RiverTime

by Rae Renzi

  A fleeting expression crossed Casey’s face. He couldn’t identify it, but if he had to file it, he thought it would be under “Oh, shit” rather than “Wow!”

  “What should I bring up?”

  She looked at him for a heartbeat, then visibly pulled herself around to his question. Her eyes flickered over his chest.

  “Clothes,” she said.

  Chapter Eight

  After the snake incident, Jack’s disposition evolved from the dark mood of the morning to something less surly. He seemed to find satisfaction in the small work of cleaning up the raft and carrying salvaged goods up to the ledge. Counter to her expectations, he concentrated fully on whatever task engaged him for the time. Occasionally his task-of-the-moment seemed to be observing her. It made her itchy.

  “Are you a drug dealer?”

  Jack choked on the water he was drinking, spewing it all over the ground. Casey turned from her job of placing food on the rock shelves.

  “A…drug…dealer?” he coughed out. Then he laughed.

  Casey’s cheeks burned. “Well, if you aren’t a drug dealer, then what are you?”

  “I’m just a guy.” He wiped his dripping chin with the back of his hand. “How about if we get to know each other without any baggage.”

  “Baggage? What kind of baggage?”

  He rolled his eyes and turned away.

  “Aeronautical engineer?” She wiped a smudge of ketchup off a box of granola bars. “That takes mathematical precision—like your knife-throwing—and good problem-solving.”

  He snorted and returned his attention to looking through one of the other rafters’ bags—a man’s—to find some clothes that fit him. A shaving kit caught his attention. He unzipped it to poke around inside.

  “That’ll have limited usefulness,” Casey said, miming a tug on his beard.

  His attention seemed arrested by something in the kit, but he glanced up, an odd look on his face, and slowly zipped the kit closed. “You’re probably right.”

  She went back to organizing the meager foodstuff, sending a furtive glance his way. He should have looked out of place with his tattoo and pale skin, but he blended in, chameleon-like. “Or a spy…an undercover agent.”

  For all his response, she might as well have spoken to the wind. He picked up a small canister of butane and shook it, a puzzled expression on his face. “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s for the camping stove. Which any self-respecting spy would know.”

  A dimple creased his cheek.

  They worked into the afternoon and she continued to observe him. She was a scientist, after all. Observation was second nature to her, and he was a good subject. He wasn’t precisely handsome, more like interesting. Every move he made drew her eye. Every inch of him invited touch. The contrast of his warm, soft eyes and his hard, tattooed body gave him a kind of knife-edge romanticism. And his mouth… Casey paused and touched her lips, remembering the feel of his against them, warm and insistent, during their shared breathing. Nice.

  She gave herself a mental shake.

  No. Nice did not describe Jack. If not an actual criminal, he was surely no Boy Scout. She just knew he’d lost his virginity before he got his driver’s permit, and it was a certainty that the word knife in his lexicon was paired with words other than butter. If he were a piece of candy, he would be a chocolate-covered coffee bean—all dark and rich and silky on the outside but with a hard, brittle, edgy center. In spite of the melty softness of his eyes, he never smiled to share, he smiled only in private amusement.

  So why the pounding pulse and lighter-than-air feeling after the mouth-to-mouth routine, and her accelerating heartbeat in the bottom of the boat?

  She shrugged. “Post-traumatic stress. Must be it.”

  That evening she stood on the edge of the rock ledge savoring the vast wildness of the canyon. Jack walked up beside her, his hands in his pockets. They both looked out over the panorama. The sun striking the surface of the river threw up shimmering gold sparks, drawing a shroud of beauty over the telltales of trauma. The early evening shadows colored the walls of the canyon in purples, rusts and blues. Casey tilted her face up to the sky, delighting in the contrast of the warmth of the last rays of the sun and the coolness of the wind on her skin.

  “I wonder when they’ll come to rescue us. I thought they’d be here by now.”

  “They’ll come soon enough,” Jack grunted. He looked up at the sky. “With any luck, this wind will delay a search. The updrafts over the canyon are wicked.”

  Casey eyed him, surprised. “You like it here.”

  He stared out over the canyon. “Beats the alternative.”

  “The alternative being…?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “Are you—”

  “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No anything.”

  “Except obstinate, I’d have to say.” Casey returned her attention to the sunset, a profligate display of color and light. She reached her arms overhead, stretching out the kinks and twinges of the day, and took a deep breath of untainted air. “I think this might be the best of today’s anticipated pleasures.”

  “Anticipated pleasures? What the hell is that?”

  “Well, you know, pleasures I plan for and expect. I try to build those into every day.”

  “You build them into every day? Sounds like another term for control. You a control freak?”

  Casey frowned. “Hmm. I never thought of it that way. I guess everyone is, in one way or another. But most controlling people I know operate out of anxiety. They try to control their world so bad things won’t happen.”

  “And—let me guess—you’re different.”

  Casey laughed. “Maybe not as different as I wish. But I try to come from the opposite direction, not so much from anxiety as…hedonism. I don’t try to keep things out, I try to let things—pleasures—in. Some of those are easy to anticipate, some aren’t.”

  “For example?”

  “Okay, like today I anticipated the pleasure of a quiet cup of coffee in the morning, and the incredible beauty of these surroundings. Also the pleasure of doing this, recapping the day. That was anticipated.”

  “What about the unanticipated part?”

  “Well, let’s see. Finding that most of the food is usable—definitely a good thing. And the camp chairs. Those were unexpected. And…” She hesitated. The feel of your skin on mine…

  “And?” he prompted.

  “And…talking with you.”

  His gaze didn’t move from the landscape, but a smile flickered across his face.

  The sun flattened on the horizon, igniting in the last few seconds to send a dozen rays of brilliant light streaming across the canyon top.

  “It’s like a benediction, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, fucking incredible.”

  “Jack, it isn’t ‘fucking’ anything. Can’t you utter a single sentence without that word? Everything in the world isn’t fucking.”

  Jack didn’t react, he just stared out over the canyon, as if thinking it over. Finally, he said, “You’re right.”

  Casey relaxed.

  “But if everything isn’t fucking, then it’s because some things are already fucked, or they’re trying to get fucked. Unless they’re dead, of course.”

  Casey spluttered.

  “Oh. Or because they’re female,” Jack added, with a tone of sudden insight. “But you’re right, it’s a copulating beautiful sight.”

  Chapter Nine

  Patricia Carr looked up when Reed walked into her office for their early morning meeting. Her eyes narrowed and she put down her pen.

  “Reed, what on earth is the matter? You look like you’ve had a very bad night. Or a very good one.”

  “Bad, I’m afraid. It’s my girlfriend, Senator. There was a flash flood through the Grand Canyon where she was rafting. Casey is missing.” He didn’t say “and presumed dead,” but it hung in the air like a dark sha
dow.

  “Oh, that’s horrible. Are they searching for her?”

  “They can’t yet. The river is still too high, and they say there’s too much turbulence in the atmosphere for an airborne search. They’ll start as soon as conditions permit.” Again, he didn’t state the obvious—the chance of her surviving a flash flood in that location was small.

  “What can I do to help? Do you want to take some time and fly out there?”

  “Thank you, but I think it would be better for me to continue working. It’ll keep my mind off everything. In any case, the authorities have asked that family and friends refrain from flying out until notified. Casey’s mother will let me know when she gets news.”

  “Well, if you’re certain that working is the best thing for you, that’s fine. However, if at any time you feel like you need to leave, please don’t hesitate. I insist you take care of yourself in this terrible situation. If there’s any way I can help, please let me know, will you?”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you very much for your understanding. It means a lot to me.”

  Later that day, during a staff meeting, Senator Carr’s secretary entered the room and bent down to whisper. The senator nodded and rose from her chair. “Excuse me for just a minute. Please come with me, Reed.”

  She motioned him to close the door. “We may have some news of Casey.”

  He tensed, readying for an emotional body block. He didn’t fool himself—at this point, the probabilities favored bad news over good. That didn’t stop him from sending a quick prayer upward.

  She picked up the phone and punched a blinking button. “This is Patricia Carr.” After listening a moment and asking a few brief questions, she said, “Thank you, Captain, you’ve been most helpful. Please do continue to keep us informed, will you?”

  At her words, disappointment flickered through him. He looked at the senator, eyebrows raised.

  “They’ve located a group of people believed to be Casey’s party. This group landed their raft to take a side trip up a trail that led to a mesa overlooking the river. It wasn’t on the itinerary for Casey’s group, but they were ahead of schedule, so the authorities weren’t looking there initially. Of course, the weather has hampered the search—the wind is too strong for them to fly down the river. The group was only found because they were on the mesa top.”

  “But what about Casey?”

  “She doesn’t appear to be with the group.”

  Reed frowned. “I don’t understand. Why wasn’t she? Are they sure that’s her group?”

  “Yes, they’re certain. The number of rafts allowed on the river is restricted, so there’s a pretty good estimate of who is and is not on the river at any one time.”

  Reed nodded, arranging his face into a mask. “How many others are missing from her group? Maybe some of the rafters were separated from the rest.”

  “Reed,” Patricia Carr said gently, “it looks like she’s the only one missing. The river guide says she had a headache and stayed behind.”

  Reed looked down and nodded, fighting a wave of anxiety. It was a reaction to the news, he knew. He had to control it, not let it control him.

  “I don’t think we should give up hope,” the senator said. “They haven’t found the other raft yet. If she was in the raft when the flood hit, then there may be some chance that she survived. They’ll let us know the minute they have news.”

  “Yes, thank you, Senator.” He looked down at his shoes, blinked away the burning in his eyes. He promised himself that if Casey survived, he would never let her out of his reach again. Never.

  Chapter Ten

  The area around the campsite provided diversions enough to challenge Casey’s adaptability for a day or two—scorpions in the bedding, ants in the food, a notable lack of plumbing. After three days, the surroundings had gone from problematically novel to not quite comfortable but familiar. The situation wasn’t ideal, but she could manage until they were rescued. Jack had said the wind might prohibit search and rescue. After remembering her hair-raising and stomach-heaving experience flying over the canyon in perfectly calm weather to the site of debarkation for the raft trip, she reluctantly agreed with him. If so, rescue might be a few more days away, as the wind persisted and the river remained swollen, turbulent and filled with debris.

  She set about tweaking her confidence in their survival ever more in the direction of hypothetical invincibility. Her efforts were hampered—except when they were helped—by the presence of Jack, who seemed oddly uninterested in the whole topic of rescue though engaged in the idea of survival.

  He was better company than she expected—when he was in the mood. Still, she tended to don her mental armor when he was close by, which was probably why she suddenly felt, on that third day, desperate to wash her hair. Dirty hair made her feel vulnerable.

  Still in her pajamas—green plaid boxer shorts and an old black tank top—she warmed some water in a large pan, and carried it, along with her environmentally safe shampoo, a towel, and a mug, over to a large rock some distance away from the campsite.

  Bending over at the waist and closing her eyes, she dipped the mug into the pan and poured the warm water over her head. When her hair was good and wet, she groped around for the shampoo bottle, only to knock it to the ground.

  “Damn.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  Casey startled. With her eyes closed, she hadn’t seen Jack creep behind her. She hadn’t heard him either—he was a lot quieter than the wind that jinked around the camp.

  She held out her hand, palm up, waiting for the shampoo bottle. Nothing happened. “Jack?”

  “Yeah.” His hands encompassed her head with warm and shocking familiarity.

  “What are you doing?” she squeaked, straightening up quickly. Water dripped down her face and chest.

  “Bend over.” He pushed her head down. “You’ll get soap in your eyes.”

  Casey squinted through the water and made a grab for the shampoo.

  He sidestepped her, opened the shampoo flip-top with one hand, and pushed her head down with the other.

  “Bend over,” he repeated. He started to rub shampoo through her hair in long, slow strokes.

  Her resistance melted away as he worked up a foamy lather, gently massaging her head and neck, his strong fingers smoothing out the knots in her muscles. Within a few seconds, any thought of opposition had vanished. It was bliss. It was beyond bliss, it was almost orgasmic. He started on one side of her head and worked to the other side. Then he moved from the nape of her neck to her forehead.

  “Hair stylist? Or…massage therapist?” she whispered, so relaxed she could barely form the words.

  He gave a gentle yank on her hair. “No.”

  Too soon, she felt the trickle of warm water on her head when he rinsed out the shampoo, running his fingers through her hair. Over and again, Jack poured the warm water, following it with his hand gliding gently over her head. When her hair squeaked, he picked up her towel and draped it around her head, then kneaded her hair until it was only damp.

  She stood, slack-kneed, and closed her mouth so she wouldn’t drool or say something stupid like “Wow, that was better than sex.”

  He moved in closer and combed his fingers through her hair until it sorted itself into damp curls. His eyes, half-closed, roved over her face and lingered on her mouth. She licked her lips self-consciously. He made a soft hissing noise. She wanted to move away but was immobilized by his proximity—just how a mongoose felt right before a cobra struck, no doubt.

  Wait…mongooses hunted cobras, not the other way around. Feeling a little better, she whispered to herself, “I am a mongoose.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  He produced a small smile. “My turn.” He stripped off his shirt.

  Her eyes, completely ignoring her adamant command to not give in to impulse, slipped down from his face and drifted over his chest and torso. Instead of pointing out that he had insisted on washing h
er hair and she had not offered to reciprocate, her mouth, without a shred of discipline, croaked, “Okay.”

  I am a mongoose. I am a mongoose.

  Jack bent his naked torso over the water bowl and leaned on his forearms. His tattoo came alive, swelling with the flex of his muscles, dancing on the wave of his triceps, undulating across his scapula. Fighting the surprising temptation to trail her fingers along the exotic artwork, Casey roused herself to reach for the mug and pour warm water over his head. She ran her hands through his hair. It was soft as silk and fell in brown waves over his face. A faint scar traced the angle of his jaw. At the nape of his neck, a few strands of hair made little curls just begging to be touched, or—her stomach clenched—nibbled. She stifled a groan and leaned over him as she worked the shampoo through his hair, determined to avoid skin-to-skin contact. That, she sensed, would be a bad idea.

  Trying to ignore the heady scent of his body and the flowing lines of the muscles in his arms and back, she concentrated on frothing up lather. Continuing its traitorous ways, however, her body inched closer and closer to Jack, until she realized she was pressed against him. She imagined running her hands down his sides, imagined how each of those long muscles would feel, and each of the rounded ones on his shoulders. After several minutes of this exquisite torture, she dipped the mug into the water and carefully rinsed away the shampoo. Then she picked up the already-damp towel and draped it over his head.

  A realization bit into her. She’d never washed Reed’s hair. Nor, in the two years they’d been together, had he ever washed hers. It was a form of intimacy they’d never shared, this primitive, comforting grooming behavior. And yet, here she was, drying the hair of a stranger, and there he was…eyeing her as if she were the last drink of water in the desert. She swallowed hard.

  Jack reached up and captured her hands in his, allowing the towel to drop on the ground. He pulled her hands to his chest, standing very, very close and very, very still. Her stomach danced. He gave her a long look as if weighing something in his mind. Casey held her breath and let her eyes travel over his face. Breathing out, she gently pulled away and cleared her throat. “Uh, thanks for your help. It was…great.”