Everything To Prove

by Nadia Nichols

He shook his head with a faint grin. “Thanks, but that sort of living would make me soft. I’ll have to pass.”

  “Suit yourself, tough guy,” she said, “but you’re missing out on a great meal.”

  She turned and walked up the dock, hands shoved in her pockets, hair blowing like black silk in the late-afternoon breeze. Carson watched her for a few very painful moments. He was acutely aware that he was missing out on a whole lot more than a great meal. He started the motor and backed away from the dock, and as he headed for his camp he felt the gnawing aches in his leg and side and lung spread through him until there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t hurt, but he wasn’t sure the pain was real. He thought maybe it was all in his mind. He thought maybe his increasing agony had something to do with leaving Libby Wilson behind.

  But that was foolish.

  He tethered the boat to the plane’s pontoon, secured the towfish on board and waded ashore with the empty gas can and his day pack. He threw the pack inside the tent and stood for a moment, catching his breath and contemplating supper. He’d eat some noodles, maybe. He’d lived for years on those cheap twenty-cent packets of noodles and canned beans. Libby might think they were poor vittles, but they kept a man alive and they were an easy fix.

  Easy being a relative term. Right now he was wondering if he had what it would take to boil the water and put the noodles into the pot. Not to mention going back out on the lake after supper for another four hours. How the hell was he going to manage that? She’d be bright-eyed and ready to go and he’d be hobbling around wheezing for breath and groaning in pain like an old man…which is why she’d suggested the break, no doubt. To spare him. Yepper, he was already practicing for the life of a washed up salvage diver.

  Aspirin. He’d take a few before boiling up the noodles. Aspirin and a beer. Yeah, that’d help. Carson rummaged in his kit for the bottle of aspirin but instead came across the bottle of painkillers the doctor had insisted on prescribing. When Carson said he didn’t need them, the doctor had given him that patronizing stare and said, “It’s ridiculous to beat yourself up in this day and age when you can be comfortable.”

  Ridiculous.

  Carson tossed the bottle back into his kit, looked for the aspirin a while longer, then gave up. He tried to open a package of noodles and couldn’t, which aggravated him more than it should have. Why did they make those packages so impossible? He flung the noodles aside, feeling uglier by the moment. Then he got back into his kit and retrieved the bottle of pain pills. He’d take one and rest a while before boiling the noodles. If the pain went away after he took the pill, he’d know it was real. If it didn’t, he’d blame all his agonies on Libby. She was already making him weak. Making him yearn after something that could only create a bigger hunger, a stronger craving.

  He opened the pill bottle using the butt of his rifle, and picked the pills up out of the dirt, pocketing them. They were tiny things. He couldn’t imagine they’d pack much of a wallop, or ease his misery. He swallowed one dry, then nabbed a beer out of the cooler and carried it to his place at the foot of the tall spruce. It was a comfortable spot to sit with his shoulders braced against the rough bark of the tree, the lake spreading out before him and the mountains walling off the far horizon. He clamped the bottle between his knees and used his left hand to unscrew the cap. Took a long swallow of cold, bitter brew. Leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He’d rest for a while before boiling the noodles and going back out on the lake. There were five hours of daylight left and he’d make the most of them. All he needed was a short rest….

  “HE’S NOT COMING,” Libby announced in response to Karen’s questioning look when she entered the kitchen to help with supper preparations.

  “That might be what he told you, but he could change his mind,” Karen said as she spread chocolate butter frosting on a devil’s food cake. “Tell you what. If he’s not here by six-thirty, you take supper to him, before he can sneak back out onto the lake. I’ll fix you a two-person gourmet meal, complete with a bottle of nice wine. You can still do the fireside thing, the talking, the getting to know each other.”

  “Wasted efforts, Karen, but I appreciate your intent. All we seem to do is rub each other the wrong way and we really don’t have anything in common except searching for a wrecked airplane.”

  “Since when did that ever stand in the way of true romance? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. The sizzle is there, all it’s going to take is a little spark from you to ignite his fires.”

  Libby laughed as she scrubbed her hands in the sink, relishing the feel of the hot water. “I think living in the bush is getting to you. You’re missing those afternoon soaps.” She dried her hand on a towel and hung it on the rack. “Now, what can I do to help?”

  “Get one of the bigger baskets out of the pantry and pick out a nice bottle of wine you think might go well with chicken cordon bleu. And Libby? Before you go over there, change into something sexy.”

  THE AGONY WASN’T ALL Libby’s fault, Carson realized as the little pill started to take effect. He felt his body melting into the earth as the pain eased and ebbed. He felt vaguely disoriented, as if he were becoming weightless even as gravity pulled him down. It was a strange sensation, but not unpleasant. He took the first swallow of his second beer and contemplated the lake. The wind had died and the chop was smoothing out. The loon was not far from shore, watching him. The sunset, when it came, would be perfect. Another beautiful sunset over Evening Lake. He tried drawing a deep breath and stopped halfway there. Not quite ready for that yet. But hell, another pill or two, and he could enter a triathalon and win. Goddam!

  He wondered what they were serving for supper over at the lodge, and if the penniless Libby Wilson was waiting on the fishermen, listening to their long-winded stories as she set their entrées before them, refilled their glasses, cleared their empty plates away. He was sure those men all realized they were in the presence of an extraordinarily beautiful woman, but he wondered if they realized they were being served by an heiress who could buy and sell them a thousand times over…when and if he found her plane.

  Who would she be then? Who would she become when her father’s bones sat up and talked to the world? Libby Libby? Must remember to ask her about that.

  He should really be thinking about getting back to work, but the beer had robbed him of his motivation. The beer had also eliminated the immediate need to cook up a packet or two of noodles. He could do that when he got back in at dark. He wondered if any of the fishermen staying at the lodge were in love with Libby yet. He bet they were all married men, that they were all flirting with her and more than half were already contemplating divorce.

  He heard the roll of gravel underfoot as someone walked along the lakeshore, but the sound was coming from above his camp. Huh. Who’d be walking from that direction? He turned his head, feeling the rough bark of the spruce and smelling the sun-warmed resiny tang of the earth and waiting with a feeling of benevolent calm and sleepy lassitude for the unexpected visitor to step into view. Would it be the old man who lived up on the Yaktektuk coming to tell him exactly where the plane went down? If so, that was a very fat old man. Those footsteps were heavy.

  When the dark, massive bulk of a grizzly came into view, ambling slowly along the edge of the cove where his plane was beached, a mere fifty yards from where he sat, Carson felt a mild jolt of surprise. The great beast paused and lifted its head when it caught scent of Carson’s camp. The huge head turned directly toward him. Carson set the bottle of beer down very carefully. Didn’t want to spill any of it. Damn, he hadn’t been practicing very good bear-country camping. The dried noodles and canned beans and white bread were in his tent, which was about as stupid as it got. His rifle was in the tent, as well. Didn’t do him much good there. Better get up and get it, and hope the bear wasn’t in an ugly mood.

  While the bear stood and stared, contemplating its next move, Carson levered himself off the tree behind him and worked himself into a standing p
osition. So far, so good. His leg didn’t even hurt. Still, he doubted he was up for a quick sprint. Fifty yards sounded like a good distance, but a grizzly could charge at thirty miles an hour. Fifty yards wouldn’t even give him time to start climbing a tree. He’d barely have time for a decent swear word or two before becoming grizzly fodder. He backed slowly toward the tent as the bear continued to test the air for possibilities. He felt the canvas behind him and turned, reaching through the door to heft the Winchester Model 71 hunting rifle he carried for just such a contingency.

  He emerged from the tent in time to see the grizzly’s big head swing away from him in a powerful arc and the silvery ruff over its shoulders stand up. He heard it give a low, dog like woof and felt the hair on the back of his own neck prickle as he followed the direction of the bear’s stare.

  And cursed softly. Libby was walking up the shoreline toward the point, and she was carrying a basket of food. She was striding along in that swift, graceful walk of hers, bringing him a delicious-smelling basket of food, and the bear was about to get wind of it. It couldn’t see her yet, it could only hear the sound of her approach. But all too soon she’d reach the point, and a few more steps would bring her face-to-face with the great beast. She was walking into a dangerous situation all because he’d declined her invitation to share the meal with her at the lodge.

  He had to position himself between Libby and the bear. She was rapidly closing the distance, and he was running out of time to make his move. He braced the rifle against his forearm and levered a round into the chamber with his left hand. The bear’s head shifted toward him, hearing the sharp metallic noise. Go on, bear, he silently willed, holding the rifle and moving slowly forward. Turn around and go away.

  If he cut through the brush at an angle, he’d intercept the shoreline trail between Libby and the bear just on the other side of the point. The bear’s hackles were still raised. God, that was a big grizzly. Huge. Carson moved as quickly as he dared, crashing blindly through the last few yards of willow and alder to emerge on the gravel shoreline, bringing the barrel of the rifle up and snugging the butt into his hip as he faced up the lake. He stuck his numb and useless finger inside the trigger guard.

  Libby spotted him as soon as he emerged onto the shore. He heard her footsteps falter, then heard her stop when she interpreted what he was doing and guessed why he was doing it. She couldn’t see the bear from where she stood because it hadn’t yet rounded the point. “Start back to the lodge,” he called quietly, half turning his head so she could hear. “There’s a bear walking along the shore toward us. It’s just up around the corner.”

  He waited. The seconds seemed endless. Libby had either become the most silent walker on the face of the planet, or she was still standing forty feet behind him, holding that basket packed with savory-smelling food. He half turned his head again and caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. “Get back to the lodge,” he repeated. “Now!” And then a movement up ahead caused his adrenaline level to soar to new heights.

  The big grizzly was rounding the point.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LIBBY HEARD CARSON’S WARNING and saw the rifle he was holding and realized that she should make all due haste back to the safety of the buildings, but when the bear came into view, she froze. The grizzly was maybe thirty yards from where Carson stood, and it was moving toward them in a powerful rolling walk. Libby felt her muscles turn to water and was unable to flee, and then the great beast paused again, lifting its massive head and swinging it back and forth, searching for the source of the smells. Human, mingled with warm dinner rolls, scalloped potatoes, corn soufflé, chicken cordon bleu and chocolate cake.

  Libby could hear her heart pounding over the sounds of the waves against the shore.

  “Back up, slowly,” she heard Carson say to her. “Slowly.” And then, to the bear, he said, in a low, persuasive voice, “Ho, bear. Ho, bear. Look at me. I’m bigger than you are. Stronger. Faster. You don’t want to mess with Old King Cole. You’re on my turf now. Turn around, bear, and run away while you still can.”

  She made her feet move. Back one step, then another, and another after that while her heartbeat shook her entire body. Carson stayed where he was, rifle ready, as she moved away. The bear remained still except for the movement of its head as it listened to Carson tell it how big and bad he was. She kept moving back, ever so slowly, pausing only when the bear lowered its head, turned and ambled out of sight around the point. Carson remained where he was for what seemed like a long time, standing in that same position, rifle leveled and ready. When he finally glanced back and saw her standing there his expression changed from wariness to anger.

  “What are you waiting for? Get the hell back to the lodge. Go on!”

  His urgency motivated her. She turned and began to walk a swift retreat, carrying the basket of food. The trembling didn’t begin until she reached the dock, where she sat abruptly and watched up the shoreline, waiting for Carson to effect his own retreat once she was safe.

  But he didn’t. Incredibly, he walked back toward his campsite. Libby couldn’t believe that he would be so foolish as to return there while the bear was so near. He disappeared out of sight and was gone for what seemed like an eternity before he reappeared, day pack slung over his shoulder and rifle dangling from his left hand. He walked slowly down the shoreline, his limp appearing to be less pronounced as he closed the distance between them. When he reached the dock he dropped the pack off his shoulder and lowered himself to sit beside her. He gave her a long, appraising look.

  “You okay?” he said, in such a casual and laid-back manner that her blood pressure instantly soared.

  “Why did you go back to the campsite?” Libby burst out, clenching her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking. “That was stupid. It would have served you right if the bear had eaten you!”

  “I couldn’t leave my noodles and beans behind.”

  “That’s why you went?” she said, incredulous.

  “Partly. I got the rest of the beer, too. Ever seen what a grizzly can do to a camp when it’s on a rampage?”

  Libby stood on wobbly legs. “I guess your recent brush with death didn’t teach you a thing about being careful!”

  “That diving accident wasn’t my fault,” Carson said. “Look at you, you’re shaking like a leaf. Better sit down before you collapse or faint or something.”

  “I don’t faint.” Libby felt the sting of tears and blinked, damning herself for being so unnerved, but she sat back down.

  “What’s in the basket?”

  “I was bringing you some supper because you were too stubborn to eat here.”

  “Sorry.” He glanced up at the lodge. “I didn’t feel like making idle conversation with a bunch of strangers.”

  “They’re only strangers until you meet them,” Libby said.

  “Yeah, but the thing is, I don’t want to meet them, and I don’t want to eat supper with them and have to answer all their questions about what I do, and so on and so forth. Right now that’s just too much like work and I’m too tired to make the effort. You want me to walk you to your door in case that bear’s still around? Do you even have a door? Or do you sleep in some common scullery room with the rest of the maids?”

  “I have my own cabin and my own door. It’s not that far behind the main lodge, and I’m perfectly capable of making it there on my own. I don’t require a chaperone.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t offer.” He pushed himself to his feet and took up the rifle. “I’ll leave my pack on the dock for now, if it’s all right with you, and pick it up when I quit for the night.”

  “Quit what?”

  “Looking for the plane.” He gave her a wry glance. “Or have you forgotten about searching until dark and all that stuff?”

  Libby stood. Her knees were still feeling a little weak. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “About looking for the plane?”

  “About requiring a chaperone. I�
�ll take you up on that offer, if you don’t mind walking me to my cabin.”

  It was evident from his expression that he thought her sudden change of heart was suspicious, but he nodded obligingly. Good. The very least she could do was make sure he ate something, and that would give the bear a little more time to put some distance between itself and Carson’s camp. She led the way down the narrow path that ended at the door of the cook’s cabin, which was situated in its own private clearing.

  “Nice,” he said as she opened the door. “How many others share it with you?”

  “Right now I have it all to myself because Karen’s a little short on help.” She held up the basket. “Come in and have some supper. You can’t take it with you to your camp. That bear’s probably ransacking your tent even as we speak.”

  He braced one arm in the doorway, glanced around the interior, then regarded her with just a hint of arrogance. “You sure? People might talk.”

  Libby set the basket down on the table. “Let them. They need something new to talk about besides lake trout and lunkers.”

  LIBBY’S CABIN WAS BUILT of peeled spruce logs and had four bunks, two over two against the far wall, a box stove for warmth, a table and four chairs arranged by the picture window, and a tiny bathroom and kitchenette. An empty jam jar on the table held a small bouquet of wildflowers, and the place was spotless. Carson heard warning bells ringing as he looked around and felt the homey aura of domesticity. Apron strings and all that. But the painkiller was working fine in combination with the beer, so he ignored all the warning signals and instead watched while Libby unpacked the delectable bounty of the picnic basket onto the table. The bottle of red wine startled the hell out of him.

  “That’s some kind of fancy supper,” he commented, leaning his rifle in the corner behind the door and picking up the bottle of wine to study the label. “French wine to boot.”

  “But unfortunately no corkscrew or wineglasses.” Libby frowned. “I’ll run up to the lodge and get them, and give Karen a heads-up about the bear.”