Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  No such luck. He drew to a stop dead in front of her and said, "Crysta Meyers, no doubt."

  "And you must be Sam Barrister."

  He squinted against the sun, tiny lines creasing the cor­ners of his eyes, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The wind lifted his hair, drawing it across his high forehead in unruly black waves.

  Crysta shoved her hands deeper into her pockets. For some reason, she had never pictured Sam Barrister as so at­tractive or virile. A red sweatshirt molded itself to the im­pressive contours of his chest, its snug fit accentuating his narrow waist and flat belly. Faded denim skimmed the muscular length of his legs. A knife scabbard rode his hip. Like Riley and Shriver, he wore a pair of yellow-trimmed green rubber boots. Obviously her running shoes were inadequate for the terrain, but it couldn't be helped. She hadn't had time to go shopping before leaving home, and galoshes weren't among her usual accessories.

  Crysta returned her gaze to his face. The sun touched his unshaven jaw, highlighting a sprinkle of silver whiskers among the black. Late thirties, early forties? She chose to ignore his anger and kept her voice carefully polite. "Is there any more news about my brother? How's the search go­ing?"

  "If I could have reached you last night, you would know the answer to that. I wish you had called back. After we were disconnected, I got the phone working again, but with your unlisted number, I couldn't get through to you."

  "I stayed at Mom's. She's terribly upset, naturally."

  Something flickered in his eyes. Concern? It was gone as quickly as it came. "Maybe you should have stayed there with her." He clipped the words short. "I told you your be­ing here wasn't necessary."

  "If it was your brother missing, where would you be?"

  She had him there. His gaze shifted, as if he couldn't quite look her in the eye. "As much as I sympathize with your concerns, I don't have space for you." He nodded toward the group of tents. "All the cabins are full."

  "If you have a spare sleeping bag, I'll manage. I tried to bring my own, but passengers are limited to two pieces of luggage on the pontoon flights. I had to leave it in a locker at the airport."

  Silence hung between them. His gaze met hers again, hard and unyielding. Then he swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of dirt along his jaw.

  Crysta shot a glance at the cluster of tents. "I can always sleep under a tree."

  His eyes warmed with a weary smile. "With the bears?"

  "Bears?" Crysta echoed. She scanned the area again. It hadn't occurred to her that wild creatures might venture this close to the lodge. Still, if the volunteer searchers could sleep outdoors with nothing but canvas to protect them, she could make it through a few nights in the open. "Right now, my main concern is finding Derrick. If a spot under a tree is all you have available, then I'll settle for that."

  He seemed amused by her reaction to the idea of bears, but she also detected a flicker of admiration in his expres­sion at her willingness to brave it out. The smile in his eyes finally touched his mouth. "I think I can do a little better than that."

  Crysta noticed that the warmth in his expression trans­formed his features. He was even more attractive when he smiled. "I appreciate your help; and I apologize in advance for any inconvenience I might cause. I didn't realize so many people would be here."

  Tipping her head back to study him more closely, Crysta noted once again that he was not what she had expected. Derrick had described Sam, of course, but "big and rug­ged" didn't do him justice. He was at least six-five, maybe more, with a set of shoulders most of the weight lifters in Los Angeles would kill for. At five-ten, Crysta seldom met a man so tall and with enough breadth to make her feel pe­tite.

  His dark gaze searched hers. "I should be the one to apologize—for the surly greeting. I haven't slept more than a couple of hours at a stretch in days. I've been trying to run this place, organize the search parties, make sure the vol­unteers are fed, keep beds ready, and in between all that, I've been trying to search for Derrick myself. I'm afraid it puts a strain on congeniality."

  Now that Crysta was looking for them, she could see the faint shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes.

  "A few minutes ago, one of my guests got a fishhook stuck through his finger," he added. "The ordeal of trying to get it out while he threatened me with a lawsuit de­stroyed what was left of my sense of humor." With a wry twist of his mouth, he admitted, "Not that I had much left to destroy,"

  A wave of guilt washed over her. Now she could see why Sam Barrister might not have wanted her here. She licked her lips. "I didn't realize so much responsibility for the search had been laid on you."

  "It wasn't laid, I took it. Derrick's my best friend."

  "I don't suppose an extra pair of hands might be useful? I worked one term during college as a short-order cook, so I might be a help in the kitchen."

  "Somehow, I pictured you wanting to accompany the searchers."

  "I want to go look for him. I won't deny it. But if I'll be more useful working here to free someone more experi­enced for the search, you won't hear me arguing. He's my brother. I have to help. Can't you understand that?"

  "Of course I can. It's just that the thought of you get­ting lost out there scares the hell out of me. Derrick's being missing is bad enough." He placed his hands on his hips. "Let's get your luggage. It looks like you're stuck here, at least until tomorrow. We may as well make the best of it."

  Crysta took one of the suitcases, and Barrister grabbed the other. He led the way back onto the footbridge. Crysta watched the rhythmic shift of his shoulder blades as she followed him. In all fairness, she really couldn't blame him for resenting her arrival. In the city, she could handle just about anything, but she was definitely out of her element here. He logically expected her to be more trouble than help. Crysta was determined to prove him wrong.

  When he reached the end of the bridge, he leaped over a wash of mud to dry ground, then turned to hold out a hand for the suitcase she carried. Since she lacked his length of leg, Crysta didn't demur. Once unburdened, she gauged the distance and jumped.

  As she drew abreast of him, he retained both suitcases but made little concession for her shorter stride. Crysta gave him a measuring glance, taking in his chiseled profile and clenched jaw. Deep within, she experienced a purely femi­nine response to him.

  That surprised her. Normally she was attracted to a man more by his personality than by his looks. She laid her re­action off on nerves. Since learning of Derrick's disappear­ance, she hadn't been herself. Sam Barrister was the epitome of masculine strength; frightened and unsettled as she was, it was natural that she should feel drawn to him.

  He headed toward the large log buildings set apart on a knoll. By the time Crysta made it up the incline, she felt as if she had run a footrace. He didn't slow until they reached the lodge entrance and then paused only to push the door wide with his shoulder.

  He stepped back to let her enter first, juggling suitcases so she could slip by him. A blast of warmth hit her in the face, and she glanced at the stone hearth where the dying remains of a fire crackled, the feeble flames casting golden shimmers on the knotty-pine paneling. Around the hearth was an arrangement of sturdy wood furniture with orange- and-brown plaid cushions that lent the spacious sitting area a cozy feeling.

  Had Derrick lounged there? She pictured him kicked back in a chair, leafing through one of the magazines about Alaska that were fanned across the coffee table. A heavy ache centered in her chest. What if Derrick never visited this lodge again?

  At the far end of the room stood several planked tables, one laden with food, another occupied by three men whose low conversation and laughter blended with the crackling of the fire. Judging by the men's clothes, she didn't think they were searchers. Guests, more likely. Crysta scanned the walls, expecting to see hunting trophies. She was both relieved and puzzled not to find any.

  "Mr. Barrister, when I asked you earlier how the search was going, y
ou never answered me. Has any progress been made? Have they found any sign of Derrick, any clues as to what happened?"

  Sam glanced at the three men in the dining area. "Let's discuss that when we have some privacy," he said in a low voice.

  Her reluctant host stepped behind a cluttered check-in counter, then through a doorway. As she followed him, she spied a dog-eared calendar on the wall, a dingy picture of Mount McKinley at its top. Her attention was caught by some sloppy writing in the box for the fifteenth. Phone due back—have check ready. She paused. Today was the sev­enteenth of June. Derrick had called their mother, suppos­edly from the lodge, last week. How could he have if Sam Barrister's phone had been gone?

  More determined than ever to press the man for some answers, Crysta stepped through the doorway into a small, untidy living room with another stone fireplace and more of the same rustic furniture. The back of the sofa was toward her. She spotted two very large white-socked feet propped on the wooden armrest at one end.

  "My son," Sam whispered as he set her luggage down in a corner.

  Crysta heard a low snore, a sputter and then a surprised grunt. In a husky, sleepy voice, the boy said, "Dad? I thought you were gone."

  "Didn't leave yet. There's a guest you should meet, Tip. Derrick's sister, Crysta Meyers."

  A dark head shot up over the back of the sofa, and Crysta found herself looking at one of the handsomest boys she had ever seen, a younger version of his father. His pale blue T-shirt struck a sharp contrast to his deep tan and liquid brown eyes. His sleep-tousled hair and nervous grin only added to his appeal. She guessed him to be about sixteen.

  "Hi—hi. I'm p-pleased to m-m-mmeet y-you, Cr— Cr—" He dipped his head and swallowed, his face sud­denly aflame. "Cr-Cry-sss—"

  Crysta's heart went out to Tip as she watched him strug­gle to say her name.

  Sam laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's all right, son." Throwing Crysta a warning look, Sam added, "Tip gets a little tongue-tied when he first meets strangers."

  "Tongue-tied, hm?" Anxious to put the boy at ease, Crysta moved forward and extended her hand, remember­ing that Derrick had mentioned Sam's son was handi­capped. "Well, we'll be fast friends then. When I meet new people, I trip over my own feet."

  Tip stared at her outstretched fingers. "Y-you d-do?"

  "You should have seen me when I tried to be a waitress. I lasted two hours, and all my wages went to clean some poor lady's dress. I dumped a platter of spaghetti down her front."

  "Y-you did?" Tip's eyes grew round.

  "Yup. And the little meatballs went down inside her— Well, it was really a mess. I got canned before the dinner hour was over."

  Tip's eyes grew even rounder. "Canned? Like a salmon?"

  Sam's stern visage softened. "No, son. That's another way of saying she lost her job."

  Tip finally grew bold enough to grasp Crysta's extended hand, his mouth spreading into a lopsided grin. "W-well, you don't have to w-worry around us. If you t-trip, we'll j- just help you up. R-right, Dad?"

  Sam glanced at Crysta. "And you offered to help out in my kitchen? Help like that may put me out of business."

  "Just don't serve spaghetti."

  She thought she detected a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, but he squelched it before she could be cer­tain. Then Tip distracted her by carrying through the hand­shake with such enthusiasm that he jolted her arm clear to the shoulder.

  Before she thought, Crysta said, "Easy." Tip froze. When he tried to draw back his hand, though, she held on. Smil­ing at him, she modified the pumping action. ‘“There, you see? The same way, just not quite as hard."

  Tip glanced at his father as he released her hand. "I for­got. You d-do it soft with ladies."

  "That's right." Sam glanced at Crysta. All trace of warmth had left his face.

  Crysta squirmed. She certainly hadn't meant to offend. Would it have been better to endure a painful handshake with Tip, and then avoid letting him touch her again?

  "I'm sorry, C-Crys— Crys—"

  "Just call me Crys. Derrick used to when we were younger, and I kind of miss it."

  "Crys." Tip appeared pleased when he had no difficulty with the shortened version. And, unlike his father, he didn't seem upset that she had corrected him about the way he shook hands. "I like n-nicknames. My r-real name's Sam, just like my dad's. Only when people c-called me, he an­swered, and when they called h-him, I did."

  Crysta gave the boy another warm smile. "So you're called Tip?" She pretended to consider the name for a mo­ment, then nodded. "I like it. It suits you, somehow."

  Tip nodded. "It's b-because my dad won't let m-me work for f-free. He says I help p-people as good as the m-men he hires, so I sh-should get paid tips like they do. One guest said h-he had to pay me so in-many times, my m-middle name should be Tip."

  "And the name stuck," Sam inserted.

  "You wanna see my p-p-pictures, Crys?" Tip asked.

  Actually, Crysta had a dozen questions for Tip's father: where Derrick had been heading the day he left the lodge, who had known his destination, where his gear had been found, whether any of it was still missing, what area the search was covering right now. She needed to procure a forestry map to help her keep track of the search. She also wanted to do some sleuthing as soon as the opportunity presented itself. But faced with the eagerness in Tip's expression, she held her tongue. Five more minutes would make little difference to Derrick, and she had a feeling they would mean the world to Tip.

  "What kind of pictures?"

  "Just p-pictures." Tip tugged his drooping socks up and sprang off the sofa, as lofty as his father when he straight­ened. "C-ome on. I have them in here."

  He hurried to a door across the room and threw it open. Remembering his manners, he stepped back so she could precede him. In his excitement, he wasn't stuttering. "I do them without any help. Huh, Dad?"

  "Tip, Crysta may want to freshen up. She's had a long trip, and she's worried about Derrick. Maybe you could show her later when—-"

  "No, really," Crysta cut in, "I'd like to see them."

  When she stepped into the unfurnished bedroom, she felt as if she had entered an art gallery. Every inch of wall from floor to ceiling was taken up with oil paintings, mostly na­ture scenes but portraits, as well, one of Sam, another of Todd Shriver.

  "Oh, Tip." That was all Crysta could say.

  "Do you like them?"

  "Like them?" Crysta took a step back to absorb the full impact of a lone wolf on a snow-swept knoll. The moon­light, the layered clouds against a slate sky—every last de­tail was perfect. She could almost hear the animal's forlorn howl. "I'm in awe."

  Tip threw a questioning glance at his father. Sam flashed a weary smile. "That's a compliment, son."

  "You're very talented, Tip. Have you given any shows yet?"

  "Tip paints for pleasure," Sam inserted brusquely.

  Crysta cleared her throat. Clearly, any talk of art shows was taboo. "When I can, I'd like to spend some time in here admiring each painting, Tip, and hearing the story behind it. Did you see the wolf in a book, or take a picture of him outside? The detail you've captured is breathtaking."

  "Tip paints from memory." Sam's piercing brown eyes met hers. "With one glance, he sees more than most of us do after staring at something for an hour."

  Tip rushed to the easel in the center of the room. "Come and see this one."

  Crysta stepped around to view the canvas in progress. For an instant, when she spied the cinnamon-colored hair and hazel eyes, she thought it was an unfinished portrait of her­self. Derrick. His facial features were still sketchy, not yet brought to life by Tip's brush. As her gaze lowered from Derrick's face to his shoulders, her heart began to slam.

  "As you can see, Derrick's been on Tip's mind a lot," Sam said softly.

  Crysta licked her lips. "That shirt. When did you see Derrick wearing it, Tip?"

  "Wh-when he left that day. R-right before he got lost." Shadows
crept into the boy's brown eyes. "I'm s-sorry. I didn't m-mean to make you sad."

  For a moment, the room seemed to spin. In the portrait, Derrick was wearing a western-style, red flannel shirt with pearl snaps, just as he had in her dream.

  Chapter Four

  Twenty minutes later, Crysta still hadn't completely recov­ered from the head-on collision between her dream and re­ality. As she followed Sam Barrister behind the lodge for a tour of the buildings, she scarcely heard what he said. Der­rick had been wearing a red shirt the day he disappeared. If that much of what she had dreamed was right, how much of the rest was? She couldn't forget the explosive noise that had ended her dream. Had her brother been shot?

  "Are you listening to me?"

  Crysta jerked herself back to the present and looked up at Sam's brooding features. "I guess I was woolgathering. What did you say?"

  "I was telling you how to go about bathing in the sauna. It's more of a steam bath, actually. Luckily, it's pretty self- explanatory. All the toiletries you'll need are in the ante­room. And, as you can see, the fire is kept stoked most of the time. We all use the same steam room, and, for safety's sake, there's no lock. Turn the sign to read Occupied when you go in so you don't get company. Right around the corner, you'll find the necessary house. Again, there's only one for both sexes, so latch the door."

  Still feeling separated from reality, Crysta noted a string of smoke trailing from the sauna building's chimney.

  "Seeing that portrait really upset you, didn't it?"

  She forced herself to focus, dismayed that he had cued in so easily on her feelings.

  "I'm really sorry. Tip means well. He just doesn't think beyond the moment sometimes. You went so white, I thought you might faint."