Cry of the Wild

by Catherine Anderson

  He smiled slightly. "No, I haven't, have I? Can we take that one question at a time, beginning with the second one? I didn't want you coming here because I was afraid it might be dangerous."

  "Dangerous? As in bears?"

  His eyes met hers. "I was more worried about two-legged killers, Crysta." Briefly, he told her about the night Der­rick had visited the office. "He had come across something at Blanchette that looked fishy—his word, not mine."

  "Something fishy." Intent, Crysta scooted forward to the edge of the cushion. "Did he say what? And how do you know it was something at Blanchette and not somewhere else?"

  "He wouldn't elaborate. You know Derrick and his ethics. Until he had some solid evidence, he didn't want to make any accusations. As for it being in Blanchette, that's an assumption on my part. 'Something fishy going on up here in Alaska' was what he said. I took that to mean it was something he'd run across that wasn't occurring at the con­struction sites in the lower forty-eight. That's why I'm go­ing through his briefcase, looking for clues. So far, I've found nothing."

  The nape of Crysta's neck prickled. She couldn't help re­calling her dream, the report of a gun echoing in her ears. "So you think Derrick came across something illegal within Blanchette and that the perpetrators tried to silence him?"

  "Exactly."

  "And earlier, when you sneaked off downstream. Why didn't you want me to know?'

  "I didn't want you involved." He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, sighing. "When you seemed so certain that Derrick wasn't dead, I got to won­dering if maybe the searchers had missed something. I fig­ured you'd never leave if you knew what I suspected, so I kept up the pretense about the bear."

  "Is my knowing such a bad thing?"

  "It will be if you start pressing the wrong people for an­swers... You could end up a bear statistic, like your brother."

  "That goes for you, as well. I'm a big girl, Sam."

  "And Derrick's sister. I wanted to put you on the first flight out, safely away from here. He would expect that of me.

  "Some of the tension eased out of Crysta's shoulders. She wasn't entirely convinced he was telling her the truth, but at least this story made a lot more sense than fee bear attack theory.

  "Flying me out to safety isn't in the cards, I'm afraid. Until Derrick's found, I'm here to stay."

  His mouth twisted in a smile. "Well, if you're bent on staying, Derrick would want me to keep an eye on you."

  Cryste. rolled her eyes. "Let me set you straight, Sam. Derrick is fee twin who usually needs caretaking."

  "Humor me."

  Pushing up from the sofa, she walked to the fire, hug­ging herself and rubbing her arms. "I want to be involved in everything. I won't be set on a shelf. If that's your idea of looking after me, it won't work."

  "I was planning to go downstream while you were asleep."

  "Then I'm going with you."

  "It's a long walk. And you're already tired. You might slow me down. I don't think-"

  "I'm not feet tired," she insisted, though she was.

  He stared past her at the fire for a moment. "All right. At least if you're with me, I'll know you're safe and not fol­lowing me or searching on your own."

  Crysta had expected more of an argument. She hesi­tated, studying him. If he was deceiving her, it would be much easier for him to harm her once they left the lodge.

  Chapter Eight

  As a precaution, Crysta made it a point to let Jangles, Riley O'Keefe and two other guests know that she was leaving the lodge to go for a walk with Sam. As they struck off along the river, Sam flashed her a knowing grin.

  "Are you sure you wouldn't like to invite someone else to come along?" he asked. "There's safety in numbers."

  Crysta felt heat rising up her neck, from embarrassment or anger, she couldn't be sure. On the one hand, if Sam was on the level, it was inexcusable to let him know she didn't trust him. Just the same, she preferred to play it safe, and if that offended him, there was very little she could do about it.

  Her second trip downriver seemed far less strenuous than her first, due, she was sure, to the slower pace Sam set. The fact that he altered his stride to match hers was reassuring. Surely it wasn't second nature to a killer to be so consider­ate.

  When they reached the slough, he searched for the nar­rowest place, leaped across, then turned to give her a hand. The distance she had to jump was intimidating. Even as tall as she was, she couldn't compete with a man of Sam's stat­ure. She hesitated to take his hand, reluctant to give the im­pression she needed coddling. She had waded through the slough only hours ago, though, and knew how chilly the water was. It would be foolish to risk getting soaked again.

  "Coming?" he asked.

  The trace of impatience in his tone prompted her to take his hand. His warm grip was disconcertingly strong. She was in big trouble if he had brought her out here to get rid of her.

  Gauging the distance, Crysta tightened her fingers around his and leaped. When she landed, right foot first, her run­ning shoe slipped in the mud. Sam braced himself to catch her. When he did, he lost his footing, as well. Crysta thought they were both in for a mud bath, but at the last second Sam scrambled and found purchase on the slick bank, catching her around the waist with a steely arm.

  Crysta's breath caught. With her back arched, her thighs were pressed intimately against his, and her breasts were flattened against the broad ladder of his rib cage. They both froze.

  Sam's dark eyes fixed on hers. Unbidden, a frisson of electricity shot through her. Until this instant, she had been so suspicious of Sam and so worried about her brother that she had fought her attraction to him. Now all her reasons for doing so seemed to have disappeared. As Sam bent his dark head toward hers, Crysta remained perfectly still, wanting his kiss in a way she couldn't fully comprehend. For a fleet­ing moment, just as his warm, silken lips touched hers, she wondered what it was about him that so disarmed her. Then sheer sensation wiped rational thought from her mind.

  His kiss began in the predictable way, a hesitant explora­tion, but in less than a heartbeat the shyness vanished, re­placed by a raw, primal hunger that Crysta sensed in him and felt within herself. Forgetting all else, she let the strong circle of his arms pull her closer and allowed her body to mold itself against him.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the kiss ended. With a dazed and unmistakably incredulous expression in his dark eyes, Sam gently set her away from him and proceeded along the riverbank as though nothing had happened. But Crysta sensed his discomfiture in the long strides he was suddenly taking. She guessed that he had been taken as off guard as she.

  At any other time, the situation might have been amus­ing, given the fact that for years Derrick had tried fruitlessly to get Crysta and Sam together. This wasn't another time, though, and Crysta had far too much on her mind to deal with overactive hormones, hers or Sam's. Clearly, Sam felt the same.

  She lengthened her stride to catch up. Within minutes she was panting with exertion, the sounds issuing from her throat short and shallow. Sam cast her a surprised glance and slowed his pace.

  Relieved to have the tension between them eased, Crysta fell in beside him again. But her nerve endings were sensi­tized now to his nearness, and her gaze kept shifting side­ways to rest on the coarse blue denim stretched tight over the corded muscle of his legs.

  She had no business thinking of Sam as anything but a means to her end, which was finding Derrick. What was wrong with her? She couldn't be certain Sam was even trustworthy. She sneaked a look at his profile. Sunlight glinted in his hair where it fell in tousled waves across his forehead.

  Crysta laid her feelings off on the desperateness of her situation. Though she might manage to search for Derrick on her own, the odds of her success were slim. Sam Barris­ter's assistance was her only hope. Her emotions were a powder keg, and he was merely the spark to set them off.

  The seconds became measured by the steady thud of their
feet on the earth, her sneakers tapping out a soft counter­point to the heavy impact of Sam's boots. Crysta became lost in the rhythm, her thoughts focused on Derrick as her legs churned to keep up with the man beside her.

  They had to cross two more sloughs, each wider than the last, which gave Crysta her first glimpses of the tranquil marshlands and meadows that lay beyond the camouflage of trees along the river. She had no idea how much time passed. A great deal, judging by the ache in her thighs. She began to get the disconcerting feeling that she and Sam were the first people ever to have come here. On occasion, though, she spotted footprints that dispelled that notion, probably left there by the men who had searched for Der­rick.

  How far had she and Sam walked? Five or six miles? The only sounds that drifted to her ears were those of the water, the rustling leaves, the wind. She could see why her brother loved it here.

  "So what do you think?"

  She glanced up. "About what?"

  "About that fish in the bed. Who do you think put it there?"

  Wondering why it had taken him miles of walking to ad­dress that issue, she replied, "My first inclination was to blame you."

  He snorted. "Put a stinking fish in my own bed? Be­sides, give me credit for some brains. It would take more than a few fish guts to send a woman like you running."

  It was an offhand compliment, but a compliment just the same. She didn't know why it mattered to her what he thought, but, strangely enough, it did. "Who do you think did it?"

  "The dining room was full of people. Any number could have heard me offer you the use of my room. My question is, was it someone's sick idea of a joke, simply because you're an attractive single woman here alone, or was it an attempt to frighten you into leaving?"

  "I lean toward the latter. When I thought you'd done it, my first assumption was that you were trying to scare me off. Let's face it, fish guts aren't very funny."

  Sam stepped around a bush. "I agree. Now that that's settled, the question is who?"

  "I haven't been here long enough to make enemies. Jan­gles, possibly. I don't think she cares for me."

  Sam shook his head. "Jangles likes you fine. She's just bent on getting you out of harm's way."

  Crysta tensed, then plunged ahead, praying she wasn't subjecting Jangles to danger. "She knows something. She won't say what, but she doesn't believe Derrick was eaten by a bear any more than I do."

  "I sensed that, too."

  "And you haven't questioned her?"

  "I tried." He shot her a troubled frown. "Jangles is one of the last of a dying breed, clinging, in many ways, to the old customs, fiercely proud of her Tlingit heritage, even though she's the only one in this immediate area. She loves Alaska, its natives and its wildlife, with a passion. And she prizes the strength often found in silence. If she takes it into her head not to talk, for whatever reason, she won't. Try­ing to force her is—" He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "One thing I know—she'd never put a gaffed fish in your bed. Sneaking around behind a person's back isn't her way."

  Crysta remembered the animosity that had gleamed in the woman's dark eyes. "I realize she's a friend of yours, but-"

  "That's not the only reason I'm so convinced it wasn't her. Don't forget, whatever else Jangles may be, she's In­dian. Heritage is extremely important to her. Even today, many Tlingit homes feature lineage crests."

  "Lineage crests?"

  "Totem poles," he explained, a smile touching his mouth.

  Crysta found herself recalling the touch of those firm, silken lips on hers, how mesmerizing they had seemed.

  "Courage and honesty are very much a part of that her­itage," he continued. "I'm not saying she's above doing something mean, but if she does, she'll do it right to your face. To sneak would be cowardly."

  He seemed so convinced that Crysta decided to concede the point. "Do you realize she has a gentleman caller? A Tlingit?"

  Sam gave her a sharp look. "A caller?"

  "A boyfriend, I assume. He came to the kitchen door this morning. She seemed upset and told him he wasn't sup­posed to come to the lodge. Then she went out into the woods and appeared to be arguing with him."

  Sam's forehead creased in a thoughtful frown. "You're sure he was Tlingit? Not to say there couldn't be others in the vicinity, but if there are, I've never met them."

  "He spoke in another language, and Jangles replied in kind. If they weren't talking in Tlingit, then what?"

  As if he was considering that, Sam gazed ahead of them for a moment. "It's possible she knows more than one of the native languages. Or maybe the guy was Tlingit."

  ‘‘Have you any idea why she would want to keep his visit secret from you?"

  "No." He turned worried eyes on her. "She knows her friends would be more than welcome at the lodge."

  A tingle crept up Crysta's spine. She had gotten the im­pression that Jangles hadn't wanted anyone to see the man. If Sam had laid down no rules restricting employees from having callers at the lodge while they were on his time, why had she hustled the man off into the trees?

  "Is it possible she's up to something she doesn't want you to know about?"

  "If she is, I'm sure it's nothing for me to worry about. The bottom line is, I trust her. Completely."

  Crysta could see from Sam's firm expression that pursu­ing the Jangles angle would be fruitless. She wasn't quite so trusting, however. She made a mental note to keep an eye on the Tlingit woman.

  "So, if not Jangles, then who?"

  "Someone staying at the lodge—that much is a given. If I'm right that Derrick was referring to Blanchette when he talked about finding something fishy, then we have to as­sume the culprit is someone who works for the company."

  "Any suspicions?"

  Sam hesitated. "I don't like accusing people without proof."

  "Let's forget the innocent-until-proven-guilty thing and toss ideas around. We aren't going to do irreparable dam­age to anyone's reputation if it's just between you and me. That was Derrick's mistake, remember? If he had pointed the finger at someone, we'd have an idea now of who to go after. As it is, we're shooting in the dark."

  Sam gave a fleeting smile. "We? You sound as if you might be starting to trust me."

  She jumped over a marshy spot, then dragged the soles of her shoes clean on the grass. With more certainty than she felt, she said, "You think I'd be out here with you if I had any doubts?"

  "Unfortunately for my peace of mind, yes. You take too many risks, Crysta, without weighing the consequences. Like following me today. Then searching my office. And then confronting me about the fish. Did you even once stop to think what might happen if I caught you or turned on you?"

  "I considered it."

  "Did you? Somehow I doubt it. Understand something, okay? This isn't Los Angeles. The cops can't drive up to your door within five minutes of your call. You're a fe­male, and you're alone. The modern woman's mind-set could get you into big trouble up here."

  "I've taken self-defense training. I can handle myself."

  He braked to a sudden stop, squinting against the sun at her. The impact of his gaze brought her to a halt. Looking up at him, she found her training in self-defense small comfort.

  "We're about seven miles from the lodge," he reminded her. "I outweigh you by at least a hundred pounds. You don't have a weapon of any kind as an equalizer. You can't outrun me. I'd say that could spell trouble—in capital let­ters. What's your solution? A karate chop to my neck? What if I brought you here to shut you up? Have you thought of that?"

  Crysta had indeed thought of that. "I told several people I was taking a walk with you. It'd cast you in a pretty bad light if something happened to me out here," she retorted. "As for my self-defense training, my instructor taught me to aim much lower than the neck."

  Her pulse leaped at the grim twist of Sam's mouth, but before she could react, he struck off walking again.

  "And what if I did away with you and made it look like an accident? Don't trust anyone�
�that's all I'm asking. Not anyone, is that clear? You're right—we are shooting in the dark. My first instinct is to suspect Riley O'Keefe, but since I'm not positive Derrick was referring to something fishy at Blanchette, I can't act on that. Besides, Riley flew back into Anchorage with Shriver shortly after breakfast, so it isn't likely he would have had time to sneak something into my bedroom."

  He heaved a weary sigh and ran his hand over his hair. "I suppose Derrick could have come upon something here at Cottonwood Bend," he went on. "It's a possibility we can't ignore, anyway. There are two other lodges within five miles. Planes galore fly in 'round the clock. People and cargo of every conceivable kind come and go."

  Crysta scrambled after him. When he entered a line of trees and stopped to wait for her, she slowed her pace. He settled a thoughtful gaze on her, his lips softening.

  "I didn't mean to sound condescending a minute ago. It's just that—" He grasped her arm to help her over a fallen cottonwood. "You weren't sure of me when you agreed to come out here. You can't deny that. It was foolish to take such a chance. It scares the hell out of me to think you might do it again, next time with the wrong person."

  Crysta opened her mouth to retort, but before she spoke, she remembered how vulnerable he had made her feel a minute ago. As much as it rankled, he had a point. It was lucky for her that he hadn't brought her out here to kill her. Against an ordinary mugger, her self-defense training and the element of surprise might stand her in good stead, but the odds were considerably poorer here, with no one to in­tervene if she cried for help.

  "I realize Derrick's your only concern right now," he added patiently, "but as much as you hate to think it, he may be dead. If he is, sacrificing yourself won't help him."

  "I'll do whatever I have to."

  He tightened his hand on her arm. "Crysta, if he's alive, he can survive out here for an indefinite period of time."

  "Not if he's hurt!"

  "A small cut on the head can bleed a great deal. The blood the searchers found isn't necessarily an indication that Derrick was badly wounded. He's bear-smart. If an en­raged grizzly was on his heels, he might have taken off his shirt and tossed it down as a distraction. Sometimes an an­imal will go after anything with its prey's scent on it. That could explain the shirt's being shredded by a bear's claws."