River Rapture

by Vella Munn

  The matter-of-fact way in which Chas explained what Michon realized was a major emergency caused her to lose her concentration on the path ahead of them. She glanced back at him. “Were they all right?”

  “We got wet. That’s all.”

  “You were in the canoe? Who was with you?” He had too much skill for the kind of accident he’d described. What had happened?

  “April. She panicked.”

  Michon closed her eyes tightly against the current of emotion that coursed unchecked through her. The last time Chas had been on the river April had been with him. No! Why hadn’t she known that? It was bad enough knowing that Chas still carried the memory of April with him. Why did the woman and what she meant to Chas have to be tied up with the journey she was undertaking with Chas? “I’m sorry,” she managed after a lengthy silence. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

  “You didn’t know. Forget it.”

  Again silence settled down over the small canoe. Michon tried to concentrate on the landscape, the contours of the river, but her thoughts kept filling with snatches of what she felt sure was going through Chas’s mind too. The sense of adventure, the tug of fear at the back of Michon’s mind, had been replaced by depression. She didn’t want April in the canoe with them!

  But April couldn’t be avoided. Someday, somehow, the past would have to be brought into the open. Darn April for doing what she’d done to him!

  Michon had shaken off enough of her depression to be searching for a conversation topic when Chas spoke. “You might want to get out your camera in a few minutes,” he said as if they’d never spoken a serious word to each other. “We’re going to be passing some old buildings that were built around the turn of the century. The ranchers used to raise sheep and cattle and grow hay and alfalfa. That was before the sagebrush took over.”

  Michon did as Chas suggested and a few minutes later was rewarded with the sight of several outbuildings with nothing but air spaces between the weathered boards that were no longer really walls. Some rusting pieces of machinery and farm equipment added to the sense of time having left the area behind. As Chas explained that the buildings were last used as a sheep camp during the early fifties, Michon snapped pictures of buildings that threatened to be swallowed by sagebrush and other bushes, against a stark background of rock and mountain. Michon knew that the majority of her fellow employees at Chantilla would never understand why anyone would want to be near such a place, let alone take pictures of it. But the old house, barn, and outbuildings appealed to Michon because they let her see that when man gave up on an area, it slowly returned to its natural state.

  “I still can’t see how anyone could make a living here,” Michon said as she put her camera away and picked up her paddle. “I have tremendous admiration for them. Think of the chances they took. We can’t even imagine what it was like for them. Were they scared? Lonely? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”

  “You like it here?” Chas asked softly.

  “Oh yes!” she breathed, turning briefly to let him see the light in her eyes. “It—I guess it’s proof of the timelessness of nature. The buildings have been here so long that they’ve become a natural part of the landscape. They blend with nature. Maybe this sounds funny, but I feel as if the buildings are proud to have survived as long as they have. They fit in.”

  “April didn’t like it. She was afraid there were rats living in the old house.”

  “Rats? I didn’t think about that.” Michon refused to mention April.

  “She was right, unfortunately for her. They’re probably still in the barn because of the feed stored there. At least they were when we were here.”

  Michon laughed, determined to place April in the past, giving her the necessary push to continue the conversation. “Well, when you think about it, they have first rights. After all, they’ve been here a lot longer than we have. If humans are willing to build them some shelters, why shouldn’t the rats take advantage of things? Are we going to stop here?” she asked. “We’ve only been in the water a little while.”

  “No,” Chas answered as the landscape flowed by. “The only reason we stopped here before was that we’d had trouble with that one canoe capsizing. Everything got wet and I had to patch the canoe.” Chas shook his head as Michon glanced at him. “I’ve never seen April so upset.”

  “Why?” A moment before she’d been determined not to mention April, but she had to admit that ignoring her presence on the river wasn’t going to make her go away.

  “April likes things predictable. She didn’t handle the upset very well. She was pretty shook-up.”

  So simple. Chas’s explanation was so cut-and-dried, and yet it left too much unsaid. Was this why April was no longer part of Chas’s life, or was there more to the story than anger? “The memories here aren’t very pleasant, are they?” she ventured.

  Michon sensed rather than saw Chas shake his head. “It wasn’t the river’s fault. April and I were wrong, not where we were. But it felt so right,” he said softly. “I was sure I’d found the woman I’d always love. When that’s destroyed, the way it was with us, it’s hard to take.”

  “I’m sorry,” Michon whispered, not sure whether her voice carried over the sounds the river was making. She was shaking, knowing that, despite herself, she was being drawn into their relationship.

  “It’s all right. I’ll survive. I learned a valuable lesson. Look, is there something else we can talk about? I really don’t want to dwell on the past.”

  Michon struggled to find another topic, but her mind refused to leave the images born from Chas’s words. She remembered a high-school romance that had ended abruptly with a single argument. Oh, she and the boy—she couldn’t even remember his name anymore—had tried to continue their relationship, but too many things had been exposed by the argument. They’d learned, painfully, that they didn’t have enough in common, that their outlook, their goals, their beliefs, were too different for physical attraction to be able to bridge the gap. After a few more attempts at dating they’d drifted apart. She still thought of him as narrow-minded and rigid in his view of other people, while she was sure he perceived her as a bleeding-heart liberal. The argument and the lingering death of their romance had hurt, but in time she’d gotten over it. Why couldn’t it be like that for Chas? Had his feelings for April been so much deeper that his heart refused to let go of the past and continue living?

  There had to be something more. She didn’t know the whole story.

  At Michon’s prompting, Chas told her a little more of the country’s history including the origin of names of the area’s landmarks.

  Conversation took a backseat when Chas and Michon reached a sharp right bend in the river. Michon’s muscles tensed and she ground her teeth together in concentration as he directed her through the moves needed to maneuver the canoe through the turn without letting it get close to some fallen brush half-submerged in the moving water. Michon learned that back ferrying was another word for putting the canoe in reverse and back paddling to keep to the inside of the bend. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Michon gasped as she struggled to keep the canoe away from branches reaching out to snag the canoe should it drift too close.

  “Sorry,” Chas called back. “But this is something you can only learn by doing. Don’t tell me you’re complaining. You’re the one who wanted the great adventure.”

  “I’m not complaining,” she said, without letting her eyes stray from the river or the path she was imagining for the craft. Her fingers ached and the muscles between her shoulder blades were tense, but she wasn’t going to tell him. “I’m just glad we’re not traveling any faster.”

  “We’re barely crawling. Have you ever seen a white-water race? That’s what you’d call moving.”

  Michon waited until the bend was behind them before responding to Chas’s question. “I don’t even know what you mean by a white-water race. I take it that’s something you’ve done.”

  “Yep. T
here’s no experience like it. I’ll tell you about it later. Right now I want to make sure the others get through. A man drowned here about a hundred years ago.”

  That was because you weren’t here, Michon thought as they turned the craft around and back paddled to hold the canoe still in the water until the others joined them. Michon felt sorrow for the nameless man who’d given his life to the river, but the thought never entered her mind that she might somehow duplicate his fate.

  She was in Chas Carson’s broad, competent hands. Although she knew precious little about him, instinctively she knew he was someone who wouldn’t venture into territory he didn’t feel at home in. It was, she thought, rather like Jane putting herself in Tarzan’s hands. The only difference was that Chas’s emotions were much more complex. His life was filled with more than staying alive and keeping his belly full.

  Because as long as they remained stationary she didn’t have to concentrate on the current gripping the canoe, Michon was able to take a few minutes to study the man she was spending the day with. He was leaning forward slightly, the bulk of his weight on his knees instead of his seat, relaxed and yet poised for action. The wind had his hair in its grip; his cheeks were red from that same breeze. His life jacket covered most of his chest but his arms were naked except for a skintight T-shirt that hid nothing of muscles kept firmly tuned by constant exercise. The hands around the paddle looked as if they’d been fashioned for that very purpose.

  He’s at home here! This is where he belongs!

  Michon shifted her weight slightly to ease the ache between her shoulders, and repositioned her legs. Her fingers tingled, both from the pressure they were being subjected to and from a primitive ache to run them up the inside of the shirt that fit Chas like a glove.

  Did he have any idea how desirable, how animallike he looked at this moment? Michon found herself blushing slightly, but not enough to try to stop her thoughts. If a man was capable of shedding his civilized akin and becoming one with the river and the craft under him, this was what Chas was doing at this moment. He was as much a part of the John Day as boulders and white water and deep, quiet pools. There was only one way of expressing Michon’s reaction.

  You’re sexy. You’re a sexy, desirable man. And I want you! God, at this moment I want you.

  As Harry pulled alongside Michon she clamped a violent lid on her emotions and pulled the cloak of civilization back over her features. Desire wasn’t an emotion to share with outsiders. What she still felt inside she hoped didn’t show in her eyes.

  “How’s it going?” Harry asked, his lips a tight line that bothered her. “You need any liniment?”

  “Probably tonight. My hands are kind of sore,” Michon admitted. “Right now, though, I feel as if I could do this forever. I think I’m turned on to this old river.”

  “You haven’t seen Russo Rapids yet,” Chas warned. “Just don’t panic on me, okay?”

  I won’t, Michon vowed silently. I’m going to pass this test. You’re here. Nothing can go wrong.

  But when they reached Russo Rapids, Michon wasn’t quite so sure. Her opinion of Chas hadn’t changed, only her own self-confidence. They’d passed the area where a man had lived for twenty years in a dugout, and Shofly Canyon, where a small group of Indians almost starved one winter. As they neared Russo Rapids, Chas explained that a strong undertow would bring them against the bluff unless they kept to the right.

  “This is one place where I’m particularly cautious when the river is as low as it is now. There’s some large boulders under the surface. I know where they are, but we aren’t going to be able to see them. We’re going to stay right of center. It’s a borderline class-three rapid right now.”

  You didn’t have to tell me that, Michon thought, but even as she gasped at the sight of the rugged bluffs cutting off the skyline on her right Michon acknowledged a thrill coursing through her. The constant wind on her cheeks and through her hair was stirring a restless emotion. What was life without risks? A class-three current? This might be her first day on the John Day, but she felt ready for any challenge.

  Michon sensed Chas dropping low on his knees. He paddled with deep sweeps, barked a command at Michon to imitate him and called back to the others to stay to the right. She saw the white foam, felt it hit her face, fought the current’s grip on her paddle. But before she’d had time to take a breath, they were through the rapids and bouncing in the current below.

  Michon turned back toward the bluff, a grin spreading over her face. She’d done it! “Piece of cake!” she yelled.

  “You think so?” Chas asked. “Look at your blouse. You’re soaked.”

  Michon glanced down. Beneath the bulk of her life jacket her blouse was clinging wetly to her and her breasts were reacting to the cold water. She was grateful that the life jacket was covering her, but knew that when the time came to remove the jacket, her body would be sharply outlined under the wet garment.

  Would Chas respond? From the way he was concentrating on guiding the others through Russo Rapids she couldn’t be sure. He was, after all, the leader of the expedition. He had more important matters on his mind than the decency or indecency of her appearance. But she wanted him to notice. She wouldn’t deny that.

  By the time the group was under way again, Michon had become aware of the wind’s growing force. She looked up, surprised to find the sun high in the sky. She began to wonder how much more wind they would have to contend with before they were ready to leave the river. Chas, however, seemed unconcerned about that. He’d launched into another of his seemingly endless stories about the history of the John Day. “See those flat-topped rocks up ahead?” he asked. “That’s Squaw Butte. It’s named after some Indian who had five squaws. He was quite a hunter and kept them busy tanning his hides. The story goes that the squaws wanted to go to the Columbia and kept nagging him about it. He turned his horses loose so they couldn’t leave.”

  “Sounds like slave labor to me,” Michon observed.

  “Sounds like good thinking to me,” Chas said, a wink giving away his true feelings. “He wasn’t going to make his fortune if he lost his labor force.”

  “He probably paid dearly for it,” she laughed. “Can you imagine trying to keep five wives happy?”

  “I can’t imagine keeping one woman happy. If there’s a knack to it, I sure haven’t found it.”

  “You won’t forget April for a minute, will you?” Michon snapped, shocked by her reaction even as the words were being said. “She isn’t here, Chas. I don’t want to hear about her.”

  Chas gave her a long look before speaking. “I didn’t say a word about April.”

  “But you were thinking about her.” Michon turned away and blinked back angry tears. “Maybe she’s your favorite topic of conversation, but I’m tired of it. Can’t you think of anything else?”

  “Like what?” The challenge was unmistakable.

  “Forget it,” Michon groaned. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about anything.”

  How long they’d been in the water now Michon had no idea. She tried to trace the source of her sudden anger, but her mind refused to cooperate. Her legs were stiff, her palms tender, and her back ached, but a strange lethargy was settling down over her, making her unwilling or unmotivated enough to try to do anything about her discomfort. Despite the wind she was warm, and the exposed portions of her blouse were quickly drying. When they came to such landmarks as Horse Mountain, Dead Dog Canyon, and Pack Saddle Mountain, she roused herself enough to take more pictures, but most of the time she stared at the passing landscape, feeling both dull and deeply content. She’d think later. For the time being it was enough just to absorb the view.

  She’d spent countless hours at work standing in heels. This discomfort was no harder to take. In one way it was preferable. No one was making any demands on her. She wasn’t being asked to make polite conversation, work up some semblance of animation for the sake of a customer, or think ahead to her evening’s
plans.

  For the balance of the afternoon Michon wasn’t aware of consciously thinking of anything. She soaked in impression and sensations without concentrating on them. Her eyes acted like a camera, recording what she was seeing and filing it for future reference. She nibbled on an apple when Chas handed it to her, and when they passed close to the shoreline, she tossed out the core, hoping that some bird or small animal would find her offering to the creatures who made their home here.

  “One more mile to go,” Chas said after a lengthy silence. “Think you can make it?”

  “What? Of course,” Michon replied, rousing herself with an effort. “I feel like I’ve been in this canoe half of my life.”

  “Be patient. It won’t be much longer.”

  “That’s okay. I feel as if I could do this forever. I don’t care about anything else.”

  “You mean it? Not many people say that. Maybe you can handle this after all.”

  Was that meant as a compliment? Michon struggled momentarily to find the answer, but her mind refused to focus on any serious questions. She was content to surrender her body to the craft’s rhythmic swaying, to battle the constant wind. I’d make a good machine, she thought. Just plug me in and I can drift along all day. Even Chas’s pointing out an old cabin and mentioning that a drowning had taken place not far from the Twickenham Bridge years ago failed to give her anything worth concentrating on.

  Michon had been staring at Twickenham Bridge for several minutes before it registered. They’d reached their first day’s destination. “What now?” she asked, surprised at how rusty her voice sounded.

  “Now we get out and set up camp. Hungry?”

  Michon concentrated. To her surprise she found that she was. “Do you know of any good restaurants around here?” she asked as Chas was guiding their craft toward shore.