“I never thought a river could be beautiful,” she said, watching some ducks land with a whoosh. “Our river in LA’s just a concrete ditch. And it’s empty most of the time.”
“Like that slab of concrete I saw in Terminator? I thought that was fake.” He scratched mosquito bites on the back of his neck. “Not too many cyborgs in Montana, except for some of the guys hanging out at the Feed ’N’ Seed,” he laughed.
“I’ve dated cyborgs.” She grinned. Most of them in her club.
“So what do you do back there, in LA?” E.B. handed her an apple. Tried not to stare.
She took a bite. “Entertainer,” she said softly. That was true, wasn’t it? “Where’d you grow up, E.B.?”
Grease caked under his nails; his hands were coarse as rawhide. He’d never been ashamed of being a farmer before. Her skin was precious and smooth and delicate. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and mumbled, “I come from Loma, like I told you. Not far.”
She leaned back and grabbed her knees. “Kind of like Norman Rockwell? Lots of kids, then?”
“Me? No, no kids. I’ve got plenty of nephews and nieces, though.” Berniece hadn’t wanted children; he had. “Rockwell paints a picture of calm and quiet, but it’s not really like that. We . . .” he stumbled. “These open skies can fool you. Warm one minute, freezing the next, rain, snow, hail. We have hail insurance for a reason. Temperature can drop as many as sixty degrees in a half day. We get locusts. It’s no Rockwell.”
He used to love it; now he wasn’t so sure. The land, the dirt between his fingers, the warm sky, the endless sky, the scary sky. “We have it all.” For the last few months he’d hated everything.
“A tough weather day in LA is rain, lots of rain. Rains like hell.”
“I bet you’re great up on the stage.” That’s as far as he was going to go. With a body like hers, yes, anything and everything was possible. To distract himself, he turned off the heat under the little stove and burned himself in the process. No matter. He didn’t feel anything except her warmth. “I’m in bed by nine most nights, up before five.”
“I dance,” she muttered. “The money’s great.”
“I bet you do,” he croaked.
“What do you think? With a body like this, you think I’m a ballet dancer?”
“Uh, no . . .” E.B. stuttered. “Didn’t mean any offense.”
“Boobs get in the way.”
“Of course,” he said, stupidly. He had no frigging idea.
“How the fuck would you know?” She threw the coffee at him, splattering his cheeks and nose. “You’re a man, so you should know, like, everything?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Climbing into your canoe was the biggest mistake I made since I moved to Montana. And that was a doozy. Another state filled with assholes. LA was a lot better than this.”
E.B., reeling from the sudden onslaught, wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong. She must be an exotic dancer, then, to be so peeved. What the hell, he’ll pretend he hadn’t guessed. “Let’s get the show on the road, all right? Campbell must be worried.”
Working separately, they gathered the tarp, Tucker’s little stove, and sleeping bag; threw them all into a duffle bag; and loaded up the canoes. They cast off in silence, the sound of their paddles the only thing Laura wanted to hear.
“I should have never left you alone back there,” E.B. said.
“You think?” Laura slid her paddle in. “I had to promise him a little something.”
“Him? Tucker? What about the kids?” E.B. was glad she was talking again.
Overhead, a hawk circled lazily in a cloudless sky. Across the way, birds called, signaling distress.
“There were no kids,” she said finally.
“You’re half his size. You know jiujitsu? Kung fu?”
“Don’t ask me about it again, ever.” The smell of Tucker’s clothes seeped into her skin, making her feel queasy.
“I’ll find him.”
“You should,” she said, lifting her paddle out of the water and taking a stroke.
“I’ll have him arrested for assault.” E.B. steered them carefully around a bend. “You’re all right now.”
“Wanna bet?” she asked, looking behind her.
“What is it?” he asked. He’d just had her feeling better, like the calf he had calmed just last week, soft muzzle resting in his hand.
“Tucker’s back,” she said softly. “And he’s gaining on us. He must’ve found a way to repair the canoe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Monday, morning on the river
FRANCINE AND CAMPBELL
“Lewis! Captain Lewis!” Campbell stared straight. “Indians!”
In the stern, Francine froze. Sunstroke. She’d seen it at camp.
“Whoa, Captain, you’re going to swamp us. Steady. Steady, I say!” Campbell’s voice rose. “No, Daisy, don’t panic. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“You okay, Dad?” Drugged-out people in New York muttered to themselves all the time, but they were bums. This was Dad. This was different. “Dad! Hey, Dad! It’s Francine.” Remembering her training from camp, she put together a plan.
First, get him to a beach. The closest shore was full of bushes, and beyond, marshes lined both sides of the river. Shit. Couldn’t pull over there. She rounded another bend and paddled down a long, straight stretch. Mud and more mud. He’d sink up to his thighs, and she’d never be able to get him out. In the distance, maybe a quarter mile away, there was something tan and low. A good beach. All she had to do was get there. Fifteen minutes later she slammed onto the sandy shore, nosing up on it, the empty canoe clunking into hers from behind.
Campbell, startled, flew off his seat onto the floor of the canoe.
“What’s going on, Capt’n?” he asked, climbing out. “I haven’t received my latest orders. Zack”—he sneezed— “where’s Lewis?”
His eyes were glazed, his skin whitish. He held his arms at his sides as if he’d deflated in place.
Francine reached over to touch his hand, slipping her fingers onto his wrist to check his pulse. Weak, but there.
“Give him a sec.” Campbell threw off her hand. “He’ll be right back.”
“Who?” Francine asked. “I don’t see anyone.” There were no homesteaders’ cabins here, no beat-up old ranch roads, no shacks. No one to help her. She tried to remember everything to do with sunstroke. Water, and lots of it. She filled her bailing bucket and poured it over his feet. He snuffled at her, grinning.
“Cool. Feet. Good start, girl. Capt’n says, give the men water, lots of water.” He paused. “But maybe not on my toes?”
She handed him the last of her Gatorade. He swallowed it all. She waited and watched him. After five long minutes, he sat up and looked at her, his eyes bright.
“It’s a good book, Undaunted Courage. Lewis and Clark were fearless,” he insisted. “They fought grizzly bears, right here, with their bare hands.”
“I see.” She thought a sec. “Left their rifles in their boats?”
“You bet.”
He still looked a little wobbly.
“Right as rain, Francine.”
Campbell shifted; the ground felt hard. “I was only pretending.” How could he tell her he’d been hallucinating? She’d worry like crazy.
“Shithead.”
“Ever think about Lewis and Clark? Didn’t you study them in school? Can you imagine how much moxie it took to do what they did?”
“You scared the crap out of me, Dad.” Francine scooped up the bailing bucket and filled it again. “I practically kill myself coming up here, and you think it’s a joke? You went all mental. Early Alzheimer’s, something like that? You’re fooling around?” She pitched some rocks at the beach by his feet. “Just who are you now, Dad? Mickey Mouse? Minnie?”
“Sweet as a summer’s day,” he said. “How ya doin’, girl?”
“You look like shit to me, Minnie Mouse. You hot? Got sunstroke? B
etter cool off.” She dumped the water on the top of his head.
That felt good, Campbell thought, as the cool water dribbled down the back of his neck. Still, she was right. His heart was still beating too fast, and he swore he saw Sacagawea in the field—he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Francine that. He felt ashamed he’d lost control.
He recognized her sad, pinched look. He’d been trying to hide how he felt, all fluttery and out of sorts. Out of body was more like it. He couldn’t tell her where he’d been, but it had been scary. He sat down next to her, doing his best to control his trembling hands. “I’m sorry, Francine, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” God, everything he did was wrong. When was he going to do something right? “Lewis and Clark are my heroes.”
“Then you stay here and talk to them. Entertain them, make fun of them. I don’t need this shit, not from you, not from anyone.” She headed to the canoes.
“Francine, please don’t be mad. I’m sorry.” He felt a little nauseous.
“You should be sorry, fooling me like that, or trying to. Which one is it?” She pushed one canoe from shore and zipped up her lifejacket.
With her so pissed off already, maybe he should take advantage and tell her about Daisy. How much angrier was she going to get? Scream at him? Probably. With no one else around, this was as good a spot as any. Why had he waited so long?
“Get in. The bow seat,” Francine said. “I don’t have anything more to say to you.”
Up front, and trying not to exert himself, Campbell considered himself lucky. Lucky to be in the canoe, lucky Francine had come to get him, and lucky he felt better. That had been much closer than he’d ever wanted to go. He was sure he could still see Lewis waving from the shore. He’d have gone with him too, if Francine hadn’t come and saved him.
“If it weren’t for you,” he said, “I’d still be back there. Thanks.”
She paddled silently, listening.
“This trip hasn’t worked out at all the way I promised,” he said. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Look.” She pointed to a faint full moon that hung just above a ridge.
Campbell felt a soft breeze blow across his cheeks. Daisy was going to love this. He’d told her about the birds, but she hadn’t really understood. And he’d tried to describe the calmness of the river, the peace, the solitude, the open skies. He heard swallows cry from across the river.
“Would you ever believe that? Birds everywhere.” Francine laughed, catching her breath. “It doesn’t matter what you say. I’m still mad at you.”
“I should hope so,” Campbell said. He rubbed his sunburned face and watched the water flow around his blade. Maybe he could fix things with Francine after all. That would be some kind of miracle. More than he’d ever hoped for. He couldn’t believe he thought he was talking to Lewis and Clark.
Thankful, he slipped his hand into the water and felt it flow by his fingers. “It’s just a Class One river.” He rubbed his face with his wet hand. “Like a bathtub. Supposed to be, anyway.” He paused. “You’ve done great,” he said. “Mom would be proud.” His voice cracked a little as he turned to look at her. “As am I.”
Francine sat up straighter in the canoe and took a few hard strokes. After awhile she started humming behind him, out of tune as usual. As for him, his stomach was churning as if he’d eaten acid. What had he been thinking? Introduce his mistress to his daughter on a canoe trip? Francine looked so cute in her red life jacket. And now, he was going to hurt her. He couldn’t stand it.
“I did nothing you wouldn’t do,” Francine said.
“Fine vacation we’ve had together. Lots of adventures.” Campbell slid his blade in and watched the shore flow by. He wanted to prepare her somehow. Just, oh please, couldn’t he savor the moment a little longer, the moment he’d always wished for? Tomorrow, or tonight, or later when they got to shore again, lunchtime, anytime; just not now. He’d tell her before nightfall. What a weenie. He should tell her now.
Across the way, swallows called out as they circled to their nests. Behind them, the second canoe rode high in the water.
The humming stopped. A cloud of bugs took off for shore.
“Hey, Francine.” Campbell scratched a mosquito bite on his neck. “I need to tell you something. Something I should’ve told you long ago. Something true. Something you’re not going to like. I need to tell you about Daisy. Have a minute?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monday, morning on the river
E.B. AND LAURA
“You must have sunstroke. That can’t possibly be Tucker behind us,” E.B. said. “Drink more water.
Feeling dizzy?” They had to get into shade and quick. “It’s him. I just know it’s him.”
“He was good and tied to a tree and our old canoe had a hole in it as big as my thumb.”
“Someone must’ve helped him fix the canoe. Every once in a while I see a fountain of water coming this way. Take a look.”
“Maybe it’s a different canoe,” E.B. said. “Maybe it’s the BLM rangers with their motorized drift boats.” He thought a sec. “Besides, Tucker couldn’t fix the canoe without some fiberglass cloth, epoxy, time . . .”
“All that asshole had was time. For God’s sake, E.B., pick it up, will you?”
He turned around carefully. Nothing but scrub brush, endless water, empty fields, and birds. “I don’t see anything,” he said. Poor girl.
She twisted in her seat. “Look, just there!” A frisson of fear overtook her. It was hard to hold the paddle with her sweaty hands.
E.B. took another look. “You sure you’re all right?”
Laura dug her paddle in hard and leaned into a side stroke. “See for yourself.”
E.B. grabbed the gunwales as the canoe lurched, tipped, and turned upriver.
“Now! Now! Can you see him now?”
It was hard to see anything for the glare. Something was coming downstream; that was for sure. He picked up his paddle, turned the canoe downstream again, and dug in deep, fast strokes as they picked up the current under them.
“Damn you, E.B.! We’ve wasted too much time already. Faster, faster.”
He kept looking back between taking five, six, seven long, hard strokes a minute. Laura, sweating hard, matched him stroke for stroke. They were about a quarter mile from some trees and bluffs. Just had to get there. Then he’d take a stand.
He squinted against the sun as they flew down the river. He’d done nothing but disappoint her. He went even faster, spray flying off his paddle with every stroke. This time at least she wasn’t alone. And he was stronger and bigger than Tucker.
“Why didn’t you pack a gun, E.B.?”
E.B. kept his head down and kept paddling. There was nothing he could say. No words would suffice. The river’s usually so pleasant. No one out here ever hurt anybody. There’s no cause for worry. All of it sounded pedantic and stupid. He churned through the river, keeping his head down and their progress straight and true.
Behind them the fountain of spray grew.
They forced the canoe to go twice as fast as the current, and as soon as they went around the bend, E.B. charged for a tall cutbank, hitting the sand with a resounding clunk. “Go on, climb up. It’s safer up there.”
She went partway, grabbed a rock nestled in some roots, turned around, and came back down.
“You go on up,” she ordered. “I’ll hang out here and beat the shit out of him.”
“Not you, me, this time,” he said, putting his hand out for the rock.
“Not on your life.” She cradled the rock like a baby.
She looked wild, half-civilized.
“Then help me unload and make it fast,” he said. “We have to hide everything. That’s you, me, the gear, the canoe, and the paddles.” Together they pulled out bags and boxes and fishing gear and bait and stinky socks and carried it up to a bluff to the top of the bank. Someone had made footsteps amongst the rocks and roots, but they were slippery. Every few seconds E.
B. and Laura would lose their footing, and have to grab roots and charge up again.
Laura threw the last of the bags up the steep bank while E.B. was still below. “Can you see any of this shit from the river?”
“Take it a bit farther back, yes, that’s it. Good. Now, we hide the boat.” She came on down to help him.
They duck-walked the boat out of the river and hid it behind some bushes.
“Pull some branches from the trees and cover the rest of the hull,” E.B. said.
Laura moved fast, pulling twigs, branches, leaves, and duff as fast as she could. She peered down the river. Even from here she could taste Tucker’s foul breath in her mouth.
“Good, that’s it, now.” E.B. saw her scratched arms and the fully covered canoe. “Now go on up the bluff.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be there in a sec.”
A minute later, E.B. looked up at the bluff. She was standing like a sentry. “Get down!”
Laura lay facedown on some tan grass, her head just above the lip of a bank, Tucker’s gear well behind her. She didn’t like the look of E.B. down by the river, vulnerable and alone.
He examined their footsteps and also the scrape in the mud from the canoe. It led from the water up toward the cutbank. An arrow showing their way, for sure.
He stripped a branch from a tree, and, starting at the water, walked backward, sweeping sand from side to side, obliterating their footsteps and the gouge in the sand from the keel of the canoe. When he was done, he ran up the steep bank, grabbing onto roots to pull himself up faster, and lay down next to Laura, placing one hand on her back. They watched the river together.
The bow of a blue canoe slid around the bend first. Then Tucker came into view, about fifty feet from shore. He was back paddling, keeping even with the bank. Water splashed constantly from his bailer and his paddle. He scanned the river, studying the brushy bank, turning his head from side to side, looking for them.
“Keep going. Keep moving forward. Go, go, farther, farther,” E.B. whispered. He held his breath.
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