by Susan Cliff
He’d done that with Jenny, and it had almost killed him. Everyone had agreed that the breathing machine was prolonging the inevitable. Everyone had been ready to say goodbye—except him. He’d preferred limbo and false hopes to that soul-crushing end.
Tala slept peacefully for more than hour. He made good time in some tricky sections, charging over bone-white roads with nothing but vague tracks to guide his way. Snow flurries danced in his headlights. He expected storms and delays on the Dalton, but the weather was supposed to hold steady tonight. He hoped it wouldn’t take a turn for the worse. All he needed was a blow, or a full-on blizzard, to trap them in Coldfoot. When visibility was nil, truckers had to pull over and wait for the conditions to improve. Sometimes they closed the road altogether until the storm passed.
It would be difficult to stay a single night at Coldfoot Camp with Tala. He’d have to keep his distance and pretend they weren’t traveling together. If they got stuck there by bad weather, the ruse would fall apart. She wasn’t a woman who could go unnoticed for long.
While he considered ways to address this problem, she stirred in her sleep. She mumbled something unintelligible and kicked her legs, as if running away from a threat. Then she sat upright with a start. Her eyes were wide, lips parted in distress.
“You were dreaming,” he said helpfully.
She drew in several ragged breaths. “Yes.”
“Everything’s fine. You’re safe.”
“Is anyone following us?”
“No.”
Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she held it clutched tight over her chest. “How far to Coldfoot?”
“Another hour. You can come up front.”
She brought the blanket with her to the passenger seat. After she buckled up, she shot him a curious look.
“We need to discuss your story.”
“My story?”
“You can’t tell people you’re a stowaway or a hitchhiker.”
“Why do I have to tell them anything?”
He smiled at the question, which he understood on a visceral level. He’d spent the past three years avoiding social interactions whenever possible. “It’s better to have a story ready. Someone might ask if you’re a trucker.”
“I don’t look like a trucker.”
“No, you don’t. More importantly, you don’t talk like one. You don’t know the lingo.”
“What else can I be?”
He mulled it over. Tourists visited the Dalton on occasion. Mostly the road was populated with truckers, oil rig workers and engineers. “Keeping it close to the truth is easier. You can say you’re a waitress, and you’ve got a job lined up at a hotel in Prudhoe Bay. They’re always desperate for help.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll see how busy it is when we get there. If it’s crowded, we might be able to come in without causing a stir.”
“Why would we cause a stir?”
He arched a brow.
“Because I’m a woman.”
“You’re a young, beautiful woman, in a place where there are only men.”
She fell silent, watching the snow-packed road. Then she turned her gaze on him. “You’re a beautiful man.”
He tensed at the compliment. He’d been called handsome before, but never beautiful. The term didn’t fit him.
She studied his face with interest. “Do they hit on you?”
“Who?”
“The other men.”
“No,” he said, flushing. “Hell, no.”
Her lips curved into a smile. “Maybe you cause a stir all by yourself.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? Some of those truckers could be pining away for you.”
“If they are, I don’t want to know.”
She laughed at his reaction, seeming pleased with herself. He realized he didn’t have any idea how it felt to be the object of unwanted desire. As a waitress, she’d probably dealt with lewd behavior and grabby hands, not just crude comments on the radio. After escaping her abusive husband, she must have been wary of strange men. Even so, she’d served them with calm efficiency. He admired her grit. It took a lot of courage to stare down truckers and pour their coffee with a steady hand.
“What if it’s not crowded?” she asked.
“Then I can’t pretend we didn’t arrive together.”
“Will you get in trouble?”
“I doubt it.”
“But you’d rather not attract attention.”
“Exactly.”
“I get it.”
He shifted into a lower gear as they climbed another steep slope. As soon as he was clear of the danger, he glanced in her direction. “I didn’t mean to offend you by saying you’d cause a stir.”
“I wasn’t offended. I’m used to it.”
“Used to what, being stared at?”
“But not really seen.”
He nodded his understanding. He knew what other men saw when they looked at her—long legs and long hair and pretty lips. Obviously, he noticed her surface beauty, but he saw other things in her. Strength, determination, vulnerability. A fighting spirit.
“I see you,” he said, after a pause.
She smiled at his simple statement. “I know.”
Before they reached Coldfoot, the snow flurries turned into a swirling whiteout. Visibility was reduced to almost nothing. He crept along at a snail’s pace for the last stretch, grateful it was a straight shot to their destination. By the time he pulled over in the camp parking lot, it was late evening, and he was dead tired.
Luckily, the lot was full. Several other trucks had just arrived. The rustic restaurant was packed with hungry men. Cam’s stomach growled for a hot meal. He grabbed his parka and removed a few bills from his wallet.
“Here’s the plan,” he said, giving her some cash. “You pay for a bunk and get settled while I buy dinner. I’ll bring you a plate.”
“How will you know which room I’m in?”
“There’s a separate hall for women. I think it’s just one room with a few bunks. I’ll knock on the door.”
“Where will you eat?”
“At the counter.”
Although she didn’t appear pleased with the arrangement, she said nothing. She understood the need for discretion. She put the cash in her pocket and pulled her hood up, obscuring her face. Then she caught sight of a tour bus pulling into the space next to his rig. “Arctic Adventures” was written across one side.
“Tourists spend the night here?” she asked sharply.
“Only on weekends,” he said, stroking his jaw. He’d forgotten it was Saturday. “They travel to Coldfoot and back.”
“Anyone can sign up?”
“I guess so.”
Her brow furrowed with unease. They hadn’t been followed by her assailants—at least, not in the usual sense. Cam hadn’t seen any standard vehicles on the road, and every trucker required special paperwork. There was a lengthy permit process, drug testing and other regulations.
Tourists, however, could hop on a bus without much trouble. If there were seats available, tickets would be sold on the spot. Her pursuers could have paid for a tour this morning. He drummed his fingertips against the wheel as about a dozen people piled out of the bus. He couldn’t see most of their faces. They were all bundled up in hooded jackets and appeared to be headed toward the restaurant.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“Stick to the plan. You pay for a bunk and get out of sight. I’ll sit down at the restaurant. If I spot your friends, I’ll let you know.”
“They’re not my friends.”
“Whoever they are.”
She didn’t ask what their options were. There wasn’t anywhere else to go tonight. In an emergency, they could sleep in his rig. He�
��d have to keep the engine running all night, or they’d freeze to death. She pressed her lips to his bearded cheek, leaving a trace of heat and softness. “Be careful.”
“You, too.”
She grabbed her backpack and climbed out of the cab. There was a door nearby with a glowing Vacancy sign in the window. The bunkhouses were basically a series of connected trailers crammed with narrow beds. Although most of the space was designated for men, there was a private room for women behind the front office.
He waited a few minutes before shutting down his dashboard and making his exit. The restaurant was half-full, even at this late hour. Dinner service appeared to be winding down. He took a seat at the counter, studying the faces in the crowd. They looked like regular truckers and tourists to him. He didn’t see the lowlifes they’d tangled with earlier. If they were here, they were blending in.
Cam snorted at the thought. Those guys were thugs. They didn’t blend in. Subtlety wasn’t their strong suit. They’d tried to kidnap Tala from a public parking lot.
He ordered two plates of pasta with grilled chicken and broccoli, one to go. He knew from experience that the food here was good. Truckers had hearty appetites, and when they were sidelined by a snowstorm, there wasn’t much else to do. There was no cell service or Wi-Fi. A single television mounted in the corner offered news and weather reports. Cam caught up on the forecast while he waited for his meal. It was going to be cold and clear.
He took his phone out of his pocket to check for texts from Mason. Sure enough, his brother had come through with a cryptic message.
Call me. Important info.
Cam frowned at the words on the screen. Mason knew Cam couldn’t call from here. If the information was so goddamned important, why hadn’t he texted it? Sighing, he rose from his seat and approached the register. There was only one phone in the joint, and access wasn’t free. Cam paid for a ten-dollar card to call his brother in Seattle.
“Who’s this?” Mason answered.
“It’s me.”
There was a scrambling sound, as if his brother had dropped his phone. Then a whisper of sheets and a feminine murmur.
“I’m returning your call,” Cam said.
“Hang on.”
Mason’s footsteps padded across a hardwood floor. He lived in a drafty old loft in a run-down area near the red-light district. It was an unusual space, straight out of a horror movie. He called it “industrial.” Everyone else called it creepy.
“Do you have company?”
“No.”
“I thought I heard a voice.”
“It was the TV.”
“You don’t have a TV.”
“I have internet. Livestreaming.”
“Livestreaming? Is that what they call it now?”
“I’d explain, but you’ve been in Alaska too long to understand technology.”
Cam grunted his disbelief, shifting the phone to his other ear. “I only have five minutes. What’s the info?”
“I found Tala Walker in a criminal database. She has a record.”
“I know.”
“Funny, you didn’t mention it.”
“She said it was a minor offense.”
“Not quite.”
Cam waited for Mason to continue, his stomach clenched with unease.
“She was arrested nine months ago at a rally in Whitehorse, Canada. A few hundred people were protesting a pipeline expansion project by a local oil company. It started out peaceful, but ended in chaos. Riot police were brought in to handle the more aggressive activists, and they clashed.”
Cam didn’t automatically assume the activists were to blame. He’d worked crowd control before. Some protests attracted unpredictable weirdos and violent extremists. But there were also overzealous officers who added fuel to the fire, and inexperienced rookies who didn’t know how to defuse tense situations.
“According to the report, your girlfriend assaulted an officer.”
“How?”
“She broke a beer bottle over his head. He had to get stitches.”
Cam squeezed his eyes shut. Damn.
“There’s more,” Mason said.
“I’m listening.”
“She spent a night in jail and was released on her own recognizance. Then she missed her court date, which was a huge mistake. If she hadn’t skipped bail, she might have ended up with a slap on the wrist. Now she’s basically a fugitive. She’s got warrants for her arrest.”
“Was her husband involved in the altercation?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far in the background check. I actually have better things to do than assist you on your latest foray into self-destruction.”
Cam squinted at the harsh words. “Foray into self-destruction?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You sound like a depressed poet.”
“I’ll jot that down in my black notebook.”
“What better things do you have to do, besides that stranger in your bedroom?”
“She’s not—”
Cam pounced on the bitten-off protest. “She’s not a stranger? Or you’re not doing her?”
Mason sighed into the receiver. “Are you going to ignore the information I gave you?”
“No. I’m taking it seriously.”
“So you’re done with this girl?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Cam, I get it. I’ve seen her photo. She’s hot. By Alaska standards, she’s a supermodel. But she’s a wanted criminal, not an innocent victim. She’s on the run from the law.”
“Did you find anything on the husband?”
“Duane Laramie, age twenty-six. He’s a customs officer stationed in Carcross, near the US-Canada border. No record, but he’s got an extensive gun collection. Seven registered weapons. Some hunting, some home-protection.”
Cam didn’t like this news any more than he liked the report on Tala. “What about the diner in Willow?”
“Oh, yeah. I talked to a sheriff’s deputy about that. Said I was looking into another missing girl case. He told me there was no indication of foul play, but the waitress left her purse at the scene.”
“That didn’t raise any red flags?”
“It raised some red flags about her being a thief. She had a stolen ID in her wallet.”
Cam dragged a hand down his face. “I have to go. My time’s almost up.”
“What’s your plan?”
“For tonight?”
“And tomorrow.”
Cam didn’t answer. He had no intention of ditching Tala, no matter what his brother said. Maybe she was nothing but trouble. It didn’t matter; he still wanted her. When he looked at her, he didn’t see a liar or a criminal. He saw a beautiful, desirable woman. Every time they touched, his heart thawed a little more.
“Cam?”
“I haven’t decided what to do,” he said finally.
He needed more information from Tala. He’d ask her some questions and gauge her responses. If she wasn’t honest with him, he’d have to rethink this whole arrangement.
He should probably keep his distance, regardless. She was a terrible choice for a no-strings fling. The man he used to be wouldn’t have entertained the idea of sleeping with a fugitive who assaulted cops. That man wouldn’t have considered an affair with a desperate stowaway, either.
The man he was now didn’t even feel ashamed.
He felt alive.
“Be careful,” Mason said.
“I will,” Cam lied.
Chapter 11
Coldfoot, AK
67N
-9 degrees
Tala stepped inside the empty room and looked around.
There were four narrow beds, spaced a few feet apart from one another. A single nightstand with a lamp sat in the cen
ter. She locked the door behind her and set her backpack on the nearest bed. Then she inspected the bathroom. It had a toilet, sink and shower stall. She didn’t see any towels, just a stack of washcloths.
The space was chilly and lacked ambience. Thin carpet, drab walls, beige bedding. She crossed her arms over her chest, shivering. It wasn’t much, but she’d stayed in worse places, and she didn’t mind the cold. She’d roughed it in the Yellowknife wilderness more times than she could count. Once she’d spent the night in a hole her father had dug out of snow, after they’d been forced to take shelter from a sudden blizzard.
Tears welled in her eyes at the memory. She didn’t miss Duane, but she missed home. She’d left all her personal belongings in Carcross. Priceless artifacts that had been handed down from generation to generation. Tools her father had made with his own hands. Her grandmother’s blankets and furs.
She spent the next ten minutes curled up on the narrow bed, feeling sorry for herself. Then she pushed aside her sadness and got up. She rummaged through her backpack for a change of clothes. She could wear her leggings and sweater as pajamas. A hot shower would be nice, if she could find a towel.
She searched the dresser, which had nothing in it except a Bible. She ducked into the bathroom anyway. Her hair didn’t need washing, and there was no shampoo or conditioner. She stripped quickly and stepped into the shower stall, securing her braids at the nape of her neck. The water was pleasantly warm, which made her wish for a longer soak. Eyes closed, she let the warmth flow over her bare shoulders. Then she unwrapped a tiny soap to lather her body. Her hands swept over her breasts, lingering on the tight points of her nipples. The flesh between her legs pulsed with arousal. She bit down on her lower lip, trying to ignore the sensation. She considered stroking herself to climax, for the comfort and release.
Instead of giving in to the urge, she finished washing and turned off the water. Cam’s hot kisses and smoldering looks had left her wanting. The book she’d been reading this afternoon hadn’t helped. It had been surprisingly explicit, with a series of sexy scenes. One image featured a topless woman lying on her back in the hero’s bed. She was a typical male-fantasy character—perfect breasts, slim waist, flowing hair. Her face was contorted in ecstasy. The hero wasn’t in the frame at all. Tala had puzzled over that for a moment before she realized he was going down on her. It was a beautiful drawing, despite the subject matter. Or because of it. Tala wasn’t sure. She’d never experienced that particular pleasure.