Dangerous Ground (Fiona Carver)

by Rachel Grant

  She’d crossed a threshold at some point in the last day, and her mild attraction to the ornithologist had become a full-blown infatuation with a semifamous playboy wildlife photographer.

  Huh. She never would have guessed that of herself, but in her defense, he had saved her life last night.

  They divided their food between packs, keeping the frozen bricks of meat together so they’d remain frozen longer. They grabbed flares, rope, and paracord from the extra emergency pack they’d collected from Fiona’s tent. Dean strapped the sleeping bag to the outside of his larger frame pack. They had every intention of returning to the side-by-side in time to drive up the cliff road before dark, but they wouldn’t risk entering the caves without supplies to see them through an emergency.

  Food, water, and heat were essential.

  To that end, they debated about bringing a bundle of firewood, then decided to bring a few sticks that could be shoved down the sides of their packs. If their flashlights gave out, they could make a torch by dipping the wood in one of their cans of Sterno.

  Thankfully, Dylan’s map indicated where there were underground streams—meaning they wouldn’t have to carry a lot of water.

  At last, their packs were loaded, and items they needed but which wouldn’t fit inside were tied to the outside, as streamlined as possible.

  They both decided to leave their thick yellow rain gear behind, as they’d be sheltered from rain and snow inside, and the thick outerwear restricted movement. Odds were they’d be doing more than a little crawling. Thankfully, Fiona had kneepads for digging, which she cinched over her field pants. They would protect her bruised knee and also help prevent more injuries.

  Dylan’s map replaced her USGS quadrangle in her clear plastic map pouch so they could check it often without fear of it getting wet or torn. Dean tucked the pouch in the deep pocket inside his polyfill coat. He would lead on this expedition, as he’d done actual caving before, and Fiona had only visited tourist caves that she’d walked through with a guide who gave a canned speech.

  There were several openings along the shore, some below them, at the waterline, and some above. Fiona would have liked to enter via the large opening that was only a hundred feet from where they parked the side-by-side, but according to Dylan’s map, that opening was a dead end after a few hundred yards. The tube they needed to enter through could be accessed only after hiking up a narrow switchback.

  Fiona studied the rock face. It looked sheer and like this would be a rope-less climb up the face, but she could just see the ledge.

  “You can do this, Fi,” Dean said.

  She nodded. She had to. But still, thoughts of her father and sister made her want to turn around and hike up the switchback road to return to the village. She cleared her throat. “We might not find anything.” Or they might find the very worst thing.

  “We will. This is the last place we know Dylan was. Mount Katin, or rather”—he touched his chest, over his heart, where the map was in his pocket—“Mount Kanuux̂ is the key.”

  She had a strange feeling that in normal life, Dean was more of a pessimist, but in this, he absolutely didn’t permit pessimism. With good reason, she supposed.

  But damn, if they found Dylan’s body today, it was going to break him, and she’d have to find a way to get him back to the side-by-side and drive the terror road herself.

  But she’d do it. It was why she was tagging along now. She would not leave him to make the awful discovery by himself. It was an agony no one should suffer alone.

  They made their way up the narrow ledge, single file. It was the kind of narrow that usually she’d walk with her back to the face, looking out and scooting along, but with her bulging backpacks adding about sixteen inches to her depth, that wasn’t possible, so hip to the wall it was, one slow, careful step at a time.

  Thank God it wasn’t raining. She couldn’t imagine Dylan would have done this in the rain.

  A hundred feet in and Dean pointed to a hook embedded in the rock face. “Look. Dylan must’ve set up a handhold.”

  The fact that the loop was empty of rope now and Dylan had felt the need for a handhold did not bolster her confidence. Today was truly a day for facing her fears, between the terror road and now the terror trail.

  She tried to think if there were any phobias she had left and decided it was a good thing the Aleutians didn’t have snakes.

  “Talk to me, Dean. Get my mind off the sheer drop to my left.”

  “Ask me questions.”

  This still wasn’t the time to ask why he was committed to sleeping around, so she searched for a better topic. “How many countries have you visited?”

  “I’ve lost count. But I’ve been to every continent. I’ve visited more than half the countries in Africa. Two-thirds of South America. I’ve never calculated what percentage of Asia, but I’ve been to at least ten countries there.”

  “I’m envious. I got into archaeology because I love to travel and work outside . . . but it’s a field where you must specialize, so even if you’re an academic who does regular field seasons, you’re just returning to the same place over and over. As a CRM archaeologist, I get to travel here and there—like, look at me now; I’m climbing a volcano in the Aleutians—but it’s nothing like the kind of travel you’ve done.”

  “I’ve been lucky. I inherited a large sum that has made the travel possible. Photography proceeded to make it worthwhile.”

  “When did you start taking pictures?”

  “I got my first fancy camera for my fifteenth birthday. When I was eighteen, I built a darkroom in our basement.”

  “So you always knew it was what you wanted to do?”

  “Yeah. I studied wildlife biology because I knew I didn’t want to be a portrait photographer.”

  “But you’re clearly very good at it.”

  “Thank you. But also, that subject was special.” He paused, then added, “My best portraits are of people I find special. I am not knocking portrait photographers at all. I’m saying I don’t think I’m good enough to do weddings or family portraits because there isn’t time to develop the connection. I’ve got mad respect for portrait photographers and how they can capture the essence of a stranger. So many people hate having their picture taken, and they have to deal with that. Cheetah cubs don’t care about the camera unless they see it as a threat.”

  “I’ve never seen your work. Until this morning at Marion’s house, I mean. I guess I’ll have to google you when we get back to reality.”

  “I’ve got two hour-long documentaries you can watch on the Nat Geo channel.”

  “Do you like them?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I’m kind of one of those people who doesn’t like having their picture taken.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Nope. Totally true. Ask Dylan.”

  And there she caught her breath . . . because deep down, she didn’t believe that would ever be possible.

  They reached the top of the switchback trail—which Fiona handled like a terrified champ—and the path widened for a bit. He was about to tell her they’d made it through the worst when he saw the narrow, ten-foot-long natural rock bridge that spanned a thirty-foot drop they’d have to cross to get to the cave entrance.

  He came to a dead stop, at a loss for words, and she bumped into him, then looked around him and said “Fuck me” under her breath.

  He studied the landform. It was at least four feet wide, and the arch was several feet thick at the apex. It was as safe as a natural bridge of arching rock could get, given that natural bridges didn’t come with railings.

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “I need you to, Fi.”

  “Please don’t make me.”

  “I’m sorry. But it’s the only way. And better to do it now when the sun is out. It could rain later.” Given their luck, it probably would rain later. If it did, they’d need to
explore the tubes and get back down this hillside before the path became too slick. And rain would mean they’d have to camp in one of the caves near the parked side-by-side, but at least there they’d have firewood and shelter.

  Fiona closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. “Would it have killed Dylan to put ‘tightrope walking required’ on the damn map?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a tightrope.”

  She crossed her arms and glared at him. “You’re right. It’s worse, because tightropes have a net!”

  “You’re adorable.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “Fine. Then you’re wildly hot, and I think the fact that you’re going to overcome this fear and walk that bridge is incredibly sexy.”

  Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have said that, but it was true. Because he had no doubt she’d cross that bridge and, when she did, he’d be so impressed, he’d want to press her up against a wall and kiss her silly.

  She caught her breath, and her eyes got a little smoldery.

  He swallowed and leaned into the pleasure of this. Surely Dylan would understand. Whatever it took to find him. He grabbed the strap at her hips and gently tugged her toward him. “You can do this, Fi. I know you can. Because you are amazing.”

  “I’m no world-famous wildlife photographer. I’m not a volcanologist.”

  “And the fact that you are neither of those things but are going to do it anyway just proves my point.”

  “I don’t think you’re playing fair.”

  “I’m only speaking the truth.” He smiled, employing his very most endearing grin. “And when you get to the other side of that bridge, you know what I’m going to do?”

  “What?” Her voice was soft, breathless.

  “I’m going to give you the chocolate peppermint LUNA bar.”

  She tilted her head back and laughed, pressing her hand to her chest. It was deep and real and the most beautiful sound in the world. Finally, she managed to speak. “But we only have one, and you have to cross the bridge too.”

  “I’ll make do with another flavor.”

  She rose on her toes and brushed her lips over his, startling him with the softest, sweetest, most fleeting kiss he’d ever received. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “I knew you would,” he said smugly to hide how thrown off he was by that nothing of a kiss, which somehow seemed more important than any of the more passionate variety he’d enjoyed in the last ten years.

  Fiona Carver was dangerous in so many ways.

  She stepped back from him and studied the bridge. After a moment, she said, “I’m going first. I would crawl, but I think the pack on my back might throw off my weight more in a crawling position.”

  “You want me to take your pack, or better yet, you leave the pack here and take a rope across, then we pull it over?”

  “No. Too risky. If something happened and the pack fell, we’d be in deep trouble. I’m okay wearing it. It’s heavy but balanced, and I’m used to the weight and how to adjust for shifts.” She took a deep breath and raised her foot to step, then set it down. “The wind is freaking me out, though.”

  That was his main concern too. It whipped through the crevasse and bounced off the slope of the volcano. The only way to protect herself was to make a smaller target—like crawling.

  “You can do it.” There was really nothing else he could say.

  She nodded and took the first step. Then the second. By her fifth step, she was nearing a normal pace. She reached the middle and stopped and whispered something under her breath he didn’t catch; then she started moving again.

  She’d neared the far side and safety when a loud boom sounded.

  She startled, and her body twisted as her arms windmilled. She teetered on her feet; then one foot slipped out from under her as she tried to lunge forward.

  Dean shot out, running across the open bridge as another boom sounded. Did it come from a different direction? No time to consider what it was or what it meant. He just had to catch Fiona if she lost her footing.

  Just before he reached her, she got her feet beneath her and dropped forward, crawling to the safety of the wide, flat ground on the other side.

  Dean was right beside her, diving forward to get off the bridge as it registered that the sound might have been a gunshot. His mind replayed Fiona’s twisting motion before she lost her footing.

  The jagged basalt surface snagged his coat and pants as he scrambled for cover. He reached for Fiona, pulling her to his side as he scooted back to press against the hillside, no longer visible to anyone above or below them.

  “Was that a gunshot?” she asked, her voice high-pitched with fear.

  “I think so.” He put a hand on her shoulder, urging her to keep her back to the wall, under the slight overhang. “Stay there. I’m going to inch to the edge and have a look down.” He pulled out his camera, a small one that had a decent zoom, and soldier-crawled to the edge of the flat. He held the camera over the edge and took a video without looking at the screen and exposing his head.

  He then rolled over, shifted to a better position to see the slopes above them, and got another video by holding the camera out and away from him.

  Another boom sounded. Something stung his cheek. A spall created when a bullet hit the rocky ground next to him?

  “Get in the cave!” he said to Fiona, his words urgent but pitched so they wouldn’t carry up- or downslope.

  She scrambled to her feet and ran for the entrance that was more than seven feet high and ten feet wide. He bolted to his feet and followed her. Hoping, praying they weren’t running right into a trap.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The lava tube branched in several different directions. Fiona tried to remember which one had been the route Dylan indicated.

  All paths ahead were dark, and she grabbed the headlamp from her coat pocket, where she’d put it for easy access. She placed the elastic strap around her head and switched it on, using the red lens to give their eyes a better shot at adjusting to the dark sooner.

  “To the left,” Dean said.

  She ran in that direction as instructed, but almost immediately there was another fork. “Which way?”

  Dean cursed and stopped beside her to pull out the map. He also wore his red headlamp, and in the dim glow, she could just see the markings and Dylan’s handwriting.

  “Right this time,” she said, once she’d determined where they were.

  They moved as quickly as they could, going deeper and deeper, taking two more forks before they reached an underground stream that made enough noise that they could rest and talk in whispers. It would take anyone following them at least twenty minutes to catch up to them anyway, given that they’d been either above or below the only path.

  And if they didn’t have a map of the tunnels, they could spend hours searching, given the network that converged right at the entrance.

  But before she could speak, she needed to catch her breath. She wasn’t sure if she was winded from running through caves with a heavy pack or if it was the terror of being hunted.

  They sat side by side on the cold stone floor with their packs on, ready to bolt if needed. She took a long drink from her water bottle, downing much of it. She could refill it in the stream, so there was no need to conserve.

  She set the bottle down, and when she lifted her gaze, she saw Dean was holding out the chocolate peppermint LUNA bar.

  She made a sound that was half laugh and half cry, took the bar from him, opened it, and snapped it in two.

  He took his share without a word, and they both ate the best protein bar in their limited stores. Then she leaned against him, and he wrapped an arm around her, over the bulky pack on her back, and they just breathed quietly.

  “So,” she said after a long moment.

  “Yep,” he responded.

  “That was . . . unexpected.”

  “I told you the volcano was key.”

  “You did not just say ‘I told you so’
after we were shot at.”

  “Well, you aren’t the only one who’s always right.”

  She tilted her head back and laughed, remembering Cara’s joke on the boat that second day.

  “I also told you you’re amazing and would conquer that bridge. I was right there too.”

  “I almost failed. Of all the things I was afraid of, being shot at wasn’t one of them.”

  She shifted and kissed his jawline, her lips brushing over the bristly hair of his no-longer-perfectly-trimmed beard.

  Part of her wanted him to turn his head and take her mouth with his, but she knew that was the adrenaline talking. She didn’t do field flings, but she also didn’t do nonfield flings. Dean Slater could only ever be a fling. He’d made that more than clear.

  She tilted her head back, a mark on his cheek catching her attention. She touched the spot, just above where she’d kissed, and felt something wet on her fingers. She held her hand in front of the red glow of her headlamp. “Is that blood?”

  “I think a bullet hit the ground near me, and a spall zinged my cheek.”

  “It was that close to you?” Fear threatened to make her lose the precious LUNA bar in her stomach. He could have been killed in an instant.

  “I’m not the only one.” The hand he’d wrapped around her pack tugged at something, and she heard the snap as he unclipped her field kit from the larger frame pack. He pulled the smaller backpack between them and set it on her lap, then poked one finger through a new hole in the fabric at the top. “This is why you lost your footing on the bridge. A bullet went through your field pack.”

  She stared at her backpack. On the side, three inches from the first hole, there was a matching exit wound in the sturdy waterproof fabric.

  “I—I had no idea. I thought I just jolted at the noise.”

  “You, sweetheart, were spun around by a bullet, and yet you still crossed that scary bridge. That’s . . . damn impressive.”

  She rolled the torn fabric between her fingers, completely out of words.

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek, much as she’d done to him a moment ago.