“I meant bear repellent.”
“Bear repellent?” Jacqueline asked, in confusion. “What’s that?”
“The pilot that flew me up here sold it to me. Said that since I was a pacifist and wouldn’t carry a gun, I’d need something to fend off the bears. I almost think it’d have been better to get eaten or carry a gun.”
Link had a sudden fit of coughing.
Jacqueline blinked rapidly. Could a pilot’s prank account for the stench? Knowing bears’ fondness for dumps, she suspected they would view the smell as ambrosia or an invitation to dine, instead of something disgusting. Surely a bush pilot couldn’t have been that deceitful! She cast a quick glance at Link, who was coughing so hard that his eyes were tearing and she suddenly realized that he was trying to cover up a fit of laughter. How could he think someone putting another person’s life in danger was amusing? She resisted the impulse to kick him. “Don’t worry about that,” Jacqueline told Capolucho. “Link and I are armed.” A look of relief spread beneath the ragged beard. “Do you know how to make a fire pit?” Capolucho nodded. “If you could do that, after you set up your stuff, we could get hot water quicker. Trust me, bathing in glacier melt isn’t something you want to do.”
He studied her silently for such a long time that she began to worry she’d gone too far. Finally, his mustache quivered. “You’re much nicer than my Jackie.”
“Thank you, I think.”
His beard trembled, and she had the impression he’d smiled. Capolucho turned and began putting stones in a ring near the water, just as they’d done every day.
Jacqueline blinked in surprise. How many times had he watched them set up camp and why hadn't they spotted him? Jacqueline picked up Link’s fishing gear and shoved it at him. “Hurry up with the fish. I’ll finish the tent, then find whatever food is nearby.” Lowering her voice to a hiss only Link could hear, she added. “If I come down with some dread disease and die washing his stuff, I’m going to come back and haunt you.”
Shoulders still shaking in silent laughter, Link nodded.
By the time Jacqueline was satisfied with their tent, Capolucho had a placed small stack of dry driftwood beside the rock. Next, he gathered dry grass. “Do you need anything else to start this?” he asked.
Her back stiffened. “You can light it.”
He vigorously shook his head. “I haven’t lit one in years. It was all I could do to unbury the embers this morning.”
Remembering his hands, she didn’t need to ask why. For the first time, she felt true empathy for him. They shared an unseen bond; both were haunted by fire. “What exactly caused your burns?”
For the longest time, he crouched next to the wood and rocks gazing at his scarred hands. Slowly, he lifted his head. “My Jackie said I set it on purpose. But I don’t remember doing that.” He shrugged. “Maybe I did.” He heaved a sigh. “We’d been out celebrating, and I was drunk. So drunk that I can’t remember much of what happened.” His mustache drooped down. “Don’t even remember drinking more than one glass of champagne, but it had to have been a lot more because I had one hell of a hangover.”
He fell silent.
Jacqueline looked over Capolucho’s bowed head toward Link, who appeared to be concentrating on fishing, but she thought he was close enough to overhear their conversation. That fact gave her courage. “What were you celebrating?”
“A gallery wanted to give me a one man show.” He hung his head and shrugged.
Why this humility for such a monumental event? Did his modesty hide a lie? “If someone thought I was good enough to give me my own show, I’d print it on a T-shirt for the world to read.”
Capolucho gave her a sad look. “It was a long time ago.”
“Didn’t it turn out well?” A look of pain flashed deep in his eyes. “Forget I asked. Link or anyone else that knows me will tell you one of my worst faults is sticking my nose in other people’s business.”
“It never happened. My paintings burned along with the shack. There wasn’t time to create more, so I tried to get the others back.” Capolucho raised his deformed hands and moved them before her eyes. “I can write, but I don’t have enough feeling in my hands to paint like I want to paint.” Everything about Capolucho’s tone and body language proclaimed that he was telling the truth.
“I’m sorry,” Jacqueline said. While his situation might not be as fatal as Adam’s, in his own way, he had lost his life to fire, too. He certainly smelled dead.
“It was a long time ago,” Capolucho said.
She bit her lip. “So you haven’t painted since?” He shook his head; small dark particles showered the ground. She tried not to inhale too deeply. “I’m no artist, but it seems to me that if you were good enough for a showing before the accident, you still have the talent. You’ll just need to develop a style to suit your current abilities.”
“Maybe someday.” His tone and body language were evasive.
Sensing she’d pushed enough, at least for the moment, she changed the subject, “If you give me your clothes, I’ll start the laundry.” He stared at her. “Do you have any other things that need to be done?” He slowly shook his head, through the beard, red splotches deepened. “Do you have a towel, soap, shampoo?” Again, he shook his head. No wonder he smelled so bad. “In that case, I’ll loan you mine.” She made a face. “That is if you don’t mind smelling like lemons.”
“It would be an awful nice change.” His understatement sent such a flood of relief rolling through Jacqueline that she felt suddenly lighter. She got the items and handed them to him. A few moments later, he gave her his clothing, then, wrapped in her soft pink towel, he headed for the river. “I don’t care if it’s ice water, I’m going to wash.” She stared after him in astonishment as he walked straight into the water until it came up to his knees, then he began to soap the washcloth.
Poor man had lived with the stench longer than they had and obviously wasn't as desensitized to it as she had expected.
Pensively, she looked down at the tinder he’d collected. If he could wash in ice water and save her nose, the least she could do was light a fire. Her stomach contracted. A small fire. Surely, she could manage that. It took her five tries, but she finally stilled her hands enough to strike the match. The euphoria felt incredibly liberating. If she could light a match and hold it to dry moss, she could do anything - even wash reeking clothing.
She picked them up with the tips of her fingers. A small bundle dropped to the ground. She peered at the zip lock bag. It contained his wallet. Jacqueline bit her lip, then glanced toward the boulder, behind which Capolucho had disappeared. Quickly she stooped down, unzipped the bag, flipped open the wallet and extracted a New Mexico driver’s license. Though Ray’s photo was of a clean-shaven man with one eyebrow, he’d given them his real name. Or at least the one that matched this piece of identification. When she tried to shove the license back into place, she noticed a photo. She took a peak. A couple stood against a backdrop of palms, sand and clear blue sky. Hawaii? She squinted at the tiny faces. The man, tall and well built, was dressed in a wild tropical print shirt, sandals, sunglasses and a straw hat, which hid his face in shadows. Wild orphan Annie curls concealed most of the petite redhead’s face. Between the flowing muumuu and the way she was glued to the man, it was impossible to determine her body shape.
Still, there was something vaguely familiar about the couple. Had she known them in the past? Jacqueline didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure. The backdrop looked familiar, yet she’d never been anywhere that had white sand.
Her temples began throbbing, so she tucked the picture away, rezipped the bag, then tossed the wallet inside his tent.
Scrubbing the fetid clothing gave her ample time to think about the photo. With every dunking she gave the fabric, she became more certain she’d seen that photo before.
But where?
When?
24
Link caught two Dolly Varden. Neither were prizewinners, b
ut they were still nice fish. Normally, he felt content after fishing, but today the closer he got to their camp, the more something felt wrong. Yet everything appeared normal: damp clothes were draped over a clump of knee-high shrubs near the edge of the bank, and best of all Jacqueline was mixing something in a bowl, which undoubtedly would be heaven on the tongue. Judging by his slicked flat hair, and the fact that he had Jacqueline’s pink towel wrapped around his waist, as he huddled close to the fire, Capolucho had bathed.
Without the seedy clothing, the man looked muscular and fit.
Link frowned. What was wrong with this picture?
Striding even closer, he saw that the disfigurement of Capolucho’s hands and forearms was only a fraction of the trauma he’d suffered. It was a wonder he’d survived burns over that much of his body. As Link advanced toward the fire, Capolucho said something to Jacqueline. She glanced up and smiled at him. An unfamiliar emotion formed in the pit of Link’s stomach. The scene seemed too peaceful. Too domestic. Link felt like an intruder in his own camp. He looked at the fire. Soon the embers would be ready to cook dinner. The wildflowers were another homey touch. Had Capolucho picked them for Jacqueline?
Link’s jaw clenched.
“Those are beautiful fish,” Jacqueline said. “Is that big one trophy size?”
Link shook his head. “It isn’t even eight pounds.”
“What a shame.” Jacqueline sounded genuinely sorry. She turned to Capolucho. “Link is one of the best fishermen I’ve ever known.”
“Never been fishing,” Capolucho said.
“You should try it sometime,” Jacqueline said. “It’s wonderfully relaxing, at least it is for me, but I’m not sure it is for Link. He’s always trying to catch the big one and that seems stressful.” While Link honed his filleting knife, Jacqueline’s casual but accurate comment replayed like a broken record.
Had fishing ever been relaxing?
Not since he was a kid and forced to eat macaroni and cheese twice a day because it was all they could afford. The first time he’d brought home a string of bass, his mother had called him her little breadwinner. There had been pride mixed with relief in her voice. Two decades later, Link fingered the blade of his knife and considered the day when fishing had ceased being fun: the day he’d begun fishing for survival. Compulsive fishing had made sense when his father was ill, but why was he still doing it? It had been years since anyone in his family relied on his catch to eat.
He’d stopped fishing when he went to college, then he and Stone formed Linkstone and as their success grew, so did the compulsion to catch a trophy. Link frowned, as he filleted the Dolly Vardens, and wondered why it had taken so many years to realize he didn’t enjoy his obsession.
Jacqueline finished blending the batter in the bowl. Mixed emotions fought for dominance, as he contemplated how Jacqueline had noticed what he couldn’t see for himself. He had the feeling that in many ways she saw him more clearly than he saw himself. He also sensed that she liked him for who he was.
He liked her, too.
Unwilling to ponder the ramifications of that thought, Link finished filleting the fish. He put the pan on some embers to heat, then realized that he hadn’t lit the fire. He frowned. Capolucho could barely hold a fork. Matches should be too small for him to deal with. That meant there was a good chance Jacqueline had ignited it. Had she faced her fear and conquered it?
Link flipped the fish. Hot grease popped and sizzled. He felt more compatible with Jacqueline than with anyone he’d ever known, but he also wanted her more than he’d thought it was possible to want anything and he was getting damned tired playing the role of protective friend.
Still, pissing off Mavis would be a really dumb move.
Link sprinkled seasoning on the fish.
Jacqueline, who was checking their laundry, looked at him and smiled.
Link grinned back.
Her beam widened.
His heart warmed. In fact, his entire body warmed. Definitely lust. Link dropped his gaze back to the fire. While he prodded the fish, he wondered why Jacqueline seemed so special. To avoid pondering that question, he made a mental list: on his next birthday, he’d be thirty; he was financially stable, not a millionaire, but comfortable. Even if something happened to him, his share of the profits from Linkstone could support a family. He wouldn’t have to worry about that.
What was he thinking?
Jacqueline used a stick as she retrieved the aluminum wrapped biscuits from the embers. As she opened the foil, their aroma blended with the scent of cooked fish. Next, she reclaimed the Dutch oven, which was filled with roasted carrots and potatoes, seasoned with onion. It was beginning to look like a feast.
So was she.
Capolucho leaned forward and sniffed. “Heads up.” Jacqueline tossed Capolucho a steaming biscuit. He caught it, tossed it back and forth between his hands for a moment, then wolfed it down, like he was a starving dog.
She handed Capolucho a plate. He piled on the food until it threatened to fall off, and then dug in as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Link scratched the back of his ear and wondered if Capolucho always ate like that.
Jacqueline placed her hand on his forearm. Her skin felt good against his. “Ray is an artist,” she said. “A good one.” She nibbled a sliver of fish.
“Not that good,” Capolucho protested his mouth full of food.
“They were going to give him a one man show,” she added, “but his paintings burned before they could be exhibited.” Did she have to sing the man’s praises while he ate? Link bit into a biscuit.
Capolucho shifted uncomfortably. “It most likely would have been a flop.”
“You’re too modest,” Jacqueline said.
Link swallowed. He coughed. Jacqueline patted his back. Eyes tearing, he wondered if fate was teaching him a lesson. When he recovered, he took Jacqueline’s hand in his, then asked Capolucho, “What style do you paint?”
“Surrealistic.”
“Ariel paints impressionism.”
“Did she paint the callas?” Jacqueline asked.
Link nodded. “The caribou, too.”
“Oh, she’s really good. Ray, you should talk to her.”
“Who is she?”
“My partner’s wife.”
Jacqueline grinned. “Maybe she could inspire you to get back into painting.”
“Not likely.” He held up his disfigured hands. “I can’t hold a brush. Can’t do much of anything that I used to.”
“Then change your style,” Jacqueline said. “Surreal stuff doesn’t have to be detailed. I should think that if you can write notes, you can do something. If you were good enough for your own show, the talent is still there. From what I understand of art, which admittedly isn’t all that much, it’s more a matter of line, balance and color than detail.”
Capolucho silently studied her for several minutes. “It’s been a long time.”
“I bet painting is the same as riding a bike.” Jacqueline made a funny face. “Besides, what have you got to lose? You might find out you like your new style even more.”
Capolucho smoothed his misshapen hand over his scraggly beard. It reminded Link of the way Stone petted his dogs, while he was trying to figure out how to discipline Tempest.
Slowly, the eyes under the shaggy brow began to brighten. “Maybe.”
“No maybes about it,” Jacqueline said.
“When I get back, maybe I’ll give it a shot.”
Link cleared his throat. “When we get back, I’ll introduce you to Ariel.”
“Are you sure she won’t mind?”
“I don’t think so.”
Capolucho continued stroking his beard. “I suppose it doesn’t make sense to keep this anymore. I’m never going to find my Jackie, not after this long.”
Jacqueline blinked in confusion. “I don’t follow.”
“When I was in the burn unit, my Jackie came in and cried over the way my hair had been singed off. Said she always love
d it long and she told me she’d always wished I’d grow a beard.”
He stared into the distance, remembering another time and place. “I have some scars on my face from the sparks.” His beard quivered. He took a deep breath and his hand clutched his whiskers “It’s time to cut it.”
Link nodded. Capolucho wasn’t just talking about his hair; he was telling them that it was time to let go of the woman who had preoccupied his thoughts. He hoped the man hadn’t switched his fixation to Jacqueline.
“I brought along a small pair of scissors,” Jacqueline said. “If you’d like, I can trim your hair.” She grimaced. “I’ve never tried to do a beard, but I’m game if you are.”
“Get them,” Capolucho said. “It can’t look worse than it does now.” Jacqueline eagerly hurried to their tent.
Link raised an eyebrow. “Just like that? I’d have asked for references.”
“If I had a decent haircut, like you, I’d worry. If she butchers my hair, could you give me the name of your barber?”
He nodded. “Provided she doesn’t scalp you.” Capolucho’s eyes widened. “It was a joke. I don’t even think an enterprising Indian could scalp anyone with her scrawny scissors.” Link began cleaning up the pan and plates.
Jacqueline returned and without preamble, began combing Capolucho’s tangled hair. Whenever the teeth stuck, she studiously snipped away with her cuticle scissors until the comb was free. Soon, a mound of whiskers and hair big as a beaver carcass surrounded Capolucho’s seat. Jacqueline stepped back to survey her efforts. The remaining hair lay in rough-edged layers. She returned to her project and began by running her fingers through his hair.
Link’s jaw tensed until his molars hurt. Why was he resentful? He’d never experienced this particular emotion, but he had the uneasy suspicion he was feeling jealousy. What had Jacqueline done to him?
Nothing.
She treated everyone with decency, kindness and respect. That was the crux of it. He didn’t want to be treated like everyone else. He wanted to be special. Link knew that what he was feeling came from deep within him. The problem was, he wasn’t sure how to deal with it.
Passion's Fire Page 18
