by April Hill
“I have no idea. After I’ve made a safety-pin fish hook, I’ll let you know.”
Cod liver oil. “This should come in handy,” she grumbled. “In case I develop an iron deficiency.”
He grinned. “Raw fish will fix that as well.”
Three small wooden crates, two of them empty, and one filled with an assortment of canned goods—with long-past expiration dates, apparently meant for delivery to another post, and forgotten. Fruit, tinned bacon, tobacco, three bottles of ginger beer. A bottle of Scotch of an excellent year—empty.
Cameron tilted the bottle, and sighed. “May it never be said of Her Majesty’s policemen that they don’t appreciate fine spirits.”
Two additional sleeping bags—tattered and musty with age, but serviceable. Plus two moth-eaten woolen blankets, and an inflatable pillow.
A single forlorn snowshoe, with no laces or straps, and beginning to rot.
One inflatable canoe, patched in several places, and one very short paddle.
Cameron smacked the paddle against his palm. “Finally, something of genuine use.” He winced, and looked down at his hand. “Except for the splinters.”
* ** *
The next few days in the newly organized “camp” went relatively well, and without a serious argument. Anne remained wary of crossing Cameron again, apparently convinced that he meant what he’d said—and about the penalty for breaking the “rules.” Her first spanking had hurt more than she’d expected, and the more pleasurable sensations she’d noticed while it was happening had faded now to little more than a fleeting memory. The disagreeable pulsing sensation in her rear end, on the other had, had stayed with her for a full twenty-four hours. Not seriously enough to register as pain, but still uncomfortable when she sat down on a hard surface. And if she hadn’t been fully persuaded by the first seventy-four second spanking, she had the second and third episodes as not-so-gentle reminders.
The first night’s snowstorm had dumped around eight inches of dry powder, and according to the small exterior thermometer on the plane, the overnight temperatures were hovering at around fifteen to twenty degrees below freezing. Aside from the cold, though, the weather remained good. Cameron had cleared the top of the plane after the first snow, to make the large red identification numbers visible from the air, and improvised two flags from several of Anne’s more colorful blouses.
They spent much of their time inside the plane’s cramped cabin, trying to stay warm and occasionally even talking. She was still sulking about what had happened, and resentful of what she regarded as his dictatorial attitude, but when he didn’t bring up the “rules” again, she was content to avoid the entire subject, and keep things on a civil basis. Unfortunately, when she thought he wasn't paying attention to her, she found herself paying all-too-much (albeit surreptitious) attention to him. Attention that was starting to move into speculative directions that she knew were very dangerous.
The bulge in his trousers, for example. Just how big was it? Or his hands, for a second example. They were good-sized, and strong-looking, with long capable fingers. Had those hands really lit a fire in her bare bottom? What could those fingers do to other parts of her anatomy, given a chance? And his mouth. It was hardly her fault that most women would consider it very kissable. It was also not her fault that when she engaged in these idle ruminations, that her breasts peaked and tingled or an uncomfortable, even embarrassing amount of moisture would suddenly appear between her legs. Over and over again, Anne advised herself sternly to cut it out, and think about something… anything… other than the bulge, the hands, the mouth. Unfortunately, she failed, and by the third day, she was, to put it mildly, a nervous wreck.
On that third day, though, she woke from a short nap to find him gone. A note stuck on the cracked control panel explained that he was scouting the area for wood, and told—not asked— her to remain inside until he returned. She was annoyed to see that he had added an exclamation point at the end of the message.
The problem was, Anne had awakened in dire need of a bathroom—or what she had begun referring to as “a reasonable facsimile thereof.” So, when a quick glance out the window revealed neither the overly-protective Sergeant nor a furry, prowling predator, she crawled out of the plane and trudged off through the snow in search of a spot that offered privacy. With luck, she’d be back before he emerged from the woods.
She found what she needed, and was almost back to the plane, looking forward to the relative warmth of the cabin, when she stepped down a slope and onto a patch of what she thought was packed snow. When she took a second step, she noticed a slight sagging sensation under her foot, and a moment later, a loud crack rent the silence.
The freezing slush in the iced-over gully was less than twelve inches deep, but she’d managed to land on her back, and with the shattered surface ice making it hard to stand up, she wallowed around for almost a full minute before she could get on her feet and back up the slope. Sopping wet and shivering, she stumbled the final few yards to the plane—and collided head-on with Geoffrey Cameron.
“What happened?” he asked, helping her to her feet.
“What the fuck does it look like?” she wailed. “I fell through the ice back there. Shit! I think I’m getting frostbite!” She shoved past him, and tried to climb up onto the wing, but promptly slipped back down, the ice already hardening on her drenched parka.
Cameron swept her into his arms, opened the cabin door, and shoved her inside, then crawled in after her. He slammed the door, and started working on the leather toggles on the front of her parka. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered. “Down to the skin.”
“Sure,” she growled, trembling visibly. “Just as soon as you show me where to find the ladies’ dressing room.”
Cameron turned around in the seat and grabbed his tunic from the back, along with a woolen blanket. “Shut up and put this on, for now. I’ll turn my back while you change, but make it fast.”
As Anne stripped off layer after layer of wet clothing, he collected each piece, rolled them together and tossed the dripping bundle out the window onto the wing.
“I’ll wring them out, later,” he said. “and drape them over the wing struts. In the morning, we’ll get a fire going, and try to dry everything out.”
When he turned around again, she was half-standing in the rear of the plane, wearing his tunic, which came all the way down her thighs.
“Very becoming,” he remarked. “But I still can’t understand why, with all the baggage you came with, you keep ending up in my limited clothing.” He handed her a musty blanket and a pair of his long underwear. “Now add these to your outfit, then put on my parka, two pairs of socks, and get inside your sleeping bag. That ought to keep your body temperature high enough until you dry out.” He rummaged around in the canvas backpack and found a sweatshirt with the logo of a Canadian hockey team. “Dry your hair. You’re dripping on the bed.” He handed her the last clean pair of woolen socks. “And, in case you’re wondering, I haven’t forgotten that you broke the rules, again—the most important one, at that.”
Anne rubbed her arms and groaned. “Even a brute and a bully like you wouldn’t spank a blue, half-frozen woman with frostbitten toes, would you?”
He smiled. “No, for now I’ve decided to grant you a deferment—on medical grounds. We’ll discuss the matter again when you’re dry, and not in uniform. Now, crawl into your sleeping bag and zip it up to your neck. You’re about to spend one of the longest, coldest nights of your life.”
* * * * *
He hadn’t exaggerated. Even when he’d bundled her into the two moldy sleeping bags and virtually every other warm item he’d found in the back of the plane, she had violent spells where she couldn’t stop trembling, and found sleeping for more than a few minutes at a time impossible. Sometime during the night, though, she woke, shivering miserably, and couldn’t stop moaning. Seconds later, she felt Cameron’s arms around her, pulling her close to hi
m. And then, she became vaguely aware that something very warm and very heavy was being pulled over her, and tucked in around her arms and legs. Too tired even to be curious, she snuggled against him and drifted peacefully back to sleep, in his arms, and warm at last. Her last thought before drifting off was that the mouth she'd obsessed about for days was only inches from her ear, the hands were holding her gently, and the bulge - yes, "it," was firmly pressed against her thigh… and firm was the right word. And she was too tired to do anything about it.
The next morning, when Anne opened her eyes and glanced out the small window, the sun was shining brightly, and she was actually too warm. It wasn’t until she sat up that she realized that the additional warmth was because she was cocooned from head to foot in a total of three additional sleeping bags. The two thin, well-worn extras, and Geoffrey Cameron’s own, arctic-weight bag. She could only imagine how cold he had been during the night without it.
“Damn him!” she muttered, struggling out of the mummy-like layers of wool and down. If there was one thing Anne Wilson had always hated, it was being obligated to someone she was trying really, really hard to dislike, bulge notwithstanding.
When she finally emerged from the cabin, she found him sitting on a rock at the edge of the small “lake” where the plane had crashed. Most of the lake surface was frozen, but here and there, there were small openings, where the ice was just beginning to close. He was holding a short stick, attached to a string—fishing.
Her first impulse was to thank him for sacrificing his own comfort for hers, but something wouldn’t let her say it, or even acknowledge his kindness.
“That’s really dumb, you know,” she said. “You don’t really expect to catch anything, do you?”
“Good morning to you, too,” he replied affably. “Fishing is all about patience, Miss Wilson. And silence. Which means that I will fish, and you will remain silent.”
“You’re an idiot,” she growled. “And you’re wasting your time.”
“Possibly. Then again, what else have either of us to do? I could stop fishing, of course, and take a few minutes to administer that thrashing you earned for yourself yesterday. Which would you prefer— that I continue fishing, or….? ”
Anne strode back to the plane, mumbling to herself, and wondering why it had been so hard to simply say, “Thank you.”
“You could stop wasting your time and try the damned radio, again,” she called back to him, from a safer distance.
“I did,” he said. “The battery is completely dead now, I’m afraid.” He lifted the long stick he was using as a fishing rod, and waved it at her. “And if you disturb the fish again, I believe I can find another of these lying about, somewhere. They’re a bit thin for firewood, but they should do quite nicely as a switch. We haven’t done switches, yet, have we?”
Anne decided to change the subject. “We’re actually going to starve to death, aren’t we?” she asked, wanly. “When the canned goods are gone?”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve finished fishing.”
She made a face. “It doesn’t matter. I hate fish, anyway.”
“Then you will definitely starve to death. I, on the other hand, am extremely fond of all varieties of fish, although I will miss having tartar sauce.”
“There are no fish in there, pal,” she shouted. “Where the hell would they come from?”
He didn’t answer.
She trudged back to the plane and took a nap in the front seat, but an hour later, she was awakened by a tap on her shoulder. Cameron held up a string of four scrawny-looking fish, none of them more than seven or eight inches long. “Not much to show for a full afternoon’s angling, but enough to keep starvation at bay; what do you think?”
“I think you robbed the fish cradle. These don’t look big enough to be legal.”
“Then I suggest that you keep a sharp eye out for the local game warden, while I build a fire.”
“I told you, I hate fish.”
“Then you don’t have to watch me eat them,” he said cheerfully.
Minutes later, a tantalizing fragrance of cooking food drifted into the cabin. Anne wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and strolled over to the small fire, where Cameron was lifting crisply browned fish and forkfuls of wild onions from their only pan, and laying it on the two tin plates. She sat down and took the steaming plate he offered her, without comment.
She tasted the fish, and made a face.
“Well,” he said, “I never claimed to be a cook. A mighty fisherman, yes, but not a cook.”
“Are you kidding?” she breathed. “This is the most fantastic thing I’ve ever tasted in my whole life.” She shoveled another forkful of crumbling, overcooked fish into her mouth, and sighed with pleasure. “You’re amazing.”
“I thought I was a brute and a bully,” he suggested, handing her a cup of hot tea.
“You are, but you’re also a culinary genius.”
“Enjoy it,” he said. “I think the local fish and game department forgot to restock the ponds, out here. These may have been the last of a tribe of very lonely fish. The other bad news is that I had to use the next to last match to get this fire going.”
“Okay,” she said, licking the last of the delicious grease from her fingers, “tomorrow, we’ll both try our luck fishing. I’ll eat the damned things raw, if I have to.”
He smiled, and pushed the last scraps of burned fish onto her plate.
She shook her head. “That’s not fair. You’ve hardly eaten anything.”
“I had a big lunch,” he said. “At the office.”
* * * * *
When Anne went to bed that night, she waited until Cameron was asleep before she began inching steadily closer to him. When she was as close as she could get without waking him, she inched a bit further, and then settled in for the night, with her head tucked under his arm. Just before she fell sleep, it suddenly occurred to her that she might be— for the very first time in her life—about to fall in love.
“Just my luck,” she muttered drowsily. “Of all the men in the damned world, I had to fall for Dudley DoRight.” She yawned. “It’s got to be that damned red uniform.” She didn't even want to think about the bulge.
CHAPTER FOUR
Anne awoke the next morning feeling oddly happy, and even cheerful. She knew why, but was still reluctant to admit to herself that it was her changed feeling for Geoffrey Cameron that was making her happy. She’d had similar feelings about a man before, and ended up regretting both the feelings and the man. Besides, it was fairly obvious that this particular man would be more than happy to never see her again. Anne sighed. The truth was that she sometimes had that effect on men. One of them had even called her a feminazi—right to her face. Of course, this was the same guy who couldn’t get through an hour’s discussion about women’s issues without using the word “boobs” at least a half-dozen times. The same guy who explained his theory to her—at tiresome length—that women shouldn’t get paid the same as men, because they had periods every month, and because they could always get knocked up on purpose just to collect unemployment.
“Face it, Annie,” she thought. “This is going to end up like all the other ones. You scare the shit out of the nice guys, and the domineering jerks see you as a challenge. Every man you’ve ever been with has been too wimpy, or too controlling. You’re a thirty-four year old spinster with a chip on your shoulder, no romantic prospects, and you’re developing crows’ feet. You’ve been plucking out gray hairs for two years, now. Time to learn how to crochet, and get a couple of cats.”
The inside of the plane was freezing, and Geoff (she had begun to think of him as Geoff, now, and not Sergeant Cameron) was in the front, apparently napping, so she allowed herself a little more time in the warm bed, and spent most of it wallowing in self-pity. Finally, weary of thinking about her future, she crawled out of her sleeping bag, stretched, and prepared to face her present— as unpromising as i
t seemed to be.
When she reached for the door handle, though, Cameron reached across the seat and took her wrist. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?” she asked. “Here we go again,” she thought. “My lord and master, telling me I can’t go to the damned bathroom without an armed escort.”
“We have company,” he said.
Anne glanced out the cracked windshield, but saw no one. “They found us!” she yelped, looking again. “So, where are they?”
He pointed toward the campsite, and Anne stared—not at the rescue team she was hoping to see, but at an enormous brown bear and three cubs.
“Bears!”
“Excellent guess,” he said. “Ursus Horribilis, to be exact, and family. Grizzlies, mother and children—triplets, from the look and size of them. Probably from last year.”
“But, we’re safe in here, aren’t we?” she asked nervously. “The plane is like, solid steel or something, right?”
He chuckled. “Would you like to know how many tax dollars the Canadian government spends each year, trying to devise steel buildings that can deter hungry bears?”
“Do you think she knows we’re here?”
“Probably not. The wind is in our favor. Besides, we‘re far enough away not to be a threat to her. She‘ll probably move off if she gets wind of us.”
“What do they eat, usually?”
“Bears will eat almost anything. At the moment, our guests appear to be enjoying that three pound bag of marshmallows you had in your backpack.”
“Too bad I didn’t bring Graham crackers and Hershey Bars, too,” Anne grumbled. “That’s a joke, Sarge. In the United States, we…”
“Canadians aren’t savages, Miss Wilson. We know all about S’mores.”
Anne moved closer to the side window, for a better view of the picnicking bears. “She’s kind of a pig, your mother bear. The marshmallows are the only thing sweet we have—or had, anyway. I hope all that sugar goes straight to her hips.”
