Down River. Karen Harper
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“And don’t try to read my mind! I’m just feeling a bit funny but more alert—that’s what I was going to say.”
“Sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
“Since you only saved my life today, you’re forgiven—for that,” she grumbled.
That warmed him, not only because her spirited response sounded more like her but that she was grateful. She’d thanked him already, but he’d felt so guilty for so long about throwing a fire bomb into her life and then leaving Florida, that maybe, just maybe, what he’d done here could begin to make up for it. Not that he wanted her back—for sure not that—but it might make him feel less of a heel. On the other hand, he thought, hardening his heart when he realized he wanted to hold her, if she’d really loved him in the first place, she’d have understood and maybe even come with him to Alaska, taken a leave of absence, or visited the lodge on her own—at least given it a shot. He sure wasn’t the only one to blame for their breakup.
The moment stretched out between them as, both frowning, they looked deep into each other’s eyes while the river roared.
“We’re partners at least for getting out of here safely,” he said, then cleared his throat when his voice caught. “And when we get back, we’ll look into what really happened to you.”
She started to say something, then just nodded.
“I’ll pack our stuff,” he added, taking his Swiss Army knife out of his jeans pocket so he had something to do with his hands rather than touch her again. He rose and moved a few feet away on the ledge. “I’ll cut up our extra PFD for your feet.”
“I’m hungry enough that I could eat a piece of a PFD!”
He tried to grin but he knew it was more a grimace. She was not the only one who felt stiff all over. “We’ll have to stick with some of Christine’s dried salmon. Not sure what we’ll find on the other side of the chasm through the gorge, but there should be some berries to eat and fish to catch, if we get out of here.”
“If?”
“I can only see so far down the ledge. We’ll have to watch our footing, that’s all. As a matter of fact, maybe you should go out barefoot, and we’ll put these fancy, schmancy Manual designer shoes on you after.”
“Do you mean Manolos?” she asked with a little laugh.
“Yeah. Just testing your memory.”
He turned away to let her get her clothes on over the body-hugging wet suit she already wore for warmth. He glanced at his waterproof watch and noted it was way past pre-dinner time back at the lodge. Surely they would realize that he and Lisa had not just decided to run away together.
Spike and Christine were overseeing the search effort. Of course, Spike was trying to order her around, but she wasn’t taking any guff from him. Whatever she’d done in the past, she wasn’t going to be a doormat for any man.
Iah, but Spike Jackson was an imposing man. Nearly six and a half feet tall, red-haired and big-shouldered, he seemed larger than life—certainly larger than any Yup’ik man she’d ever known. Yet he had a lanky grace and a boyish manner at times. But when cornered, or upset as he and all of them were now, he turned into a real macho man.
“Okay, listen up here,” he told the guests assembled in the great room of the lodge. “I radioed my sister, Ginger, and she checked the area across the lake where Mitch said they were going. No sign of them. The red two-seat kayak’s missing, but sure as hell someone as skilled as Mitch didn’t capsize in the lake.”
“I repeat,” Graham Bonner put in, “I’ll gladly pay for an air search and rescue.”
Christine figured Mr. Bonner was used to being in charge. Still, the Bonners had pitched in to help scour the immediate area of the lodge for Mitch and Lisa. The Bonners were such a handsome couple—trim, silver-haired and blue-eyed. Although they were fish out of water in the Alaskan wilds, she could tell they were used to being in control of all they surveyed.
“Yes,” Ellie Bonner added. “Spike, if we take your plane up, we’ll pay for the gas, and I’ll go with you to copilot while you use binoculars or vice versa.”
Christine guessed Mrs. Bonner was in her late fifties, a natural beauty aging gracefully, petite and pretty with a cap of hair that contrasted with her sharp, sparkling eyes.
“Thanks,” Spike said, “but thick tree cover around here and the river gorge and mountains make that not a good option for spotting them. Besides, they couldn’t have hiked out this fast to the flatter tundra and valley areas where we could see them. Both of his vehicles are still here. They’ve gotta be around somewhere—maybe took a walk in the woods, skidded into a hole, someone turned an ankle, then ‘cause of predators, they thought they had to stick together, something like that. The locals we got coming from Bear Bones know the area and can fan out around the lake. Mitch and Ms. Vaughn must have decided on a different place than where he told Christine he’d beach the kayak so they could talk things out.”
“On a private little picnic?” Christine heard Vanessa whisper to Jonas behind her. “Talk things out, my foot!”
“Just don’t put your foot in your mouth,” he muttered back. “You’d better cooperate with all this and look like you mean it.”
Christine didn’t let on that she’d heard them. Spike was saying, “Mitch must of just pulled the kayak up on a stretch of beach where we haven’t spotted it yet, that’s all.”
The sound of vehicle engines and the blast of horns drew them all outside. At least forty people, nearly half the population of the nearby town of Bear Bones, piled out of pickup trucks or SUVs. Some wore backpacks; some carried rifles.
Christine went back inside quickly. She didn’t need their stares right now and even the sight of guns made her uneasy. Her stomach was tied in knots already. Lisa lost was one thing, but she couldn’t lose Mitch.
“Okay,” she heard Spike tell everyone in a booming voice from outside, “you all know what Mitch looks like, but the woman he’s with—LisaVaughn—is about five feet five, blond hair to her shoulders, slender, but athletic-looking, green eyes, real pretty face….”
Oh yes, Christine thought, a real pretty face all right. Obviously Mitch’s ideal, maybe Spike’s, too. She saw out the opposite set of lodge windows that Ginger had come back across the lake. She was not putting in at her usual spot but ran the prow of her old motorboat up on the shore farther down. Christine went out to fill her in. The two of them were going to hold the fort in case Mitch or Lisa came back or the sheriff or medical help needed to be summoned from Talkeetna.
Christine strode the path to the lake landing and hurried down to it.
“Any news yet?” Ginger asked as she tossed her little anchor on the pebbled shore. Like Spike, she was lanky and redheaded, but with gray eyes and a distant gaze that could really unsettle you. Sometimes she seemed to look past or through you. Even for backcountry Alaska, Ginger Jackson was as eccentric as they came, dressed in a combination of gypsy and frontier-woman clothes.
Ginger lived mostly hand to mouth. Besides baking for the lodge, she picked up random short-term jobs in Bear Bones and always helped Mitch with ziplining for his guests. Ginger’s brother, Spike, loved flying, but Ginger’s high-flying thrills came from zipping along on a steel cable through tall Sitka spruce. Christine admired Ginger’s independence. She’d turned down an offer of marriage from a guy because he insisted she move into town. Ginger wouldn’t accept anything from her big brother but the firewood he cut for her baking and heating stoves for the cold months. She was even scrimping to save money to pay Spike for that, since the price of jet fuel was, literally, sky-high. Yet since Ginger’s mail came to the lodge, Christine knew that she received lots of high-end catalogs with all kinds of exotic luxury goods—her “dream mags,” she called them.
“We still don’t know anything,” Christine called to