by Vella Munn
His flesh was warm, softer, she knew, than the skin exposed to the elements. She heard his quick intake of breath and took that as her warning. He was defining the limits of their exploration. Maybe, if the storm hadn’t taken over every other sound, she might have been able to remain in contact with some element of reality. But there was nothing but pounding rain, thunder shuddering through the forest, occasional flashes of light invading the space behind her closed eyes. Even the tent and sleeping bag ceased to have any meaning. Only one other emotion reached her.
“I’m freezing,” she said simply.
She might be too cold to react to him in any other fashion than for warmth, but Dean wasn’t so protected from the other sensations his body was capable of. He felt her hardened nipples against his chest, her cold toes curling around his ankles, and turned his head away from her so he could concentrate on bringing cool air into his lungs.
Dean lifted himself up on one elbow and again brushed the hair back from Calley’s temples. She was gazing at him through half-opened eyes, but he wasn’t sure she was seeing him at all. He could believe that she was lost somewhere deep in her own thoughts, perhaps trying to pull herself together, just as he was trying to comprehend his own emotions. He couldn’t remember stretching her out on the sleeping bag.
Chapter Four
Like tiny blips on a blank screen, Calley slowly became conscious that something was replacing the peace that existed within the tent. For another minute she struggled to stay within the cocoon of sleep, but there was no wishing away the persistent staccato sounds.
She opened her eyes and lifted her head until her sleeping bag was no longer over her ear, but she didn’t ease herself out of bed until she was sure that the sound was coming from Dean and not from some nameless and potentially dangerous source outside the tent. On hands and knees she crept the few feet that separated her from Dean and rocked back on her heels. He was in the depths of a dream.
It wasn’t a pleasant dream. The way his breath came out in blasts, the quick, hard movements of his body within the sleeping bag, told her that. He was in some kind of emotional pain, that much was clear. Calley wanted to wake him in an attempt to bring him back to reality, but wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do. A sudden intrusion from the outside world might be too much of an assault on his nervous system.
Maybe the dream wouldn’t last long. Calley repositioned herself until she was sitting cross-legged beside him, waiting out the inner storm. She supposed she could shake him if the dream became a full-blown nightmare, but a man Dean’s age had to have his own ways of dealing with whatever it was that tormented his subconscious.
The storm around the Flathead had become a steady downpour, but without the earlier wind that threatened to cave in the sides of the tent. Shivering slightly, Calley closed her eyes and wrapped her hands around her upper arms. Sleep pulled at her, erasing the edges of reality. She was a child again, sleeping in the upstairs bedroom of the family ranch house. Her world was secure and serene. In the morning she would scurry down the stairs to the warm living room to dress in front of the fireplace. Her mother would have breakfast waiting, French toast and hot chocolate. She would slip her hands into knitted mittens, wait for her mother to button her coat high around her neck and trot out with her brother to the lean-to that served as a bus stop. At school she would huddle with her girlfriends, talking about horses and boys or their favorite country and western songs.
That seemed as if it were a thousand years ago. She quickly straightened and leaned forward. Dean was breathing deeply now, his chest moving with a slow pace that fascinated her. Once again she fought off the urge to touch him and instead crawled back into her warm sleeping bag. How like a child he was in sleep, she thought as her head sought a soft spot on her pillow. So many responsibilities settled on him during the day, but secure in the shelter of a tent in the middle of a forest, he was able to cast off those duties. And sleep.
Or could he? Calley was dozing off when Dean let out a sharp hiss of breath that gripped her nerves. “No. No!” Groaning, he jerked around until he was on his back, arms thrust outside the sleeping bag.
Calley sat up again, but this time she didn’t get out of bed. Yes, they’d shared a wilderness storm. Yes, they’d shared a kiss. But nightmares were private things. “It’s all right, Dean. It’s only a dream,” she whispered, hoping that at least the essence of what she was saying would reach his subconscious. “Sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Dean groaned again; his hands gripped the sleeping bag. Although the tent was night black, she could reach out and feel the tension in his body. His head rolled back and forth rapidly; short, wordless sounds filled the air. This was no dream of monsters and ghosts. This was something Dean was living or had lived.
“Please sleep,” Calley repeated. Her voice was a little stronger this time. She had to break through whatever terror gripped Dean. “It’s all right. I’m here. It’s all right.”
He sighed; Calley felt the strain leave him. “Sleep,” she repeated. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
But they didn’t. Calley rose when the newborn sun was just fighting its way over the horizon, and she dressed before turning on the Coleman stove to fix their breakfast. Although it was chilly, there wasn’t any dry wood for making a fire. To compensate, Calley started heating water and did jumping exercises while wearing her jacket. She was mixing instant coffee into a mug of steaming water when Dean emerged from the tent.
“Ah, the little woman’s being domestic.”
Scowling, Calley turned on him. She was ready to give him a piece of her mind when she noticed that the corner of his mouth was twitching. “That’s as far as my domestic talent goes,” she said as she brought the cup to her lips. “If you want coffee, you’re on your own.”
“That’s the trouble with women these days.” Dean sat on a stump so he could pull on his boots. He was already wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. “They don’t know their place.”
“You’re in a fine mood.” Calley had located Dean’s cup, and despite her threat, was measuring out coffee for him. “Do you always start the day by reminding your assistants of their place?”
“When it’s necessary.” Dean reached up for the cup as Calley handed it to him. “How did you sleep? Were you warm enough?”
“Fine. I paid through the nose for my down sleeping bag, but it’s worth it.” Calley turned back to the stove to stir the hot cereal that would constitute their breakfast. “You had a nightmare.” She waited, wishing she could see the expression on his face but guessing that he needed privacy.
“What about?”
“How should I know?” She laughed. “It was your nightmare.”
“Did I say anything?”
Calley thought for a moment. “You said no a couple of times, but that’s about it.” She put down her stirring spoon and turned around slowly enough that she hoped he wouldn’t feel he had to have his defenses up. “Do you remember anything about it?”
Dean’s brow furrowed. “No. How much longer until breakfast?”
He does, too, remember. He just doesn’t want to talk about it. “About five minutes. Why? Did you have to do something?”
Dean mumbled about having to clean his binoculars and disappeared into his tent while Calley went about selecting bowls for their meal. Dry milk mixed with river water wasn’t quite the same as fresh, but it would do. Besides, breakfast wasn’t what was on her mind.
“About last night,” she started when Dean rejoined her. “I don’t—”
“I don’t know either. I didn’t know I was going to do that.”
Calley realized that they were talking about a kiss, not a nightmare. Calley shrugged. “It was the storm. A little too much electricity in the air.”
Dean waited until Calley handed him his cereal. “Do you really believe that?”
“I think that’s what we better believe, Dean,” Calley said with the strength that had escaped her last ni
ght. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry it happened?”
Was he? “I don’t make a habit of kissing men I’ve just met. Especially men who happen to be my boss.” She concentrated on her cereal, wishing there was somewhere else for her to sit except on the same fallen log with him.
“Mike was your boss.”
Calley flinched. She was afraid to ask how much Dean knew of her romance with the man who preceded him at the project. “That was uncalled for.” Her words were clipped, her body stiff.
“Maybe and maybe not.” Dean was looking at her and not at his breakfast. “Look, Calley, we’re going to be spending a lot of time in each other’s presence. We can either spend it tiptoeing around each other, or we can start with honesty and let it go from there.”
Calley didn’t want to tiptoe around Dean; but neither was she ready to lay her heart out in front of him. She shouldn’t have given in to her need to feel his lips on hers last night. Their relationship was progressing much faster than either of them was ready for. “So you want honesty, do you?” she asked. “Why don’t you start by telling me what your nightmare was about?”
“I told you. I don’t remember.”
“And I’m telling you I don’t believe you. I’m sorry,” Calley relented. “I didn’t handle that very well, did I? It’s just that my relationship with Mike was rather—complicated. When—” She paused, sensing the web of the past that threatened to engulf her. “When you sprang his name on me, it took me by surprise.”
“I shouldn’t have.” Dean hadn’t finished his cereal, but he rose and walked over to the small table holding the Coleman stove. “I think it’s an occupational hazard. I spend so much of my time alone that my social skills aren’t what they should be. You’re right. Your personal life is none of my business unless you care to make it so. What if we start over? You tell me a little about yourself, and I’ll do the same. Neither of us will draw any conclusions or make any judgments.”
Calley wanted to tell Dean that the moments they’d spent in each other’s arms last night made starting over impossible, but things had happened too fast. They had to slow down, redefine their relationship. “Do you want a blow-by-blow from the day one?” she asked. “I was born on a cold wintry morning with a foot of new snow, making the race with the stork a lot more nerve-racking than it should have been.”
“Who won?”
“Who won what?”
“The race.” Dean shook his head. “You or the stork?”
Calley laughed. “That’s not how it goes. The stork and the baby are supposed to get there at the same time. For the record, Mom had been logged in at the hospital for twenty-three minutes when I made my appearance.”
Two days later Calley had told Dean everything there was to tell about growing up on a ranch; he’d responded with a lengthy account of his own rural existence, interrupted only during his college years. In that time they’d covered dozens of miles, identified every life-form in that area of the river and exhausted all possibility for variety in their diets.
And yet, because Dean was once again sleeping in his own tent, Calley knew their relationship had been put on hold through mutual agreement. Dean hadn’t touched her in a personal way since the night of the storm. And she hadn’t given him any indication that she wanted him to.
“I really do envy you. I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska,” Calley told him as they were relaxing at the end of the day. “I almost made it two years ago with a group of biologists, but the trip to Sitka National Historical Park fell through at the last moment when the plane we were going to use developed some major engine problems. We searched everywhere for a replacement, but most of the available planes weren’t big enough for all of us. I was terribly disappointed.”
“Maybe you’ll make it one day,” Dean reassured her. He’d removed his hiking boots and, like her, was walking around in comfortable tennis shoes. “It really is the opportunity of a lifetime if it’s done right. But don’t go to the cities. They don’t tell you anything about the state.”
“That’s what I’ve decided. If I ever get there, I’d love to get off the beaten track. What would you suggest?” Calley was sitting with the daily log open on her lap, but she was watching Dean wrap dough around green switches for snake bread. “Keep in mind that my finances are limited and I might not have much time for a trip.”
“Flying’s the only way to go.” Dean squeezed the dough firmly around the switches he’d cut a few minutes earlier and then held them over the small campfire they felt safe having now that the rain had lessened the fire danger. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t spend a lot of time at any of the national parks.”
“Why not?” Calley knew she should be helping with dinner, but she’d been on her feet for the past twelve hours. Heat from the fire was warming her hands and face, seeping into her bones. “There’s nothing wrong with a busman’s holiday. I’d love to talk to the biologists there and explore the parks—compare what they’re doing there with what’s being practiced at Yellowstone. I’d probably go through a dozen rolls of film.”
“Save your film for some of the native communities.” Dean stuck the ends of the switches in the ground near the campfire before coming to sit next to Calley. Like her, he was using an evergreen as a backrest. “That’s where you’ll get a real sense of what Alaska is like,” he went on. His voice took on a retrospective tone. “Angoon, Kake, Klawock—those are some of the communities that still cling to the traditional ways. If you go there, you’ll understand why the Indians have clans named Raven, Dog, Salmon, Eagle, Bear. The seasons control their lives. In the spring the herring come to spawn, and the natives put an end to the long winter. They fish for halibut and salmon during the summer and spend fall preparing food for winter.”
“What do they do in winter?” Calley closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the tree. They weren’t in a remote Alaskan village, but she could understand what Dean said about seasons and elements controlling the ebb and flow of one’s life. “That’s the part I don’t think I could handle,” she admitted. “The sun doesn’t even rise over the horizon.”
“That’s hard for a lot of people.” His words came to her as a disembodied rumble. “But I don’t think it’s like that for those who cling to the old ways. They’re used to it. The art of the natives reflects their reverence for tradition. That’s what winter is for. They still make ceremonial costumes and their own clothing. There are isolated places you can go to watch Tlingit and Haida craftsmen working in wool, wood and silver. What impressed me the most is that this is still their way of life. They’re not making trinkets to sell to the tourists. They guard their privacy; it isn’t easy to be accepted enough to be given a glimpse of their culture. A Haida woman made me a silver bracelet with her clan emblem on it. It’s something I cherish. I’d like to show it to you sometime.”
“I’d like that,” Calley said dreamily. “Have you been to all those villages you mentioned?”
“Yes.” Dean got up to turn the slowly baking bread before continuing. “But the most haunting experience wasn’t at any of those communities.”
Calley opened her eyes. Dean was standing over her, the darkening forest giving her nothing to focus on except him. She waited, knowing he’d continue when he was ready.
“The woman I told you about. The one from the Haida tribe. She took me to Cape Muzon, which is on Dall Island. She wanted to show me what remained of Kaigani, a Haida settlement that had been deserted over fifty years ago. Nothing remained except a few hand-hewn timbers that had been the corner posts for houses. I still don’t understand why the Haida people had lived there in the first place. It was so remote, the elements so cruel. I could hear the tide, but the silence was so eerie that I felt as if I was at a shrine.” Dean actually shuddered.
“Oh, Dean,” Calley breathed. Dean’s description charged her with instant restlessness. “What an experience! You’re right. That’s what I should try to see.”
; “That isn’t all.” Dean sat down again. He reached for Calley’s hand and laid it on his flexed knee. She wondered if he was aware of what he was doing or whether he somehow needed to make contact without knowing it. “While we were there, I found a human skull. Why was it there? Why had it been left behind? Whose was it? I wanted to learn the story of that man or woman. Learn what that person’s life had been like.”
“Dean,” Calley breathed again. She felt so close to him that the emotion frightened her. “That was someone who probably lived the way his ancestors had for thousands of years. He could have told you so much.”
Dean sighed. “I left the skull there. That’s where it belonged.”
For a minute there was no need to say anything. Calley’s thoughts were on a man who could look at what remained of a human being and see not something to avoid but a timeless reminder of a way of life that no longer existed. It moved her to realize that Dean had that kind of perception, to know that she was capable of the same kind of thinking. “I wonder if it’s still there,” she said softly.
“Why?”
“Because I think I’d like to go there someday. There wasn’t anyone else there?”
“Just me and Waina.”
It was in the way Dean said the name. Waina was more than simply Dean’s guide and a woman who made native jewelry. Calley got to her feet and tried to warm her hands over the fire. A minute later she turned her back to it and looked down at Dean. The man had experienced so many things, had been touched by so many emotions. He was sitting in the forest with her, but he was a product of everything he’d done and seen before they met. Just as she was. It seemed both incredible and very right that their paths should be crossing in this way. “I was thinking—” Calley started slowly. “I was thinking about everything that happens to people in the course of a life. A mother holds her baby and thinks of everything she wants for that child, but so much happens without anyone planning it.”