High Impact (4 page)

Sue’s smile broadened. “I’m certain you could find some…irresistible indulgences you haven’t tried.”

Emery allowed herself a lengthy perusal of the blonde’s curvaceous figure, starting with the navy fuck-me heels and working her way up toned calves to her short navy uniform skirt hugging firm thighs. Her matching blazer hugged her hourglass waist and ample breasts. The airline uniform was nicer than most, but she’d have much preferred a shirt that displayed a little more cleavage than the formal collared standard. “What’s your schedule like, tour guide?”

Sue glanced up at the wall clock beside the gate that read ten thirty a.m. “I don’t get off until six.” She glanced around, but the gate area was empty except for a native couple sitting too far away to hear them. “I do get an hour break at noon, and I know a place to go.”

“Do you now?”

“The staff uses some rooms onsite during weather emergencies.” Sue blatantly ogled Emery the same way she had just been assessed and licked her lips. “Soft cots and lockable doors.”

“I can feel an emergency coming on.”

“Oh, most definitely…uh…” Sue stammered and a grin tugged at her mouth. “Can I have your name?”

“Emery Lawson.”

“Emery. Nice.” Sue started typing into her computer. She frowned when she read whatever she’d called up, then tried something else. Another frown. “The first couple of flights out are full,” she muttered under her breath as she continued to type. After another minute, she grinned. “Mike Sweeney has an open spot this afternoon at four. He’s a freelancer, flying a charter for a family of six. Did you want to book one-way or round trip?”

“One-way. And the four o’clock flight is great.” She laid her credit card and ID on the counter.

Sue started transferring the information into her computer. “Can’t say as I’m not a little disappointed you won’t be coming back this way.”

“Oh, I didn’t say that.”

Sue stopped typing and looked up expectantly.

“I like to keep my options open, so when I find something worth revisiting, I can act on that impulse,” she said.

“In that case,” Sue printed out the boarding pass and handed it to Emery, along with her credit card, “meet me back here at noon, and I’ll see what I can do to stir up those…impulses.”

*

“No. Not at all obvious what you’ve been doing,” Emery mumbled to herself as she tried to hand-comb her hair. She wished she hadn’t already checked her bag so she could change clothes and fix her tousled hair. Her jeans were fine, but her frenzied encounter with Sue had wrinkled her high-collared, blue cotton shirt and left an obvious hickey just below her ear. She zipped up her black leather jacket to cover the worst and headed to the gate area.

Sue had at least thrown her clothes over a chair while they fucked, so her uniform had survived better, but the afterglow of orgasm shone on her face, all the more obvious as she cast hungry eyes in Emery’s direction when she spotted her.

Five dark-skinned natives waited to one side in folding chairs—an older man and woman, and three children, from about ten to late teens. Clearly the family who had chartered her flight. They glanced Sue’s way when she spoke on the gate intercom.

“The Bettles charter is ready to depart, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll take your boarding passes if you’ll step this way.”

Emery lingered to be last in line so she could say a few parting words, but Sue spoke up first.

“You have my number. I hope you’ll use it if you get back this way.”

“I have good reason to. We’ll see what the fates hold.” Emery put her hand over Sue’s as she swiped the boarding pass over the gate scanner. “Thanks for an unforgettable…” She sought the right word and chuckled at the one that came into her head. “Layover.”

Sue laughed, too. “I won’t forget you, either. Have a safe and fun trip.”

Five minutes later, Emery sat strapped into the tail seat of a six-passenger Cessna 180, a bright-orange floatplane with a red tail. The pilot, a brawny man with a flaming red beard and black wool cap, turned slightly in his seat to address them. “Name is Mike Sweeney,” he said. “But I go by Skeeter. It’s about a two-hour flight to Bettles. Wind’s pretty low today, so we should have a smooth trip. Relax and enjoy the view, and let me know if you have any questions. Everybody buckled up?”

He responded to the chorus of affirmative replies with a nod and, after running through the usual safety spiel, started the plane. They took off from one of the two water runways at the edge of the airport and soon soared over a vast landscape of tundra and mountains, with no visible sign of civilization.

“Do you know if the Den’s fully booked?” Emery asked the pilot.

“You know the Den?” he replied. “Been to Bettles?”

“No. I’m booked there, but I’m arriving a couple days early.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem midweek early in the season. In another couple of weeks, may be a different matter. Look for Grizz, the big guy behind the bar. He runs the place.”

“Great, thanks.” She remembered the name from her e-mailed reservations. Grizz seemed a perfect moniker for an Alaskan man, just like “Skeeter.” Relaxing against the seatback, she stared out the tiny window at the rugged terrain. She’d had great fun so far in her travels and had regained her strength, barely a trace of a limp except when she overdid it. She was ready to face the ultimate test of Alaska.

She could easily parallel this lonely, desolate environment to the accident that set her on this course. Both had their own set of rules, life-changing rules. Both placed you in a situation where all that you knew, all the once-important things, didn’t matter anymore. You had to assess what really affected your well-being. Most people ran from such forced, world-shaking self-examination, but Emery embraced it. How else would you ever realize your strength and your capabilities?

Her musings shortened the journey. Before she knew it, the pilot was announcing his approach to Bettles and requesting clearance to land. In the far distance, she saw a small settlement, a cluster of buildings surrounded by forest. Her home for the next few months.

Emery pulled out her journal, already nearly filled with impressions of the places she’d visited and how they’d affected her, small sketches, photos of people she’d met, ticket stubs. She’d have to buy another soon. No doubt, her time in Alaska would give her much to ponder and indelible memories to savor when she moved on.

*

Pasha looked longingly at Dita’s well-used backpack, stuffed with supplies for her fly-fishing trip. Being out in the field would certainly help her work off her relentless restlessness. But Dita always took out the first trip of the season, and she’d tapped Lars Rasmussen as the second guide because of his extensive knowledge of the best stretches of river. Pasha would debut as the junior guide of a three-day women-only wildlife-viewing/photography trip, due to set out when Dita got back.

Dita stood checking the large pile of food and other supplies they’d assembled on a large folding table in the back room. She’d just been named one of Alaska’s rising young entrepreneurs, whose upstart company was worth—according to the magazine article—four million dollars. Dita, an unpretentious, down-to-earth environmentalist, favored flannel shirts and jeans, and considered doing right by her employees more important than the bottom line.

When building her empire, she’d made some seemingly unwise financial choices by acquiring several failing small companies, including Orion Outfitters in Winterwolf and a freelance group in Bettles, Arctic Independent Outfitters, which Bryson and Lars had helped found. The benefits and wages she offered quickly lured the guides and pilots to work for Eidson Eco-Tours instead. They appreciated her business savvy, as well as her commitment to the environment and emphasis on safety.

Bettles provided an ideal starting point for trips to the nearby Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and Gates of the Arctic National Park, an area of more than thirty-two-thousand square miles. But the tiny village outpost had quickly become more to Dita than just another branch of her business. After overseeing the renovation of the Arctic Independent Outfitter offices and hiring the necessary staff, she’d decided to make it her primary base of operation and moved there permanently. By then, she said, she’d simply made too many good friends to leave.

Last season, the company had barely managed to break even, though it had become the state’s largest outfitter. The struggling economy had forced most Americans to forego their vacation plans altogether or choose low-cost options closer to home, and they made up the bulk of their business. But this year Dita had planned for forty trips during their peak May-through-October period, all filling up so fast she had begun plotting out a handful more.

“Wish I was going,” Pasha said wistfully.

Dita checked off another item on the yellow pad she held and smiled up at Pasha. “Patience, honey. You’ll likely have more fun on your trip than I’ll have on mine. You get a buncha young women.” Dita’s soft twang held a note of regret. “I get three married couples, and if past history holds out, that means at least one of the wives will whine from the get-go.”

On every couples’ trip, they usually had to coerce at least one woman to go along, a spoiled princess who bemoaned the primitive conditions and complained at every opportunity. She and Dita had discussed ways to deal with the issue when it arose, ways to keep all the clients happy to ensure repeat business. But changing small-minded individuals who preferred hair dryers, makeup, and consistent cell-phone contact with their friends presented a challenge. She could never understand how someone could cling to such petty concerns amidst the grandeur all around them.

“Hope you’re right.” Pasha had sorted through the client files all morning, seeking some sense of whether one might relate to her premonition. Unfortunately, so far none had triggered a clue. Now she was poring over the files of the clients on the photography trip, and Dita might be right. The five women all seemed to be experienced outdoorswomen, not high-maintenance Barbie dolls. She reached for the last file, wishing for photographs to supplement the extensive questionnaire Dita required. In addition to detailing their previous outdoor experience and health status, guests had to read and sign waivers that stated the risks involved in an Alaskan trip and absolved the outfitter of responsibility.

As soon as she touched the folder, she involuntarily jumped back from the tiny electrical shock that ran up her fingertips.
What the hell?
She stared at it several seconds then reached for it again. No shock this time as she pulled it across the table, but the paper felt slightly warm to the touch. She flipped it open. Emery Lawson. Pasha’s vision blurred and she couldn’t discern any more for several seconds. When the neat handwriting finally materialized again, she began reading with interest. Emery was forty-five, ten years older than she was, and at five feet seven, a few inches taller. Brown hair and brown eyes. She described her build as athletic.
Nice
. She skipped over the disclaimer portion and flipped the page to find, under the section marked marital status, that Emery was single.
Very nice.

She had left the section for home address blank, though she’d included her cell-phone number and an e-mail address for updated trip information. Did Emery Lawson have no permanent residence or wish to hide that fact? Oftentimes, a client’s home base told her a lot about their frame of reference: their lifestyle and their priorities. Was Emery a big-city workaholic? Or a self-sufficient loner, maybe, who lived somewhere in the wide-open spaces of the West?

At the bottom of the form, Dita had scrawled Emery’s date of arrival—three days from now. She would have to stew in this cauldron of bundled nerves and excess energy for another seventy-two hours or so, but at least she had a clue that her feelings related somehow to this Emery Lawson. For the moment, she’d keep her hunch to herself, see if it panned out.

“Pash? You coming?”

“Huh?” She swiveled in her chair. Dita stood by the door looking at her expectantly.

“I said, you coming? It’s dinnertime, and Bryson should get back any minute.”

“Oh, right.” Pasha sprang to her feet and followed Dita toward the Den. She needed a night with her buds to keep from going crazy waiting for Emery to arrive.

“She didn’t say what happened?” Pasha asked.

“No clue at all?” Dita chimed in a second later.

“Nope.” Karla tapped the table and stared at the doorway expectantly. Bryson had called the bar a little while ago and said she’d been delayed, but that the wait would be worth it. She had “a great surprise for everyone.”

Pasha immediately suspected this surprise could be connected to her premonition of change, since it was rapidly growing stronger.

“I bet it’s something to eat,” Dita said, “if it’s for everyone. Remember when we all talked last week about stuff we craved but couldn’t get? I said I’d kill for some fresh collard greens and ham hocks. Maybe she found some.”

“No offense, Dita,” Pasha said drolly, “but I wouldn’t consider that a great surprise.”

“Unlikely, I think.” Karla chewed the corner of her lip, her gaze still fixed on the entryway. “She rarely goes shopping without asking what I need. And I wouldn’t have thought she’d have time.” After Bryson delivered the fly-fishing clients to Bettles that morning, she had taken right off again in the Cessna, ferrying equipment and supplies to the Eidson offices in Kotzebue, on the west coast, and Winterwolf, on the North Slope.