by Rachel Grant
“What’s the price?” Damn, did her voice sound . . . breathless? She hoped it came across as sleep-fogged.
“This afternoon we head to Mount Katin for the bird hunt.”
“That’s fair. But why near the volcano?”
“Just a hunch,” he said with a shrug.
“There are several scatters of World War II debris on the slopes of Mount Katin that I need to record. I can get started on that while you look for buntings.”
“Gray buntings. For this project, not all buntings are equal.”
She chuckled. “My bad.” She nodded toward the door. “I’ll meet you in the office tent in ten minutes, and we can set out.”
“You don’t want to eat first?”
“If you drive the first shift, I can eat on the road. It takes at least an hour to get to the site.”
“All right, then.” He set the food pack on her footlocker and left her alone to get dressed.
As promised, ten minutes later, she was dressed and ready. Thankfully, she’d prepped her field gear last night, so it was only a matter of throwing food in the bag, getting dressed, and visiting the latrine.
She then remembered she’d need the car charger for her phone and returned to her tent to grab it. Her gaze landed on the cracked cell phone she’d started to charge last night but then unplugged in favor of charging her own. She touched the wake button. It had a 20 percent charge.
She considered bringing it with her to charge on the drive, but there was no point, considering she didn’t know Dylan’s PIN. She powered it off. Usually, she trusted everyone in camp—they had locks on their doors, but nobody used them. But she felt a little off with her questions about Victor and Bill, so she returned the phone to the storage compartment inside Dylan’s clipboard, behind the papers exactly how she’d found it, and returned it to the sturdy metal footlocker. Best to keep it out of sight for now.
From there, she went to the cook tent to thank the cook for making sure she had food and to ask the maintenance team if they could check the power line to her tent, then filled her stainless-steel insulated mug with a hefty amount of coffee. Even though she had managed to sleep in the end, she had a feeling she was going to need the caffeine jolt to get through the long day.
Given the variable weather, everyone worked as long as possible on good weather days. Fourteen hours in the field wasn’t unheard of, but there was a storm forecast for later today, so this was more likely to be eight to ten, maximum. She hoped Bill would be content to spend much of that at the site before moving to the volcano. Sleeping in and missing her shot at her own vehicle today had cost her. But then, she probably shouldn’t go to such a remote part of the island by herself, and Christina wouldn’t arrive until sometime after noon today.
As she made her way to the office tent, she looked up at the sky. The Anchorage contingent should get here ahead of the storm, which wouldn’t hit until late afternoon or evening. And hopefully the barge with more supplies—including enough fuel and vehicles to support a twelve-person field crew with varying project areas—would also reach Chiksook ahead of the storm. The barge was supposed to have arrived days ago, before any of the researchers were here, but like everything else, there’d been problems and delays.
She stepped inside the office tent, and her gaze met Bill’s entrancing blue eyes. If she’d gotten up early, she would have checked her email before setting out, but there was no time now. She’d just have to hope her boss said Bill Lowell was the world’s best ornithologist and she was worrying for nothing . . . because like it or not, he was her partner in the field today.
Dean had hoped to get a crack at Dylan’s phone today, but he’d take this as the second-best scenario. Alone with Fiona for the entire day would give him plenty of opportunity to get a fix on what she knew.
It still nagged at him that she’d given no indication of how well she really knew Dylan. She claimed she didn’t even have his phone number? That made no sense. What had happened between them at the end? Did she dump his brother? Did she break his heart?
Dean had a hard time imagining Dylan breaking up with her. She was too perfect for him, and he wasn’t one to give up on relationships easily. If he’d had his way, he’d still be married to his cold ex-wife.
The fully enclosed side-by-side UTV bounced over the rough old road, making it difficult for Fiona to eat her breakfast burrito and drink her coffee, but she didn’t complain. She was too darn grateful to “Bill” for making sure she had food for the day and still getting a relatively early start.
He couldn’t have planned that piece of luck any better.
“So, how old is this archaeological site we’re going to?” he asked.
“We don’t have carbon dates or soil analysis—I hadn’t collected samples yet when we were yanked from the field—but when Dylan examined the site, he said the volcanic eruption that triggered the mudslide occurred about fifteen hundred years ago.”
Dean kept his focus on the road and grip tight on the steering wheel to keep from giving away any emotion. “When did the volcanologist have a chance to visit the site?”
They hit a deep, muddy stretch, and his solid grip kept them from sliding off or getting stuck, as he kept them moving through the thick, slick mess that could barely be called a road.
When they reached slightly more solid ground, Fiona’s breath whooshed out very audibly—he didn’t take his gaze from the muddy track to look—and she said, “I’m glad you’re driving. I hate this part. Christina usually drives.”
“See now, I knew we’d make a good field team.”
She let out a soft laugh. “You’re good at this.”
“Lots of practice, plus I enjoy it.”
“Oh. So you’re reckless and like taking risks.”
“Absolutely. C’mon, didn’t you get a little rush back there? Wondering if we’d make it?”
“Ahh. And an adrenaline junkie.”
He unequivocally was an adrenaline junkie, and his addiction had served him well—he had no problem taking risks to get the perfect shot. He’d have loved the thrill of sneaking onto this project, if he wasn’t so worried about Dylan.
“Yep,” he said. “Unashamed and unabashed adrenaline seeker.”
“Like I said, reckless. Have you ever jumped out of a perfectly good airplane for no reason?”
“I love skydiving.”
“Climbed sheer faces of rock?”
“Half Dome is next on my bucket list.”
“Free solo?”
He shook his head. “Oh, hell no. No adrenaline is that good. I always use ropes.”
“Okay, we can be friends, then.”
He laughed. “Whew. Do you climb? If you do, and we can be friends, maybe we could go sometime.”
“No. My climbing days are over.”
She didn’t offer a reason, which made him wonder if she’d had a bad experience. “Well, maybe we can hike together sometime.”
“I believe we will today, in fact, when we climb Mount Katin.”
“I meant for fun.”
“Let’s get through this field project before we start planning hiking dates. I mean, we might hate each other before the end of the first week.”
She had a point. When she found out who he really was, she might be a tad angry. And then there was the fact that she’d probably dumped his brother. His loyalty would always belong to the brother who was his only remaining family and who’d been his best friend since they’d shared a womb.
EIGHT
The road ended abruptly at a cut bank too steep to drive down to cross the shallow stream, requiring them to park and hike the last mile to the site. Fiona studied the terrain as they trudged the final mile of the journey she’d been obsessing over for the last five weeks and three days.
In rocky areas where the vegetation was light, things looked much as she remembered, telling her that maybe, just maybe, the site would be okay. Except this was treeless, wet tundra that always looked the same.
&
nbsp; But then the spongy, wet muskeg—Alaska’s version of a bog—gave way to tall grasses, where a person could almost get lost. Even she, at five nine without shoes, found it hard to see more than a few feet in front of her as the sedge grasses neared six feet. Bill was a large man—at least five inches taller than she was—and his head just peeked above the ground cover.
They cut a trail through the grasses, following her compass bearing, and the grasses popped back up behind them, hiding their path.
Five weeks ago, this hike had been much the same, and the beating of her heart intensified as she hoped that was another indication of how the site had fared. If the storm that roared through the day after their departure hadn’t been strong enough to alter the landscape, maybe the tarps had held up.
“Careful,” she said. “There’s some WWII debris hidden in the grass up ahead. Rusted-out vehicle parts.”
“How did they get a vehicle on this side of the stream?”
“There used to be a bridge. It collapsed and rotted decades ago.”
A few minutes later, they came upon the debris, and despite the warning she’d given, she was the one to trip over a jagged piece of metal hidden in the grass. She stumbled but managed to stay on her feet, then said, “Found it,” with a grumbling laugh.
“You weren’t seriously going to come out here by yourself today, were you?” Bill asked.
She gave him a chagrined smile. “I suppose that would have been unwise.”
“Uh-huh. Between the potential for getting the vehicle stuck in the mud and the hazards hidden in the grass, there’s a lot that could go wrong, and it would be dangerous if you were alone. Frankly, I’m curious as to why John and Victor set out alone.”
“They’re probably going to the APE—or rather, study area—which doesn’t have these high grasses or much in the way of World War II hazards. The land for the proposed base is much more level and sits on a sheltered bay. It’s more seismically stable because the volcano is generally only active on the south flank. Mount Katin is lopsided, like Saint Helens after 1980. The eruption that covered my archaeological site fifteen hundred years ago took out the south face of Mount Katin, and the active fumaroles are mostly found on the southwest flank.”
“So you’re saying that if the volcano should decide to erupt today, we’re in the primary blast zone?”
She chuckled at his dry tone. “Technically, yes, but there was also a lahar flow on the north side forty-five years ago that swamped part of the World War II base—which is why the base and radio tower were abandoned and that cove was deemed not ideal for the new submarine base. The proposed base is on the easternmost edge of the island—as far as one can get from the volcano on Chiksook.” She smiled. “If it makes you feel better, Dylan assured me Mount Katin is pretty quiet these days. Not nearly as active as some of the other Aleutian volcanoes. He set up all sorts of sensor thingies to let us know if she starts to rumble.”
Bill chuckled. “Sensor thingies?”
“I believe that is the technical term, yes.”
“You’ve gotta stop using such big words. I’ll never keep up.”
She laughed, then skirted around more rusted-out vehicle parts hiding in the grass. “I’ll do my best to stay away from SAT words.”
They climbed a slope, leaving the wide valley of tall grasses behind. The village site was on the top of this hill.
Almost there.
The ground was slippery, forcing her to grab hold of the low ground cover and scramble up the wet, mossy slope. It wasn’t the most graceful maneuver to navigate a slick forty-five-degree hillside, but it got the job done.
They reached the top, Bill having made the climb without being reduced to all fours. She rose to her feet and brushed off her muddy hands, then pulled her fingerless wool gloves back on. A quick glance showed the slope of the land and the grasses still hid the housepits from view.
She could barely breathe as she led Bill across the uneven ground and over a low rise. At the apex of the mound—which could well be another housepit buried by the mudslide—she could finally see the patch of earth she and Christina had dug into six weeks ago.
They’d removed the vegetation, exposing soft, wet soil beneath. The layer below that was where it got interesting. Mud and ash had capped the housepit. There’d been a partial collapse fifteen hundred years ago, and the rocks that lined the walls and the whalebone that provided structure to the roof had been the first things she’d identified. But then they’d found a chimney or entrance hole that had been covered and sealed by the slide, without filling the structure beneath. They’d removed the cap and had even been able to partially enter the pristine home. She’d collected the harpoon head and a metallic stone for Dylan to analyze, and she’d photographed what she could.
The last time she’d been here, she’d covered the opening with a tarp and weighed it down with rocks to protect the site for one to two nights—weather days were always possible, so she’d known it could be more than twenty-four hours before she returned. She’d never dreamed it would be five weeks and three days, during which the temporary tarp would be battered by wind and rain.
Her heart sank as she took in the condition of the site now. The blue tarp was gone.
She held her breath and moved closer to get a better look at the exposed opening. It might be okay. Once upon a time, the house had been built to withstand the weather.
But when she got close enough to see the hole, it wasn’t okay. It was nowhere close to okay.
The opening was much bigger now than it had been five weeks and three days ago. The earth had given way to the elements. The roof had collapsed—and so had the rounded wall.
The pristine housepit—a find that could rival Pompeii or Ozette for offering a snapshot back in time—was destroyed.
She stared at the ruins in shock and horror. Her stomach churned, and she thought she might retch. This was the worst-possible scenario.
She’d left the housepit vulnerable. It was all her fault.
A single word escaped her lips. “No.” It was a cry and a plea and all she could manage to choke out as emotion swamped her.
Every sleepless night, every minute of anxiety she’d lived with the last five weeks, had come to fruition. This was her worst nightmare in Technicolor. She couldn’t stop a sob from escaping her throat.
Never in her life had she shed a tear at work. But then, she’d never been responsible for the destruction of a site that could easily be designated a National Historic Landmark.
The Unangas had trusted her to record their Traditional Cultural Property, and she’d destroyed it.
She held her gloved hands to her mouth and tried to hold back both a wail and tears. She was a professional. She didn’t cry. Not in front of coworkers.
Bill moved to stand close beside her. “You okay?”
All she could do was shake her head, her gaze fixed on the jumble of rocks that had been perfectly lined up to form a semi-subterranean wall. A wall that had survived for more than fifteen hundred years, until she’d exposed it and left it vulnerable.
“What’s wrong?” He waved an arm toward the rocks. “Is that bad?”
His question was reasonable. Archaeological sites often looked like nothing more than a jumble of rocks. A layperson—or anyone who hadn’t seen the site five weeks and three days ago—wouldn’t recognize the difference.
All she could do was nod. She managed to push air through, just enough to say, “Very bad.” Then her throat seized again. She really was going to puke.
He raised an arm and hesitated, but then he placed it around her waist, under her pack, and pulled her against his side, offering comfort.
She was so shattered that she allowed it—even appreciated it—and turned to lean into him.
The ground beneath their feet gave way.
Dean pulled Fiona tight against him as they dropped at least six feet into the earth that had opened up beneath them. It must’ve been their combined weight when he pulled he
r close that triggered the collapse. He hadn’t realized they were standing on part of the site.
Another room in the house? If so, it was much bigger than he’d expected.
He landed on his back, rocks gouging his hips and ass, while others tumbled from the walls and pelted his sides and head.
He would be bruised, but not broken. A good thing, because a broken leg out here would require a helicopter rescue, and they’d learned during their time on Adak how difficult it was to get a copter in the air in any kind of hurry.
Fiona had been reckless to even consider coming out here alone, no matter how desperate she was to get to the site.
Thanks to his hold on her waist, they’d landed face-to-face, chest to chest, him beneath her, his back slightly bowed by his pack, cushioning him from the rocky ground.
Fiona’s eyes were wide—her devastating grief of a moment ago lost with the shock of the fall. When she realized she lay upon him, she started to push off his chest to stand, but he tightened his arms around her, holding her down.
“Wait. We need to make sure the ground is stable before we move.” He brushed a few wisps of hair that had escaped her braid to the side so he could examine her face. Didn’t look like she’d been pelted in the head with anything, so that was good news. “You hurt?”
She shook her head. “I—I don’t think so?” She shifted, her hip coming into unpleasant contact with one of his favorite body parts.
He grimaced and tightened his grip on her again, preventing her from doing more damage.
Her eyes widened. “Sorry! Are you . . . okay?”
“Been better, to be honest.” His voice came out higher than he’d like, and he couldn’t help the small laugh that erupted at the ridiculousness of the moment.
She surprised him by letting out her own startled laugh. The way her body vibrated against his had the opposite effect of her hip jab a moment before.
He’d been pummeled by dreams of holding Fiona in a similar fashion the last two nights and had woken up to guilt at lusting after Dylan’s girl. Now he had her in his arms and was far too consumed with wanting to cheer her up after her obvious desolation at the collapse of the site.