High Impact (6 page)

“Hey, since you’re already in town,” Dita turned toward Chaz, “you up for taking that one out with Pash? It’s only a three-dayer. The guy I have scheduled asked for some time off for personal reasons.”

“Sure. It’ll be a breeze if the rest of the clients are like that one—she certainly seems low-maintenance,” Chaz observed. “Fit. Well-used outdoor gear. Obviously a seasoned traveler. And if you’re right about her,” she told Geneva, “should be fun company.”

“Uh…fun company?” Megan scowled, but with obvious mirth in her eyes. “Do I need to play chaperone, honey?”

“You know I just mean it’s always more relaxed on these trips when you have some like-minded women along,” Chaz said. “Instead of some urban Muffy who can’t stop talking about the mall, and her boyfriend problems, and—”

“I was kidding, honey.” Megan stroked her arm. “I know exactly what you mean and how devoted you are.”

“Anyway, I intend to keep Emery far too busy for her to even look at another woman while she’s here, married or single,” Geneva declared. “I thought my hormones had gone into permanent hibernation, but they perked up immensely when she walked in.”

Everyone else laughed, but Pasha couldn’t even feign a smile. Though she wanted to feel angry with Geneva for treading on her territory, she knew better. She wanted Geneva to be happy, as she wished well for all her friends. And her suddenly unreliable intuition hadn’t given her any claim whatsoever over Emery. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help but feel it all a cruel, cruel injustice.

Next day, June 2

“Okay, I think this is the last.” Dita shouldered her pack as Pasha reached for the remaining food duffel earmarked for the fly-fishing trip. Bryson conducted her preflight checklist while the three couples and Lars boarded the plane. “Hold down the fort, and I’ll see you in a few days.” Though the guides carried satellite phones, the mountainous terrain, distance, and weather made the connections with the backcountry capricious.

“No problem.” Pasha followed Dita out the door and toward the runway two blocks away. The Den had the village’s best real estate. The wide windows in its rooms and restaurant overlooked the airport, an unremarkable clearing at the north edge of town with the small FAA station, a trio of hangars, a single gravel runway, and the wide Koyukuk river just beyond, which served floatplane traffic. However, behind the runway stood the magnificent Brooks Range, a seven-hundred-mile long, one-hundred-fifty-mile wide swath of peaks that stretched across Alaska and into Canada’s Yukon.

Only a handful of settlements dotted the entire range, so everyone who lived in this isolated wilderness used small bush planes. In most of the state, they provided the only way in and out. Pasha had flown in them so many times she’d long ago lost count, comfortable enough with the experience. She still had a deep respect for the weather’s unpredictability, though, and the risks involved in every flight. She’d had one scary trip with Bryson the previous summer, when they searched for a father and son who failed to show at the pickup point for their river-raft trip.

The weather had started fine but suddenly went lousy, with intermittent rain and a low cloud ceiling. Bryson found most of the passes obscured, so she had to make lengthy detours that ran them dangerously low on fuel. Upon their return to Bettles, she had to coast the last several hundred yards on empty tanks, Pasha gripping the handhold above her head so hard she lost all circulation in her fingers.

Because of that experience and the many stories she’d heard, Pasha worried every time one of her friends went into the sky because it might be the last time she would see them. Dita confessed she often thought the same, so every send-off always included a hug. “Have a wonderful trip,” she told Dita as they embraced at the doorway. “And take care.”

“I’ll bring us back something special for dinner.”

Bryson, dashing in her aviator sunglasses and ball cap, sheepskin-lined leather coat and jeans, came around to Pasha’s side and removed the chock from the right front tire. “I’ll come find you when I get back.” She routinely stopped at the office when she returned from a trip drop-off run to share impressions of the clients and the location over a cup of coffee.

“Look forward to it. Have a great flight.”

Bryson glanced up at the sky, an amazing shade of azure Pasha thought had to be unique to the clear air of the Far North. “Beautiful day for flying. The clients will get some great views.” Contentment spread across her face. She clearly had found her true calling, perfect home, and ideal mate. Pasha wished for the same.

Once the plane vanished from view, she returned to the office. Booking calls wouldn’t start for another hour, so she poured a second mug of coffee and settled into the back room, where she could be comfortable but hear if someone stopped in. Pasha didn’t expect anyone, but Karla or Geneva often dropped by seeking company for breakfast when they rose early.

Dita had remodeled the office when she took over so it would have a more comfortable but rough-hewn look, with dark, rough-paneled walls, hardwood floors, and log beams spanning the high ceiling. Inuit art and photographs taken on recent trips of wildlife, breathtaking views, and happy clients having fun provided tasteful décor.

Before every trip, the guides also used the outer reception area to brief clients on what to expect. The briefings included extensive instruction on the leave-no-trace dictums of camping and hiking through the protected and fragile backcountry environment.

At the rear of the outer room stood the business counter and, beyond that, two doors: one to Dita’s office and the other to the employees-only area. A lounge took up half the spacious back room—a tiny kitchen, trio of comfy stuffed armchairs, couch, and coffee table—and long tables, where they packed food and equipment for the trips, occupied the rest.

Pasha pulled her MP3 player from her pocket and stuck the headphones in her ears. She kept forgetting to ask Bryson to pick up some cheap portable speakers in the Fairbanks Walmart. Pasha missed the lack of immediate access to most goods and services. The tiny store in Bettles had a very limited inventory—a couple of aisles of food and bare essentials, so even mundane things had to be flown in on special order. The Internet was a godsend for shopping, but shipping costs were dear and didn’t make sense for things like groceries. Fortunately, Bryson generally went to Fairbanks at least a couple of times a week this time of year and was always happy to pick something up for her when she had time to shop. She charged others a gas stipend, but not friends.

As Sara Bareilles’s soulful voice filled her ears, Pasha settled into one of the armchairs with her coffee and a stack of client files. After sorting them by trips, she’d check to see if she needed to follow up with anyone. Maybe staying busy would keep her from imagining whether Emery and Geneva were enjoying each other’s company, which she’d done half the night.

“One Sweet Love,” one of her favorite tunes, came on, and she sang along as she often did. Thank God, Dita didn’t seem to mind, but her friends always said she could carry a tune better than most. The song made her think of Emery, and the lyrics hit home.
Could I be wrong?

Just then the familiar tingling feeling roared back, and she sensed someone was watching her. She quit singing mid-sentence and turned to find Emery Lawson framed in the doorway, wearing a bemused expression.

Pasha leapt to her feet, spilling her coffee and dumping files on the floor. Her earphones popped out as she rose, and a warm blush of embarrassment crept up her neck. As their eyes met she felt almost starstruck, in the worst possible way. Close-up, Emery mesmerized her, and she immediately memorized her every feature and nuance.

Her dark-brown eyes, warm and intelligent, shone with an inexplicable depth of maturity. A scar at the corner of Emery’s lips emphasized her smile, and her glossy, medium-brown, collar-length hair, lighter on top, badly needed a trim. Combined with her deep tan, the natural highlights indicated Emery had spent a lot of time outdoors recently in a warm climate. A lot of Floridians visited Bettles, but she didn’t look like the typical Miami Beach sun worshipper.

She didn’t have the trappings of the typical businesswoman-on-holiday either, though Emery had a rather cosmopolitan look. Her clothes looked expensive and well-tailored, though also well-used. She had style and knew what suited her. But she wore no jewelry or makeup, her luggage more sturdy utilitarian than designer label. And her relaxed air and mischievously twinkling eyes didn’t belong to the urban workaholics Pasha knew.

She tried to sort Emery into one of the categories the guides had come up with for types of clients, a half-serious, half-joking endeavor they fine-tuned after every trip. The categories for women, so far, included Barbie dolls and party girls, workaholics, athletes and outdoor-sports buffs, environmentalists and nature lovers, naïve small-towners, scientists, and chatterboxes.

Some of their clients could certainly fit in more than one category, and Emery might be one of them. Since she’d signed up for several trips, she might qualify as an outdoor-sports buff and/or environmentalist.

A sound registered vaguely in her consciousness.

“I’m s…sorry?” She had focused so compulsively on Emery she apparently hadn’t been able to spare the brain cells necessary to register that Emery had asked her something. But, from her expectant expression, surely she had. God, she must look like an idiot.

Emery stooped to gather the files Pasha had dropped. “I said, I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right?”

Pasha knelt and helped, trying to stem the hammering in her heart. She could feel her blush deepen. “I startle easily,” she blurted.
Your first words to her, and that’s what you come up with? I startle easily? Are you insane?
Usually calm, she had anticipated Emery’s arrival so fervently she had frazzled her nerves, and to see the woman she’d thought so obsessively about turn up so unexpectedly turned her topsy-turvy.

“I wouldn’t consider that an asset when you live in a state filled with grizzly bears and wolves,” Emery remarked in a neutral tone. She handed Pasha the files she’d collected and they stood.

Mortified, Pasha was glad Dita hadn’t been here to witness her humiliation. How ridiculous she must seem. She had to correct this impression before she told Emery she was one of her guides. “I didn’t really mean to say that.” She took a deep breath. “I guess you did make me jump a little, but that’s completely uncharacteristic. I’m neither timid nor clumsy. Most of the time, anyway.” Now she rambled, defending herself like a desperate realtor trying to sell a fixer-upper.

“I was kidding.” Emery’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “Obviously you didn’t expect company and had your earphones on. I’m sorry. I imagine I gave you quite a fright. Can’t say as I regret it, though. You sing beautifully.”

Pasha began to reply, but her mind shut down again when Emery casually unbuttoned her leather coat. The burgundy turtleneck beneath tightly hugged her high round breasts. A large silver buckle centered on her low-cut jeans drew Pasha’s eyes downward, to the flat plane of stomach and long legs. Dear God, try as she might, she couldn’t help envisioning stripping off those clothes, one by one, to reveal the flesh beneath.

“I’m Emery Lawson, by the way.”

Pasha tried desperately to find her voice, to respond with at least some humor or intelligence, but Emery had reduced her to a mumbling, stammering clod capable of only speechless adoration. She had to be making the worst possible impression.

“I’m looking for Dita Eidson. Is she around?” Emery asked.

A simple, impersonal, straightforward question. Easy, even for someone in Pasha’s apparently compromised mental state. But it still took her longer to form a cohesive reply than it should have. Long enough for Emery to decide she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack. “Sorry. She just left. Three-day fly-fishing trip.”

“Ah. Well, not important. Got to town a few days early and just wanted to check in with her. I’ll come back next week.” She started to leave, but paused at the doorway. “Again, sorry I startled you.” She disappeared before Pasha could find the words to stop her.

Pasha stared at the empty doorway long after she heard the outer door open and close. She replayed every excruciating moment, trying to come up with more clever, witty responses. She hadn’t even had the presence of mind to introduce herself.

She wanted to cry, or hit something. Normally she had no trouble making a good impression, and she thought she’d perfected the art of warmly welcoming new clients to town.

Pasha needed to regroup and come up with a strategy for correcting her blunder. She had to gain Emery’s confidence, since Emery had booked several trips with Eidson Eco-Tours that she’d guide. Definitely a challenge, because she seemed unable to relax around the woman or be her usual fairly eloquent self.

She hoped to eventually impress Emery with more than just her backcountry skills, because she didn’t yet plan to concede that her intuition had misfired, or that destiny could so cruelly point her this forcefully toward someone she would have no opportunity to become intimate with.

Emery stood at the edge of the runway, admiring how the low sun painted the distant Brooks Range in golden hues. Alaska surprised her, exceeding her expectations in more ways than one, and she’d been here less than a full day.