“Yes, and boat privileges, as well. We have two cabins for employees. Since most of the guides are men, they stay in the guides’ camp. The cooks’ camp is for the women.”
Libby thought about her rapidly dwindling bank account. “I’d be happy to pitch in for a while,” she offered. “I’m not working at the moment, and if Mr. Dodge decides to take on the salvage operation, it would be handy if I could stay in the area at least until he finishes the job.”
Karen gave her a skeptical frown. “You mean to tell me you’d clean cabins after going to medical school?”
“I wouldn’t want to make a career out of it, but if I could get three square meals and a roof over my head while Mr. Dodge looks for the plane, I’d think I was a lucky woman.”
“Yes, but…”
“At least think about it. One other thing. If you decide to hire me on a temporary basis, I’d like to bring my mother here. I’d work for nothing if you fed and housed us both.”
Karen shook her head. “I couldn’t ask that of you. I mean, you’re a doctor, for heaven’s sake.”
“Doctors and their mothers have to eat, too, and I could keep an eye on Graham’s father. He’s very weak. But my guess is his odds of a fast recovery would improve considerably if I could ferry him one of your meals every day.”
“Well, I…” Karen shook her head again, clearly astonished. “I don’t know what to say. If you’re serious, I’d love to have you stay. You and your mother can share the cook’s cabin. It’s empty now and lord knows the way things are going it might very well stay that way all summer, but—”
The sound of an approaching plane interrupted their conversation. Libby glanced at her wristwatch. “That might be Mr. Dodge. This meeting will either go well, or not at all. Either way, I’ll help you clean rooms and fix the meals. You’ve treated me like a sister, and made me feel like this place is home. I’m sorry I told you that story about being a journalist.”
Karen reached out and squeezed her arm. “I know the story about Connor Libby and the plane crash. If there’s anything I can do to help you out, just let me know. In the meantime, I’ll get started on the rooms. Will Mr. Dodge be needing a place to stay?”
Libby shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“Well, if he does, tell him we have vacancies.”
CHAPTER FIVE
LIBBY WAITED DOWN on the dock as the plane taxied in. It was a beefy red-and-white Otter, and she wasn’t surprised to see that Carson Dodge was the pilot. He seemed like the kind of man who would fly his own plane. He climbed out and lashed the plane to the dock while Libby looked on, hands shoved in her pockets. Dodge looked a little better for having had a few more days to recuperate. He straightened and gave her a curt nod.
“So, have you found the exact location where the plane went down?” he said.
Was that sarcasm she detected in those oh-so-casual words? Libby studied the bruises and scars on his face, noting that in spite of them, he was a handsome man. The scars only seemed to enhance the aura of virility he radiated as he stood gazing at her with that cryptic and borderline arrogant expression. “Not exactly,” Libby said. “But I’ve narrowed it down.” She swept one of her arms out in an all-encompassing gesture. “It’s somewhere in this lake. Have you had breakfast?”
Another curt movement of his head, this time a shake. “Left early. Don’t usually eat breakfast.”
“Coffee, then?”
“I could stand a cup,” he said.
Libby brought him up to the lodge, introduced him to Karen, sat him beside the still-glowing embers of the living-room fireplace and delivered to him a big mug of coffee along with three of Karen’s huge blueberry muffins. For a man who didn’t eat breakfast, he made short work of the muffins. Libby brought him three more. “I don’t know much more than I did when I first spoke to you,” she admitted as she topped off his mug. “I spoke with Daniel Frey shortly after I arrived here, and he told me the plane must have gone down near the outlet. He also said he wasn’t here when it happened, he was off on a fishing trip.” Libby set the coffeepot down on the side table and took a chair near his. “The thing is, Mr. Dodge, I’ve been studying how the planes take off from here. There haven’t been a whole lot, maybe two or three, but they all take off the same way.”
“And?” he prodded.
“And I don’t see how Connor Libby’s plane could have crashed near the outlet. By the time the planes are airborne, they’re at least a quarter mile up the west arm.”
He was eating another muffin, pulling it apart, feeding big chunks of it into his mouth and chasing it down with coffee. He acted as if he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in a dog’s age, and Libby knew just how he felt. She’d felt the same way when she’d first sampled Karen’s cooking.
“You told me the plane’s pontoons were recovered in the Evening River,” he said.
Libby nodded. “They were. Do you think the pull of the river’s current could have been so strong it moved them into the outlet from a quarter mile out?”
“Against that wind? Doubtful,” he mumbled around another mouthful. The sixth muffin rapidly disappeared as Libby refilled his mug for the third time. “But maybe on that particular day, for some reason, the wind died completely. I suppose they could’ve moved toward the outlet. Depends on how long it took for a search to be launched. Do you know anything about that?”
“My mother told me the wardens were called three hours after the time Connor was supposed to have shown up at her village. So presumably, four hours after the plane had crashed, the authorities were alerted. But it took them another three hours to arrive from Fairbanks. They made the initial flyover at approximately 8:00 p.m. on the day the plane went down. No wreckage was spotted between the village and the lake, and there was no wreckage on the lake itself. The following morning a search plane spotted the pontoons a quarter mile down the Evening River, hung up in the rapids.”
“Huh.” He took a swallow of coffee. “That’s not much to go on, but I wasn’t really expecting much.”
Libby flushed. “I haven’t finished asking around. There’s a guide who works here who has known Daniel Frey for a long time. I’m going to talk with him at lunchtime. And there’s an old Athapaskan who lives a few miles from here and was around at the time of the crash. He knows something, I’m just not sure how much.” She paused, eyeing his empty plate. “Would you like more muffins, Mr. Dodge?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. What I would like is for you to stop calling me Mr. Dodge. Carson’s my name. Where can I park my outfit?”
“Excuse me?”
“My plane. I can’t leave it at the dock. I’ll need to set up a base camp, get my gear unloaded and the boat inflated. I don’t want to be in the thick of things. I imagine this lodge is a busy place.”
“I’m sure you won’t bother anyone no matter where you set up your camp,” Libby said. “You could even stay here if you like. They have vacancies.”
“No thanks. I like my privacy. I saw a point of land about two hundred yards north of the dock with a sheltered cove on the far side,” he said, rising to his feet.
Libby stood. “That would be a good place. I can walk there easily.”
“No reason for you to walk there,” he said.
“I thought I could give you a hand setting up your camp.”
“I won’t be needing any help.”
Libby’s cheeks grew hot. “I just thought—”
He gave her a warning look. “I have two hands and that’s all I need. I’ll get situated and get out on the water as soon as possible.”
“Mr. Dodge…Carson,” Libby said as he turned to leave. “You may not need my help, but I need to know what’s going on. I hope that doesn’t offend you. If it does, I’m sorry, but I have a vested interest in this search.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll understand that the less time I have to spend answering your questions, the more time I can spend out on the lake. My crew is working a tight schedule on another
project and I can only give you one week, Ms. Wilson.”
“One week?” she said, feeling a tight burn of anger at his rudeness and her stupidity. She’d never broached the subject of how long he was supposed to look in order to get his five-thousand-dollar retainer. “If that’s all the time you can give me, you’d better get started.”
LIBBY’S FRUSTRATION WITH Dodge carried her through a morning of cleaning rooms. She helped Karen with two of the rooms to familiarize herself with the routine, then cleaned two more on her own. Periodically she would peer down the lakeshore to the point of land where Carson had been planning to set up his base camp. She couldn’t see his plane because he’d taxied it beyond the point, and she could detect little activity on the point itself. By noon all the guest rooms were cleaned and she walked down onto the dock. She had thought that by now he’d be out on the lake starting to search near the lake’s outlet, but no rubber boat plied the waters.
Karen served up lunch when the hungry fishermen arrived with their guides but Libby wasn’t able to speak with Joe Boone because he stayed out with his clients and didn’t come back to the lodge for the midday meal. “That’s not unusual,” Karen said as they carried dishes to the kitchen. “If the fishing is really good, they’ll beach the boat somewhere and Joe’ll cook up a quick feed. The guides always bring along lunch, just in case. You’ll be able to talk to him tonight at supper.” She paused by the window and glanced out. “I’m surprised your salvage operator isn’t out on the lake yet.”
Libby confessed her anxiety over the same matter. “He told me he could only search for a week and he hasn’t even started yet.”
“Something must be holding him up. Why don’t you bring him some of that leftover fried chicken and potato salad. My guess is he won’t bite your head off if you come bearing food. Most men like their chow.”
“No doubt most men love yours,” Libby said. “Thanks. I’ll take him some right after we get the kitchen cleaned up.”
Karen shook her head. “I’ll take care of that. You go light a fire under Carson Dodge.” She grinned at Libby as she ran hot water into the sink. “Believe me, if I were single, I’d go myself. He’s quite the hunk, even if he does look like he just lost a major battle with seven samurai.”
TEN MINUTES LATER LIBBY was carrying a picnic basket along the edge of the shoreline. The walking was fairly easy, the afternoon sun felt good, and a pleasant breeze blew the bugs away. As she approached the point, she inadvertently eavesdropped on some of the foulest profanities she’d heard in quite some time. When she finally spied Carson’s camp site she understood why. He was surrounded by a mountain of gear and in the midst of trying to assemble some sort of high-tech piece of equipment using a tool Libby didn’t recognize with a bandaged hand that clearly wasn’t cooperating. A green canvas wall tent was in the beginning stages of being set up and the rubber boat on the beach near the plane was only half inflated. It looked to her as if he’d started several projects and had to give up on each one.
When he spotted her he stood, still holding the tool in his good hand. His face flushed a darker shade with anger or embarrassment or some combination of both as he fixed her with an accusing stare. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was wondering why you weren’t already out on the lake, but I can see you’ve been having some problems.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, gruff as a grizzly. Even his scowl looked as if it hurt him. His bandaged hand showed signs of blood seeping through the cotton gauze, which was badly soiled and needed changing.
“I brought you some lunch.” She held up the picnic basket.
He eyed the basket and his scowl deepened. “Not hungry and don’t have time,” he said, crouching back down beside a piece of equipment that resembled a small streamlined black-and-yellow torpedo with fins.
“I could help,” Libby offered.
“I can manage,” he said, not looking at her but not managing too well, either. The tool obviously required two-handed dexterity and there was no way on earth he was going to be able to use it on his own. Libby set the picnic basket on the ground and moved closer.
“What are you assembling?” she asked, kneeling beside him.
“Nothing. I’m fixing the towfish’s cable connection,” he muttered, concentrating on the hopeless task. “And if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to have an audience.”
“Look,” Libby said, her patience wearing thin. “Just this morning you told me you could only give me one week of your time, and already half a day is gone. I was told you were the best salvage operator around and that might be true, but right now you’re recovering from some pretty serious injuries and like it or not, you could use a little help. I could screw that thing in there for you. I can see what you’re trying to do, and I can do it. I have two perfectly good hands.” Libby held them out, turned them over then back again, though he didn’t bother to look. “Please, let me help. Helping you helps me. I really need you to find that plane.”
He glanced up at her, and their eyes held for several long moments before he looked away. He stared out at the lake, heaved a sigh, then handed her the tool and pushed slowly to his feet. “Okay then, I’ll put the motor on the boat.”
“Karen’s fried chicken is the best I’ve ever eaten,” Libby commented as he started away. He paused and glanced at the picnic basket. “Best potato salad, too, and if you’re an apple pie fan, you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. Better make it disappear, Mr. Dodge, before the bears get wind of it.”
BY THE TIME HE’D FINISHED off every last morsel of the enormous lunch, Libby had tightened the connection on the towfish, whatever that was, finished putting up the wall tent and assembled the little woodstove that went inside the tent. She’d pumped the rubber boat up to maximum inflation and affixed the motor to the transom. He watched her silently as he ate, and when he was done he packed all the wrappings into the basket, drained the last of the lemonade, and stood.
“Good?” Libby asked.
He nodded grudgingly. “So are you. Not many women would know how to do all that stuff.”
Libby gave him a wry smile. “Not many women would want to know. I guess you’re ready.”
He nodded again. “I’ll work until dark. That’ll make up for the time I wasted.”
“If you stop by the dock before quitting time, I’ll rebandage your hand,” Libby offered. “I have a good first aid kit, and that dressing really needs to be changed.”
He gave her a strange look, as if he hadn’t a clue how to treat her after she’d helped him out. “Thanks, but I can take care of it.”
“Suit yourself.” Libby picked up the empty picnic basket. “How will I know if you find the plane?”
“When I locate the plane, I’ll be sure and communicate that to you directly and in person,” he said.
“And then what happens?”
“Then we mark the spot and purchase the salvage rights from the state.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to find the plane in one week’s time?”
“I’ll stand a better chance if you let me get back to work,” he said, the gruffness returning as he turned his back on her and shut her out.
Libby left the camp so swiftly she caught her toe in a tree root, stumbled and nearly fell. She was fuming as she skirted the shoreline back toward the lodge. Carson Dodge might be the best salvage operator going, but his insolence was intolerable. The best thing she could do was give him the space he asked for, which wouldn’t be hard.
Not at all.
CARSON HAD NEVER FELT less like working than he did after consuming the contents of that huge hamper. Without a doubt it was the tastiest lunch he’d ever eaten, but now all he wanted to do was crawl inside his tent and sack out for a day or two. He was relieved when Libby Wilson finally left the camp. Bad enough that she’d had to help him get set up, but when she’d offered to fix his bandage it brought back with painful clarity all those days he’d spent lying flat on
his back in the hospital while doctors and nurses prodded and poked and made notes on clipboards. He’d take care of his own damn hand. He didn’t need or want anyone fussing over him ever again.
He headed the rubber boat toward the inlet to begin the search pattern, reflecting that the only thing he hated more than doctors was being dependent on anyone for anything, especially a woman. The fact that he hadn’t been able to operate a simple hand tool to tighten the towfish connector was galling. Of course, his condition was only temporary. He would get his strength back. His hand would function normally again, no matter what those damn doctors had told him. Doctors were experts at delivering worst-case scenarios, but they weren’t gods, and they didn’t know how determined he was to prove them wrong.
As he motored steadily into the pattern, adjusting the towfish’s depth, scanning his monitor, checking the GPS, perusing his charts of the lake, his feelings of frustration gradually faded. It was hard to brood on dark thoughts when surrounded by water, be it the Atlantic, the Pacific, or a glacial cirque just shy of the Arctic Circle. Besides, this search was something he could do even while he regained his strength. All he had to do was work the pattern and keep his eyes peeled. He’d find the plane, and when he did he’d bank the hundred and fifty grand in his private account…just in case those doctors were right.
LUANNE HAD SPENT BETTER DAYS, and worse, too, though working for Daniel Frey made every day a challenge. She kept telling herself that in the end this summer would be the best summer of all, for what she learned from working for Frey, and for the relationship she was building with Graham Johnson, but today, finding the silver lining was hard.
“LUANNE!”
She flinched as she heard Frey’s shout. How many times today had he shouted her name? Too many to count. She found him out on the porch. It was after supper, and he sat there as always with his liquor and his cigars, in his reclining chair, looking out at the lake through his binoculars.
Everything To Prove Page 8
