Dangerous Ground

by Grant, Rachel

  The morning had been nothing but frustration, as there was no helicopter available to fly them to the island. But finally, in the early afternoon, Fiona had managed to arrange a charter boat for them, and now the island was in sight at last.

  Irrationally, he didn’t want to go inside, as if that would somehow delay their arrival or make the island less real. He zoomed in with the camera and could make out details of the shoreline, so he snapped photos, forever capturing the island on disk to assuage his superstitious thoughts.

  He’d set foot on Chiksook within the hour; then his search for Dylan could finally begin.

  The boat dropped into another trough, and he got a face full of water as a wave splashed over the rail. Icy water soaked his collar, but he was too relieved to finally be here to care.

  He pulled open the heavy door to the passenger cabin where the rest of the team rode in dry, warm comfort and slipped inside before the boat took on another wave. Fiona glanced up, her eyes skimming his dripping hair and wet raincoat. She smirked. “Told you so,” she said in a singsong voice.

  He let out a bark of laughter. She had, indeed, warned him they’d hit choppy seas as they neared the island. But he’d wanted the cold, fresh wind on his skin, to see the island with naked eyes. When he and Dylan were boys, they’d had a bit of the spooky-woo connection that some twins shared, and he’d wondered if he’d feel it again upon seeing Chiksook.

  But he’d gotten nothing—no twin vibe, no sense Dylan was near. He didn’t want the void of feeling to worry him. After all, the connection had faded in adulthood. But still, he’d hoped.

  He unzipped his coat and hung it to drip on the rack next to the door. He needed to be Bill the ornithologist and tease Fiona right back. “Nice to know you’re the kind of person who doesn’t hesitate to say I told you so.”

  Cara laughed. “Get used to it. Fiona is always right.”

  Fiona flashed a smug smile. “It’s a gift.”

  The new geologist, Victor Neff, stared at Dean with an intense focus he found worrisome. Was it possible Victor and the real Bill had crossed paths at some point?

  And how the hell had Pollux gotten the guy to Adak so fast, two days in advance of the rest of the Anchorage contingent? Why not wait and have him fly in with the others?

  Victor’s gaze turned to Fiona as she told Cara a story about learning scuba in the cold Pacific Northwest. As she spoke, Victor’s hard stare gave Dean pause.

  There was anger in his eyes. Hostility.

  Dean had seen Fiona and Victor go running this morning, had even felt a small jolt of irrational jealousy—or maybe it was concern for Dylan that had tugged at him. He wondered if Victor had also made a pass at Fiona and was now angry she’d turned him down.

  She had turned him down, right?

  Damn. He had far too many conflicting emotions when it came to beautiful Fiona Carver. He really shouldn’t have tried to kiss her last night, and yet, he had to admit it had been the perfect act to maintain his cover. Bill Lowell didn’t have an agenda beyond finding a mated pair of gray buntings. It was natural for him to flirt and make a move, as long as he didn’t cross a line that made the situation uncomfortable.

  Thankfully, there had been no discomfort with Fiona today. If anything, she’d been more relaxed, given that they’d gotten the awkward moment out of the way. He had a feeling she was used to being hit on in the field, and it probably wasn’t always as mutual as last night’s almost-kiss was. Because one thing he was certain of—Fiona had leaned in. She’d wanted his kiss even as she’d been sensible and put on the brakes.

  Dean settled in a seat separate from the others for the rest of the journey. He examined his notes on gray bunting nesting habits. He’d read everything dozens of times and had listened to their calls until they were so familiar, the birds filled his dreams. He’d studied up on other birds he was likely to find on Chiksook, but last night he’d realized he should have spent more time reading NEPA documents to familiarize himself with the EIS process.

  Knowing the names of other regs like NHPA was as basic as it got, and he’d failed.

  He couldn’t focus, though, as the boat neared the island. He tucked his papers away and watched as they entered the bay. A long dock extended from the shore, beckoning them.

  After weeks of trying to figure out how he could get to Chiksook, he was finally here. He took a deep breath, willing his eyes not to tear.

  The answers to what had happened to the only person in the world who mattered to him, the brother he’d shared a womb with, the baby he’d communicated with before either of them could form words, were on this island. They had to be. The truth waited for him.

  And deep down he knew, if Dylan wasn’t here, he had nothing left to hope for.

  FIVE

  Fiona shook hands with the cook and two maintenance workers. All three men had been on the island for several days to oversee the setup of camp. The new generator was up and running, and the laundry and shower tent had been moved closer to the kitchen tent so they could share water, but otherwise the camp was much as they’d left it five weeks ago.

  As a group, they crossed the camp to the team barracks. Fiona paused in the aisle between the two rows of pale-gray rubberized tents and faced the five researchers. She’d become the de facto leader of the group when she arranged for housing last night and then for the boat today. “Since the rest of the team won’t be arriving for another day, we each get our own tent for the night. Pick a tent and make yourself comfortable.” She looked to the cook, a beefy man with deep lines on his face and a bulbous nose. “How long do we have until dinner?”

  “Dinner is in the oven and will be ready in an hour.”

  She nodded, feeling a tinge of disappointment. If they had a later dinner, she might have had time to drive to the site. After dinner, it would definitely be too late to set out.

  At least she could search for the artifact and stone in Dylan Slater’s tent. She studied the two rows of facing tents and made a beeline for his, which had been the last one on the right.

  Unfortunately, Victor was ahead of her and aiming right for it.

  “Victor,” she called out, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to claim that tent.”

  He paused midstride, his spine stiff. He hesitated for a moment but then nodded and turned to claim the one directly across from it. He faced her, his expression . . . carefully blank. She suspected he’d been irked by her request. “What’s so special about that tent?” he asked.

  “A volcanologist who is no longer on the team might have left geological samples from the archaeological site inside. Easier to claim the tent for my own than to ask if I can search yours.”

  “Fair enough,” Victor said, and stepped up on the wooden pallet that acted as a porch for the tent he’d claimed.

  The gray tents were slightly rounded on the upper corners but had a center ridgeline that gave them a soft point. The design was all about minimizing wind resistance, but it always reminded Fiona of a dollop of whipped cream.

  While the walls were rubberized, the tents had hard doors that latched and locked, and Fiona was always glad she didn’t have to spend extra time in the wind unzipping the door. She entered the tent she’d called dibs on, noting that Bill took the one beside hers, and Cara grabbed the one across from Bill, next to Victor. John and Roy took the ones on the ends of both sides. The cook, boat captain, and the helicopter pilot—who would arrive tomorrow with the rest of the team—each had their own tent, and the maintenance guys shared a fourth tent, but those were on the other side of their little village, by the office, laundry/shower, and cook tents. Two latrines were set up side by side and slightly offset from camp. No one wanted the latrines too close to camp, even though the greater distance meant a longer walk in the cold wind and rain.

  Inside, her tent was just like all the others—two cots, two sturdy footlocker-type trunks for gear, two plastic folding tables that were serviceable desks, and two folding chairs. Under the tables were p
lastic storage bins for other supplies and odds and ends.

  Fiona dumped her carry-on bag on top of the footlocker next to the cot that would be her bed for the next two weeks. The rest of the gear was being off-loaded from the boat by the crew, and in a few minutes, she’d head down and grab a dolly to haul the heavier gear to the tent. For now, she had a change of clothes, her computer, and her sleeping bag. The bare necessities.

  She flopped on the cot and stretched out. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, which was ridiculous because she hadn’t done anything today except take a long boat ride. But travel stress was always exhausting, and she needed to cut herself some slack.

  Discomfort stirred in her belly. She’d called her boss this morning and expressed concerns about both Victor’s and Bill’s qualifications. She felt somehow disloyal for making the call. Both men had been nice. For all she knew, they could be supremely competent. But if they were going to run into trouble getting the EIS completed and signed, her boss needed to know the potential pitfalls now, while there was still something that could be done about it.

  She didn’t owe Bill or Victor her loyalty. She didn’t even owe Pollux loyalty. She’d been hired by the navy and had taken an oath to uphold the Constitution when she started the job. That was where her loyalty lay—to her country and the laws that governed her work. Period.

  She closed her eyes. She was so damn tired. The moment her brain relaxed, though, images of Bill Lowell’s face as he’d leaned down to kiss her filled her mind. She’d had that fluttery prekiss feeling in her belly and had leaned in slightly, ready to receive.

  It had to be his eyes. She’d always been a sucker for blue eyes.

  She shook away the image just as there was a knock on her door. “Fiona? It’s Bill.”

  Speak of the devil.

  She sat up and took a deep breath, preparing to face him. It wasn’t good that she was attracted to him. She’d told him her no-field-fling rule, and he seemed the type to respect it, but what if she threw caution to the wind and made a pass at him?

  She was more than aware her resolve could weaken. It had been a long time since her last relationship, and as Cara would point out, nights were cold here.

  “Come in,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the wind that buffeted the tent. That was a reason to forgo being on the end. The middle tents had a layer of protection.

  Bill stepped into the room, his gaze scanning the small space before landing on her. “Hey, sorry to bother you, but I found this bag in my tent. It’s women’s clothing, and knowing you were here during the last expedition, I thought maybe it could be yours?”

  She shook her head. “No. At least it shouldn’t be. The tent you chose wasn’t mine, but I suppose things could’ve been moved around.” She tried to remember whose tent it was. Maybe Cara’s? Or had she been on the other end? The projects blurred together sometimes. She only remembered which tent had been Dylan’s because she’d been eager to search it for the last five weeks.

  The bag was a large Pollux Engineering canvas tote, which were ubiquitous in camp, and she’d used them herself many times, but she never took the bags home with her, because if she did, it could be considered accepting a gift from a contractor. While the value of the item was below the prohibited threshold, it was still a bad idea, and she believed in playing it safe in all things.

  She rose from the cot and glanced into the bag in his hands. A pair of high-quality long underwear covered the items beneath. She moved the wool underwear aside—thinking if no one claimed them, she’d be happy to add them to her wardrobe—and revealed several sheer, colorful undergarments. She pulled out a lacy bra that was designed for sex appeal and not for support, dangling it in the air.

  No woman in her right mind would wear anything this uncomfortable while hiking across the marshy ground. Women here invested in high-quality sports bras for the field. A good bra was vital because sometimes the team traveled to and from project locations via boat, and the waves were not kind to a busty woman.

  She gave Bill a skeptical look. “Really, you thought this was mine?”

  His piercing blue eyes lit with a tiny bit of humor and a lot of heat. “I wouldn’t know what you wear, but the long underwear looked to be the right size.”

  Considering her long underwear was under several layers of bulky clothing, she was impressed he could guess her size, but then she remembered they’d shared breakfast in the duplex together after her jog, and they’d both been stripped down to their base layers. So not surprising he might be able to guess her size, just as she hadn’t been able to help noticing his thermal shirt had hugged his torso in a way that let her know he led a very athletic lifestyle.

  His build was as impressive as Dylan Slater’s had been. And Dylan was a broad-shouldered former athlete. He’d played football in high school and college.

  She’d liked Dylan enough that if he’d ever shown interest in her, she would have said no to the field fling but might have accepted a date when they were back in Seattle.

  She did not believe the rumor. If anything, he was the victim.

  She dropped the sexy bra into the bag and gave Hot Bird Man a look. “This definitely isn’t mine.”

  “Bummer,” he said softly.

  She flushed with heat that wasn’t entirely unwelcome, even though it should have been.

  He stepped back and looked down at his feet. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was inappropriate and wrong.”

  It would be so fun to flirt with him. But he was right. She, after all, was the one who’d set the boundaries. “It’s okay. But yeah, probably not a good idea moving forward.” She took the bag from his hands and said, “This could belong to Cara or Sylvia, I suppose. Pretty sure it’s not Christina’s, who is too sensible to bring something so ridiculous to Chiksook.”

  Bill scanned the tent that would be her home for the next two weeks. “Did you find the geologic samples you were looking for?”

  “I haven’t even checked yet. I was so exhausted, I decided to lay down for a bit before starting my search.”

  “I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

  She shrugged. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t be so tired.”

  “The logistics of this trip would tire anyone, and you handled the bulk of it for all of us.”

  She smiled. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks.”

  “You’re a government employee; I highly doubt you’re getting big bucks.”

  “Medium bucks, then.”

  “Want help searching?”

  She hesitated. She didn’t know Bill, and the lockers could contain someone’s personal belongings. But then, it wasn’t her stuff either. And both men who’d last shared this tent had worked for Pollux Engineering—Bill’s current employer. Even if he was a contractor, he technically probably had more right to look through the items than she did. “Sure.”

  She went to the locker at the foot of her bed and removed her bag from the top. She flicked the dual latches and lifted the lid. Basic supplies—emergency blankets, flare gun and flares, dehydrated food packs, matches and flints, windup flashlights, windup radios, rope, and paracord. The whole standard kit filled an old navy surplus backpack. There were more bags just like it in the supplies shipped in advance of their arrival, and they were each given a new pack at the start of the project that also had a fully charged field radio. They were expected to carry these supplies every time they hiked away from their vehicle, in addition to their field gear packs.

  Still, she emptied the bag and checked all the pockets, in case a stray artifact had been tucked away and forgotten. The only other item in the footlocker was a quality three-season sleeping bag. “Damn, I’d hate to leave a bag like this behind,” she said. One thing the navy didn’t provide was sleeping bags. She always brought her own and had invested in a good polyfill one because, in this climate, down would kill you fast if it got wet. She met Bill’s gaze. “Does Pollux provide your sleeping bags?”

  “No.”

 
; “Then this was left behind by Dylan or Trevor.”

  “The guy who was booted from our flight was in this tent too?”

  “Yes. It’s possible Trevor left this here knowing he was returning. One less thing to haul back and forth.”

  She dropped the bag into the footlocker and latched it closed. From there, they inspected the storage boxes under each table and found a pair of worn hiking boots.

  “It’s pretty common to bring more than one pair on these trips, so you can switch out if one pair gets soaked. Those could have been missed in the pack-up because it was done in a hurry. Same with the sleeping bag—although it’s odd that the bag was in the footlocker and not on top of the cot.”

  Bill picked up the boots and inspected them from toe to heel, as if they might hold secrets to the universe. “These belonged to the volcanologist.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  He showed her the boot treads. “These soles have walked on a lot of ‘A‘ā,” he said, using the Hawaiian word for lava flows that had a jagged surface.

  “Forget birds. You should be an investigator.”

  He smiled. “I’ve spent a lot of time on the Big Island. I know what ‘A‘ā does to boots.”

  She took the boots and placed them in the other locker, next to the sleeping bag. “I’ll send an email to Pollux about the boots and bag.” She turned to the footlocker at the end of what would be Christina’s bed when she arrived tomorrow. “Please let the artifact be there. I really don’t want to get into a bigger fight with Pollux about Dylan.”

  She knelt before the box and flipped the double latches, took a deep breath that included a hope and a prayer, and lifted the lid.

  She startled a bit at seeing the metal clipboard with an inch-thick compartment for storing notebooks, pens, and other supplies.

  “That belongs to Dylan Slater,” she said, feeling a little breathless.