Northern Exposure

by Debra Lee Brown

  She’d expected him to say that, and pretended he hadn’t as she checked her light meter one last time. “Looks like we hauled that tripod for nothing. I won’t be able to use it out there.” She stripped it from her knapsack before putting it back on, then moved to the edge.

  “No.” Joe gripped her upper arm so tightly, she thought he’d snap the bone in two.

  “Yes.” She looked at him hard, and for a moment he didn’t say anything.

  “Let me do it, then,” he blurted. “I’ll take the pictures.”

  Her mouth dropped open before she could stop it. “You’re not serious?” She shook her head as he argued the point. “No. Absolutely not. This is my assignment, my job. This is what I do.”

  “Squatting with a camera at the end of a runway while skinny chicks in thousand-dollar rags slink past you was your job, not this.” He shook his head, looking at the ledge.

  “Well, this is my job now. If I were anyone else, any other photographer—a guy—you wouldn’t think twice. Admit it.”

  That stopped him. After a second he shrugged.

  Now, more than ever, she was determined to do this herself, not only to secure her job at the magazine, but to prove to Joe Peterson that she could and that everything would be all right. It wasn’t even that dangerous. As a kid growing up in Michigan she’d done dozens of things more reckless.

  She realized that it wasn’t the situation itself but the fact that Joe couldn’t control it that was responsible for the fear she read in his eyes as he looked at her. She felt it in the way he gently took her hand in his and squeezed. It was shaking.

  She also knew he didn’t blame his sister’s adolescent misadventures on her own poor judgment but on his lack of supervision and control. It was the same with her death. Though Cat Peterson had been an adult, Joe blamed her self-inflicted drug overdose on himself for not being there to stop her.

  “This is my life, Joe. My decision. I’m responsible for the consequences, good and bad. Not you.”

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. His hair hung in his eyes, damp from the mist, and she resisted the urge to reach up and brush it away from his face.

  She knew he could physically stop her if he wanted to. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  “You’ll be careful,” he said, at last.

  She couldn’t stop her smile. “Of course I will.”

  “I don’t care how damned narrow that ledge is. If I so much as think you’re in trouble, I’m coming out there.”

  “Here, hold this,” she said, handing him the tripod, still smiling. “Back in a flash.”

  Joe wanted to laugh at her photographer’s pun but couldn’t. He set the tripod down and slipped off his pack, then watched, his stomach knotting, as she dropped to all fours and crawled onto the ledge.

  They were above the tree line here, and visibility was better. Mist swirled up the canyon, dark treetops spiking through its cottonlike ceiling.

  He kept one eye on Wendy, the other on their surroundings, his hand on his gun. Camo Man was still out there, but he wouldn’t have predicted they’d leave the main trail, and he couldn’t follow them onto the ridge without being seen. All the same, Joe knew he was close. He could feel him watching, waiting to see what they’d do next.

  The farther out onto the ledge Wendy crawled, the narrower it became. He forced himself to breathe. He tried to imagine her on a shoot in New York, up on one of those catwalks high above a stage. He told himself this was no different, a walk in the park for her. Still, he had to force himself not to follow her out there.

  She stopped.

  “What is it?”

  Looking back at him, she smiled, raised a finger to her lips, signaling him to be quiet. She slipped out of her knapsack and placed it on the ledge in front of her, then unclipped her camera from its harness. He watched her as she dropped to her stomach and, on elbows and knees, crawled to the end where the ledge fell away into space.

  Son of a bitch.

  He was sweating now, though the last time he’d checked, the temperature was only in the forties. He watched as she raised her camera, popped the lens cap and focused on what he couldn’t see but could hear.

  Antlers clacked, more violently now, echoing off the rock walls of the canyon. Somewhere below them, out of sight, Joe knew there’d be a small gathering of caribou cows. That’s what the battle was about, after all.

  As he watched Wendy go to work, he realized he was engaged in a battle, too. Not with her, or with the guy following them, but with himself. He fought to remain detached, aloof, in control of the situation and his emotions.

  But he was losing. Boy, was he ever.

  Forgetting Camo Man for the moment, he knelt next to the ledge, captivated by Wendy’s practiced movements as she shot an entire roll of film in under a minute, tossing the spent canister into her knapsack, reloading, changing lenses, then starting again.

  Her calm demeanor, the intensity of her concentration was fascinating to him. This was her calling. She paused for a moment, set the camera down and just watched them.

  He watched her.

  Mist eased over the ledge, swirling around her prone form, then receded like a ghostly tide. In defiance of the weather, her cheeks warmed to a rose hue that was striking against the cool backdrop of rock and fog surrounding her.

  A sharp clack of antlers echoed through the canyon, and she grinned, focused intently on her subjects, her eyes lit with a fire and an excitement he found riveting. She turned to him suddenly, their gazes connecting, and in that moment something happened to him, to them both.

  Her smile changed. A second ago it had exuded the joy of accomplishment, of achieving what she’d set out to do. But now it was different, it was for him. And in that second when their minds connected, he knew. He just knew.

  He loved her.

  And there wasn’t a goddamned thing he could do about it.

  “Come on,” she whispered, and waved him out. “There’s room.”

  He didn’t wait to be asked a second time. Moving carefully, he crawled onto the ledge behind her, inching closer until he was practically lying on top of her.

  “Look!”

  There they were. The caribou. Majestic, beautiful, their breath frosting the air as they squared off, one against the other. Together they watched them, and he was conscious of how warm she was lying beneath him, how natural it seemed for them to be touching.

  Mist swirled upward from the canyon, shrouding the bulls in a ghostly ether. The effect was extraordinary. Even a nonphotographer type like himself could appreciate it.

  Antlers clacked. Wendy tensed beneath him, picked up her camera and started shooting, spent another roll of film in under a minute. With a practiced hand she slapped a filter onto the lens and spent another.

  When she was finished, she looked at him again. This time she wasn’t smiling. He read it in her eyes a heartbeat before he knew it himself—they were going to be lovers. They were going to get off this damned rock, and with both feet on the ground he was going to kiss her.

  The distant cry of a caribou cow sounded below them, sundering the moment. Without warning, the bulls vanished into the mist.

  Wendy felt a giddy, almost surreal triumph she’d never before experienced in her work as a fashion photographer. Sure, she’d had successes in the past, but most had been diminished by Blake’s micromanagement and his familiar mantra that she couldn’t have done it without him.

  She realized now that she could have. All that time, all those years, she could have been successful in her own right, on her own terms, without his or anyone’s help. As she crawled backward off the ledge, dragging her camera bag, she knew she had a choice to make, here and now. She could dwell on the past, what might have been if only she’d been stronger, more confident—or she could look to the future, to what her life could be now, what she could make of it.

  “Take my hand.”

  Safely off the ledge, she looked up from hands and knees and
saw Joe’s outstretched hand, the warmth of his eyes, the smile she’d only just started seeing today, and hesitated.

  “You were great out there, a natural.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” His open hand was still outstretched, waiting.

  She looked at it for a heartbeat before taking it, then let him pull her up. When she was on her feet he didn’t let go.

  “Wendy.”

  She saw it coming this time, read the look in his eyes, felt the strength of his pulse where her fingertips rested on his wrist.

  “We’d…better go.” Backing away, she pretended to look for a lost lens cap on the ground. When he followed her, she stopped and made a lot of work out of popping the spent film from her Nikon and tossing it into her camera bag.

  “Wendy,” he said again, approaching her.

  “Gosh, look at the sky. It’s clearing!” Flashing him a fake smile, she sidestepped him and started down the trail.

  He stopped her. His hand on her shoulder was warm, his grip not demanding, but questioning. Turn around, she told herself. Turn around and kiss the man. Let him take you in his arms, let him touch you and make you come alive.

  She wanted to. She wanted to so desperately. But if she did, what would happen? She was finally getting her life on track. This was all so unexpected, so new. She was new—too new—and didn’t trust herself enough to make the right decisions where men where concerned. Especially where Joe Peterson was concerned.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Coward, a little voice whispered in her head.

  “Wendy.”

  Fighting a volatile union of sheer panic and desire bordering on need, she shook off his hand and moved down the trail. “Don’t leave the pack behind.”

  She kept walking, heard him gather up the rest of their gear and catch up with her. He didn’t say a word and neither did she for the half hour it took them to hike back down the game trail into the wooded valley below.

  She struggled to keep her mind focused on her new career, how she’d return to New York a success, the caribou photos in hand. She tried to envision what her life would be like working for the wildlife magazine. She had new projects to plan, lots to think about.

  The only problem was the only thing she could think about for more than five straight seconds at a time was Joe. When they reached the bottom and merged onto the main trail, Wendy turned to face him.

  He looked at her, his calm eyes and stoic expression no longer betraying any hints of what he was feeling—which was okay with her, since she didn’t know what she was feeling, either.

  “How far to the next cabin?” she asked.

  “Not far. A couple of miles.”

  She wanted to tell him why she felt suddenly nervous and flighty around him. She wanted him to understand why she was fearful of getting involved with him. Especially him. His history, how he’d dealt with the tragedies in his life, the control he seemed so desperate to maintain, the warmth she knew simmered below the surface—all of it taken together scared the hell out of her.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m ready to pack it in.”

  “You did something today no one else has ever done, photographed woodland caribou in Alaska. You should be proud.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did. And I am.” She nodded, reminding herself that she should be thinking about getting out of here, now that she’d gotten what she’d come for.

  “There’s a reward at the next cabin for all your hard work.”

  “A reward?”

  He grinned. “Yeah. Of sorts. There’s a bathtub.”

  “You’re kidding?” She didn’t even want to think about how long it had been since her last shower—almost a week ago at Joe’s station. The two of them had gotten by, the past six days, by sharing a thin travel washcloth and the biodegradable soap she’d packed. “A bath would be fantastic.”

  “Don’t get too excited until you see the tub. It’s an old galvanized steel washtub I found up here in a storage locker last year.”

  “It sounds great.”

  “Yeah, it will be.” He edged closer, the look she’d come to recognize as desire heating his eyes.

  “I, uh, guess we should get moving.” She stepped back needing to put distance between them.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes, I just…” She glanced at the thick foliage and dark stands of trees on both sides of the trail, disappearing into the wispy blanket of ground fog still clinging to the valley floor. “I need a minute, if you don’t mind.” She handed him her camera bag.

  “Oh.” He hesitated. “Sure.” He turned his back, but didn’t move from where he stood not an arm’s length from her.

  After the incident on the bridge he’d insisted that she never leave his sight, not for a minute, not even to relieve herself. At night that worked fine, especially at the DF&G cabins, which had nearby out-houses he could stand guard over while she was inside. On the trail it was a problem.

  Right now she just wanted some privacy. She needed to get a grip on herself and her emotions. She needed to get away from him for just a few minutes. They’d been together twenty-four hours a day for almost a week.

  She watched his back as he took off the blue pack, set it down, then started to rearrange its contents. There was a break in the vegetation behind her where the ground was muddy. He was clanging around metal fuel canisters and didn’t hear her as she moved off the trail into the fog, just a half dozen feet or so, just far enough so she could clear her head.

  She stopped where the trees made a natural barrier, breathing in the heady scents of wet cedar, spruce and loamy earth. What a week. Trying to relax, she decided that as long as she was here…

  It took her just a few seconds to unbuckle her belt and unzip her pants.

  A heartbeat later an arm shot around her waist.

  A gloved hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

  Chapter 11

  She was going to die.

  In the fog, in the middle of a wilderness area, the smell of greasy leather choking off her air. The only coherent thought that flashed in her mind was Why?

  “Where is it?” he hissed in her ear.

  The man dragged her backward into the foliage. He was big, powerful. She struggled, her legs tangling with his. Wrenching her head down, she saw a black jackboot and camouflage pants like the kind a hunter or a soldier would wear.

  “Wendy?” Joe’s voice sounded through the fog. “Damn it, Wendy.” He realized she was gone. Thank God! “Where are you?”

  “Answer him,” the man said. A second later she felt the cold press of steel against her throat.

  Oh, God.

  “Answer him. And be smart about it.” The hand over her mouth relaxed so she could speak.

  “I—I’m here.”

  “Where?”

  “Tell him you’re fine,” the faceless voice breathed in her ear.

  She felt the sharp point of the knife pierce her throat. Tears stung her eyes. Joe! she wanted to scream, but didn’t. “I’ll be…just…a-another minute.” The hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Hurry up. I don’t like it when I can’t see you.”

  She tried to breathe but couldn’t. Her skin felt clammy inside her clothes, her legs thick and useless, as if she were paralyzed.

  “Where is it?” he hissed. His breath was hot, almost cloying against her cheek. With the knife he urged her head higher. His free hand began to explore. “Don’t,” he said, when a silent scream rose in her throat.

  He searched her pockets, first the pants, then her shirt, dropping their apparently useless contents on the ground. “Where is it? He said you have it.”

  “H-have what?” she breathed. “Who?”

  “Barrett.”

  “Wendy?” Joe’s voice. It sounded far off to her right. He must be looking for her, but in the wrong direction.

  The knife blade edged higher. Panic closed her throat, nearly made her legs give out when her captor cupped her breast.<
br />
  “Nice,” he breathed in her ear. “Now where is it? Here?” He squeezed.

  She let out a strangled cry, and instantly felt the prick of the knife against her skin. Her arms flailed wildly in the air as he again dragged her backward and she tried to fend him off.

  “Wendy!”

  Any second Joe would find her.

  She had to fight!

  “Or maybe here?” As his sweaty hand moved into her open pants, she realized with horror he’d slipped his glove off. Callused fingers skimmed her bare skin.

  Without warning he plunged into her panties.

  “Joe!” Forgetting the knife, she launched herself sideways and they both went down. She fought him off, heedless of the flash of polished steel whooshing past her face as he tried to subdue her. Somewhere at the edge of her awareness she heard Joe’s voice, hoarse with panic.

  Her eyes connected with her captor’s. They were brown, cold, determined, but in the millisecond she held his gaze, she realized he wasn’t going to kill her, no matter what she did.

  Her knee shot up hard to his groin. He blocked it, but the move caught him off guard long enough for her to wrestle free. The next thing she knew she was on her feet, running, tearing through the foliage, leaves slapping at her, branches clawing her face, catching her hair.

  She was screaming.

  And then she was in his arms.

  “Joe!”

  “Wendy, Jesus!” He scooped her up, his gun in his hand, and moved behind a tree. “What happened?”

  It took only a second for all of it to register.

  Her eyes, wide with fear, the dazed expression, her hair littered with pieces of broken twigs and leaves. A thin rivulet of blood trickled from her throat. He noticed her clothes were disheveled, her pants unzipped and hanging from her hips, white cotton panties pushed far enough down to reveal blond pubic hair.

  Joe came unglued.

  He swore, spinning in circles, his weapon leveled at every tree, every breath of wind stirring the branches. Nothing stared back at him through the fog.

  Wendy’s hand on his arm quivered, bringing him back. He turned to her, fighting the tumult of rage and fear balling in his gut. “He hurt you. The son of a bitch hurt you.”