“That’s it.” Skip laid his clipboard down and stretched out his own legs. “Unless you guys have something else to add.”
“I’ve got something,” Judd said. “What’s that new wife of yours been feeding you?”
Skip actually blushed. “Wren’s pregnant, and I guess I’ve been a little sympathetic to her situation.” He rubbed his belly. “I’ve been cutting back on the carbs.”
“Well, with this knucklehead’s surfboard, and you eating for two, the fishermen will think we’ve gone soft and take advantage.”
“Just let ’em try.” Garrett smiled.
Sonya slowed the 4-wheeler down as camp came into view. Red Fox Camp was situated on the edge of Tory Creek, which cut a gully through the tundra—the only place for miles where the bluff lowered enough to allow for cabin sites.
Wes Finley, family friend and seasoned crewman, jogged toward them as she parked the 4-wheeler high on the beach out of reach of the incoming surf. Grams and Gramps followed right behind.
“I was getting worried you guys wouldn’t make the tide,” Wes said, with a ready smile. High tide would flood the available beach, making getting to camp impossible.
Wes was a man with steady brown eyes and trimmed brown hair. Even when he let his beard grow during the fishing season, he kept it neat. He was like a rock, solid and sure, and wise beyond his twenty-three years. Wes gave both Grams and Gramps a warm hug and then reached for the luggage.
Peter grabbed a duffel and hefted it over his shoulder, and Sonya seized the last bag.
Gramps started to sputter. “Give me that, young lady. I’m not so old I can’t fetch and carry anymore.” He held out his hand.
Sonya handed it over. The man was built like a moose and sometimes showed the stubbornness of one.
Grams settled her hand on his arm. “Nikky, let Sonya take the bag. I’d like to stretch my legs a bit after all that traveling. I was hoping you’d take a walk on the beach with me.”
True to form, Gramps tossed the duffel at Sonya—who was braced to receive it—and took his wife’s hand, kissing her fingers. “Sounds like a dandy idea, Maggie May. See you kids in a bit.”
Grams’s laughter caught on the wind as Gramps wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. The man was still besotted with his wife after forty-five years.
Someday, Sonya thought, she’d find a man who would love her like that.
“You coming, Ducky?” Peter’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Call me that one more time and you’re going to be on dish duty tonight,” Sonya threatened. She hitched up the bag and began the twenty-foot climb up the bank to the cabin perched on the bluff.
“Quack, quack,” Peter countered, already halfway up the trail. “My hands need a good soaking anyway.”
“All right, you two,” Wes said from near the top of the bluff. “Want to fill me in on the name calling?” He was always the level voice of reason between Sonya and Peter. It didn’t hurt that he was getting his masters in psychology, planning to work with underprivileged children. At the age of sixteen, Wes had been caught by Gramps trying to hotwire their SUV one winter. Instead of calling the troopers, her grandfather had dragged him into the house, fed him dinner, and then put him to work shoveling the driveway. He’d been a part of the Savonskis’ extended family ever since.
“I made the mistake of sharing family stories,” Sonya said. Sonya filled Wes in on their mother naming her and Peter after characters in the Russian fable “Peter and the Wolf.” Wes, who was always quick to laugh, didn’t disappoint.
They reached the nest of cabins dotting the tundra. The main cabin housed their grandparents. Rustic and weathered, the cabin was completely shingled to help withstand the intense Bering Sea weather battering its walls all year long. It consisted of one room, a kitchen with a table and benches, and a built-in bed used for extra seating during the day and curtained off at night. A loft provided extra storage and sleeping quarters if necessary.
The bunkhouse stood behind the main cabin along with the gear room and an outhouse. Running water was a luxury that had yet to manifest itself this far from the village of South Naknek.
They dropped off the bags, and Wes and Peter returned to the beach to mend nets. Sonya decided it must be up to her to start dinner. She grabbed three mammoth cans of beef stew and opened them, dumping them into a pan, and lit the propane stove with a match. Then she set a box of saltines on the table. That was about as good as she could do without a microwave and a take out menu. Grams would take over cooking now, much to everyone’s relief.
While the stew simmered, Sonya rang the come-and-get-it bell hanging from the eves on the small covered porch
Peter was the first to traipse in. “Stew again?” he whined, wrinkling his nose.
“You want something different, you volunteer to cook.” Sonya brought the pot of stew to the table, plunking it down on a hot pad.
“Smells great,” Wes said, following behind Peter. They took their seats as Grams and Gramps entered.
“That climb gets steeper every year.” Grams pressed a hanky to her forehead. “It’s good exercise for my legs.”
“And mighty fine legs they are, Maggie May,” Gramps said with a grin. He turned to Sonya. “After dinner, I want a tour of that new boat of yours. I figured that’s her out there anchored off shore.”
“Yeah, that’s her.” Sonya scooped a bite of stew and felt a shiver of uncertainty. Last summer, Gramps had turned the fishing operation over to her, stating it was about time for a younger generation to step up.
Boy, had she stepped up.
She just hoped that step didn’t send them all tumbling. She’d sunk what money they had into buying the boat and drift permit, and mortgaged the rest. If her gamble didn’t pay off, winter would be lean and the chance for Peter to go to college in the fall, iffy.
After dinner, she and Gramps outfitted themselves in chest waders and traipsed down to the beach. Across the creek, she noticed activity. The Hartes had arrived, which meant Aidan was there. She tried to put that thought out of her head. Aidan was the past. A mistake.
The differences between the neighboring fish camps were night and day. The Hartes embraced their helter-skelter attitude while Margaret Savonski wouldn’t hear of anything out of order on her place. The serene quiet of the fish camps would end now with the Hartes in residence.
Sure enough, Earl hollered over the creek, “That’s a funny-looking boat anchored out there, Nikolai.”
His brother, Roland, added his two cents, “That’s what happens when you let a woman start running the operation.”
Gramps turned and acknowledged the two old men in rusty lawn chairs, lazing away the afternoon on their sagging porch. “Earl. Roland. Hope you had a good winter.”
Earl couldn’t see the shiny side of a gold coin and Roland’s good fortune always ended up being someone else’s misfortune.
“Hey, Sonya. Aidan’s been looking forward to seeing ya,” Earl called out with a cackle.
Sonya stiffened her shoulders and kept on walking. Last summer’s unfortunate fling with Aidan Harte was over. While the match between the two of them had made sense in theory, it had quickly paled in reality.
Live and learn.
Together, she and Gramps pulled the running line with two of their set netting skiffs tied to it, bringing the boats into shore. Set net fishing had been a way of life for the Savonskis since the 1950s when the first Savonski, Great Grandpa Slava, began fishing these profitable waters. Since then, the family had purchased three more coveted set net sites. They now owned four of the most profitable sites on the beach, much to the envy of the Hartes and many others.
Now she was stirring the waters by throwing her net in with the drifters. She’d always wanted to fish with the big boys. That’s where the real money was. Drifters literally drifted, they could drop their net wherever they wanted to fish—within the rules and regulations of the Fish and Game—while set netters set a thousand feet
of net anchored from the beach and had to wait for the fish to swim to them.
There was an unspoken code that drifters and set netters didn’t fraternize, much like a feud between opposing families. They each resented the other for taking any part of catch they deemed as theirs, due in part to each party believing the Fish and Game tipped the scales in the others’ favor. It was a cutthroat way of life. You picked your team, stood on one side of the line, and never crossed it.
At least, no one had until now.
Gramps waded out into the surf, boarded the skiff, and Sonya jumped into the bow after untying the line and giving the boat a hard push from shore. Gramps yanked the outboard engine’s dinosaur pull cord. It coughed, sputtered, and died.
“Don’t tell me this engine’s giving us trouble again. I thought I fixed it last year.” He gave the pull cord another yank. It spit and caught, black smoke bubbling out the back of the engine. “Now that’s more like it.” He smiled.
Sonya had told him they needed to buy another outboard engine two years ago, one with an electric start. Gramps had disagreed, figuring he could jerry-rig a little more life out of it. Someone was going to get stranded.
Gramps powered up the skiff and skimmed the short distance toward the anchored drift boat Sonya had purchased months ago and had shipped from Seattle to South Naknek on a barge.
“She’s a mite different than any other drift boat I’ve seen,” Gramps said, giving the whiskers on his chin a rub. “Sure sits high on the water.”
“She’s a flat bottom jet boat, which will give us better mobility, quicker turns, and more speed than the traditional gill netter. She’s able to maneuver in shallow waters where the fish like to hang out.” Sonya felt her nerves dart around like salmon fry as she waited for his reaction. More than anything, she wanted Gramps to be proud of her.
His bushy brows rose. “So we’ll have an upper hand on the other drifters. I like that.”
“With a jet engine, versus the propeller that most of the other drifters have, there isn’t a prop for the net to get tangled on.”
“She’s wider than I expected.”
Sonya tied the skiff to the painter’s line attached to the stern of the drift boat. “She’s thirty-two foot long, fourteen-feet-wide aluminum bow-picker.” They took turns climbing up the ladder, leaving the skiff to drift behind.
Gramps didn’t say anything as he made his way to the bow. He glanced around and Sonya started talking fast, explaining the benefits of the flat bottom bow-picker verses the other boats that seasoned fishermen had been using in the bay for decades.
“There are sixteen holds, each able to carry a thousand pounds of salmon with extra space on deck for more.” She gestured to the rollers standing tall at the bow and stern. “The hydraulics will pull the nets over the front rollers rather than the stern like everyone else’s.”
“What’s this pole doing hanging across the middle?”
“Well, I had this idea. Having a pole there would help hold up the net in the middle so it doesn’t drag on the deck, making picking fish easier without bending over.”
“Working smart, not hard. I won’t need to see a chiropractor when the season’s over.” He moved to the starboard side and rested his arm on the rail. “The sides are tall. It’ll take some effort to fall overboard.” He turned and noticed the name of the boat painted on the reel under the pilot house. “You’re calling her the Double Dippin?”
“That’s what we’re doing. Set netting and drifting.”
“Yeah, but couldn’t you have been a little more subtle?”
She met his gaze. “Have you ever known me to be subtle?”
“You realize the drifters aren’t going to welcome you with open arms.”
She barked out a laugh. “They’re going to flat out hate me. Especially when I take most of the catch.”
His eyes twinkled. “I like the way you think. Show me the pilot house.”
Gramps followed her up the narrow steps. Windows framed all four sides, including the door.
“No blind spots,” he said. “That’s good. Sheltered so you can get out of the weather.”
“We’re as high up as any crow’s nest on the other boats out there.” Sonya pointed to the right where a ladder led down. “Bunks, the head, and the engine room are below us.” She indicated the stove next to her. “Propane stove for cooking and heating. Mini refrigerator, small sink, some storage.” She moved to the front of the pilot house where the wheel and control panels were. “Hydraulic levers for the reels. State of the art GPS system. VHF radio and fish finder.”
Gramps turned a full circle, a dimpled grin splitting his face as he took in the captain’s chair, and a small bunk crammed into the space to the left. “You did well, Sonya.”
She let out a breath of relief. She’d known this was the boat to buy, but having his approval meant the world to her.
“We’re going to make some enemies this season.” Nikolai’s eyes met hers. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Looking forward to it.”
CHAPTER THREE
Aidan Harte narrowed his eyes as he focused through binoculars on Sonya aboard the Double Dippin’.
She’d gone and done it—bought herself a damn drift boat. Was nothing good enough for that woman?
Apparently, he hadn’t been.
His boot crushed an empty soda can as he adjusted his feet. He lowered the binoculars and glared at the cabin in disrepair. So the Harte camp wasn’t as well kept as the Savonskis’. Who cared? They were only here four weeks tops every summer. They didn’t need comfort for that amount of time, especially when—God willing—they’d be fishing most of it.
Sonya needed to lower her standards right down to his level. Wait a minute, that didn’t sound right. He turned as his father came up next to him and looked at the view through the cracked window pane.
“Checking out Sonya’s new boat?”
“Nope. Looking for jumpers.” Aidan set the binoculars down on a wooden crate doubling as a kitchen cabinet. This place really was sad. Why didn’t they fix it up a bit?
“See any?”
“See any what?”
“Jumpers!” Earl slapped him on the back of the skull. “Where’s your head, boy?”
Hell if he knew.
Earl took the half-chewed toothpick out of his mouth and gestured with it for emphasis. “Instead of playing like a Peeping Tom, you should be making tracks to get back into Sonya’s good graces.”
Aidan hated admitting his father was right about anything, but he had a point. Peering at Sonya through binoculars wasn’t getting him anywhere. Time for a face-to-face.
He grabbed his jacket. “I’m going out.”
“About damn time you got down to business.” Earl picked up the binoculars, grumbling. “If I’d had a chance with a woman like that, she’d be shackled and pregnant by now.”
Aidan let the squeaky door slam behind him, ignoring Earl’s holler, “Don’t slam the door!”
He’d slam the door if he wanted to. Hell, he hadn’t been here more than a few hours and he wanted to leave. Putting up with his father became harder and harder every year. If it wasn’t for the money he made fishing, he’d have told Earl to go to hell by now. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
No he wouldn’t. He didn’t have the backbone, which Earl was consistent in pointing out.
He kicked his way down to the beach just as Sonya and Nikolai jumped out of their skiff. As timing went, it couldn’t have been better. As moods went, he was in a sorry one. Not the best shape to be meeting Sonya after their last conversation when she’d told him to get lost.
“Hey, Aidan, how you been?” Nikolai greeted him with a smile and a hearty handshake. No matter the trouble his father and uncle caused the Savonskis, Nikolai didn’t blame him for his gene pool.
“Good. You?” He glanced at Sonya, her face flushed from the ocean breeze. She always looked so…fresh. Smooth skin, dark eyes, dark hair pulled away from her
face, and full red lips. Classically beautiful and way out of his league.
“Great. Couldn’t be better.” Nikolai glanced between him and Sonya. “Well…I’m going to head to the cabin and see if there’s anything for dessert. See you kids later.”
Nikolai left them alone, and Aidan found himself lost for words. Sonya had always represented all that he’d ever wanted in life. Love, success, and a happy, well-adjusted family.
“Aidan.” Sonya hooked her hands in the straps of her chest waders.
“Sonya,” he copied her greeting, taking his cues from her, when what he wanted to know was if she’d missed him? Had she thought of him over the long winter? The memories of their sweet lovemaking was like a hunger he couldn’t satisfy.
“How’s Seattle been treating you?” she asked.
“Wet.” He cleared his throat not liking where that one word mentally took him. “That is, we’ve had nothing but rain.” He glanced up to the azure sky dotted by a few puffy clouds. “This is the most sun I’ve seen in a while.”
She shifted on her feet. “Which could change at any moment.”
Silence stretched between them until Aidan indicated the boat moored out in the bay. “I see you went and bought a drift boat.”
She nodded. “I told you I was going to.”
She had, and he’d argued with her, which was one of the reasons why they were no longer sleeping together. Something he was going to rectify this summer. “Who’d you get to captain her?”
“I’m her captain.”
“You?”
“That’s right. Got a problem with that?”
You bet he did. “Aren’t you biting off more than you can chew?”
“I can chew it just fine.” Her jaw tightened.
He shook his head, not wanting to rehash the old argument. “Who’s your crew?”
“Gramps, Peter, and Wes.”
“Who will be working the set net sites?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but the four of us will fish those as well.”
“When are you going to sleep?”
“When the fish do.”
“You’re nuts, you know that?” Why did she have to be so damn pig-headed?
Hooked (A Romance on the Edge Novel) Page 2
