Instead of his usual bush pants he was wearing jeans—jeans that would have sold a million copies had he been the model for the brand—and a faded blue chambray shirt soft enough to emphasize every line of his broad shoulders and powerful chest. A hand-tooled brown leather belt at his narrow waist was inlaid with wildlife motifs. His hair, fresh from that shower he’d mentioned, had been brushed and looked so soft Allison felt a sudden, startling desire to run her fingers through its waves and curls.
“Dinner’s ready.” Damn. Her voice sounded surprised, squeaky.
“Good. I’ve brought wine.” He held up a decanter. “I opened it so it can breathe. It’s Jack’s homemade elderberry.”
****
“This is great,” he said half way through his second plate. “You’re full of surprises, Allison Armstrong. I never would have suspected you were a gourmet chef. More wine?”
“Please.” She extended her glass. Already it was helping to wash away her guilt about her lack of visits to her grandfather, her image of Heath with the beautiful Jessica Henderson, and even her worries about the village’s economic future. “For being a homemade variety, it’s really very good. And unique.”
“Jack used to start with four quarts of crushed elderberries, then add four pounds of sugar and a couple of oranges and lemons. Next he’d dissolve some yeast in water and pour it over a slice of toast. He’d let this float on top of the mixture for about four days and stir it every twenty-four hours. Then he’d strain and bottle it. Four weeks later it was ready. A lot of our guests request it.”
“Interesting,” she said and took another sip. “Are elderberries as good as their wine?”
“They have a pleasant enough taste,” he said. “But they’ll never surpass blueberries or wild strawberries. The wine is the best part of them. I’ll show you where they grow…if you’ll run the river with me.”
He looked over at her, golden-brown gaze issuing a subtle challenge.
“Run the North Passage in May?” She put her glass down with a bump. “No way. Aside from the fact that it’s too dangerous, I don’t have the time. I have to get back to Toronto tomorrow.”
“Remember the other time I dared you to do it?”
“And Gramps stopped us before you could taunt me into making one very big mistake.”
“I could have gotten us through.” He leaned back in his chair.
“Right. A sixteen-year-old city kid with more machismo than brains,” she scoffed.
“I was strong for my age, and Jack had taught me well.”
“Maybe, but I’m glad he caught us before we could shove off. I don’t think I’d ever seen Gramps so angry.”
“Yeah.” Heath shifted his shoulders and grinned. “He gave me one hell of a carding out after you left. Told me any part of me that touched you would be in danger of amputation.”
“Gramps said that?” Allison felt heat flooding up her face. She’d never suspected her gentle Gramps could talk that way.
“Sure did.” A grin curled one corner of his mouth. “And I had no reason to doubt it. Your grandfather might have been a gentle giant around you, but among men he was one tough customer.”
“Anyhow, Gramps was right, then, and I know it now, so no way.” Why isn’t there some way the human body can control a humiliating blush?
“O…kay.” He drawled out the word, the grin turning to a smirk.
“Hey, look, I’m not afraid. Never mind that it would be madness, I have a previous obligation, that’s all.”
“Fine.” But again his voice held the same annoying inflection.
With an exasperated sigh, she picked up her glass and drained it. Grabbing the decanter she treated herself to a refill.
By the time they’d finished eating, he’d managed to soothe her annoyance, and they were talking about the expected guests and necessary preparations.
“Never mind coffee,” he said, standing. “I’ll take the wine into the living room and light a fire.”
“Fine.” She arose. “I’ll put these plates in the kitchen before I join you.”
Humming, Allison carried the dishes and cutlery out of the dining room. She found her hips swaying to her tune as she put them into the dishwasher. What a lovely evening this was turning out to be! When she returned to the dining room for the empty casserole, biscuit basket, and butter plate, an urge to dance tickled her feet, but she decided that waltzing into the living room might not be the thing to do.
She found him leaning against the mantel, a fire crackling on the hearth, their filled wine glasses on the coffee table in front of it. Soft music wafted from a battery-powered CD player on a table near the garden doors.
Darkness had fallen. A huge globe of a moon rose above the river and trees. Its rays fell over the lawn and through the windows to be swallowed up in the dancing play of light and shadow cast from the hearth.
Tell me this isn’t romantic. And he looks so… Feeling lightheaded, Allison sat down abruptly on the couch. She looked up at Heath and remembered how very much she had loved him…once…before…
Struggling to set the thought aside, she picked up her wine and took a long drink. It was as delicious as the first glass.
“I called Myra while I was in town today,” he said. “I wanted to let her know you were safe.”
“That was thoughtful.” He’s got to be the earthiest, most deliciously sexy creature alive.
An image crossed her mind, an image of a too-thin teenager in a shabby suit, a bouquet of wilted flowers clutched in hand, his expression mirroring the excruciating pain of having his hopes and expectations destroyed in a single moment of abject cruelty.
Heartless wench! She fought a hint of tears threatening her eyes. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t help, and she couldn’t erase it. But she could work on fixing up the present.
“Want to dance, cowboy?”
“What?”
“I said, Want to dance?”
“Sure, why not?” He stood in front of her.
She polished off what was left in her glass, got to her feet, weaving, and found herself in his arms.
For a moment he gazed down at her, remarkable eyes staring deep into hers, then slowly and sensuously he began to move to the rhythm of the music, easing her into sync with his movements, drawing her full length against him. Aware of every frontal inch of his amazing body, Allison melted, dissolved into the wonderful sensations he was creating. She barely noticed when he danced them out onto the verandah, the full moon over his shoulder mesmerizing her along with the man in her arms.
His lips found her temple, her earlobe. She gasped as his hands slipped from her waist to her hips to thrust them into his.
“You’re a good dancer,” she said, pulling out from him with a monumental force of will, out from his mind-swirling, solar-plexus-crazing being.
“When I went to university, Jack saw to it that I had decent clothes and enough money to buy fresh flowers.” His voice sounded soft as a cat’s purr. “As a result, I found a few ladies who were willing to teach me.”
“I just bet you did.”
She looked up to see the intensity of his attention focused on her. She turned to putty: soft, warm, malleable putty she wanted him to mold. As he drew her back against him in time to the music, it was easy to let sexual instincts take control. Paul never looked at her like that, not when they were dancing, not ever.
“You smell…wonderful,” she murmured and missed a step. “Fresh and clean…not like a bottle of three-hundred-dollar cologne.”
“And that’s a good thing?” His lips brushed her hair.
“I hate that over-priced junk.”
She was having an all-out battle with her words, but she didn’t care. With his body and his lips and his eyes making her head swirl until her legs no longer wanted to hold her up, speech wasn’t a major concern.
“Heath Oakes, I think you’re trying to she-…seduce me.”
“How am I doing? Are you sufficiently under my spell to reconsi
der running the river with me?” His words and eyes changed in an instant, had become deadly serious.
“No way! Bugs and bushes and no bathrooms? Forget that idea, cowboy. After a couple of days in the woods, a body gets so dirty and smelly there’s no possib…prob…there’s no way a person could get romantic. And, right now, I’m feeling very romantic. What about you? Is it true what they say about o…oysters?”
Chapter Eight
Allison awoke to the feeling that she had eaten a huge chunk of cotton wool and most of it was still clinging to her tongue and the roof of her mouth. A dehydrating sun blazed down, filtered from her face by a circular fabric dome.
She tried to raise her arms but found she was swaddled in something soft that would have been too warm if it had not been for a coolness at her back. And she was moving, gliding backward, to the sound of moving water.
What happened? Where am I? Frantic, she wrenched against her restraints. The Tilly hat that had served as a blind fell from her face.
“Easy. You’ll upset us.” His voice stopped her struggles.
Hands gripped her shroud, pulling her to a sitting position. Half blinded by a mid-morning sun, she faced a dark silhouette topped with a Snowy River hat. As her vision returned, she recognized him. She was in a canoe caught in the current of a fast-flowing river with the last man on earth she wanted to be anywhere with. A wilderness of forest covered both banks.
“Oh, my God! What have you done? Where are we?” she rasped out the words, then coughed and grimaced. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Her head drummed a pounding ache.
“Headed down the North Passage,” he said. “Here.” He reached under his seat and pulled out a canteen. “You need a drink…of water.”
He unscrewed the cap as she managed to free her arms from the sleeping bag. When he extended the container toward her, she snatched it from his hand. Throwing back her head, she gobbled. The ice cold water was the best she’d ever tasted.
“Easy,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
When she ignored his advice, he wrenched it out of her hands.
“Give it back!” She lunged at him. Hobbled by the sleeping bag, she stumbled headlong into him. The canoe rolled, sides all but dipping below water level with each lurch.
“Do something!” Allison grabbed the gunwales. “We’re going to upset!”
“Sit quiet.” He shoved her back into sitting position, grabbed his paddle, and, with a few deft strokes, stabilized the craft.
“What have you done?” When they were once more moving smoothly down the river, she stared at the water and wilderness that surrounded them.
“I’ve shanghaied you.” He put aside his paddle, picked up the canteen, and took a swallow before recapping it.
“Kidnapped, you mean.” Outrage surmounted all her previous emotions.
“No, shanghaied.” He plunged his paddle deep, sending the canoe to the right to avoid a rock. “You’ll be working your passage.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. And for future reference, what did you do while I was out cold?” she raged.
“Loaded you into a sleeping bag and this canoe.” He kept his eyes focused over her head, at the river beyond. “Check your clothes if you’re concerned. I’ve never been turned on by an inebriated woman.”
“I was not inebriated, you backstreet slim. Ouch!” Her outburst brought on a pounding ache above her eyes. She caught her head between her hands. “Take me back to the Lodge right now! Otherwise, I’ll have you charged with kidnapping!”
“Really? I’m shaking in my boots. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a couple of aspirin and some lunch.”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me!” She clenched her fists and sucked in her lips. “I’m deadly serious!”
“Well, then, that’s too bad. Because I can’t take you back. We’re a good six miles downriver from the Lodge, deep into roadless wilderness, and with the force of the freshet that’s pushing us, a superhero couldn’t paddle us back upstream.” He dipped his paddle deep and nosed the canoe to the left.
“Hang on,” he ordered. “We’re heading into rapids.”
Allison glanced over her shoulder just in time to be hit full in the face with the spray from the first wave of white froth. She gasped and swung back on Heath, water running down her cheeks, ready to yell more incriminations. His expression stopped her. Mind and body, he was concentrated on controlling their craft over the turbulence.
Through the next few minutes that seemed like a lifetime, the canoe bucked over rapids and skittered around protruding rocks like a thing possessed. All she could do was cling to the sides and give thanks she was seated backwards and couldn’t see what was coming next. The only comfort she could find was in remembering Heath was a veteran canoeist—one of the best, her grandfather had told her.
When they finally reached the calmer waters of a pool on the far side, she slumped against the back of the canoe’s front bench.
“I thought…I thought we were going to capsize,” she choked, feeling overwhelmed by the situation. Suddenly her stomach revolted. She leaned over the side and retched. Oh, God, is it possible to feel more miserable?
“We’re okay, and we’ll be okay.” His voice was calm, reassuring. “You got a little wet, that’s all. It was my fault. We wouldn’t have hit that white water at the angle we did if I’d been paying attention. We’ll go to shore, you can freshen up, and I’ll make lunch. Strong coffee, a couple of aspirin, a sandwich, and fresh clothes will make that hangover a lot better.”
“Where’s Jack?” The thought hit her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What have you done with Jack?”
“He’s a great dog, but hardly a wilderness type. I put him in the care of the couple of guys I’ve left manning Chance Lodge. His dog-sitters are both dyed-in-the-wool canine fanciers. He’ll be fine.”
He swung the prow of the canoe shoreward. In a few minutes, Allison was standing on the riverbank and realizing for the first time she still wore the jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers she’d put on twenty-four hours earlier. Only now they were wet and rumpled, and she felt sweaty and dirty and all out grungy.
She watched as Heath pulled the canoe well above the waterline, noted the knife in a scabbard at his belt, and shivered. While she might pity him as the underprivileged teenager he’d once been, she realized he was also the adult version of a child so consumed with rage against the affluent he’d led police on a life-and-death car chase.
“Here.” He threw her a waterproof packsack. “There’s a spring about fifty yards back in the trees, over to the left. You can wash up and change. You’ll find everything you need in the bag. Jesse got it ready.”
“It seems Dr. Henderson did a great deal toward arranging this voyage of the damned,” she muttered, reaching for the pack and feeling her head pound as she straightened up. “I bet she signed Gramps’ death certificate, too, and recommended no autopsy.”
“She did.” Heath turned from his task and looked at her, squinting in the sunlight. “Under New Brunswick law, none is required in cases like Jack’s, where he’d been under a physician’s care for a serious illness that obviously was the cause of death, unless the family requests one and pays for it. Your father and mother didn’t see any need for one under those circumstances. By the way, you’ll find aspirin in there for that hangover.”
“Hangover! I’m not hung over! I’m…”
“Go.”
She could only attempt to glare at him, hampered by the sun behind him glinting on the sparkling water and making her eyes hurt and her head ache even harder. With a disgruntled mutter, she turned and headed off in the direction he’d indicated for the spring.
When she reached the place where crystal-clean water bubbled out of a hillside, she knelt and splashed handfuls over her hot face. Blessed relief. Then she turned and opened the valise. Inside she was amazed to find toiletries and spanking new clothing appropriate to wilderness travel.
Several white
T-shirts, three plaid flannel shirts, three pair of bush pants, a leather belt, a down-filled vest, a weatherproof jacket with a hood, both cotton and woolen socks, a pair of hiking boots, a package of feminine hygiene products, and even some highly practical underwear had been carefully packed into the sack. Mildred Wilson had racked up an excellent sale yesterday.
Digging deep, she discovered shampoo, toothpaste and toothbrush, soap, a brush and comb, and even deodorant nestled in a plastic bag wrapped in a towel and face cloth.
First needs first. She uncapped the aspirin, popped a couple into her mouth, then cupped her hands, filled them with spring water, and washed the pills down her throat.
Lord, I feel grungy. She glanced about at the spring’s surroundings. Secluded by a circle of close-growing alders, it offered privacy of a sort. Although she loathed him, she knew Heath Oakes was no sexual predator. Hadn’t he had a perfect opportunity when she’d—she shuddered to admit it—passed out from too much of that potent wine? And being a peeping Tom definitely wasn’t his style.
She pulled off her sweaty, rumpled clothes. Bathing every inch of her aching, weary body in fresh, pure, albeit icy water would revive her. Naked, she began to wash.
Twenty minutes later she was feeling much better. As she pulled the vest over the plaid shirt, with the white T-shirt peeping out at its throat, she couldn’t help grinning. In this getup even Myra wouldn’t recognize her. She brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her damp hair, and hefted her packsack, ready to return to their campsite.
A twig snapped in the bush to her left.
She whirled but saw only a thicket budding into leaf. Nothing stirred. But no birds sang, either. Jack had taught her that kind of silence in the bush wasn’t good.
An eerie feeling wafted over her. She felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. Was it a bear? A ravenous, fresh-out-of-hibernation bear looking for food, any kind of food? Or was it maybe that weird being she and Marty Mason had glimpsed on their way to the Chance?
Bear. It had to be a bear. There were no such creatures as sasquatches. Remembering her grandfather’s first rule of bear defense, she eased off her Tilly hat and whirled it toward the spot from which the sound had issued. Then she turned and raced back to where she’d left Heath.
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