Northern Exposure

by Debra Lee Brown

  “I’m not one of your boy-toy models.” He snatched his green overshirt from where he’d set it and threw it on, misbuttoning it, then he restuffed items into the backpack.

  “I know you’re not. I didn’t mean it that way. It was just that you looked so—”

  “What?”

  For the barest second she remembered him sneaking a look at her last night when she was half-undressed. He hadn’t known she was aware of him, that she’d deliberately let him look. Her attraction to him scared her. She didn’t need this, not now, not with a guy like him.

  “Oh, hell, why am I explaining myself to you?” She snapped the lens cover back on the camera and grabbed her knapsack.

  She was done with explaining, with feeling guilty or sorry or suffering angst over the million little things she’d been made to feel were her fault in her seven years as Blake’s assistant. She was also done with reactive, domineering alpha males.

  “There’s a bridge up ahead we have to cross,” he said icily. “No telling what condition it’ll be in after these storms. Let’s roll.”

  “Fine.” She moved in front of him and started down the trail, determined not to let Joe Peterson get to her, then promptly lost her footing in the mud.

  Joe grabbed her elbow. “Slow down, the trail’s slick.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Suit yourself, then.” He let her go, and again she nearly lost her footing.

  “Wh-which way?” Clumsily she righted herself, working to keep her anger in check.

  There was a fork in the trail. One spur led down to the river, which had grown to a raging torrent. The other snaked up the side of the heavily wooded valley.

  “Up there. See it?” Joe pointed.

  “See what?” She started up the trail, not waiting for him to answer.

  A few minutes of hard hiking later, during which she lost her footing no fewer than four times in the slippery, rock-laced mud, she saw what Joe had been pointing at.

  “This is the bridge?” Wendy felt her eyes widen to saucer size.

  “Yeah, this is it.” He moved up behind her and poked her in the back. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He had to be. What she was staring at, openmouthed now, like a trout, was not a bridge. At least not her definition of a bridge. It was a serviceable catwalk, maybe, or a prop from a Tarzan movie, but a bridge it was not.

  “Nope, no joke. That’s the only way across. Unless you’ve got wings stashed in that camera bag.”

  Her stomach did a flip-flop. “But, it’s so narrow.”

  “It works. Come on.” He edged around her and climbed the last few feet up to the flat area blasted into the rock that served as the anchor point for the hundred-foot-long suspension bridge spanning the frothy torrent below them. “Besides, you’ve already managed two death-defying experiences in as many days. This’ll be a cakewalk in comparison.”

  Now that she was over the initial shock of it, she could see he was right. Heights didn’t bother her, and she had decent balance. She looked at the bridge, a tightly constructed walkway of steel, thick cabling and wood. “All right. I’ll go first.”

  “Not a chance. See those wooden slats?” He nodded at the walkway. “They’re wet, and slicker than you-know-what. You’ll slip and break your neck. We’ll go together.”

  Though the sun was high, it was cold, and she could see that indeed the slats were wet, some of them still icy from the morning. All the same, his attitude—this mind-set that she was stupid, helpless without him—was really beginning to irritate her.

  She arched a brow at him, gesturing to the small sign fastened to the steel anchor point that read, “Caution: Only one person at a time allowed on bridge.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but that’s not because of weight. The damned thing buckles like a roller coaster when you get a bunch of people on it single file.”

  The bridge was too narrow to traverse two abreast. What, did he think he was going to carry her across?

  “Like I said, I’ll go first.” Stepping in front of him she grabbed the cables on both sides. Before she could launch herself onto the walkway, Joe grabbed her around the waist.

  “You’ll fall.” He looked her in the eyes, his face inches from hers, so close she felt his breath on her face. “We’re going together.”

  The arrogant bastard!

  His hands were like brands around her waist, his gaze burned hotter. For the barest second she thought about what it would be like to kiss him, to run her tongue around the inside of his mouth.

  She could swear he read her mind.

  A millisecond later she wrestled free of him and launched herself onto the bridge.

  “Wendy, no!”

  But she was too quick for him. To her supreme satisfaction, she got away and jogged nearly twenty feet across the slick wooden slats, sheer momentum keeping her upright. The walkway pitched and rolled under her weight. She stopped short, grabbing onto the cabling for support, and waited for it to still.

  Looking back, she saw Joe, his teeth gritted behind tightly pressed lips, his eyes dark points of heat that burned into her—a man seeing red, but maintaining his cool. A man in control. Oh, yes, was he ever. He hadn’t dared to step onto the bridge after her. His weight and movement would have caused it to pitch more wildly than it already had from her abrupt getaway.

  “See,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, glaring at her. It was good for him, she thought. Good for him to be forced into allowing someone to determine their own destiny without his constant intervention. Good for him to realize that Wendy Walters, the new and improved Wendy Walters, could take care of herself, thank you very much.

  She inched backward on the walkway, one foot, then the other, sliding her hands along the cabling, still looking at him.

  It was good for her, too. To realize that she could take care of herself, that she didn’t need a man telling her what to do every second of the day. She definitely didn’t need Joe Peterson fawning over her as if she were—

  “Stop!” He bolted toward her, onto the bridge, his gaze narrowing past her.

  The walkway rolled. She glanced behind her and saw what he’d seen. Too late. His weight caused a swell the size of a tsunami. She slipped and landed hard, vaguely aware of Joe letting loose with a couple of choice swear words.

  The next thing she knew she was sitting on the bridge, grabbing for the cabling, one leg plunging between two icy slats, one of which had come loose from the walkway and was dangling free over the river below them.

  “If you’d waited until I’d gotten across, everything would’ve been fine.”

  Joe dropped his pack onto the wet ground on the other side of the suspension bridge and dug around inside it for the first-aid kit. “Yeah, just dandy. So now it’s my fault.”

  “Yes, it’s your fault. It’s entirely your fault.” Wendy sat gingerly on the waterproof tarp he’d spread on the ground for her, then rolled up her pants leg. “I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t come after me.”

  “If I hadn’t come after you, you’d be dead now.” The thought of it made his gut clench.

  Their gazes locked. She knew he was right, but wouldn’t admit it. She was the most stubborn, pig-headed…

  “Here.” He pushed his warring thoughts and ridiculous emotions aside, and tossed her the first-aid kit.

  “You’re bleeding, too.” She nodded at his right forearm. “There, where the frayed cable cut you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Come here, let me see it.”

  He shrugged off her help. “Deal with that scrape on your leg, and I’ll see to myself.”

  “Fine.”

  They spent a few minutes doctoring their own wounds, which were minor, considering what could have happened. Wendy had slipped through a broken slat on the walkway, sustaining a scraped calf that he suspected didn’t sting nearly as badly as her behind, which had
landed hard on the walkway when she’d fallen.

  He spent a second thinking about that behind. A second too long.

  “What now, Warden?” She looked at him as if he were the one responsible for her current state.

  Which he was, he reminded himself.

  What had happened today had completely reinforced his world view.

  “We’ve lost too much time today already, and the trail conditions are bad. No use trying to reach the next cabin. We’ll log a couple more miles, if you’re up to it, then make camp for the night.”

  She looked at him as if he’d suggested they stand on their heads and sing. “We’ve got to keep moving! If we don’t make better time, if we don’t reach the caribou habitat soon, I’ll never get my photos and get back to New York before the magazine’s deadline.”

  Joe shook his head in disbelief. The woman nearly buys it, and all she can think about is getting her damned snapshots. She was something else, all right.

  “That’s not my problem,” he said, zipping the first-aid kit and tossing it into the pack. “What is my problem is getting you out of here. Alive.” He got to his feet and offered her a hand.

  “So it’s the tent again, tonight.”

  “That’s right.” His hand remained outstretched, waiting for her to take it. With pursed lips and a resigned look on her face, she did, and he helped her up.

  Only after they’d made camp for the night, a few miles down the trail, once she was safe and warm and he was by her side, did he allow himself to relive the panic that had punched him in the gut when he’d watched her take that fall.

  Only, he was the one falling.

  Falling hard, for a woman who ran with the kinds of scum and lived the sort of lifestyle that had gotten his sister killed.

  It was time he knew what he was dealing with.

  “There’s something we need to talk about,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow in the tent so he could look her right in the eyes.

  Wendy rolled toward him in her sleeping bag. The flashlight was perched on top of her boot in the far corner, and lit her face only peripherally. “What?”

  “The bridge,” he said.

  “What about it?” Her blue eyes looked so big, so innocent, he almost believed she hadn’t seen what he’d seen—or, if she had, that it hadn’t registered.

  “It was tampered with. That slat was deliberately cut.”

  Chapter 7

  Wendy listened, her skin prickling, as Joe told her about the boot prints he’d seen on the trail two days ago.

  “All this time someone’s been following us, and you didn’t tell me?” Wendy freed her arms from the sleeping bag and sat up in the tent.

  “Not following us, following you. Come on, Wendy, you knew. You had to have known. You’re not stupid.”

  The thing was, she had known. She’d felt it since her very first day in the reserve but had kept her suspicions to herself. “So, the rock slide…”

  “No accident.”

  “And the bridge…”

  Joe looked at her hard. “You saw it yourself. Six of the slats on that walkway had been partially cut so they’d hold your weight, but not mine.”

  “Well, they didn’t hold my weight, did they?”

  She recalled with a shiver how Joe had reached her and had pulled her to her feet, how they’d climbed onto the cabling of the suspension bridge and had worked their way across, avoiding the slatted walkway altogether.

  Once he’d seen her safely to the other side, he’d backtracked to close and lock the gate at the far end of the bridge, so that other innocent hikers in the area—if there were any—wouldn’t cross. On his way back he’d knocked out the rest of the damaged slats, leaving a gaping hole in the bridge that highlighted the long fall to the boiling river below.

  “This guy obviously wants you alone. Those accidents were meant to separate us.”

  A light rain pinged against the waterproof nylon of the tent. Wendy felt suddenly chilled and pulled the goose-down sleeping bag around her shoulders.

  “What I want to know, is why? Who’s the guy, Wendy?”

  She looked at him, not attempting to hide her surprise. “How should I know?”

  His eyes sharpened to points.

  “Wait a minute…” she said. No way was she going to let him turn this around on her. “Before we get to that, let’s go back to the part where you knew about this mystery guy and you didn’t tell me. What were you thinking?”

  His stony expression didn’t change. “That I’d take care of it.”

  “Just like that, you’d take care of it.”

  “That’s right.”

  She threw off the sleeping bag and scooted toward him, close enough so their knees were touching, close enough to grab the front of his Warden Rambo shirt and shake him. “Let me get this straight. Someone’s following me, and not only do you not tell me about it, you decide, without consulting me, that you’re going to take care of it.” She glanced briefly at his holstered handgun. “Whatever that means.”

  He started to defend his actions, but she wasn’t listening. Her teeth ground together behind her lips, her hands balled to fists in her lap.

  This was exactly the kind of thing Blake would do. Keep information from her, make important decisions concerning her without her input or knowledge. Anger bloomed inside her like a poison flower. Then she remembered the reason Blake had run her life.

  She’d let him.

  Her fists relaxed. A long breath eased from her lungs, and with it she let go her sudden rage.

  “You saw this guy, didn’t you?” Joe said.

  She looked at him, really looked at him, at the way his eyes softened, the way his face tightened in concern, and realized he was just trying to help her.

  “Yeah.” All the fight had gone out of her. “I thought I saw him a couple of times.”

  “Christ, Wendy, why didn’t you say anything?”

  Why hadn’t she?

  Covering herself with the down bag, she pulled her knees up to her chest, then wrapped her arms around her legs in a bear hug. “I don’t know.”

  It was a lie. She did know.

  She’d been afraid to tell him, because it would have meant telling him everything.

  “It’s cards-on-the-table time, Wendy.” Joe forced her to meet his gaze again. “Who is this guy?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know!” Which was the truth. She had no idea who this maniac was. Hey, wait a minute… “Why would I have to know him? Maybe he’s just some kook who gets his kicks terrorizing women.”

  “Yeah, right. Out here, a million miles from nowhere. I don’t think so.”

  He was right. Not only did that scenario not make sense, she knew in her gut that this mystery man, whoever he was, had singled her out, purposely. But why?

  “Tell me again about your stolen luggage.”

  She shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell. Some guy—I didn’t get a good look at him—just grabbed it off the conveyor and ran.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “Clothes, toiletries, some old camping gear from my folks’ place in Michigan. Just the usual stuff.”

  She felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny and let her gaze drift to the play of the flashlight beam on the walls of the tent.

  Joe grabbed her arm, roughly enough to startle her, and recaptured her attention. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  A lot.

  But that wasn’t the answer she gave him.

  A week after the incident in the Manhattan loft, her purse had been snatched. Three days later her apartment was burglarized. At the time, she hadn’t connected the two incidents, nor had she really thought all that much about them, since she was spending nearly every waking hour either talking to the police about what had happened with the male model, fighting off tabloid reporters or trying to reach Blake, who’d refused to see her.

  “Back off,” she said to him, and pulled her arm from his grasp. �
�Who put you in charge of my life?”

  “You did, the second you stepped into this reserve.”

  Ouch.

  She smirked at him but couldn’t argue. She knew that, regardless of her own choices or actions, Joe Peterson felt responsible for her as long as she was on his turf. He was more than ready and willing to “take care of things” as he’d put it.

  And in the end that’s what she feared most of all.

  That’s why she hadn’t told him about the other incidents, or about the man in the dark clothes she’d glimpsed near the trail two days ago.

  Joe’s rugged good looks, the obvious physical attraction between them, his strength of character, the concern he tried, but failed, to mask behind that stony expression of his…all of it, taken together, set off cautionary alarms inside her.

  It would be far too easy to lean on a man like him, to let him take over, make her decisions, solve her problems for her. She’d done that once already, and with disastrous results.

  Wendy shook her head.

  She’d been young, too young, and Blake’s urban sophistication, his self-confidence and power, his charm, all of it had sucked her in. But she wasn’t a naive twenty-two-year-old anymore, and Joe Peterson wasn’t Blake Barrett.

  “Your sister,” she said, remembering that Cat Peterson had been just twenty-two when she died. “You two were close?”

  The question caught him totally off guard, but he didn’t look away. Back at the station, when she’d asked him about Cat, he’d become angry and had retreated. But now they were in a four-by-eight tent with nothing but a sleeping bag between them, and there was nowhere for Joe Peterson to go.

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “She was a lot younger. It’s just that…”

  He did look away then, but Wendy knew he wasn’t finished. She could see it in eyes, in the way his muscles bunched and how he absently massaged the back of his neck.

  “Our parents died when I was twenty-one. Cat was only twelve at the time.”

  Wendy had to stop herself from saying she was sorry. Joe didn’t want her sympathy. He would have hated it, in fact. What he wanted, needed, she suspected, was simply to talk about it.