Everything To Prove

by Nadia Nichols

  He caught her movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked abruptly upright, sloshing gas from the can. She froze again, and for a few silent moments they stared wide-eyed at each other. She waited for him to ask her what she was doing there, but instead he said, his rough voice dark with accusation, “By damn, I thought you were a bear.” Then his glance dropped and took in the pile of wood she’d gathered and cut. His expression became even stonier. “I could’ve done that.”

  “I brought you some supper. I left it inside the tent,” Libby said, having regained her wits.

  “I have my own food.”

  “Yes, I saw it. I think you’ll find what I brought to be a little more nutritious, not to mention better tasting. Did you find anything yet?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, as if contemplating whether or not to answer, then shook his head. “No, but I met Daniel Frey. He was watching me with binoculars the whole time I was out there and sent a girl to ask me some questions, so I went over and introduced myself. He had a few things to say about the salvage operation.”

  Libby didn’t quite know how to react to this unsettling information. She had expected that Frey would be curious, but had thought his seclusiveness would keep him at a safe distance, at least for a little while. “Oh?”

  “He wants the wreckage left alone.”

  Hot anger boiled up and she shook her head. “No way in hell is that happening.”

  “He offered a generous kill fee if we pulled foot. He told me the pilot of the plane had been his godson and he doesn’t want the place disturbed.”

  “I’ll just bet he doesn’t,” Libby snapped heatedly. She clenched her fists and blew her breath out sharply. It wouldn’t do to fly off the handle. She might reveal things she really didn’t want Carson Dodge to know. “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I’d pass the information along. He also told me there was a young woman asking about the plane a couple of days ago. A journalist from Boston. Any idea who that might be?”

  “That would be me.” Libby drew a shaky breath. “I interviewed him for a supposed story I was writing for the Libby Foundation.”

  “Huh.” He eyed her calculatingly. “In that case, he believes you hired me to find the plane to give your story drama, and he thinks I’m in on the scheme for what I can get for the plane.”

  “Does he still believe that after your little chat?” Libby asked.

  Carson shrugged. “I didn’t enlighten him, if that’s what you’re asking. I told him I’d run his offer by you. He was hinting at half a million dollars, but I’m guessing you could up the ante and he’d pay.”

  “Even if he offered three million dollars, I’m not letting this go,” Libby said.

  “He threatened that if we didn’t take the money, he’d make sure we’d never get the salvage rights to the plane even if we found it.”

  “I’m sure he’ll make a lot more threats before this week is through. You agreed to find the plane and I trust you’re a man of your word.”

  His eyes narrowed and his shoulders squared. “If that plane is in this lake, I’ll find it.” He set the gas can down and turned back toward the boat.

  “You better eat something first,” Libby called after him. “Some real food. And I brought along a first aid kit so I could rebandage your hand.”

  He paused and glanced down at the swathe of wet, dirty bandaging. “My hand’s fine.”

  “I disagree, and you’ll be of no use whatsoever if it gets infected. This won’t take but five minutes, and I can assure you that will be five minutes well spent. If you try to tend to it yourself it’s going to take a whole lot longer and be a much sloppier job, and if you do nothing at all, maggots will be crawling in that bandaging before too long, if they aren’t in there already.” She reached for the first aid bag and opened it on top of the little table he’d set up under the tent awning. “This’ll go a lot faster if you cooperate.” She arranged the items she needed on a clean cloth and picked up a pair of bandage scissors. “You’re wasting time,” she said, glancing up.

  “You have a high opinion of your first aid skills.”

  “I’ve had lots of practice,” Libby returned. “Could you possibly step a little closer? My arms aren’t quite that long.”

  He hesitated, and she sensed the churning turmoil within him before he grudgingly moved near and held out his hand. It took her several minutes just to cut away the layers of soiled and bloodied bandage.

  “I suppose the doctors told you not to use this hand until the wounds had healed up and the stitches were removed,” she commented as she laid aside the scissors, carefully peeled away the bandaging and gently swabbed his hand with surgical scrub. She’d expected to see abused injuries hidden beneath but was dismayed at the extent of the damage. She wondered if he’d ever be able to use it normally again. His right hand was laced with deep lacerations, several across the palm itself and it looked as if his last two fingers had nearly been sheared off. “I see you’ve been busy ripping out some of these stitches,” she commented as she worked. “The more you abuse this hand, the longer it’s going to take to heal, but I’m sure you realize that.”

  He gazed stonily out across the lake while she finished cleaning up and began bandaging with fresh supplies. Her ministrations, though careful, had to be hurting him, but his expression never changed. “I suppose the doctors also told you it would take a long time for your hand to heal properly, and that you’d need to undergo lengthy physical therapy before you regained full use of it.” She wrapped the elastic gauze around and around as she spoke. “No doubt they also told you to keep the bandaging clean and dry.”

  “Doctors like giving orders,” he said.

  “There’s usually a reason behind all of them.” Libby cut the gauze, then applied several strips of tape to secure it. “There. That’s a little better,” she said, gathering her supplies back into the bag. “I’d recommend changing that bandage daily if you insist on ignoring their advice. I’d be more than happy to do that for you.” She closed the bag and glanced up. “Did any of your doctors prescribe something for the pain?”

  “They did, but I don’t need anything,” he said, dropping his hand to his side.

  “Tough guy, huh?”

  “Tough enough.” He started to turn toward the boat then paused and gave her a guarded look. “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He turned away once again, and she stood on the shore and watched while he pushed the boat back into the water and climbed aboard. “Keep that bandaging dry,” she ordered.

  His expression was still guarded as he picked up an oar to push into deeper water. “What are you, some kind of nurse?” he asked.

  Libby shook her head. “Some kind of doctor,” she replied.

  “I thought so,” he said as if suddenly her behavior made a dark kind of sense to him. “That’s why you like giving orders.”

  “That’s right. And I expect them to be obeyed,” Libby returned.

  “You, and all the rest of ’em.”

  He dropped the oar, lowered the motor into the water and settled himself in the stern. He started the motor with one quick pull using his left hand and headed back down the lake toward the outlet. Libby shook her head as she watched him depart without a backward glance. “And you be sure and have a nice evening, too, Mr. Dodge,” she muttered. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets as she turned and began the short walk back to the lodge.

  LIBBY WILSON.

  Carson watched her walk along the shore, head down, dark hair blowing in the wind. Why had she told Frey she was a journalist from Boston when she was “some kind of doctor”?

  Connor Libby.

  Libby Wilson.

  Was the name just a coincidence?

  Maybe, but Libby wasn’t exactly a common name, was it?

  She had a strong, determined walk. She strode along as if she was mad as hell about something; mad at him, no doubt. He didn’t blame her. He’d behaved
as if his mother had never taught him basic manners. But there it was again. She was just too damned good-looking. She knew the power she held over him. All beautiful women were aware of that power. If he’d treated her rudely, it was only in self-defense. His ex-wife had destroyed him effortlessly, and he still felt the hurt of that betrayal. He kept it buried deep down inside but felt it, nonetheless.

  Never again would he let himself become that vulnerable. Women were to be used for physical pleasure and kept at extreme arm’s length all other times. That was the only way for a man to stay sane and retain his freedom and independence.

  She’d reached the dock now, stepped onto the weather-bleached boards and turned to look toward him, as if she knew he was thinking about her. She stood there for a long moment. Was she going to stand there on the end of the dock and watch him work the search the same way Frey had? Minutes passed while the boat drifted on the still waters. Then, quite abruptly, she walked away in that same head down, determined manner. Carson was relieved that she’d left, but for some reason even though he had no more distractions he couldn’t concentrate on the search pattern. Couldn’t focus on the job at hand.

  A loon called somewhere out on the glassy, golden waters of the lake as the sun set, and he felt a tug of loneliness at the wild, haunting sound. He searched the shoreline for the young woman with blue eyes and hair the color of a raven’s wing, but she was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “LIBBY?” KAREN WHITTEN poked her head around the cook’s cabin door. “Sorry to wake you. I know it’s early, but your mother’s on the phone.”

  Libby pushed onto her elbows and blinked the sleep from her eyes. She felt as if she’d just gone to bed. Could morning be here already? And what had Karen just said? That her mother was calling? Why would her mother be calling at this hour? Was something wrong? Panic galvanized her into action and her feet hit the floor even as she reached for her blue jeans. “Oh, God. I’m coming!”

  Dressing herself as she followed Karen, Libby reached for the phone in the lobby of the lodge. She was barefoot, her blue jeans unfastened, flannel shirt half buttoned and hair a wild tangled mane. “Mom? Mom, are you all right?”

  “Libby, I want you to know that I’m not coming on the plane. Susan cannot force me to come. Call the air service and cancel the flight.”

  Her mother’s voice was firm and clipped. Libby gripped the phone. “Are you feeling okay? Mom? Tell me the truth. Are you all right?”

  “I know where you are, Libby,” her mother said in an admonishing tone of voice. “You’re at Evening Lake, and I am not going there.”

  “Mom, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “I can’t sleep knowing you’re there. I want you to come home.”

  “Mom…”

  “I will not come there. I never want to see that evil man again.”

  “You don’t have to see him. He lives across the lake.”

  “Come back home, Libby.”

  Libby sighed with frustration. “I can’t, Mom. Not for a little while, anyway. I was hoping you’d come here. The food’s great and you’d love Karen. We’d have our own little cabin to stay in. It’s beautiful here, and I miss you.”

  “Then come home. Why are you there? What are you trying to prove? Libby, the past is behind you. Leave it there. Let it go. Come home!”

  Libby closed her eyes and slumped against the wall. “I can’t. Try to understand that this is something I just have to do. I can’t go forward with my life until I can understand the past. I need to find the plane, Mom. I need to find my father.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and then Libby heard a faint sigh. “I felt that way once, too,” her mother said. “I looked and looked, but I never found him. Neither will you. You have to let him go.”

  Tears stung beneath her eyelids and her throat tightened. “I can’t,” Libby repeated. “Try to understand. I just can’t.”

  Another long silence followed. “Well,” her mother said. “I’m not going back there. I swore I’d never go back and I won’t. I’ll wait for you here.”

  “You’ll take your medications and listen to Susan?”

  “I’ll take my pills,” her mother said.

  “You’ll eat the food I left?”

  “Libby, Daniel Frey is a dangerous man.”

  “I’ll be careful, Mom. I promise.”

  “The old man who lives in the woods will tell you how dangerous he is.”

  “The old man?” Libby opened her eyes and blinked back the tears. “Do you mean Solly Johnson?”

  “Frey shot the old man, years ago. You ask him about it, if you can find him. He knows many things, but he keeps his secrets.”

  “Mom? You listen to Susan. I’ll be home in a week. I love you. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” her mother said in that same stern voice. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Libby said, even as her mother hung up the phone on her end.

  DAWN CAME AT 4:00 A.M. in the arctic summer. The sun lifted over the rim of mountains to the east, a great reddish-orange orb rising over a wilderness so beautiful it made the heart ache, and Libby was wide-awake to greet it, sitting on the edge of the dock with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms curled around them, bundled in a jacket against the morning chill and drinking a cup of hot black coffee. Her mother’s phone call had banished all thoughts of returning to her bunk for another hour of slumber. Instead she sat and gazed across the lake to the lodge where Daniel Frey lived…and where her own father had grown up.

  She wondered if Frey had kept any of Connor’s things. In her imaginings she pictured Connor’s room exactly as he might have left it, the drawers and closet full of his clothing, knickknacks on the bureau, pictures he had held dear still hanging on the walls. A journal, maybe, secreted away in a bookshelf that contained his favorite novels. A shoe box full of letters he’d kept while in the air force, written to him by his father, perhaps, or Frey himself, or old girlfriends. His air force uniform. The medals he’d been awarded. A baseball bat and glove. His collection of favorite rock music. His fly rods. Maybe a hand-carved canoe paddle and the pack basket he’d used when he went camping.

  She dreamed that she’d walk into his room and touch his things and somehow be connected to him. Simply by standing there, surrounded by all his paraphernalia, she’d absorb the essence of the boy he’d been and the man he’d become. Somehow she’d come to know the father she’d never meet.

  Libby sighed and shifted her gaze up the lake’s west shore, to the timbered point where Dodge had set up his camp. She could just make out part of the tent from where she sat, but most of it was hidden by the spruce. Mist rose from the still coves, glowing gold in the early sunlight. It was so quiet she could hear a loon at least a mile up the lake. She saw a curl of woodsmoke from his campsite and on impulse pushed to her feet and walked back to the lodge. Karen was in the kitchen baking muffins. The first tray was just coming out of the oven when Libby made her appearance.

  “Blueberry again, by request of the guests,” Karen said, sliding the muffin tin onto the counter. “Help yourself.”

  “Could I bring a couple to Carson? I’m not sure what he has for breakfast, or if he can even cook with his hand wrapped up like that.”

  Karen brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead and grinned. “For a man that size I’d highly recommend six muffins, a stick of butter and a thermos of fresh coffee. You can’t go wrong.” Even as she spoke she was plucking six big piping-hot muffins out of the tin and bundling them in a clean dish towel that was tucked inside one of the lunch hampers used by the guides. She filled a thermos with coffee, nestled it beside the muffins, and lastly added the butter and a knife. “Tell him he’s welcome to keep his boat at the dock if he wants,” she said, handing Libby the hamper. “There’s plenty of room and he’d be closer to the food source.”

  “I will, thanks. I’ll be back shortly to help with breakfast.”

  K
aren waved her out the door. “Take your time. From the looks of him, that man could use some TLC.”

  Libby gave a laugh. “He doesn’t want it. I tried that yesterday and he was as bristly as a porcupine.”

  “What happened to him, anyway? Was he in a car accident?”

  “He was salvaging a plane that went down off Anchorage and got caught up in the wreckage.”

  “Oh! I read about it in the newspapers a month or so ago. That was awful, both the plane crash and the salvage accident. The article said all the passengers and crew had been killed, and the diver was in critical condition.”

  Libby nodded. “He only got out of the hospital a week ago. He was probably ordered to take it easy for a couple of months, but he’s the type that can’t stand sitting still.”

  Karen shook her head. “Men can be stubborn creatures.”

  “True enough, though he doesn’t complain about his circumstances, and that’s rare.” She hefted the lunch hamper. “Thanks again, Karen. Maybe this’ll soften him up.”

  But as she walked along the shoreline toward Carson’s camp, she doubted he would receive her warmly, and she was right. If anything, he was more surly than he’d been the previous evening. He was shaving when she arrived, standing in front of a little mirror he’d hung from a spruce branch, next to where he’d hung his kit. He didn’t turn when she entered the camp, making no effort to be quiet, but she saw his shoulders stiffen. He was wearing the same faded blue jeans and flannel shirt he’d been wearing the day before, and she wondered if he’d bothered to get undressed or if he’d slept in his clothes.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I see you’re up.”

  He caught her eye briefly in the mirror, grunted and continued shaving.