Chapter 4
Chapter Four
She hadn’t come all the way back to Alaska to lie awake in a yurt, thinking about Tate McGuire.
But that’s exactly how she’d spent most of her first night at Port Frisco.
A mosquito flew along the canvas wall beside Scottie’s bunk, the familiar buzzing sound preventing her from falling back asleep. Not that she had much hope of getting more rest anyway. Because her brain insisted on replaying yesterday’s events. On an endless loop.
It wasn’t the helicopter ride or skimming over the water that stuck with her.
No, it was the broad-shouldered version of Tate—the one that had replaced the slender, bookish version from their high school days—that she couldn’t get out of her head.
She’d stepped into his hug like they were picking up a conversation right where they’d left off.
How had she not noticed his muscular athletic frame at their reunion seven years ago?
Well, she’d certainly noticed yesterday. Because as soon as she’d pressed her cheek to his firm chest and breathed in the scent of his cologne or his aftershave…good golly, her heart had turned cartwheels like a world-class gymnast.
And yet so much about him hadn’t changed. He’d white-knuckled that water bottle for most of the flight. She’d wanted to reach out, squeeze his biceps, and remind him to breathe.
Maybe coffee and breakfast would tame her thoughts into submission.
Sighing, she crawled out of her sleeping bag. On the opposite bunk, Tabitha, her roommate and Damian’s production assistant, slept burrowed deep in her sleeping bag. Only a lock of pink hair peeked out.
Shoving her bare feet into her fleece-lined rubber boots, Scottie tugged a bright-pink hoodie over her T-shirt and the black leggings she’d worn to bed and quietly eased out of the yurt.
Fresh air mingled with the scent of new lumber.
She pulled the door shut and walked down the brand-new plywood steps, holding onto the crude wooden handrail.
The dirt path curved through the lush green forest toward the Quonset hut that functioned as craft services for the cast and crew of Ultimate Alaskan.
Even though it was only six thirty in the morning, sunlight already filtered through the trees.
Down the hill, blue-green water lapped at the rocky shore of Port Frisco.
In the distance, Strawberry Point, with its abandoned lighthouse, offered a breathtaking view.
She reached into the pocket of her hoodie for her phone.
The view through the opening in the trees begged for a photo.
But she’d left it in the yurt. No need to go back and disturb Tabitha.
There would be plenty of opportunities to get the perfect shot.
She kept walking, following the aroma of something savory. Had her grandparents walked this same trail? Before the tide chewed up the cannery, took their jobs, and changed their plans? Every generation of her family had paid a hefty price for living at the edge of the world.
She hadn’t come here to be next.
Don’t think about it. Focus on what’s ahead, remember?
She opened the door of the Quonset and stepped inside.
Two of the contestants, Sheldon and Calista, sat with the people in charge of hair and makeup at the long, rough-hewn, cafeteria-style tables.
A folding chair scraped across the floor as a middle-aged guy she didn’t recognize sat down with a heaping plate.
She smiled at the man and woman on the other side of the serving line, dishing out scrambled eggs and, ah, yes, bacon.
“Good morning. You must be the new camera operator.”
Scottie smiled at the woman, who contained her salt-and-pepper curls beneath a hairnet. “Is it that obvious? I’m Scottie Sheridan.”
“I’m Libby.”
“Nice to meet you, Libby.”
“This is my sidekick, Chet. We keep you guys fed,” Libby said. “If you have any allergies or special requests, please let us know.”
Chet’s handlebar mustache twitched as he smiled. “Not that we’re taking special requests. Libby’s just trying to be extra polite since you’re a newcomer and all.”
Scottie held out a plate. “No special requests, no allergies. Thank you though. Where are you guys from?”
“Here and there,” Libby said. “I grew up in Cordova.”
“I’m from Montana,” Chet added. “I took one look at Libby here and decided I’d go wherever she wanted.”
Libby’s cheeks flushed. She nudged him with her hip.
“Super sweet,” Scottie said. Coffee called her name.
She moved down the line, her plate holding scrambled eggs and bacon.
She added some fresh blueberries, then headed for the carafe at the end of the counter.
After doctoring her full mug with cream and sugar, she turned and sank down on one of the empty folding chairs at the end of the closest table.
She breathed a silent prayer of thanks, then dug into her breakfast.
A few minutes later, Theo pulled up a chair across from her. His hair was still damp and his cheeks clean-shaven. “Hey. Get some sleep?”
She nodded. “Some. You?”
“Not nearly enough,” he said. “The mattress on my bunk smells, plus my roommate snores.”
“Really? I don’t think mine does.” To be honest, she’d been so exhausted she’d fallen asleep after reading only a few pages on her e-reader. Tabitha must’ve come in later, but Scottie hadn’t heard a thing. “I didn’t realize they made the contestants have a roommate.”
“Yeah, rumor has it they can only build so many yurts out here because of Frisco permits and all that. So we bunked together. There were three of us, but, you know, what’s-his-name had to leave—his injury.”
“Oh, right.” She added pepper to her scrambled eggs. “So where were you, if you don’t mind my asking, that you were on my flight the other day?”
“I had to head home to Burbank for a few days. I was in a wedding.”
“Ah, makes sense.”
He tilted his head. “Things were tense with your stepsister yesterday. You okay?”
“Long story.” The berries were sweet and tart and must have been picked recently—she’d have to compliment Libby and Chet on that.
Fresh berries reminded her so much of August afternoons spent picking with her mother and then, later, with Lainey’s mother.
Their laughter echoing through the woods.
Fingers stained purple. One of the few good memories she had with her family.
“Hello?” Theo’s voice pulled her back to the conversation.
“Sorry.” She wrinkled her nose. “Eating these blueberries takes me back.”
His well-groomed brows scrunched together. “To what?”
“Picking berries in the summer in Alaska is just what you do.” She shook her head. “Never mind. Hard to explain. Did you grow up in California?”
“Yep. No berry picking in Burbank. Although sometimes we’d go visit my grandparents on their farm. They grew mostly avocados and tree fruit.”
“Oh? That sounds fun.”
“Mostly.” Theo shrugged. “So don’t try to redirect the conversation. What’s up with you and Lainey? Why don’t you get along?”
“Oh, we don’t really need to get into that, do we?”
“Not if you don’t want to,” Theo said. His kind eyes held hers. “Thought you might want to vent to a neutral third party.”
She reached for her coffee. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Lainey’s been here a long time, picking up the broken pieces anytime our family falls apart.
And as far as she’s concerned, I’ve been allowed to roam wild and free.
But I love my job. I’m really blessed to have it. I wasn’t meant to stay in Redemption.”
She stopped short of telling him that people always expected her to leave, so why not go?
He wasn’t a jealous guy. Really, he wasn’t.
But watching Theo Caldwell hustle after Scottie as they left the helicopter at Port Frisco had twisted his insides in knots.
Then Theo had said something and she’d laughed, the sound floating back on the breeze.
The last thing he’d heard before he got back in the helicopter with Ethan.
Now that whole scenario lived rent-free in his head.
“Tate? Sir?”
Tate glanced at Krister, the tall Swedish captain of the Nordic Anthem, a cruise ship Tate had been assigned to pilot out of Redemption and on into the Gulf of Alaska.
The bridge hummed with activity. Through the wide front windows, the water in Prince William Sound flashed with whitecaps.
Fresh cool air slipped through the half-open wing door, carrying the pungent odors of fuel and exhaust.
“How would you advise I approach this vessel traffic?” Krister asked, his accent crisp.
Tate cleared his throat and glanced out over the water.
Winds had picked up to twenty knots—comfortable, but enough to hint at an incoming weather system.
Commercial fishing boats with their nets extended fished for salmon; smaller vessels traveled southeast, no doubt on their way to catch halibut.
On the radar, at least a dozen boats floated across the screen, indicating that the passage up ahead beyond the reef was clogged with more traffic.
“Crowded today, isn’t it?” Tate glanced at Krister. “Captain, with your permission, I’ll take the conn.”
Krister nodded. “Pilot has the conn.”
Tate pointed to the chart. “Current’s picking up with the wind.
We’ll be mindful near Bligh Reef traffic and seiners off Esther Passage.
Recommend initial heading one-eight-five to clear these sets, then ease to two-one-zero for our departure track.
We’ve got about a quarter-knot set to the west—compensate two degrees starboard on the leg. ”
Krister looked to his first mate. “You agree, yes?”
The young man with green eyes and neatly groomed strawberry-blond hair offered a curt nod. “Agreed, sir. Helmsman, hand steering.”
The helmsman answered, hands already on the wheel. “Hand steering, aye. Autopilot off.”
Tate kept his gaze moving: CPA/TCPA boxes, ARPA vectors, a sport boat crossing fast. “Helm, steer one-eight-five.”
“Steer one-eight-five, aye,” the helmsman replied, then paused. “Coming to one-eight-five…Steady one-eight-five.”