“Wilderness or city streets, I’m up to the challenge.” As long as Mother Nature wasn’t in a devilish mood.
He captured her hand, enveloping it in his big one. “So the princess has a competitive streak. Wanna make it a little more interesting?”
A bet. But not for money. The gleam in his eyes was for an entirely different prize. His heat seeped into her fingers and up her arm, threatening to infuse her with his sensuality, to cloud her judgment. She yanked her hand away. “No bets. I grew up with a father and brothers so competitive that the Sox and Yankees’ rivalry pales by comparison. I can field any pitch you send my way, Mr. Baseball.”
Sam’s smile staggered her senses. “You got it.” He winked. “You’re lucky this is Wilderness Immersion and not Wilderness Survival. You’d have to make it with only a fish hook and a tarp for a tent.”
“My prayers have been answered.”
Still grinning, he retrieved the bags and held them up. “I have two-man tents that are really for one person and four-man tents for two people. We can cut down on equipment if you’ll share a tent with me.”
“In your dreams.”
“Well then, how about—"
“Not me. Nuh-uh. I ain’t doin’ it. No way.” Young Frank’s strident tone rose in pitch with his temper. “I ain’t doin’ no cooking and I ain’t digging no sh—"
“Francisco Howard Lopez, you stop right there!” Nora grabbed the boy’s upper arm. She looked as if she didn’t know whether to shake her son or paddle his bottom.
“This trip sucks!” The boy wrenched away and stalked off. He flopped down on a boulder at the water’s edge. He lowered his head between his bony knees.
All the adults stood in silence, paused in stowing the coolers and other equipment. Annie pursed her lips and blew out a breath. She’d come within a hair’s breadth of making a fool of herself exactly like this obnoxious brat.
“Whoo-boy,” said Sam in a low voice, rubbing the back of his neck. Then louder, “Listen up. Let’s finish getting these canoes set. You want everything secure so they balance evenly on the water.” He strode along the lake edge to check the canoe that the two men were loading.
The stocky man introduced as Carl said, “These canoes look like y’all whacked ‘em with a sledgehammer. Will they hold up?” His southern accent stretched sledgehammer into ten syllables.
Sam handed him a tent bag. “No problem. These Old Town canoes could make it through Class III’s.”
Class III’s. Something to do with white water. They weren’t paddling white water. God, if they were, she didn’t want to know.
Annie followed as far as her duffel. She slathered her exposed skin with sunscreen. At least the weather was summer hot. “Where’re we headed, Coach?”
At the nickname, he flashed a grin that curved his mustache and tingled the hairs on her arms. “Across Gomagash Lake to the northeast side. It’ll take an hour or so to our campsite.”
She didn’t want his grin. Or any flirtation from the same kind of self-absorbed, arrogant man she’d left behind in New York. She didn’t want anything except directions on how to survive the week.
Her bag sealed, she hoisted it. “Which canoe?”
“The first one. We’ll choose paddles when everyone’s ready.” His eyes narrowed, deepening the tiny lines around them. “I have something to do first.”
He headed toward the rebel, still hunched in a fortress of scrawny arms and legs.
Annie watched Sam lower himself beside the boy. Ringing the lake, the rounded domes of mountains rose beyond the rippling blue waters. She inhaled the pine and cedar scents in the air. Beauty and peace for some. Hostility for her.
Sucking in a preparatory breath, she slid a tentative, sandaled foot into the water. No shock. No numb toes. The gently lapping lake felt tepid. Warm. Maybe this trip—no, expedition, according to Sam—wouldn't be so bad after all. She fitted her duffel and sleeping bag into the canoe’s broad center space, already laden with the camp stove and a plastic crate. Then she went to help Nora stow a cooler.
“Sorry about my kid.” Nora avoided her eyes. “His dad just remarried, and he’s mad at the world.”
Heat crept up Annie’s cheeks. “He just needs time.”
She should’ve perceived that the boy’s anger stemmed from more than selfish temper. Apparently Sam had realized exactly that. He squatted beside the boy in quiet conversation.
Maybe the jock had more depth than she imagined. As Justin had said. Annie Wylde, queen of superficial judgments. She sighed.
By the time they had everything loaded up, Sam returned with Frank in tow. Neither reported on their one-on-one, but the boy looked doomed to walk the plank.
Now that Frank had at least joined the group, Sam seemed to ignore him. Had they made a bargain of some sort? Annie could only watch and wait.
Straightening out the kid was not her problem. She had her own—surviving the trip, fulfilling her promises to Emma. She busied herself with her gear.
Back in guide mode, Sam verified the canoes’ balance. He made sure each person had the right size life vest and paddle. He stuck an extra paddle in each canoe, then donned a vest. “Everybody zip and clip. Check that your canoe partner is secure too.”
After locking up the storage shed, Sam waded in knee deep. “Even if you folks have paddled canoes before, a refresher on steering can’t hurt, especially for the person in the stern.”
At some point, he’d changed from flip-flops to water sandals like her Tevas. Only much bigger. At least size thirteens. To suit his long, muscular legs and tight buns. She tore her gaze away from his derrière when he eased into the first canoe, the one where she’d stowed her gear.
Oh no, she’d be paddling with Mr. Baseball.
***
Sam tried to hide his amusement at Annie’s shock when she realized he'd placed her with him. He watched her stifle a huff before climbing into the front of the craft. “All set, or does that yellow life vest clash with your outfit?”
“Only with my mood.” She sent him a look to match her tone. She clipped the vest, then slipped on her sunglasses against the sun’s glare.
After some steering practice and a lunch of ham sandwiches, apples, and brownies, everyone packed bottled water and snacks in their net day-bags. The party shoved off from the shore and pointed the canoes east.
Sam listened to the wind rustling the pine branches and the plash of canoe paddles. Tiny purple and white flowers poked up in the marsh grass at the water’s edge. He inhaled the fresh scents of clear water and damp earth. Damn, he loved the Gomagash Wilderness. From a zippered pocket in his life vest, he extracted a cookie.
Popping the treat in his mouth, he lifted his face to the warmth of the sun. He dipped his paddle, gliding the canoe forward to lead the way. A few dark clouds hovered in the northwest but posed no threat. A light westerly helped them along. A good omen.
To maintain their course, he switched sides with his paddle in a smooth motion that didn’t miss a beat of his companion’s slower rhythm.
Occasionally he turned to check the other two canoes following them side by side. The two men had partnered up, leaving mother and son together in grim silence. Carl Pulsifer was a Richmond, Virginia, contractor. His initial skepticism had shown him to be a glass-half-empty kind of guy, not just a good ol’ boy ready for good times away from the business.
Ray Hadden, a computer programmer, had an intense manner that unnerved Sam. “I want an adventure vacation. Can you deliver?” he’d asked. Sam had blathered the company line about the wilderness experience and had promised to do his best.
Nothing Sam could do about Frank’s attitude for the time being. Maybe the kid would work out some hostility with his paddle. His mom wanted to reach him, but didn’t know how. And the princess...
Annie plied her paddle in the twenty-foot canoe’s bow, her spine as rigid as a tent pole. At least she wasn’t blind to the beauty around her. More than once she stared at the mountains an
d checked out a duck lolling in the shallows.
Sunlight on the ruffled surface of the water threw sparkles across her cheek when she turned. She had kiss-me lips, fine features, and a determined set to her jaw. She radiated almost as much attitude as the kid, mostly directed toward Sam.
The woman needed to loosen up, enjoy the scenery, go with the flow. His gaze swept down her slim back to a lush flare of hips. Okay muscles, but canoeing would lay new demands on gym toning. Initial stiffness should ease before they hit the rapids on Eagle River.
Leading the expedition meant avoiding sex with her. She wasn’t built like those anorexia poster girls he’d dated in Boston. Hers was a real body—trim with enough softness to hold on to.
Too bad the timing wasn’t right for a brief, hot affair. He sure had nothing to offer. They had little in common, but he liked her spunk, the spirit in her silvery eyes. Sparring with her added relish to this hot-dog trip.
Shadows lurked in the depths of those eyes. Shadows that might be the real reason behind this trip. “Yo, princess, rest for a minute. Don’t throw out your arm the first day.”
“Don’t call me princess.” She lifted her paddle and laid it across the gunwales.
He grinned. “Registration form says you’re a reporter for the Messenger. Too many deadlines stress you out?”
She laughed, a warm, husky chortle that kindled sparks in his groin. “Something like that.” She offered nothing more, shifting to dip her paddle.
He could read that signal without a team book. Subject in foul territory. But he hadn’t struck out yet. He patted his vest in search of another snack. “Justin and I were buddies back in school, but I didn’t meet any more of the family until today. Your folks still live in Cape Elizabeth?” The bedroom community to Portland was one of the ritzier suburbs.
“Only summers. They have a condo in Florida for the cold months. My father retired from law practice a few years ago.”
“No legal eagles among the three kids. Was your dad disappointed?”
“He tried to recruit Justin. My brother loves the chase of police work but not the days he has to spend in court. Dad knew neither Thomas nor I would bite.” She peered back at him. “What about your family? Are they part of Moosewoods?”
“Dad is,” he replied. “My mom passed away five years ago. Dad retired from the paper mill then and helps Ben out from time to time. Guides an expedition or teaches fly fishing now and then, enough to keep busy.”
He refrained from mentioning Ben’s threat to replace him with his father. The old man could lead this expedition a hell of a lot better. He had more experience, more stories.
But damn it, Sam could do this. He could bench his resentments and play the jovial guide, the Maine character. Not a difficult group. No challenging terrain.
He expected no disasters, no serious white water. No sweat.
FOUR
“How did your parents feel about your baseball career?”
He laughed. “Mom was always afraid I’d get hurt. Guess she was right.” He held up his scarred hand.
“The same for your dad?”
“He cheered me on, figured it was my ticket out of a future operating a pulp machine or driving a skidder.” He gritted his teeth. He might be facing that future after all.
“And you, how do you feel about baseball? Is it the glamour and the crowds, or is it something else you love?”
No one had ever asked him exactly that. A rush of memories flooded his mind.
“It’s hard to put into words. The glamour and crowds? Never. That was a distraction. No, I loved baseball from the first time I ever played catch with Dad.” Backyard baseball with his dad and brother, the carefree days.
“Nostalgia, huh?” Annie flung the question over her shoulder. “What else?”
How could he tell her that he craved action and physical involvement like some people craved power or money? After a night’s sleep, he felt like hell until he had coffee and food, preferably something sweet. Then he needed action to feel alive. That meant sports or physical work or sex—yeah, sex.
And how could he tell her the rush he got on a baseball diamond drove him nearly as high as sex? Hell, he couldn’t.
Keep it clean, Kincaid.
“I love everything about the sport,” he finally said. “Strategies like a squeeze play or a fielder’s choice or stealing second. The tension of waiting to bat. Psyching out the pitcher. The sound and feel when the sweet spot on the bat connects with that leather sphere. Teamwork, even rehashing after a loss. And in the outfield, that last-chance catch at the fence. Nothing sweeter.”
She peered at him over her sunglasses. “Wow, I’m impressed. That was almost poetic.”
Man, too freaking poetic. What was he thinking? Maybe he should ask her a few questions. “So how did you get into—”
“Hey, Sam, is our campsite on that island?” Carl waved and pointed from the stern of his and Ray’s canoe.
Ahead of them a wooded island rose from the lake’s middle. Driftwood littered a sandy cove and led up an incline to thick pines and a tangle of underbrush.
“Nope. Head to the left and another half mile beyond the island.” Sam heard a muffled groan from Annie, but she kept paddling. He grinned at her determination. “The site’s a beauty. You’ll be glad you went the distance.”
Carl gave him a thumbs-up and kept paddling. In the bow, Ray stowed his water bottle and dug in with his paddle. In the other canoe, Nora reminded her son to drink water, but he shrugged her off.
At least he’s paddling. Sam hoped what he’d said to Frank back on shore wasn’t a bonehead play.
Over her shoulder, Annie said, “I studied the map of the other trip, but I don’t recall this part of the Allagash.”
“The Allagash Wilderness Waterway is a misnomer. Too much easy access and too crowded for wilderness immersion.”
“Of course. Much too civilized.” If sarcasm were acid, he’d have a hole in the canoe. Probably between his legs. “So where are we? Exactly.”
“I’ll show you a map later, but Gomagash Lake and the Gomagash Wilderness lie just east of the Allagash, on private lands not regulated by the park service. The owners—"
“A paper company?”
He frowned. A reporter would ask that. Paper companies owned most of the timberland in northern Maine, but the public could enjoy the waters. In most cases, state authorities policed recreation and hunting access. “Universal Paper. You got something against that?”
“I’m neutral. I’m the press, remember? During the flight here I had no trouble spotting clear-cuts. On the other hand, paper companies have done a lot for the state of Maine, but—”
“Like any big company, they need to be regulated and reined in. Is that it?”
She sent him a grin over her shoulder. “That’s where the press comes in. So if this area’s privately owned, the park service doesn’t maintain the campsites, like on the Allagash and the Penobscot?”
“Not here. The owners allow three guide companies access, one at a time. We share maintenance, along with their caretaker. We try to be unobtrusive and noninvasive.”
“To maintain the wilderness character of the area.”
“You catch on quick. Look off there to your left.” Sam indicated a jagged peak wearing a wreath of clouds. Bare rock slashed a white scar down its side. “That’s Renraw Mountain, the second highest in Maine, next to Katahdin. The Allagash flows around to the north of it, and the Eagle flows south out of it, along with a half dozen other streams.”
She propped her paddle and slipped her sunglasses down for a better look. A hint of a smile curved her lips. “You really love this, don’t you?”
Sam rested too. No more cookies, so he inhaled a handful of cheese crackers. He drank some water, and gestured to her to hydrate too. “Sure. Near as much as baseball. It’s home.”
“I’m trying to imagine feeling at home here.” She pulled a water bottle from her day-bag and tipped back her head.
He watched her throat work as she drank, admired her sleek neck, the lift of her breasts, and lust slammed into him like a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball.
She recapped the bottle. “You were telling me our location. Where do we go after the lake?”
He forced his attention back to paddling in time to avoid a rock. The woman was a menace. “The Eagle River takes us east to a series of ponds that lead south to our take-out on Big Loon Pond. The amphib pilot meets us there on Tuesday.”
“A week.” She shook her head. “I’ll take it one day at a time.”
They paddled in silence for a while. He watched the steep bank for familiar landmarks. A cow moose stood in the shallow, her long muzzle dripping water plants. At their approach, she stopped chewing.
“Thoreau said moose looked like great frightened rabbits. I’ve never bought that description,” Sam said.
“Their ears are sure big enough, but this one looks more nearsighted than frightened.” She twisted to peer at him. “Henry David Thoreau, huh?”
“Surprised I read?” Hell, he didn’t read much, but he’d nearly worn out his copy of The Maine Woods. “Thoreau was a snooty aristocrat and no environmentalist, but his account of trekking through the Maine wilderness was damned detailed and accurate. Holds up even today.”
After the moose splashed up the bank and disappeared, she said, “I heard you tell the boy about your hand. Tough, having to quit like that. Could you have stayed with the Sox, worked for the team in a different capacity?”
“I gave it a shot.” He could tell her some of it. “Worked in the office doing publicity.”
“But you didn’t stay.”
“It wasn’t baseball. Lasted less than a year. If I hadn’t quit they would’ve fired me. I’d sooner wear a noose than a necktie.” He grimaced at the memory.
“And let me guess. To an active guy like you, an office felt like a prison.”
“Prison? It was hell.” And he’d made things even worse.
She turned and peered over her shades as if waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she dipped her paddle. “I understand how you must have felt. But there are other teams, other baseball jobs. From when I worked in New York I know a couple guys with the Yankees. Maybe I could—”
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