. “I forgot to close the bear shutters when I left yesterday.” The loss of the coffee was catastrophic. She wouldn’t be able to get up in the morning without coffee. She picked up the empty bag and began carefully scooping up the wet coffee grounds.

  Jack checked the cabin to make sure the bear was gone. He came to the door. “All clear. Lucky that the window wasn’t broken. The bear just pushed it open after he ripped the screen.”

  Cameron climbed up the cabin steps and paused inside the door, still clutching the bag of salvaged coffee grounds. The neat little cabin she’d left behind looked like it had been ransacked by thieves searching for money and drugs. For a moment she could only stare. The mattresses were still on the bunk beds, but everything else had been dragged around or knocked over, including the cast-iron woodstove. Jack’s guitar case was next to the cooler, and it was shredded. Mauled. While she watched, he pulled the crushed remnants of his instrument out of the case. Broken strings dangled from the neck, and several pieces of wood dropped to the floor. He tossed the guitar and case out the door. “Guess the bear won that round,” he said. “No more Elvis.”