Forever Instinct, The

by Delinsky, Barbara

  As the morning progressed, they moved slowly along, joining the Wild River Trail, winding westward. More than once the sky darkened, but the threatening downpour held off. More than once Jordanna gave a sigh of relief.

  “You’ve got rain gear, haven’t you?” Patrick asked, catching one of her fearful glances skyward.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve got it. That doesn’t mean I want to wear it.”

  He glanced at the wool sweater peering from the open neck of her jacket. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Mmm. Pretty toasty.”

  His gaze dropped. “How about your feet? Those things don’t look half as sturdy as my boots.”

  “These things,” she returned with a half smile, “are phenomenally comfortable. And warm. I think I’ll give them a good report. No blisters. No frostbite.”

  Patrick drew back an overhanging branch to allow them passage. “But if it rains? Will they keep you dry?”

  “Well, uh, that’s up for grabs.” She frowned in annoyance. “It wasn’t supposed to rain.” Then she scrunched up her nose and sent him a pleading look. “Do you think it will?”

  Patrick laughed aloud. “Your face. It’s amazing.”

  “Will it rain?” she repeated, reluctant to get into a personal discussion.

  He shrugged. “We’ll see. In time.’

  It didn’t, though as a precaution, they munched on trail snacks of raisins and candies, saving lunch for early afternoon when they reached Perkins Notch, where they’d be spending the night. When, after lunch, Patrick set out to lead the men to Red Brook for trout fishing, Jordanna opted to stay behind.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Patrick asked quietly while the others gathered their reels and rods.

  She gave a soft smile. “I’m sure. Fishing has never interested me.”

  “We’re all going. You’ll be here all alone.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” she quipped lightly, then took a deep breath and looked around the campsite. “I thought I’d take it easy. Maybe read. Maybe sleep. I could use the solitude.” She arched her brows. “And the shelter, should it start to pour.”

  “Don’t even think that,” Patrick advised, chucking her on the chin and turning. “Be good,” were his parting words as he loped off toward the others who were waiting. “We’ll be back by sundown. Have the home fire waiting.” There were several chuckles from the others as they moved off. Jordanna simply stood and looked after them until the path swallowed them up. Then, propping herself against the trunk of a gracious pine, she put her head back against its knobby spine and closed her eyes.

  It was quiet. She needed that. A far cry from her midtown Manhattan office, she mused, wondering for the first time how things were going, whether everything was running smoothly in her absence, what emergencies might possibly arise and how they would be handled when she was, for all practical purposes, incommunicado.

  Opening her eyes, she focused on the spot in the woods where Patrick had disappeared. He’d looked so hardy wearing his old faded jeans and boots, his wool jacket, his down vest. She liked him. That was part of the problem. She actually liked him.

  Quite unbidden, the image of Peter Kirkland formed in her mind, reconstructing itself from the memories she’d so firmly tried to relegate to oblivion. She’d liked him too… at first. No, she’d loved him. She’d been smitten by his charm, his physique, his sheer charisma. Too late she’d learned that he’d been smitten by the very same things. Increasingly he’d believed in his own press as the months of their marriage had gone by.

  It amazed her that she’d lasted three years. With a shudder she recalled the parties they’d gone to, she willingly at first, then with increasing reluctance when she’d found herself alone for much of the night with nothing to bolster her dignity but the fact that she was Peter Kirkland’s wife. She was an appendage, nothing more. In time she’d begun to resent that fact.

  Miraculously, given the cloistered nature of so much of her life, she’d grown. Or rather, she’d had time, and time aplenty, to analyze her existence and its shortcomings. She’d needed something to do, some identity of her own. Peter had not taken kindly to that conclusion.

  “Are you crazy? You don’t need to work. I make more than enough to support us. And I need you here. You’re my wife.”

  “But I’m stagnating, Peter. You’re off traveling half of the season. And when you’re here you’re either at practices or meetings or press conferences or… or… God only knows where.” She’d begun to have her suspicions, but she’d kept them to herself. “I need something of my own. Something to sign my name to.”

  “Seems to me you sign your name to a whole load of charge cards.”

  “I’m bored! Can’t you understand that?”

  “Frankly,” he’d returned with typical arrogance, “no. You’ve got me. You’ve got this house–”

  “And what am I supposed to do? Clean all day? Spend hours preparing a gourmet meal, never knowing whether you’ll come up with a last-minute meeting that you’ve just got to attend?”

  His eyes had hardened then, taking on an ugly gleam. “Jordanna, you’re being selfish. I’m the focal point of the team. I have to be there. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t! If you’re so important, you should be able to call the shots. Tell them your wife is waiting. Tell them you’ve got a prior engagement. Tell them to find someone else for a change.”

  “Someone else won’t do. They want me. And I like it that way.”

  “I know,” she’d muttered in defeat. “That’s half of the problem. But what about me? What about me, Peter?”

  “You can cook. You can clean. You can be waiting here for me when I get home. I’d think that would be enough.”

  “Well, it’s not!”

  He hadn’t even heard her. “Besides, what would people think if my wife went out on her own? And what could you possibly do? You’re not trained for anything–” he’d grinned smugly “–besides being my wife.” He’d put his arm around her rigid shoulder. “Come on, honey. One superstar is enough for the two of us. Come here. Give a kiss.”

  Flinching in disgust, Jordanna snapped herself from the past. It was done. Over. Peter Kirkland had charmed her once too often, once too shallowly, once too condescendingly. He’d used her as he had his cleats, valuing them for one purpose and one purpose alone, and that was to make Peter Kirkland run faster. Somehow, she mused, she suspected he’d loved his cleats more.…

  And now there was Patrick. Every bit as good-looking. Nearly as successful. Little boys. That’s what they were. Running into each other. Tripping over each other. Squeezing the life out of that poor, misshapen ball.

  But she did like Patrick. She couldn’t deny that fact. Much as she wanted to think him as egotistical as Peter, she couldn’t. But then, what did she have to judge him on? Three days and two nights in the woods of New Hampshire? Okay, so he could cook. So he seemed more than willing to do it. Hell, he was the only one who knew how to work the portable stove!

  Still, there were other things that puzzled her, not the least of which was his refusal to discuss football, his insistence that those days were over. While Peter was still milking his jock-high image for every penny it was worth, Patrick was off leading novice backpackers through the woods… when he wasn’t in an office ferreting out new ventures to back.

  Strange. It was strange. Too bad Patrick hadn’t been the one she’d met when she’d been nineteen.

  With a sigh, she pushed herself to her feet and, thrusting her hands in her pockets, wandered back along the trail they’d taken earlier, to No-Ketchum Pond. The land by the edge of the long, narrow pond was boggy, a floating mass of roots and moss she was careful to keep her distance from. No-Ketchum Pond. She smiled at the name and at Patrick’s explanation of it, even as she prayed the men were having better luck with their fishing at Red Brook. The thought of fresh trout for dinner was infinitely appealing.

  As was the thought of taking a nap, she decided
with a yawn. Pulling her collar higher against her neck, she returned to the shelter, set her sleeping bag atop one of the board bunks, climbed in and closed her eyes. When next she opened them, it was dark and raining and she was still alone.

  SLIPPING FROM HER SLEEPING BAG, Jordanna walked to the edge of the overhang and stared out at the pouring rain. Like the shelter they’d used Monday night, this one was enclosed on three sides. Here the fourth was partially fronted by the same weathered spruce logs as well. No tents tonight, she mused distractedly. At least she’d be spared that temptation… and its frustration.

  Tucking her hands deep in her pockets, she pondered the gloom, then looked back toward her pack. She had a flashlight. No – the lantern. It was there, under cover of the eaves, perched beside the small stove, which Patrick had unpacked earlier. Kneeling quickly, she lit it, feeling vaguely reassured by its amber glow. Then she sat beside it, knees to her chest, waiting, waiting, for the men to return.

  With each passing minute, she grew more concerned. Patrick had said they’d be back before dark. Yet it was dark and wet, and still there was no sign of humanity. Loath to imagine a mishap or worse, she directed her thoughts toward making something warm for the men’s return. Could she light the stove? She eyed the small contraption. Any number of times now she’d watched Patrick light it. She knew that the first thing she had to do was to fill it with fuel lest they run out midmeal. It was easily done and she had a match in hand when she realized that she’d need water. Unfortunately, the source of pure water was not as convenient to the campsite as it had been on the past two nights.

  Resigning herself to braving the rain, which was the least she could do given the soggy state the men would be in when they got back, she donned her rain suit, grabbed two pots and headed out. She’d barely left the campsite, though, when she stopped in her tracks, then returned to leave a note. He’d worry. She sensed it in her gut. And she didn’t want that.

  Replacing the small pad of paper and pen in her pack, she speared the note onto a corner of the stove within safe but visible distance from the lantern, then, hood up and flashlight in hand, set off again. Only after she’d doggedly struggled through the brush and reached the small spring Patrick had shown them earlier did she realize she might well have simply set the pots out in the rain. But that would have taken too long, she reasoned, and she was here. Somewhat cold, wet around the wrists, but here.

  Brushing dripping strands of hair from her brow, she filled the pots with water, clamped the flashlight under her arm and began to retrace her steps. One part of her hoped the men would be delayed that little bit longer so that she might have hot soup ready; the other part prayed they’d just be there.

  She was halfway back to camp and treading cautiously over the wet brush when the sound of something thrashing through the brush brought her to a frozen halt. Eyes wide, she trained her flashlight ahead, then glanced frantically around for a place to escape the big brown bear that surely approached.

  The figure that emerged as she stood paralyzed was indeed large and might have been brown, or black – it was hard to tell in a rain-soaked poncho – but, though angry, it was no bear.

  “Jordanna! My God, that was a dumb thing to do!” Patrick growled, stomping the last few feet to her and seizing her shoulders as though he would shake her. “I thought I said we traveled in groups. It’s pitch-black and pelting rain and the path’s poorly marked–”

  “I thought you were a bear!” Jordanna breathed, so relieved to find he was not that she couldn’t have cared if Patrick had indeed shaken her. Heedless of his dark mood, she sagged against him. Within seconds his arms slid around her back.

  “You scared the hell out of me!” he muttered. The gruffness in his voice gave further credence to his words, even as his arms tightened protectively.

  Jordanna buried her face against his throat as it lay exposed through the small V of his poncho. “You saw my note.”

  “Yeah. Just when I’d finished an ordeal of my own. I knew exactly how wet it was. And how dark. The spring’s a good ten minutes from camp. You might have gotten lost!”

  “I have a good sense of direction.”

  “You should have waited till we got back. One of us would have gone for water.”

  “I wanted to have something warm waiting.” She was aware of the musky smell of Patrick’s neck, unable to draw away even as her initial fright receded. The strength of his body was compelling. She relaxed against him, stealing precious moments of support as she might a forbidden luxury. “I couldn’t sit still. I was worried. What kept you?”

  He inched his chin against her hood until her forehead was bared to his jaw. “The rain. We found shelter under a grove of trees and kept hoping it would let up. Then the guys started arguing.” A hint of humor entered his voice. “Don wanted to move on. Larry wanted to wait. John tried to reason the whole thing out with the two of them.”

  “And Bill?”

  “Bill was really funny. He kept eyeing the sky, then the ground. You could see him calculating his chances. When the other three had reached an impasse, he growled and set off. We followed.”

  “Good for Bill.”

  “Not really. He was so hell-bent on being the leader that he missed a step, stumbled on a tree root and fell headlong into the mud.”

  “Oh, no!” Jordanna tipped her head back. “Was he hurt?”

  Patrick’s eyes locked with hers in the dark. “Only his pride. Poor guy. He’s real big on physical agility and coordination. It’s a good thing you weren’t there; he would have been mortified. He felt a little better when I tripped trying to help him up.”

  “You tripped?”

  “I do sometimes. I’m not perfect.” His message went far beyond a simple slipping in the mud. As Jordanna melted beneath his gaze, he raised a hand to brush her wet cheek. “I’m human. I’ve got faults. Not the least of which is this insane attraction to you.” His voice thickened. “So help me, it’s a good thing those guys are around. If not I would have stayed at the shelter making love to you all afternoon.”

  Jordanna felt the warmth of his breath by her lips and couldn’t demur when the hand he left on her back lowered, pressing her intimately closer. “It’s a good thing the guys are around,” she whispered, totally intoxicated by that same insane attraction. “I just might have let you.”

  “God, Jordanna!” he rasped, using both arms again to crush her against him. “Don’t say things like that.”

  “Why not?” she murmured against his neck. “You say them.”

  “Yeah. I’m a man. I’m the lusting beast here. Since I can’t exactly hide my physical state, I’ve got a right to speak my mind. But you’re a woman. You’re supposed to be the sensible one. You’re supposed to tell me how crazy it is, how it would never work. You’re supposed to push me away from you when I say things like that.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got buckets of water in my hands.”

  Patrick held her back to stare disbelievingly at the objects in question. “Damn it!” he exclaimed, coming to life. “Let me take those!”

  “It’s okay,” she reassured him quickly. In truth, she wanted him to hold her again.

  But he grabbed the pots and tossed his head toward the path. “You lead the way with the flashlight. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Lest she protest too much and make an utter fool of herself, Jordanna turned and began to pick her way along the hidden path. It took all of her concentration, which was a lucky thing. Otherwise she might have dwelled on her physical attraction to Patrick, and she didn’t want to do that. She wanted to relax, to get the most out of her vacation, to fully appreciate her time in the fresh outdoors.

  The rain continued at a torrential pace. The path was mucky and dark. It was colder than she would have believed possible without downright snow, and her hiking shoes were not terribly dry when she and Patrick finally arrived at the shelter. Fresh outdoors? She wondered, as she headed directly for her pack and dry clothes.

&n
bsp; Any dissension the men might have experienced during their return from Red Brook had been long since forgotten. Having already changed into dry things – leaving their wet ones strung on a makeshift clothesline, which offered Jordanna privacy of sorts – they were gathered around the stove in lively discussion of their admirable fishing skills. Jordanna listened with one indulgent ear, the other waiting to hear Patrick’s voice. When it was noticeably absent, she wondered if he too was changing clothes. On the other side of the line? She shot a glance through the legs of a pair of pants but saw nothing. And heard nothing. Between the patter of the rain on the roof overhead and the men’s constant chatter, she would have been unable to hear the swish of a shirt leaving his chest, the rustle of denim leaving his legs.

  But he wasn’t changing. Not yet, at least. Only when his tall form ducked between two sodden shirts did she realize that his pack was on her side of the shelter. Sitting cross-legged on the floor trying to assess the damage to her shoes, she looked up in surprise.

  Patrick took one look at her and halted abruptly. “Uh. I’ll come back later.”

  “No. No. It’s all right.”

  “Jordanna… .” His voice held taut warning, carrying with it an instant reminder of his words in the woods. Glancing down, she realized that she wore nothing but her long underwear. Though she was suitably covered from neck to ankle, the clinging fabric did nothing to hide any of her curves.

  As casually as she could, she swiveled on her seat and reached toward her pack for a dry shirt. “It’s all right,” she repeated, her voice less sure. Her pulse was suddenly racing, and she knew well its cause. For a minute she heard nothing but the sounds of her own ferreting, a ferreting that seemed to produce nothing but a mess in her pack. The light of the lantern played off the roof to cast her in the palest glow. It was enough for her to see what she was doing. Enough, she knew, for Patrick to see her too.