Refuge Cove

by Janet Dailey

  “Comfortable?”

  “Don’t even ask.”

  “It won’t be for long,” he said, striding out. “Let me know if you hear anybody behind us.”

  “What if it’s a bear? Will you drop me and run?”

  “Don’t tempt me, lady.”

  “My name is Emma.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Emma,” he muttered. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  At least the woman wasn’t hard to carry. She was a delicate thing, her bones almost weightless, like a bird’s. And she lay over his shoulder like a trusting child. John was painfully aware of his hand, resting across the backs of her legs in a way that was almost intimate. The thin, wet fabric of her jeans clung to her thighs. He could feel her shivering as the chilly darkness of night crept around them.

  Emma. A prim, old-fashioned kind of name. For some reason it seemed to suit her.

  What kind of man would chase a woman—especially a fragile little thing like her—through the forest with dogs and a gun? She’d said it was a long story. He wouldn’t mind hearing it. But she could tell it to the police in Ketchikan. Her troubles were none of his business.

  Besides, a woman didn’t have to be big and strong to destroy a man. John knew that all too well.

  A rising moon crept over the high peaks above the tree line. In the glow of its light he could see the plane, where he’d left it at the end of the small lake. He lengthened his stride, waded to the plane, and set her down with her bare feet on the float. “Climb aboard,” he said, opening the passenger door.

  When she hesitated, he clasped her waist and boosted her up to the seat. Her teeth were chattering. “My coat’s on the seatback behind you,” he said. “Put it on and fasten your belt. It’s liable to be a bumpy ride out of here.”

  After closing the door he went around the plane, buckled himself into the pilot’s seat, put on his headphones, and started the engine. He only hoped he could manage to be in the air before the woman’s crazy husband showed up with his bear rifle and dogs. Maybe they’d just had a lover’s spat. Maybe if he hadn’t interfered, they would have patched things up and walked home hand in hand. But what was done was done. He was in this mess for the duration.

  After turning the plane around, he aligned it to take off into the wind. He glanced at his passenger to make sure she was securely belted. Wrapped in his old sheepskin flight jacket, she was gazing straight ahead, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The roar of the engine drowned out anything they might have said to each other.

  The short takeoff distance was a worry. But the wind that swept in across the narrows was strong and steady. Setting his jaw, he opened the throttle, revved the engine to 2,100 rpm, and pulled back on the yoke. The Beaver shot across the water, lifting off just short of the tall spruces. The floats grazed the treetops as the plane soared skyward.

  * * *

  Emma had forgotten to breathe. As the plane leveled off, she exhaled and tried to relax. She was cold, muddy, scared, and exhausted, and she had no idea where this grim, impersonal man was taking her. But anyplace would be better than where she’d been.

  Her nervous hands twisted her plain, gold wedding band. The first moment she’d felt it slide onto her finger, her whole being had flooded with joy. What a trusting, innocent fool she’d been. If she’d known the truth, she would have flung the ring on the ground and run for her life. Now, as she huddled on the narrow passenger seat, she sensed that her nightmare was far from over. Boone was still out there somewhere—and escaping him would not be as simple as flying away in a stranger’s airplane.

  This was her first flight in anything smaller than an airline jet. The cockpit looked like something out of a World War II movie. The dashboard—or whatever it was called—was a maze of dials, gauges, buttons, and levers. It looked devilishly complicated, but the man at the controls made flying the plane look as easy as driving a car.

  The fuselage quivered and rattled with every gust of wind. The engine roared in her ears. Looking out the side window, she glimpsed trees like dark velvet—and then, in the distance a glimmer of electric lights.

  Her stomach lurched as the plane made a rapid descent and zoomed over what appeared to be scattered buildings edging dark water. A forested island flashed past her view as the engine slowed. The floats skimmed the water as the plane settled like a seabird onto the lapping waves.

  Revving the engine slightly, the pilot turned the plane around and taxied back toward the lights on shore. He hadn’t said a word to her—but even if he had, she wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the engine. Once they could talk to each other, he’d be asking plenty of questions.

  After winding through channels, the plane stopped alongside a long, narrow floating dock. When the pilot cut the engine, the silence was almost startling.

  Emma held her tongue until he’d removed his headphones. “So, what is this place?” she asked. “Where are we?”

  A ghost of a smile tightened his lips. “Welcome to Refuge Cove,” he said.

  CHAPTER 2

  John climbed out of the Beaver and left Emma in the cockpit while he secured the plane to the dock and lifted out the mail pouch for delivery to the post office in nearby Ward Cove. His ten-year-old Jeep Wrangler was on the far side of the graveled parking lot. He started it up, parked near the end of the floating dock, and walked back down to help Emma out of the plane.

  “Hello, John Wolf,” she said as he opened the passenger door. “Since you didn’t introduce yourself, I did some snooping. I found your name on the plane’s registration.”

  “You could’ve asked.” He held out his hand.

  “When?” She let him guide her onto the float and support her step to the dock. “Should I have asked you while we were ducking bullets, or maybe while you had me slung over your back like a sack of coal?”

  “Well, since you know it now, I guess that doesn’t matter. That’s my Jeep next to the dock. You can thank me for sparing your feet from the parking lot.”

  “Thanks.” She fell silent beside him, taking careful steps on the damp surface.

  What now? John asked himself. He hadn’t invited this helpless woman into his life, and he had no obligation to keep her. Common sense dictated that he drive her into Ketchikan, drop her off at the police station, and forget he ever saw her. No complications, just an interesting memory.

  But she was cold, muddy, barefoot, and probably still scared half to death. Unless there was something in the pocket of her jeans, she appeared to have no money and no identification. Dumping her at the police station would be like leaving a storm-soaked kitten on the front step of the animal pound.

  Besides, against his better judgment, he’d become curious. She’d mentioned a husband, and he’d noticed that she was wearing a gold wedding band. What was her story? What kind of bastard would chase his wife into the forest with dogs and a rifle?

  Or maybe the question should be what kind of woman would drive her husband to that kind of rage in the first place?

  * * *

  The engine was already running in the Jeep, the heater roaring full blast. Emma sank into the leather seat, savoring the heavenly warmth.

  “I don’t believe I thanked you,” she said. “You literally saved my life.”

  “I did what anybody would do.” He seemed uncomfortable with her gratitude.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked as he shifted into reverse and backed the Jeep away from the dock.

  “Up to you,” he said. “After I drop off the mail, I can leave you at the police station in Ketchikan, or you can come home with me for the night.”

  She looked slightly startled. “Would that be all right with your wife?”

  “No wife. Just me. But I’ve got a spare room, a shower, and a washer and dryer for your clothes. You can talk to the police in the morning. Your choice. I’m not trying to talk you into anything.”

  Emma studied his clean-chiseled profile in the faint light.
Could she trust him? Maybe she was being too cautious. After all, the man had saved her life. But given what had happened the last time she’d trusted a man, she had every right to be suspicious.

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “Not that you’re familiar with the area, but my cabin’s a couple of miles off Revilla Road, past Talbot Lake, on an old logging road. If you’re not comfortable with that, I can leave you at a hotel in town. Think it over.”

  Emma weighed her new reality. She wasn’t ready to talk to the police, especially since Boone had bragged about being friends with some of the officers. She didn’t have money for a hotel. She didn’t even have shoes or a change of clothes. She was filthy, exhausted, and scared that Boone would still come after her. Whether she liked the idea or not, this wasn’t a good time to be on her own. And this taciturn stranger was the only refuge she had.

  “I’ll take you up on your offer,” she said. “Thanks—and I’ll try not to be any trouble.”

  “Fine. For what it’s worth, you’re already trouble. I’ve had a few house guests over the years, but never a runaway wife.”

  A knot tightened in Emma’s stomach. He had thrown down the challenge, and she owed him the truth. It was time to come clean.

  “You said it was a long story,” he prompted her. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “For starters, you can tell me the name of your husband. Maybe I know him.”

  She stared down at her hands. “His name is Boone Swenson.”

  “Good God!”

  The Jeep swerved slightly before he corrected his jerk of the wheel. “You’re married to Boone Swenson?”

  “I take it you know him.”

  He touched the brake as a deer bounded into the headlights and disappeared on the far side of the road. The release of his breath was slow and controlled. “I do know him,” he said. “And if you don’t mind saving your story until I’ve dropped off the mail, I’ll listen to every word.”

  * * *

  John checked in the mail pouch. Then, leaving Ward Cove, he turned onto Revilla Road and headed the Jeep toward home. He kept his eyes on the road as she began. She was brutally honest, sparing herself nothing.

  A lonely, naïve woman, past thirty, desperately wanting love and a family, she’d gone to a singles dance at her church in Salt Lake City. There she’d met a man who’d swept her off her feet—tall, blond, rugged—a bearded Viking warrior in a Pendleton shirt.

  That would be Boone all right. Handsome and charming as the devil. Back in high school he’d boasted that he could get any girl he wanted—and did. Evidently he hadn’t changed.

  “I thought he was the answer to my prayers,” she said. “He showed me photos of this beautiful log house and told me he needed a wife and children to make it a home. But he didn’t have time for a long courtship because he had to fly back to get his house and boat ready for winter. He could meet me in Ketchikan, he said, and we’d be married there before we left for his home in the bush.”

  She fell silent as John made a left turn onto the road that led through the forest to his cabin. He could imagine the rest of the story. Boone was a natural-born con artist. He’d hooked this innocent woman and reeled her in like a fish on a line.

  But that didn’t mean he should start feeling sorry for her, John reminded himself. There was no way he’d want to get involved in this mess. He was putting her up for the night. That was all. Tomorrow her problems would be just that—her problems.

  “Within two weeks, I’d quit my job as a first grade teacher,” she said, continuing her story. “I moved out of my apartment, bought a ticket on Alaska Airlines, and cashed out the seventeen thousand dollars in my savings account. Boone said I should bring cash, because there weren’t any banks where we were going.” She shook her head. “Like the fool I was, I took him at his word.”

  “We’re here.” John pulled up to the log cabin he’d inherited from his grandfather. It was a solid home, not large but comfortable. The old man had built it two generations ago, when his family was young. John had added a garage for storing his Jeep and snowmobile and the freezer for his winter meat supply. He’d also paid for a top-of-the-line power generator. A high water tank had a line to the kitchen and bath area.

  He parked and went around the Jeep to open the door for Emma. She slid off the seat, easing her weight onto her lacerated feet. He offered an arm to help her onto the porch. The hand that gripped his sleeve was small and cold.

  “The rest of the story can wait till you’re warmed up,” he said. “Come on.”

  Clouds had rolled in across the darkening sky. The wind had freshened, smelling of rain. John could hear Emma’s shallow, rapid breathing as he opened the door. She sounded scared, but he could understand that. The woman had been through hell. But that didn’t make him her knight in shining armor. He would keep her for one night. Tomorrow he would drop her off someplace where she could get help.

  “It’s all right,” he assured her. “You’ll be safe here. Come on in.”

  * * *

  Inside the dark cabin, Emma waited while John stepped away to turn on a lamp. What she saw was a long room with log walls and open rafters. At one end was a rudimentary kitchen with shelves above a counter and an ancient-looking fridge and gas stove. At the other end was a tall river stone fireplace faced by a well-worn overstuffed love seat with a woolen blanket in a colorful Native American pattern hung over the back. A stack of books rested on a side table, next to a reading lamp. There was no TV.

  A hallway led off one side of the living room to what must’ve been an added wing. Old photographs, in handmade wooden frames, hung on the walls.

  Rustic and cozy were words that came to mind. But the room was also chilly. Shivering, Emma pulled the sheepskin flight jacket around her. John moved to the fireplace, where he opened a box of matches, and lit the logs and kindling that were already laid for a fire.

  Now that he’d turned away from her, in the light, Emma saw that his straight ebony hair was pulled back into a leather-wrapped braid that hung down to the space between his shoulders. He was Native American, she realized. How could she have missed that earlier?

  As the flames caught, he disappeared down the hallway and came back with a faded plaid flannel bathrobe. “You’ll want a shower. Toss your wet clothes into the hall. I’ll put them in the wash. Soap and towels are in the bathroom. The spare bedroom is the door on the right.”

  John Wolf was a man of few words, Emma reflected as she returned his coat, took the robe, and carried it back down the hall. It went without saying that he wasn’t pleased to have her here. Maybe that had something to do with her being married to Boone. She shouldn’t have been surprised that the two men knew each other. They appeared to be about the same age, and Ketchikan was a small town.

  But were they friends or enemies? Questions twisted the frayed knot of her nerves. After what she’d been through today, she couldn’t rule out anything.

  Had Boone known whom he was firing at when he’d shot at them in the twilight? Had he shot to kill, or had the near-misses been deliberate?

  If Boone knew John and had recognized him earlier, he could show up here demanding to claim his wife. Could she count on John to protect her, or would he hand her over to her lawful husband?

  For all she knew, the two men could even be friends. John could be planning to call Boone on his cell phone the minute she got into the shower.

  Either way, she knew better than to feel safe here. But right now she had nowhere else to go.

  The small bedroom was spotless, the twin bed covered with a Native American blanket and made up with military precision. The upper part of a double wall shelf displayed model planes and boats, and beautiful little figures of bears, seals, and walruses, hand-carved from beechwood. The row of well-thumbed books—mostly adventure stories written for young boys, filled the lower shelf. An Alaska travel poster, showing an eagle in flight, was thumbtacked to on
e wall. An ancient-looking black bearskin, laid next to the bed, lent a little warmth to the cold wooden floor.

  This was a boy’s room, carefully, even lovingly arranged. But Emma had seen no boy.

  Standing on the bearskin rug, she laid the robe on the bed and stripped off her wet, muddy clothes. Even her plain pink cotton bra and panties were soaked. She hesitated. An image flashed through her mind—her intimate garments in John Wolf’s hands as he put them in the wash. A warm flush crept up her throat and into her cheeks.

  But she was being silly now. Shivering in the cold room, she peeled off the undergarments and wrapped them in her shirt, then slipped on the bathrobe. The worn flannel was soft against her bare skin. The scent that rose from its folds blended clean soap and a hint of male sweat.

  Opening the door, she tossed her wet clothes into the hall and found the bathroom. The stacked, apartment-sized washer and dryer sat in a niche outside the bathroom door. The shower was a prefab model. Exposed pipes connected to a small water heater. The arrangement looked primitive, but when she turned it on, the hot water was heavenly. It took all her willpower to turn it off after a couple of minutes to save the precious supply.

  With a towel around her wet hair and John’s oversized robe wrapping her body, she walked back into the kitchen. Her lacerated feet were sore. They stung with every step.

  The table was set with two mismatched plates. A pot of chili simmered on the stove. John turned away from stirring it.

  “Sit here,” he said, indicating one of the two kitchen chairs. “I want to check your feet.”

  She sat down, making sure the robe covered her knees. After picking up a jar of salve, a pair of rolled-up tube socks, and a box of bandages from the counter, he pulled out the other chair and took a seat facing her, laying a towel across his knees. “Give me your foot,” he said.

  Emma raised one foot. Resting the heel on the towel, he opened the jar and began rubbing salve on the fresh scrapes and scratches. At his touch, warmth trickled up her leg. She willed herself to ignore it. In the silence, she could hear the washer running and the night wind whistling through the trees.