Chapter 8
Spence put the last crate in the bearproof—well, as much as anything was up here—storage outbuilding.
He straightened up and spared a moment to be thankful that that was the last of it.
It was quite a stretch from the beach to this hilltop campsite and, of course, the heavy-load part was on the uphill side.
He needed to talk to Parker about some kind of motorized transport for the site, since it was one of their most established and often used destinations.
Too much for you, old man?
He could just hear Parker’s laugh as he ragged on him for being a whole year older.
He doubted his cousin dared do the same with his older brothers.
Eli was too intimidating and Mitchell the same but in a different way.
You took care with Mitchell because it was him you’d need if you were ever in trouble.
A faint sound from outside made him pause.
Something in the distance, down toward the lake.
It didn’t repeat and he heard nothing else out of the ordinary.
They hadn’t seen any fishing boats on the water, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there now.
Or hikers in the vicinity, though that would be beyond rare out here this early.
Or simply a big elk getting fired up for a summer of fun.
Still, he stepped out of the building and looked down toward the water.
He couldn’t see the beach where the plane was tied off, but the part of the lake he could see was empty.
He watched for a minute then went back to work.
He stacked the crates in a logical—to him, anyway—order, settled them to be sure they were stacked solidly, then straightened, finally done.
His back was probably going to remind him of this tomorrow.
Hey, at least you’ll be around to be reminded. Thanks to Hetty, Ms. Cool Under Fire.
And now I get to look forward to—he glanced at his watch, the chronometer his dad had given him on his twenty-first birthday—twelve more hours here, at least. Twelve hours of unexpected leisure.
Twelve hours he could spend fishing. Or hiking.
Or paddling out on the lake. Since it never got really totally dark this time of year, the options were pretty open.
Or he could take this gift of twelve hours and just relax.
Twelve hours with Hetty.
Sure. Relax.
He started walking around, inspecting the camp.
Looking for something, anything, that needed attention.
But everything seemed in working order. The tent—or the “tabin,” as the little boy of one of their clients had called it once, a combination of tent and cabin—had no holes or rips, even the roof was clean.
Which he of course knew, because he’d been the one to clean it when they’d taken it down last fall.
The indoor woodstove was in good shape and vented properly.
The camp stove outside was the same. Everything had wintered well.
So there, he’d killed a couple of those twelve hours. Now what?
Maybe he should radio headquarters. Ask Parker if there was anything he wanted done up here, as long as he was stuck anyway.
He only had the basic tools that he always carried, back aboard the plane, and the tools that were always here, but he could make do, if his cousin had a project in mind. He’d be happy to tackle anything.
Anything that would keep him too occupied to think about being up here with Hetty for hours on end. All night. Alone.
All night. Damn.
He darted toward the tent. He’d lugged the folding camp beds down from storage along with the tent, without even thinking.
But the original plan had been the big double one, for the honeymooning couple who would obviously be sleeping together.
But there were a couple of singles, too, so he needed to be sure those were set up.
And as far apart as possible. Hell, he should think about grabbing his sleeping bag out of the back of the plane and sleeping outside tonight.
It wouldn’t be that cold. And at least he might actually sleep, instead of lying awake all night, knowing she was just a few feet away.
Hetty was already inside. And she already had the singles unfolded and set up.
On opposite sides of the tent. She glanced up as he came in, looked puzzled at his rush.
He tried to think of something to say, something logical, reasonable.
Words failed. There was something about standing in an area meant for sleeping, with Hetty Amos, that made him almost forget how to talk at all.
“Wood,” he muttered finally. “We need firewood.”
Her head turned as she looked at the woodstove and the neat rack of compressed-energy logs beside it. “There are ten of these, and they each last about two hours once it’s going, don’t they? And it’s July, after all. Not like it’s going to drop below zero.”
“Kindling, then,” he said almost desperately. And before she could question that, he turned on his heel and strode back outside. He knew perfectly well there was kindling and even some fire starters also there in the rack beside the woodstove, but he had to get away.
He tried to remember the last time they’d been alone together for any length of time. Usually there was family around, his or hers, or clients. And what time they did spend alone was usually filled with prep work, planning, or her doing her flight check while he got things loaded up. But now…
He stood outside on the hill, for one of the few times in his life too distracted to fully soak in the beauty all around him.
Too distracted to savor the crisp, clean air, to gaze out at the expanse of the lake below, where the plane she had brilliantly brought down safely was just out of sight behind the edge of the stand of trees to the north.
He tried to tell himself he was so focused on her because she’d just saved them both with her skill.
But he knew better. He was distracted because, when she was around, he seemed to lose control of his thoughts and they rocketed off in directions he should never be thinking.
He was distracted because he knew it was futile, that she would probably forever see him as that kid she’d had to tutor in high school.
He was distracted because she seemed only to dislike him now.
Ironic, in a way, that she constantly ragged on him about flirting with clients when the only reason he did it was that the pull to do it with her was so strong.
And then the main source of that distraction came out of the tent cabin behind him.
“Adrenaline crash?” she asked as she halted beside him.
Startled, he looked at her. “What?”
“After an incident like this, I know the drained feeling that happens once the initial shock fades. You get kind of numb. And tired.”
“Oh. Yeah,” he said, gladly agreeing with her to avoid the real reason he was so…flustered.
Maybe that really was part of what was wrong with him.
Maybe it was the letdown after a supremely stressful moment.
Nothing like thinking you’re going to die in a plane crash to get that adrenal gland going strong.
Maybe it wasn’t solely the idea of spending the night with her that had him so revved up and scattered at the same time.
Sure, Colton, keep telling yourself that.
“So…who’s fixing dinner?” the ever-practical Hetty asked.
And now she’d disconcerted him again. “I… I sort of figured we’d just eat one of the prepacks,” he said, referring to the bagged-and-sealed main courses with the long shelf life always kept in stock up here. “I saw there’s some of that chili you like.”
She was the one who looked surprised now. What, that he’d remembered she liked that particular version of the meals? Why would something that basic surprise her?
How would you feel if you knew I remember that you hate Brussels sprouts, that your favorite song is Hendrix’s classic “All Along the Watchtower,” and that your favorite color is that almost lime green of your jacket that makes your eyes practically glow?
Or that you want to see the Eiffel Tower someday, after the Statue of Liberty, because you like the French connection between them?
His list of things he knew about her could go on and on.
Not because she’d ever told him all these things, but because whenever he was around her he was glued to every word, no matter who she was actually saying them to.
Which was almost always someone else, since she rarely spoke to him directly other than on work-related things.
“—fine with me,” she was saying, making him tune back in. “I like it warm, though, so I’ll get the fire going.”
She turned to head back but paused for a moment, looking intently up the hill.
“What?” he asked.
Hetty shook her head. “Nothing. I saw something move up there, or thought I did. But I don’t see anything now.”
“Maybe it was our moose, coming for a visit,” he joked, still trying to shake off the odd feelings he always seemed to get when he was alone with her.
“I’ll go grab a couple of those meals,” he said, glad of the reason to take a hike, in all senses of the saying.
He also needed to grab the Kimber out of the storage shed where he’d set it down to wrestle with the bulky stuff.
Nobody in their right mind would be holed up this far into the Alaskan backcountry without a weapon at hand to convince some of the local wildlife that they would taste horrible.
They each turned to follow their stated intentions.
But before he’d taken two steps, Spence saw a chunk of bark fly off the tree they were next to, for no apparent reason.
A moment later, he heard a loud but distant crack of sound.
Hetty looked puzzled, but Spence knew. He knew, and he dived for her, taking her down to the ground in a fierce tackle.
She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. He played it back in his head in an instant; the lesser sound of the impact with the tree and the loud report. He knew he was right.
“What—”
“That was a shot.”
“There are always hunters around—”
“It was aimed at us.”