She couldn’t answer—could barely stand. His chest was so solid, warm, and hard, a wall to lean against, a place to rest. And the heat of his body so close melted her, left her trembling. When she found her voice, it was weak as custard. “Oh, please—please don’t be nice. On top of everything, don’t be sweet and understanding. It’s bad enough that—that—”
“That what?” he whispered down into her hair.
She spoke softly into his shirt, her face turned against his shoulder. “That you make me feel all kinds of things I don’t want to feel. Can’t feel. I’ll never see you again, and it will be so much easier to leave angry.”
“And what if I won’t cooperate?”
She fetched up a little smile. “That’s okay. I seem to be doing a good job of it all by myself.”
They both laughed.
“Good!” Pop said from near the sink. “Now that the bell’s rung for round one, could we get back to work, young’uns? The paying customers’ll be down in a minute, their stomachs growlin’.”
After a few minutes of clanging and banging around the kitchen, the salad was dressed, the rolls tucked in their basket, and a pitcher of iced tea poured. Leaving it all on a rolling cart for Jack, Pop slipped an arm around Abby’s shoulders and guided her into the dining room. “Jack tells me you had a rough day on the river.”
“I’ve had better days,” she said, and grinned, grateful to him for his tact and kindness.
“Well, the rivers can be harsh masters.” He nodded sympathetically. “Here, you sit at the head of our table.”
Already seated, looking hungry and cheerful, were a few of the “paying customers”: a husband and wife from Kansas City and newlyweds from down in Denver. All the other guests had taken box lunches and disappeared after breakfast, scattered to hikes and trail rides and scenic drives through the national park. There were introductions and chatter, and then the food arrived.
Abby took a little bit of everything as the dishes went round, hoping she looked a lot calmer than she felt. Jack, Pop, the lodge itself had her head spinning. When Jack caught her eye, she smiled and looked quickly away, feeling as transparent as glass and hating herself for it. Her heart was pounding.
But the familiar magic of food won her over. Soon she was eating away happily, savoring tastes, collecting little bits of information for that recipe file in her brain. “Pop, you used honey instead of sugar in this jam of yours, didn’t you! Ummmm. And, Jack, did you cook the trout over mesquite? It tastes something like that—but there’s a flavor—” She took another nibble, lifted her shoulders, and closed her eyes, concentrating so hard that little lines showed between her golden brows. “I give up. Tell me!”
“It’s ironwood.” He laughed at her, his voice held low for her alone. “Now I know what to get you for Christmas!”
Laughing herself, she leaned over and put her hand on his arm without thinking. But then she took it back, and was more careful during the rest of lunch.
But she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. And she couldn’t keep Jack from watching her. She felt his gaze like a lingering touch on her hair, her cheek, her lips. It made all her skin feel hot. She could barely swallow, barely breathe.
When the guests excused themselves, the three of them lingered at the table. Pop was saying something about a daredevil kayak ride through some canyon, and Abby snatched at it, grateful for anything that would turn the spotlight safely back on Jack. “Come on, Jack, tell me about it!”
Jack just shook his head. “It was years ago; not worth talking about.”
The old man laughed. “Jack, he does things for the doing, not the telling. He’s like me. A rebel. Me, I loved planes. Flew mail in Alaska, walked on wings above county fairs, jumped out of planes just for the pleasure of being allowed to get back in. Even cropdusted, back in the days when we worked with those poisons bare-handed, shoveling the stuff into the bellies of the planes and kickin’ a clump loose with our feet if it got stuck. That’s why I’m fallin’ apart now. Fingers first, then this old leg of mine …” He whacked his leg hard with a serving spoon, making Abby jump. “Wooden,” he said, laughing, forbidding her look of horror.
“No need to look sad, little gal. I lived the life I wanted, and then, when I was startin’ to wear down, I met Jack up in Wyoming. He was fresh out of college, doing some geology work and chompin’ at the bit. I knew right away he had some of that same wildness in him, like me. He’d broken his collarbone kayaking down some river—remember, Jack?—and I told him if he wanted to see rivers he’d better get to Colorado before he got himself killed. And Jack, he knew I was asking for help even if I was too proud to come out and say it.”
“Pop—” Jack frowned and shook his head, but the old man wasn’t going to be stopped mid-say.
“Yup, he took my run-down old cabin and turned it into this place. He built it with his bare hands so’s I could own somethin’ worthwhile for once in my life. Now he’s ended up takin’ care of the place and me both, better than any son could’ve done.” His eyes rested on Jack with so much open affection, Abby felt her throat close tight around tears.
Jack sat without moving a muscle, staring down at the tabletop. Pop cuffed him lightly on the shoulder and went on talking. “Hey, this here’s what I wanted to tell. Jack—he loves the rivers the way I loved those planes. Ask to see his maps,” the old man suggested, grinning.
“Pop, you show her your crystals. She doesn’t want to see any maps.” Jack leaned back, finally released from the emotion of Pop’s words. “Besides,” he added, locking his hands behind his head, “she hates rivers.”
“Colorado rivers!” Abby protested. “Fast rivers with rapids and holes and crazy people floating down them in tiny, breakable little rubber rafts and boats that look like matchsticks!”
Jack gave a husky laugh. “What other kind of rivers are there?”
“Oh, slow-moving lazy rivers that wind through mangrove swamps or between live oaks hung with beards of Spanish moss.” Lacing her fingers under her chin, she smiled dreamily. “The Suwannee. The Wekiwa. The St. Johns and the Peace and the Withlacoochee. Don’t they sound friendly—even with alligators sunning on the sandy banks?” She winked, making both men laugh, caught as they were in the spell of her charm.
Finally Pop insisted on doing the cleaning up, so Abby followed Jack outside. She sat down on the top step of the porch, arms around her knees, and stared across at the mountains. The wind, crisp and cool, lifted her hair, tossing it about her face in golden curls. Jack was sitting with his back against the roughhewn wood of the house, watching her.
She turned and caught him at it again. “Jack, stop looking at me like that!” She laughed, her cheeks burning.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Like what?”
“You know like what. Just stop it.”
“How else can I memorize your face, Abby? Besides”—he turned his glance to the mountains—“it’s the same way I look at those peaks.” He nodded at the far-off, snow-clad summits. “Or at a ten-mile stretch of wild water. There’s something there that talks to my heart.”
“Jack, don’t,” she pleaded. “Be nice. Talk about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. The lodge. Your rafting company—what do you call it? G & D White Water Rafting? Tell me about Bear Dempsey and how you became partners. Tell me about how long your season is, and how many tourists you take out, and how many fall in! Tell me anything, Jack. Tell me about the mountains—” She stubbornly turned her face away and stared out at the peaks. “Out there—that’s where you belong.”
“Hey, I’m not Grizzly Adams. I’m a very civilized kind of guy.”
“Sure, you simply like to take chances, maybe get yourself killed.” She tossed her head and sighed. “Anyway, I can’t imagine you anywhere but here.”
“Funny. I was thinking about taking a trip south.”
Shaking her head, Abby laughed softly. “No, I can’t see you in the South.
Too big. Too tall. You need the mountains: Fourteen thousand feet for a backdrop. No, in Florida, you’d tower over the palms, frighten away the flamingos, stride from Tampa to Cocoa leaving sinkholes in your wake!”
“Very funny!” He moved over beside her and ruffled her hair. “And I thought you were the kind of person who hates exaggeration. Who likes to look at everything with an honest eye.”
“But that is honest, Jack Gallagher. That’s how I’ll always remember you: Bigger than life. Swinging down over that cliff to rescue me, carrying me back up to the top as if I didn’t weigh more than a sack of feathers—”
“You don’t.”
“I do!” She giggled. “Who do you think tastes all my cooking?” She lifted one shoulder in a girlish, flirtatious way, then froze. Letting both shoulders drop, she hid her face in her hands.
He pulled her close, wrapping one arm around her trembling shoulders. “What is it?” His voice was a harsh whisper, stirring the hair that fell across her cheek. “Talk to me, Abby!”
“That’s the trouble,” Abby said. “All of a sudden it’s like I don’t know who Abby is. Not out here. Not with you. Jack, I’m not some little college coed, all flirty-eyed and teasing. And here I am, giggling, playing the role. I’m twenty-nine, a grown woman with responsibilities and a business; a serious, hardworking person. That’s all!”
“Maybe you’re all that—and more.”
“Maybe. But I just don’t think this is the time or place to find out.”
“Why not?”
“Because in”—she glanced at her watch—“four hours I’m going to be on a plane headed home, and you’ll be here, running your rafting business, your lodge, your rivers, and I’ll be in Mount Dora running my restaurant. That’s the way it is.”
Jack lowered his gaze to the soft flutter of pulse at her throat. He was so silent, so still, she wondered for a moment if he was counting her heartbeats.
Then without warning he curved his body toward her and pulled her into the circle of his arms. He caught her off balance and lifted her up, up and against him, and held her there as he let his shoulders drop back down against the porch floor. She was resting on his chest, her breasts flattened against his shirt, her face inches from his.
“This is no way to have a conversation, Gallagher.”
“I’m tired of conversations. Remember, I’m a man of few words.”
She saw the smile in his eyes. And then he was kissing her. His mouth brushed cool and firm against the velvet softness of her lips. “I can’t let you go away. I won’t.”
A deep stirring of arousal softened her sadness. She kissed his face, his eyes, brows, mouth, chin. “There’s nothing you can do about it, Gallagher.”
“I’ll make you forget Florida.”
Abby leaned back against his arms and pointed at the sky. “You see that sky? In Florida it’s endless, and the clouds roll over from the Gulf, tall as mountains piled on mountains.”
He kissed her, drawing his tongue slowly up the hollow of her throat.
“Hear that bird? At home I have a mockingbird that sits in my own orange tree and sings every song that birds ever learned.”
He kissed her eyelids, first one and then the other, with incredible tenderness.
“Feel that air?” she whispered, letting her arms circle his neck. “At home it’s soft and balmy, scented with hibiscus and gardenia and jasmine. And it blows through the palmettos and touches your skin like a lover.”
He kissed her mouth, sliding his hands over her skin, touching her gently, but with great passion.
Abby kissed him back, passionately, her eager, hungry mouth turning and turning to fit his, to taste his kisses, his heat, his sweetness. Breathless, she kissed his lips and slid her tongue into the corner of his mouth, along his lips. His kisses were fierce and demanding, and deep within her she felt desire rise and burn, hot as a flame.
But then reality tapped her on the shoulder. “Stop—no, Jack, really. We shouldn’t.…” She struggled in his arms.
“Who says we shouldn’t? Every damn inch of me says we should!”
“Me too!” she whispered, pressing against him for just one more delicious second. Then she sat up, drawing her knees to her chest and locking her arms around them. Her breath came in short little gasps. “That’s how I know I shouldn’t. Because I want to so much.”
“Oh, great. What are you, a Puritan? Do you sleep on a bed of nails?”
Abby gave a shaky little laugh. “The last thing I want to talk to you about, Gallagher, is where or how I sleep.”
On the far side of the house, the door slammed. Pop came around, carrying a pick ax over one shoulder. “ ’Scuse me, folks, I’m taking one of the Jeeps and going up the peak to see what I can find. See you kids later.”
He left silence in his wake.
Abby drew a slow, steadying breath. “Jack? Why don’t you show me those maps Pop talked about?”
“No.” He sat up and stared off across the mountains, his arms folded across his chest.
Abby frowned. “Why not? Obviously it’s not a secret. Other people know about it—”
“Dammit, you’re not other people. I don’t know why the hell not—but you’re not! You’re special—and you won’t like it.”
“Good,” she said, standing up quickly and smoothing the front of her skirt. “Right now I need something not to like. Or do you just want to drive me back?”
Silently he stood, took her hand, and led the way. In his room there was a stone fireplace, a heavy oak chest and his bed. The windows faced the peaks, and one wall was covered with maps. Abby recognized the maps of the rivers, the same kind the river rats had been studying back at their base camp.
“What do the pushpins mean?”
“The ones I’ve already run.”
“And the different colors?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath that stretched his shirt tight across the muscles of his chest. “Different degrees of difficulty for the rivers and rapids. Green is Class I: Novice. Small waves, clear passage.”
“There aren’t too many of those. What’s red? You’ve got plenty of them.”
He narrowed his eyes at her obvious sarcasm. “I told you you weren’t going to like this.”
“That’s okay. So?”
He gave her a long, hard stare, with just a hint of a smile twitching at his stern mouth. “Red’s Class V: Expert. Long and violent rapids, steep gradient. Extremely difficult.”
“And this?” She popped a black pin out between thumb and forefinger and held it up like a challenge between them.
He regarded her with his dark, knowing eyes. “That is Class VI: Extraordinarily difficult—nearly impossible, and very dangerous.”
“That’s what I thought.” She nodded and dropped the little black pin into his hand. Sighing, she gave him a bright, false smile. “That was just what I needed.”
“Abby—” He reached for her hand.
“But if it wasn’t enough, look at all these pictures.” She pointed to a dozen small black-and-whites stuck on the wall. “Look at you, smashed and bashed, but always that same triumphant grin! Yup—”
“Cut it out!” he said with a growl, pulling her close. “I’m alive, aren’t I? You bet I am!” Pushing his hands into the pale golden cloud of her hair, he tipped her face up to his. His fingers brushed the nape of her neck, and shivers went up her spine.
He stopped mid-kiss and wrapped her tightly in his arms. “Hey, something walk across my grave?” he whispered.
“Hush!” she yelped. “Don’t you say that! Never, not even joking! Oh, you—you don’t care anything about your life. You’re willing to risk too much. Dare too much. You’re crazy, and you make me crazy!”
“A little crazy may be good,” he whispered, stopping her words with his lips.
She ran her hand lightly up his back and across his shoulders, feeling the heat of his body through his shirt. “Just, please, be careful.”
“Stay, and I’ll be careful.”
Abby pulled away, startled into total seriousness. “What?”
“Stay.”
“I can’t,” she said simply. “I have to go home. I want to go home. Oh, Jack, you really don’t know me at all. I have my own dreams. Small ones. Attainable ones, if I work hard enough. And responsibilities: A mother, a father, a sister I’m helping to raise, God love her, two cats to keep safe from alligators. I can’t stay. I wouldn’t stay. I won’t.”
The word echoed in the room.
“Then we’d better get going.” His voice had a rough, unexpected edge.
“Yes. We’d better.” Abby turned and headed out of the room. “I left my bag in the kitchen.” Jack followed her silently. She grabbed her bag and faced him, fighting to hold her voice steady. “You’ll tell Pop good-bye for me?”
“Yes.”
They hardly spoke on the ride back to town. Jack pointed out a peak in the distance and told her its name. He stopped for two deer that grazed at the edge of the road, a doe and her fawn. And Abby smiled, leaning out the Jeep door for a closer look, marveling at the dark, liquid eyes, the incredibly narrow legs that carried them away in perfectly matched leaps and bounds when Jack lightly tapped the horn. She thanked him for that, and for the day and lunch.…
“Tomorrow?” he asked when he pulled to a stop in front of her motel.
“I can’t believe we got here so fast,” she said, averting her face. “That cost me twenty dollars this morning!”
“Tomorrow?” he insisted.
“I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“Can’t I drive you down to the airport?”
“No.” She shook her head firmly. “Better not.”
“Well—maybe I’ll see you again.”
Her eyes slid to his face, then quickly away; she was afraid he’d see the tears welling there. It was hard to talk, so she shook her head again, then grinned. “Nope. I doubt it. You’ve got rivers to run. I’ve got a restaurant to run.” She slipped quickly out of the Jeep and slammed the door shut between them, then offered a little smile. “But it was fun—”
“No, it wasn’t,” he said, not moving. One arm rested across the back of the seat she had left empty. The other held hard to the steering wheel. He stared at her. Then, with a brash wave, he gunned the engine and was gone.
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