by Nora Roberts
Slow again today. Nearly everyone who came in was a local. It’s too late to ski or snowboard, though I hear some of the mountain passes won’t be open for another few weeks. It’s strange to think there must be feet of snow above us, while down here it’s all mud and brown grass.
People are so odd. I wonder if they really don’t know I can tell when they’re talking about me, or if they think it’s just natural. I suppose it is natural, especially in such a small town. I can stand at the grill or the stove and feel the words pressing against the back of my neck.
They’re all so curious, but they don’t come right out and ask. I guess that wouldn’t be polite, so they hedge around.
I have tomorrow off. A full day off. I was so busy cleaning in here, setting things up on my last day off, I barely noticed. But this time when I first saw the schedule I nearly panicked. What would I do, how would I get through a full day and night without a job to do?
Then I decided I’d hike up the canyon as I’d planned when I first got here. I’ll take one of the easy trails, go as far as I can, watch the river. Maybe the rocks are still clacking, the way Lo said they did. I want to see the white water, the moraines, the meadows and marshes. Maybe someone will be rafting on the river. I’ll pack a little lunch and take my time.
It’s a long way from the Back Bay to the Snake River.
THE KITCHEN WAS brightly lit, and Reece hummed along with Sheryl Crow as she scrubbed down the stove. The kitchen, she thought, was officially closed.
It was her last night at Maneo’s—the end of an era for her—so she intended to leave her work space sparkling.
She had the entire week off, and then—then—she’d start Dream Job as head chef for Oasis. Head chef, she thought, doing a little dance as she worked, for one of the hottest, trendiest restaurants in Boston. She’d supervise a staff of fifteen, design her own signature dishes, and put her work up against the very best in the business.
The hours would be vicious, the pressure insane.
She couldn’t wait.
She’d helped train Marco herself, and between him and Tony Maneo, they’d do fine. She knew Tony and his wife, Lisa, were happy for her. In fact, she had good reason to know—since her prep cook, Donna, couldn’t keep a secret—that there was a party being set up right now to celebrate her new position, and to say goodbye.
She imagined Tony had waved the last customers away by now, except for a handful of regulars who’d have been invited to her goodbye party.
She was going to miss this place, miss the people, but it was time for this next step. She’d worked for it, studied for it, planned for it, and now it was about to happen.
Stepping back from the stove, she nodded in approval, then carried the cleaning supplies to the little utility closet to put them away.
The crash from outside the kitchen had her rolling her eyes. But the screams that followed it spun her around. When gunfire exploded, she froze. Even as she fumbled her cell phone out of her pocket, the swinging door slammed open. There was a blur of movement, and an instant of fear. She saw the gun, saw nothing but the gun. So black, so big.
Then she was flung backward into the closet, punched by a hot, unspeakable pain in her chest.
THE SCREAM she’d never loosed ripped out of Reece now as she lurched up in bed, pressing a hand high on her chest. She could feel it, that pain, where the bullet had struck. The fire of it, the shock of it. But when she looked at her hand, there was no blood; when she rubbed her skin, there was only the scar.
“It’s all right. I’m all right. Just a dream. Dreaming, that’s all.” But she trembled all over as she grabbed her flashlight and got up to check the door, the windows.
No one was there, not a soul moved on the street below, on the lake. The cabins and houses were dark. No one was coming to finish what they’d begun two years before. They didn’t care that she lived, didn’t know where she was if they did.
She was alive—just an accident of fate, just the luck of the draw, she thought as she rubbed her fingertips over the scar the bullet had left behind.
She was alive, and it was almost dawn of another day. And look, look there, it’s…it’s a moose coming down to the lake to drink.
“Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” she said aloud. “Not in Boston. Not if you spend every minute pushing to move up, move forward. You don’t see the light softening in the east and a knobby-kneed moose clopping out of the woods to drink.”
Mists flowed along the ground, she noted, thin as tissue paper, and the lake still as glass. And there, the light came on in Brody’s cabin. Maybe he can’t sleep, either. Maybe he gets up early to write so he can lie in the hammock in the afternoon and read.
Seeing the light, knowing someone was awake as she was, was oddly comforting.
She’d had the dream—or most of it—but she hadn’t fallen apart. That was progress, wasn’t it? And someone turned a light on across the lake. Maybe he’d look out his window as she was looking out hers, and see the glow in her window, too. In that strange way, they’d share the dawn.
She stood, watching the light in the east streak the sky with pink and gold, then spread over the glass of the lake until the water glowed like a quiet fire.
By the time she’d stocked her backpack according to the recommended list for a trail hike, it felt like it weighed fifty pounds. It was only about eight miles, up and back, but she thought it was better to be cautious and use the list for hikes over ten miles.
She might decide to go farther, or she might take a detour. Or…whatever, she’d packed it now and wasn’t unpacking it again. She reminded herself she could stop whenever she wanted, as often as she wanted, set the pack down and rest. It was a good, clear day—a free day—and she was going to take every advantage of it.
She’d barely gotten ten feet when she was hailed.
“Doing a little exploring this morning?” Mac asked her. He wore one of his favored flannel shirts tucked into jeans, and a watch cap pulled over his head.
“I thought I’d hike a little bit of Little Angel Trail.”
His brows came together. “Going on your own?”
“It’s an easy trail, according to the guidebook. It’s a nice day, and I want to see the river. I’ve got a map,” she continued. “A compass, water, everything I need, according to the guide,” she repeated with a smile. “Really, more than I could possibly need.”
“Trail’s going to be muddy yet. And I bet that guide tells you it’s better to hike in pairs—better yet, in groups.”
It did, true enough, but she wasn’t good in groups. Alone was always better. “I’m not going very far. I’ve hiked a little bit in the Smokies, in the Black Hills. Don’t worry about me, Mr. Drubber.”
“I’m taking some time off myself today—got young Leon at the mercantile counter, and the grocery’s covered, too. I could hike with you for an hour.”
“I’m fine, and that’s not what you wanted to do with your day off. Really, don’t worry. I won’t be going far.”
“You’re not back by six, I’m sending out a search party.”
“By six, I’ll not only be back, I’ll be soaking my tired feet. That’s a promise.”
She shifted her pack, then set out to skirt the lake and take the trail through the woods toward the wall of the canyon.
She kept her stride slow and easy, and enjoyed the dappled light through the canopy of trees. With the cool air on her face, the scent of pine and awakening earth, the dregs of the dream faded away.
She’d do this more often, she promised herself. Choose a different trail and explore on her day off—or at least every other day off. At some point, she’d drive into the park and do the same, before the summer people flooded in and crowded it all. Good, healthy exercise would hone her appetite, and she’d get in shape again.
And for mental health, she’d learn to identify the wildflowers the guide spoke of that would blanket forest and trailside, the sage flats and alpine meadows
in the summer. It would be a good incentive to stay put, to see the blooming.
When the trail forked, she rolled her shoulders to adjust her pack, and took the fork marked for Little Angel Canyon. The incline was slow, but it was steady through the damp air sheltered by the conifers where she saw nests high up in the trees. Huge boulders sat among the pools of melting snow and rivers of mud where her guidebook claimed an abundance of wildflowers would thrive in a few more weeks.
But for now, Reece thought it was almost like another planet, all faded green and brown and silent.
The trail rose, gently at first, up the moraine, tracking the slope through a stand of firs and dropping over the side to a deep, unexpected gulch. The mountains speared up, snow-breasted pinnacles shining in the strong sunlight, and as the trail angled up, more steeply now, she remembered to try to use the lock step, and briefly locked her knee with each step. Small steps, she remembered.
No rush, no hurry.
When she’d hiked the first mile, she stopped to rest, to drink and to absorb.
She could still see the glint of Angel Lake to the southeast. There were no mists now as the strong sun in a clear sky had burned it away. The breakfast shift would be peaking now, she thought, with the diner full of clatter and conversation, the kitchen ripe with the smell of bacon and coffee. But here it was quiet and stunningly open with the air stinging with pine.
And she was alone, completely, with no sound but the light wind swimming through the trees, carving through the grasses of a marsh where ducks minded their own business. And that, the distant and insistent drumming of a woodpecker having his own breakfast in the woods.
She continued on, with the climb steep enough to have her quads complaining. Before she’d been hurt, Reece thought in disgust, she could have taken this trail at a jog.
Not that she’d ever hiked, but how different was it from setting the elliptical at the health club to a five-mile hill climb?
“Worlds,” she muttered. “Worlds different. But I can do this.”
The trail cut through the still sleeping meadows, switchbacked over the steeps. Along the sun-drenched slope where she paused again to catch her breath, she could see a small, marshy pond where out of the cattails a heron rose with a flopping fish in its beak.
Though she cursed herself for reaching for her camera too late, she continued to huff her way along the switchback until she heard the first rumble that was the river. When the muddy trail forked again, she looked wistfully at the little signpost for Big Angel Trail. It would wind high up the canyon, and require not only endurance but some basic climbing skills.
She didn’t have either, and had to admit her leg muscles were in shock, and her feet were annoyed. She had to stop again, drink again, and debated whether she should simply content herself with the views of marshes and meadows on this first outing. She could sit on a rock here, soak in the sun, perhaps be lucky enough to see some wildlife. But that rumble called to her. She’d set out to hike Little Angel, and hiking it was what she would do.
Her shoulders ached. Okay, she’d probably gone seriously overboard with the supplies in her backpack. But she reminded herself she’d made it halfway, and even at her meandering pace, she could make her goal before noon.
She cut through the meadow, then up the muddy slope. When she made it up and around the next switchback, she had her first look at the long, brilliant ribbon of the river.
It carved through the canyon with a steady murmur of power. Here and there huddles of rock and boulders were stacked on its verge as if the river had simply flung them out. Still it was nearly placid here, almost dreamy curling through the steep, sheer walls on its way west.
She got out her camera, already knowing a snapshot wouldn’t capture the scope. A picture couldn’t give her the sounds, the feel of the air, the staggering drops and wild rises of the rock.
Then she saw a pair of bright blue kayaks, and delighted, framed them in to use for scale. She watched the kayakers paddle, circle, heard the dim sound of voices that must have been raised to shouts.
Someone was getting a lesson, she decided, then pulled out her binoculars to get a closer look. A man and a boy—young teens, she decided. The boy’s face was a study in concentration and excitement. She saw him grin, nod, and his mouth moved as he called out something to his companion. Teacher?
They continued to paddle, moving side by side, heading west down the river.
On the trail above, Reece hung her binoculars around her neck and followed.
The height was enthralling. As her body pushed itself forward she felt the burn of muscles, the giddiness of adventure, and no tingle of worry or anxiety. What she felt, she realized, was utterly human. Small and mortal and full of wonder. She had only to tip back her head, and the whole of the sky belonged to her. To her, she thought, and those mountains that shone blue in the sunlight.
Even with the chill on her face, the sweat of effort dampened her back. Next stop, she told herself, she was taking off her jacket and drinking a pint of water.
She trudged up and up, panting.
And stopped short, skidding a little, when she saw Brody perched on a wide, rocky ledge.
He barely spared her a glance. “Should’ve known it was you. You make enough noise to start an avalanche.” When she glanced up, warily, he shook his head. “Maybe not quite that much. Still, making noise on the trail usually wards off the predators. The four-legged ones, anyway.”
If she’d forgotten about the possibility of bear—and she had—she sure as hell had forgotten the possibility of human. “What are you doing up here?”
“Minding my own business.” He took a slug out of his water bottle. “You? Other than tromping along singing ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’”
“I was not.” Oh, please, she was not.
“Okay, you weren’t singing it. It was more gasping it.”
“I’m hiking the trail. It’s my day off.”
“Yippee.” He picked up the notebook sitting on his lap.
Since she’d stopped, she needed a minute to catch her breath before she started climbing again. She could cover the fact that she needed a minute or two to rest with conversation. “You’re writing? Up here?”
“Researching. I’m killing someone up here later. Fictionally,” he added with some relish when the color the exertion had put in her cheeks drained away. “Good spot for it, especially this time of year. Nobody on the trails this early in the spring—or nearly nobody. He lures her up, shoves her over.”
Brody leaned out a little, looking down. He’d already taken off his jacket, as she longed to do. “Long, nasty drop. Terrible accident, terrible tragedy.”
Despite herself, she was intrigued. “Why does he do it?”
He only shrugged, broad shoulders in a denim shirt. “Mostly because he can.”
“There were kayakers on the river. They might see.”
“That’s why they call it fiction. Kayakers,” he mumbled and scribbled something on his pad. “Maybe. Maybe better if there were. What would they see? Body dropping. Scream echoes. Splat.”
“Oh, well. I’ll leave you to it.”
Since his response was nothing but an absent grunt, she continued on. It was a little irritating, really, she thought. He had a good spot to rest and to take in the view. Which would’ve beenher spot if he hadn’t been there. But she’d find another, she’d find her own. Just a little higher up.
Still, she kept well away from the edge as she hiked, and tried to erase the image of a body flying off the end of the world, down to the rocks and water below.
She knew she was hitting the wall of her endurance when she heard the thunder again. Stopping, she braced her hands on her thighs and caught her breath. Before she could decide if this was the spot, she heard the long, fiercesome cry of a hawk. Looking up, she saw it sweep west.
She wanted to follow the hawk, like a sign. One more switchback, she decided, just one more, then she’d sit in splendid solitude,
unpack her lunch and enjoy an hour with the river.
She was rewarded for that last struggle of effort with a view of white water. It churned and slapped at the fists and knuckles of rock, spewed up against towers of them, then spilled down on itself in a short, foaming waterfall. The roar of it filled the canyon, and rolled over her own laugh of delight.
She’d made it after all.
With relief she unshouldered her pack before sinking down to sit on a pocked boulder. She unpacked her lunch, and pleased herself by eating ravenously.
Top of the world, that’s how she felt. Calm and energized at once, and absolutely happy. She bit into an apple so crisp it shocked her senses as the hawk cried out again and soared overhead.
It was perfect, she thought. Absolutely perfect.
She lifted her binoculars to follow the hawk’s flight, then skimmed them down to track the powerful surge of the river. With hope, she began to scout the rocks, the stands of willow and cottonwood, back into the pines for wildlife. A bear might come fishing, or she might spot another moose, an elk who came to drink.
She wanted to see beaver and watch otters play. She wanted to simply be exactly where she was, with the peaks rising up, the sun shining and the water a constant rumble below.
If she hadn’t been searching the rough shoreline, she would have missed them.
They stood between the trees and the rocks. The man—at least she thought it was a man—had his back to her, with the woman facing the river, hands on her hips.
Even with her binoculars, the height and the distance made it impossible to see them clearly, but she saw the spill of dark hair over a red jacket, under a red cap.
Reece wondered what they were doing. Debating a camping spot, she mused, or a place to put into the river. But she skimmed the glasses along and didn’t see a sign of a canoe or kayak. Camping, then, though she couldn’t spot any gear.
With a shrug, she went back to watching them. It seemed intrusive, but she had to admit there was a little thrill in that. They couldn’t know she was there, high up on the other side of the river, studying them as she might have a couple of bear cubs or a herd of deer.
