by Tara Janzen
“I’ll bring your coffee in,” he offered, bouncing up beside her.
“Thanks. That’ll be . . . uh . . . wonderful,” she said, but as he passed her, she privately cast her eyes toward the ceiling.
Hunched over the kitchen table, Stevie nursed her first cup of real coffee while Hal was in the shower. The steam rose around her face, rich and aromatic. The cup warmed both of her hands. Her chin was nestled into the turned up collar of her sweater, and with very little effort she was sliding back toward oblivion. Consciousness never came before the second cup of mud—unless, of course, someone named Halsey Morgan wanted to make love.
“You know, Stevie,”—he appeared in the doorway, his hair wet and tousled, her black kimono wrapped around him—“you can go around the world on six thousand dollars. And in certain circles, you can go around two times on that kind of money.”
“Great,” she murmured, travel being at the bottom of her priority list at the moment. They’d discussed Kip’s offer into the wee hours, Hal all gung ho and Stevie strangely reticent. She’d dreamed of a chance like the one Kip had given her, but now that she had it she was full of doubts. What would she do when the money was gone? What direction would her life take if she no longer had the Trail to run? Unlike Hal, she still had a mortgage and car payments. And for all her highflying dreams, she’d never actually stepped out of the borders of Colorado. The reality of leaving was a far sight different than sitting around flipping through books and travel brochures, and it scared her more than just a little bit.
“I’m serious,” he continued as he moved around the kitchen pouring coffee and starting breakfast. “Oatmeal or cream of wheat?”
“Wheat.”
“Peaches or pears?”
“Peaches.”
“And how many eggs in your omelet?”
Lord, Stevie thought, what that man wouldn’t eat. “I’ll pass, thank you.”
“I don’t know, Stevie. I’m talking a taco omelet. Your favorite. All the fixings, cooked to a golden sheen, light and fluffy.”
“One egg, no cereal,” she conceded, because he did have a way with omelets. Even his infamous taco omelets turned out better than hers. Actually, everything he cooked turned out better. He used a lot more spices and a few ingredients like brown rice, expensive tropical fruits, and chinese stuff that she’d never eaten, but his meals always tasted good. Compliments, he’d told her, of his months as a river guide/cook in the backcountry of Alaska.
“I don’t think I can make an omelet with one egg, won’t be enough wrapper for all the stuff.”
“Wing it.” She took a sip of coffee and wondered how to mix up another cup with instant added without offending him—her biggest problem this morning. Life was good, even if she didn’t know where it was all leading.
On his side of the kitchen Hal was having similar thoughts—about life, not food. Over the past couple of weeks he’d put a few feelers out around the world and had come up with a number of options. The Kioga brothers were putting together another assault of Dhaulagiri. They wouldn’t depart the States until next spring, but if he wanted a slot, he’d have to get in on the ground floor and pull his weight with fund-raising and organization. A few months ago he would have gone for it without a doubt. But now—he glanced over his shoulder at Stevie—now he wasn’t sure. He’d spent more hours of his life huddled in a snow cave or fighting his way up mountains than he’d spent loving her, and for all the magnetic pull of those high places, she pulled him harder.
Unlike most serious mountain climbers, he also had a reputation as a river runner, probably because he’d lived long enough to develop another interest. An offer had come in from George Jenkins for an attempt to float the Yangtze from its source. But Jenkins was an egomaniac, and Hal smelled doom and lots of bad karma around his latest scheme for immortality in the record books. And once again it meant leaving Stevie behind.
There still was Chauncey’s place in Australia, but when he’d offered Stevie the trip, he hadn’t planned on going with her; he hadn’t planned on becoming so attached to her. But Australia wasn’t one of his options; he knew he’d only be able to wrangle one plane ticket, Stevie’s ticket. She had more than fulfilled her end of their bargain. She’d given him a job, and as she’d predicted, he’d earned his tax money before the Fourth of July. Backing out on his end of the deal never crossed his mind. No, in another month, she’d be trekking across the outback, and he’d be . . . what?
The ringing of the phone interrupted both their thoughts. Stevie reached out and flipped the receiver off the wall, catching it neatly on the down fall. Even half-asleep, her bartending skills were in good working order.
“Hello.”
A long silence preceded the answer, then, sounding as if it came from the bottom of a deep well a voice said, “Person to person for a Mr. Halsey Morgan.”
“It’s for you,” she informed him with an impressed lift of her brow. “Person to person.”
Hal dried his hands on a dishtowel and threw it over his bare shoulder before taking the phone. “Halsey Morgan.”
While he waited for the connection, Stevie moved over to the coffeepot and her hidden jar of instant coffee, thankful for the distraction—and curious as hell.
“Lola?”
Lola? She missed her cup with the second spoonful and her curiosity and her eyebrow shot up immediately.
“Slow down, honey. Take it easy. Start from the beginning.”
Honey? He never called her honey. Her pang of jealousy was short-lived though. It faded as the grimness of his face increased.
“How long have they been missing? . . . Who else is up there? . . . Have you called Lars and Charlie? . . . Who’s organizing the search and rescue operation? . . . Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Stevie’s heart sank lower with each question he asked. Then it hit bottom. “Have a plane ticket waiting for me at the Denver airport. I’ll leave tonight. And Lola? Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll find your dad.” He listened for a moment longer. “Okay. With luck, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”
Stevie’s heart went beyond bottom. He was going to the other side of the earth. She’d always known he’d go, but not so soon, not that day.
With the receiver still tucked next to his ear and his finger on the disconnect lever, he glanced over at her. “Will you drive with me down to the airport?”
Silent and grief-stricken, she nodded.
He turned back to the phone and punched in the four digits of the local number. “Doug? . . . Hal. Stevie has to drive me to Denver today. Can you hold down the Trail? . . . Thanks. I’ll buy you a beer when I get back . . . I don’t know . . . Papua New Guinea . . . Yeah, it’s a long way. See you.”
Standing with her hands hanging at her sides, one of them clenched around a teaspoon, she waited for him to face her. When he did, she saw the lines of strain at the corners of his mouth, the tightness of his jaw, and the worry darkening his eyes—none of which came close to expressing the awful emptiness she felt.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Chauncey Keats has disappeared somewhere up the Waghi River. They found the rafts and pieces of equipment, but no bodies yet. That was his daughter Lola. She wants me to go in and try to find them.”
“Them?” Stevie clutched the counter behind her. The gentle morning she’d awakened to suddenly had been catapulted into a roller coaster of crisis. Friends of Hal’s were missing, maybe hurt, possibly dead, and that left no time for the two of them, no time at all.
“He was leading the expedition, which was made up of experienced river runners, except for the eighteen-year-old boy who hired them. He happens to be the son of a very wealthy man. The old man is footing the bill for the search and rescue operation, and he wants the best.” The inference was clear without being arrogant. When you were Halsey Morgan, you didn’t need arrogance to make your point, she realized.
“How long have they been missing?” A hundred other questions teased the tip of her tongu
e, such as What’s going to happen to us? What will I do without you? Will you come back to me?, but she didn’t have the courage to ask them.
“A week. They started helicopter reconnaissance four days ago, but they really need a team down on the river. Can you finish breakfast while I get dressed? Then we’ll go down to the cabin to pack. We have to stop somewhere before we get to the airport so I can pick up a few supplies.”
“I’m not . . . uh . . . that familiar with Denver. I don’t know where the big sporting goods stores are,” she confessed, feeling incredibly foolish. Here he was, jetting off to the edge of the earth in a few hours without a second thought, and she didn’t even know how to get around Denver,
“I don’t need a sporting goods store, Stevie,” he said with a quick smile. “A grocery store will do just fine.”
“Grocery store?”
“Yes. I want a case of granola bars, nine or ten bottles of mosquito dope, and cheese spread.”
“Cheese spread?” she repeated incredulously. What was going on?
“Maybe we’ll get some of those little cans of pudding.”
She stared at him for a long moment, confusion and concern narrowing her eyes and furrowing her brow. She started to say something then hesitated again, before finally getting up the nerve to ask. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” She wouldn’t even go on a three-day camping trip with cheese spread, pudding, and granola bars.
“First rule of the road, Stevie: Take your own treats. You can get the basics anywhere. Lola will have them ready by the time I get there. She provisions all her dad’s expeditions.”
Stevie bought his explanation, feeling as though she’d just learned something useful—until they got to his place and he started packing.
“That’s it?”
“Maybe another pair of socks,” he said, digging into the pile of clothes strewn across his bed.
“But all you’ve got is socks!”
“Didn’t I put in a pair of pants and four shirts?”
Stevie looked down into the flight bag in her lap. “Well, yes.”
“See if you can fit these in.” He lobbed another pair of socks over his shoulder, followed by underwear and a couple of bandanas.
She diligently stuffed everything into the bag and mused out loud, “I guess you’ll take another pack or something to carry the rest of your clothes.”
“Nope,”—he dropped to his knees, reached under the bed, and pulled out a huge backpack covered with zippers, pockets, and straps—“but I will need this for the granola bars and my medical kit.”
The sight of the serious looking pack and his mention of a medical kit eased her doubts a notch.
He knew what he was doing. In truth, he’d done it a hundred times, taken off for the great unknown on a moment’s notice. Who was she to question his gear?
She was the woman who loved him, came her answer. Then she saw what she supposed was his medical kit, a taped-together metal box with a much faded red cross painted on top that was no bigger than a paperback novel. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. The thing was ancient, scarred, dented—and she couldn’t begin to imagine what lifesaving items might be stored in such a small tin.
Resigned to her curiosity, she peeled back the tape, dreading what she might or might not find. The box opened, and three Band-Aids floated to the floor.
Forcing her words to remain calm, she said, “Hal, I think you need to rethink your supply kit. I mean, going off to New Guinea with a clean pair of socks, a jar of cheese spread, and three Band Aids seems . . . it seems a little half-cocked.”
Half-cocked? He silently mouthed the words, his head and shoulders still under the bed. “Did you know you’re talking to the man who single-handedly organized four tons of gear for the Kioga brothers’ only successful assault on Mount Everest?”
“No, I didn’t.” She paused for a moment, picking up the Band-Aids and giving them a doubtful look. “But I bet you took some aspirin.”
“Ah hah.” She saw him scoot farther under the bed. “Here, put these in the medical kit.” One by one he handed her three brown plastic bottles, naming them as he went. “Anti-infection, anti-diarrhea, and anti–pain. That last one’s the aspirin. Feel better?”
“Barely. What else have you got under there?” If he was going—and he was—she planned on making darn sure he had more than granola bars to keep him alive.
“Two water bottles.” He put them behind him.
“How about a knife?”
“It’s in my pocket.”
If it was small enough to fit in his pocket, it wasn’t big enough to ease her mind, but she kept silent on the point.
“Do you have a hat and some sunglasses?”
“Hat.” He produced a beat-up stockman’s hat. “My shades went down with the Freedom.”
“Water purifying stuff?”
“Iodine’s in the bathroom.”
Stevie shot him a wry glance which was completely wasted on his rear end. “If you keep the iodine in the bathroom, why do you keep your other medicines under the bed?”
“I usually don’t get intestinal bugs or headaches at home, but I’ve been known to cut a finger or two under the hood of my truck.”
She had to ask, she thought, shaking her head in resignation.
“Any other requests while I’m under here?”
“A sleeping bag?”
“I’ll get more use out of a mosquito net and a poncho.” He rolled out. “Anything else?” he asked, sweeping a hand back through his hair.
Stevie looked around her at the things piled on the floor, knowing something was missing and yet unable to put her finger on it. “Money?” she voiced the obvious.
“We’ll stop at the bank.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a gun.”
“Never carry one, except in Alaska. But I know for a fact that I won’t need to scare off many grizzlies in Papua New Guinea,” he said with a quick grin.
Everything else she requested he supplied, and all of it fit in either his flight bag or the backpack, leaving plenty of room for his junk food, but no matter how she arranged it, it didn’t look like enough. Something was still missing . . .
“I’ll be right back,” she said abruptly, rising to her feet. Once outside the cabin she raced up the meadow to her house and up the stairs to her room. Nighties, teddies, and undies floated to the floor as she tossed them out of her dresser—until she found the object of her search. Sliding her fingers over the long, silver chain, she lifted the stone into her other hand. Nevada turquoise wasn’t a South African diamond, and she’d never tested the luck of the piece, but it was all she had. Halsey Morgan was taking her heart into the middle of nowhere—he might as well take everything else.
When she returned to his cabin, he was back to rummaging around under the bed, but he’d added precious little to his pile of luggage.
“Found it!” he exclaimed, handing a small leather pouch up to her.
“What’s this?”
“My compass.”
“Thank God,” she said, despite her best intentions not to let all of her doubts show.
Under the bed Hal winced. The woman’s faith in him was downright demoralizing. “You do realize, don’t you, Stevie, that I’ve managed to get around the world a couple of times on my own?”
“Yes. Yes, I know that, but I’m still worried.” He heard the hesitation in her voice, and a grin spread across his face. This was a new feeling, a good feeling. But he didn’t want her to worry herself sick after he’d gone.
“And do you know”—he pushed out from under the bed and rolled to a sitting position, his knees spread, his hands resting in his lap—“do you know that nothing will keep me from coming back to you?” he asked, his rough voice adding depth and gentleness to the words.
Finally he’d told her what she really wanted to know. “I do now,” she said softly. He was so beautiful, his hair slicked back from his shower, his shoulders broad and stron
g beneath his khaki shirt—and he was coming back to her. Kneeling down beside him, she leaned forward and slipped the necklace around his neck. “I don’t know how lucky turquoise is, but my dad gave me this for my sixteenth birthday, and I’ve never been lost.”
“It couldn’t be because you’ve never been anywhere?” He winked, even as he pulled her into his arms.
“Don’t tease me, Hal,” she whispered. “I miss you already.”
Holding her close with his arm draped around her shoulders, he studied the stone in his hand. “Thanks, Stevie. Looks like a pretty good piece of luck. I promise to take care of it.”
“Just take care of yourself.”
Cuddled up with her on the floor, he stroked her back and whispered his words of love and reassurance until all too soon it was time to go.
* * *
At the airport, they were sucked into a whirlwind of activity, picking up his ticket, checking his pack, and racing down the concourse.
“Lord, I’m sorry, Stevie,” he said between long strides. “I thought she’d book me on the red-eye. I thought we’d have time to catch a bite to eat.” Near the security checkpoint he stopped and wasted no time pulling her into his arms. Burying his head into the crook of her neck, he lowered his voice to a raspy drawl. “I thought we’d have time for a long, painfully sweet good-bye.” With his hand cupping her chin, he gave her a slow, burning kiss, his tongue sweeping her mouth in lazy tracks.
Stevie clung to his neck, her hands tangling through the long, blond hair lying across his collar. Her body pressed against his in a vain attempt to hold him forever, to sear the feel of him irrevocably into her memory.
“Stay out of trouble.” He laid a trail of kisses along her jaw.
“Be careful, Hal,” she whispered. “Please be careful.”
“Careful is my middle name.” His mouth lingered on the curve of her ear, teasing the sensitive skin and setting off small explosions of desire. “I love you, Stevie Lee. Never doubt it, and never forget it.”
“Oh, Hal—” her voice broke with sadness.
He covered Stevie’s mouth with one more hard kiss, then he released her and started through security. She watched him, her heart heavy, her arms empty.
