Northern Exposure (9 page)

Despite waterproof clothing and high-quality leather hiking boots, both of them were soaked to the skin, and he knew from the sky and from experience that this storm was with them to stay.

“I'm nearly out of time here, Joe. It's been four days and we've only come what, twenty-four miles?”

“Twenty-five. In bad weather and with somebody on our tail who wants us stopped.” Or dead, but he didn't say that. He didn't want to scare her any more than was necessary.

She pulled her map out of the camera bag and smoothed it on the table. Gray light from the cabin's only window provided enough illumination for them to see. “The caribou habitat's here.” She pointed to the spot on the map he'd shown her four days ago.
“We're here, a good fifteen miles away. And then we've got to hike out—the long way!”

“And your point is?” He knew what her answer would be, but he was in the mood for a fight.

He'd never met anyone like her. She just wouldn't give up. He'd known that about her from the moment they met, when he'd held his gun on her and she'd looked him in the eyes and told him to put that thing away.

“I need those photos, Joe. I need them now, and I need to get my butt back to New York.”

“Your butt—” he gave it an appreciative glance “—isn't going anywhere. Not today it's not.”

She reached for the blue pack, intending, he knew, to put it on. He read angry determination in her eyes. She was looking for a fight, too, but she damned sure had to know he'd never let her go on without him.

Mustering his control, he placed a hand around her upper arm, then squeezed.

She shot him a deadly look.

“Okay, I want you to listen to me.”

A blond brow arched in one of her “go ahead, I'm waiting” looks.

He almost smiled. “I know how important getting those photos is to you.” He remembered the conversation he'd had with her editor.

She's desperate, trying to start over, make a new life for herself. Getting away from Blake Barrett was the smartest thing she's ever done.

“But there's one thing more important than those photos. More important to me, anyway.”

“What?” Her tone and the way she looked down her nose at him even though he was nearly a foot
taller than she, warned him she was ready to disagree with whatever answer he gave her.

“Your life.”

Surprise flashed in her eyes.

He loosened his grip on her arm, but was struck by how warm she was, even wet, through the thin fabric of her shirt.

“There's a guy out there who's dangerous. Under normal circumstances I'd go after him. But the circumstances aren't normal.”

“You mean you've got me to think about.”

“That's right.”

Her expression softened. “Okay, I buy that. Even though I told you before that—”

“Yeah, yeah…you don't need a baby-sitter. You don't get it, Wendy. It wouldn't matter who you are. Man, woman, Barb Maguire's dog, whoever—I'm an officer of the state, sworn to serve and protect. This is my reserve and you're in it.”

They stood there, looking at each other, and he watched as a change came over her face.

“So…I could be anybody, and you'd be doing this. Protecting me.”

“That's right.” He slid his hand down her arm, but didn't let go.

What he didn't tell her, what he didn't want to believe, was that she wasn't just anybody. Not to him. She was under his skin. Big-time. And Joe Peterson had a bad feeling she was there to stay.

 

Just after midnight he moved silently along the perimeter of the clearing, moving from tree to tree, the steady rain drowning the sucking sounds his mil
itary-style boots made in the mud as he approached the cabin.

His piece was shoved into the waistband of his camouflage dungarees, pressing at the small of his back, but he didn't plan to use it, not tonight. He wanted her alone. It would be easier that way.

They hadn't paid him enough to kill the son of a bitch playing bodyguard. Oh, but he wanted to. He smiled, remembering the last time, a couple of weeks ago in New York. It hadn't been in the game plan, but he'd done it all the same.

And he'd liked it.

Listening hard, he waited a full five minutes before peeking into the cabin's window. When he did, what he saw surprised the hell out of him. A fire burned low in the metal stove, giving off just enough light to see her.

Curled up on a single bunk inside her sleeping bag, Willa Walters was…
alone.
Imagine that. Hero Boy was sprawled in the bunk opposite, his face turned to the wall. The dimwit wasn't getting any, after all.

Scanning the interior, his gaze fixed on an old green knapsack, the bitch's camera bag.

“Soon,” he whispered, changing his focus to the blond's mouth. Her lips parted seductively in sleep. “Oh, yeah. Very very soon.”

B
oth of them saw the boot prints in the mud outside the cabin the next morning.

Wendy didn't say a word.

“Starting today, right now, our number-one objective is to get back to the station as fast as possible. Got it?”

She stared at the waffle-pattern impressions under the window, and for the first time was truly scared.

Her near-accident that first day, the rock slide at the pass, the incident on the bridge…her fear reaction to those events had been instinctive, the whoosh of adrenaline completely natural.

But this…the feeling she had now, this tightening in her stomach was entirely different, the furthest thing from natural she could imagine. Nothing in her experience prepared her for this kind of fear.

“Let's go,” Joe said, and nodded toward the washed-out trail.

He'd been right about the storm. It was with them to stay. Their wet boots and clothes had dried overnight next to the fire. Good thing, too, because the temperature was five degrees colder this morning than it had been the same time yesterday. The rain had turned to sleet, and Wendy knew enough about Alaska to know that, even in August, it could turn to snow.

Joe had also been right about the trail. She could see that now, as she picked her way carefully over downed limbs and a minefield of washed-out potholes filled with frozen mud. Yesterday afternoon those same potholes would not have been frozen, and it would've been dead easy to take a wrong step, twisting an ankle in the process.

She hated to admit it, but she was glad, now, that he'd forced the issue and she'd eventually given in to his demand to overnight at the cabin. Maybe she'd overreacted to his bad behavior, his need for control. Now that she knew the real scoop on his sister, she understood his motivations—even though she didn't agree with them.

“It was smart of you to pack that waterproof sealant,” he said, bringing her back to the present.

This morning she'd retrieved the small tube from her pack, and they'd rubbed a thick layer of it into their dry boots.

“Are you actually complimenting me?” She shot him a look over her shoulder. Maybe he was beginning to think she wasn't completely helpless after all.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

A smile bloomed on her face. She made sure he didn't see it.

The going was tough, but she moved at a brisk
pace up the valley with Joe in sync two steps behind her. Yesterday's rest had done them both good. She felt renewed, strong, ready for the long day they intended to put in.

“You remember what I told you,” he said, right behind her.

“Of course I do. Watch my footing, but watch the surroundings, too.” The trail ahead of them, the dark stands of trees on both sides. Be aware, he'd said.

“Any movement, anything out of the ordinary you see or hear or feel, you stop. Understand?”

“Yes.” She wasn't about to argue. Someone was with them, either ahead of them or behind them, every step of the way.

Joe wanted her in front of him so he could watch her back. The thought of it gave her a little thrill. Not because he was watching her, so much as watching out for her, protecting her. Which was something no man had ever done for her since she'd left home at eighteen.

She knew, too, that what they were doing—running—wasn't natural for a man like Joe. In a choice between fleeing or fighting, Joe Peterson would choose the fight every time. Not this time, though. This time he had her to think about. Something about it made her feel warm inside, despite the weather.

She wore her Nikon under her anorak, ready to go should they see any signs of woodland caribou. Joe had made it clear they were making for the station as fast as humanly possible, and she agreed with that plan to a point.

Their trail ran right alongside the caribou habitat Joe had shown her on the map, and if she'd judged
the distance correctly, they'd reach it by early tomorrow at the latest.

She intended to be ready.

“How you doing?” he said.

“Fine. Good.”

“How're those blisters?”

She'd doctored them a couple of times in the past few days. “They're okay. The moleskin's working like a charm.”

“Good.”

Her cuts and bruises were healing, too, as were his, from what she could see of them. The two of them looked like anybody else, average hikers, not two people on the run from someone dangerous.

“What about you?” she said.

She'd noticed that despite the fact that he was used to backpacking and hiking long distances on patrol, he seemed to be having trouble keeping up with her. It was the blue pack. It was stuffed to the gills with her equipment, extra food and emergency supplies he'd rifled from the last two cabins.

“I'm okay,” he said.

She topped a small rise and stopped to let him catch his breath, then watched him as he readjusted his load, taking a minute to scan the tree line in every direction.

On impulse, Wendy reached for the heavy tripod sticking out of the top of the pack. “Here, let me carry that. I can attach it to my knapsack easy.”

She'd left its black case behind in the SUV, opting, instead, to house it in a light waterproof bag that would fit in the pack.

“No way. I can manage.” Joe stepped out of reach.

“You're being ridiculous. I'm not carrying anything, just lenses and film. My knapsack's practically empty.”

“I said I can manage.” He recinched the padded waist belt of the pack, emphasizing the fact that he wasn't about to share his load with her.

She could have embarrassed him by pointing out that he was the one barely keeping up, that he was the one breathing hard now that the trail was steeper. But she didn't.

Instead she arched a brow at him. “Look, whether we want to be or not, we're in this thing together, right?”

“So?”

“So…that makes us a team.”

He snorted.

“Well, doesn't it?”

He looked at her as if he already knew where she was headed with her argument, and he wasn't happy about it.

“You want me to listen to you when you think you're right, don't you?”

“Yeah. I do.” His voice was as icy as the needles of sleet stinging their hands and faces.

“And I'm prepared to do it.” She reached for the tripod again, and this time he didn't back away. “As long as you listen to me when
I'm
right.”

He grabbed her arm and she froze, eyeing him, her brow arching higher as if to say, “Well, Warden, what's it going to be?”

She could see him mentally struggling with the idea of her helping him. In that sense, he was light-years different from Blake. Her former boss and
mentor had been notorious for saddling her with not only her share of the load, but his, as well.

“Come on, Joe,” she said quietly, “let's work together on this.”

Slowly he let go her arm, his gaze still pinned to hers. She thought, for the hundredth time in the past six days, how great his eyes were. Green flecked with gold.

After removing the tripod from the pack, she handed it to him. “Help me, will you?” She turned her back to him so he could see the two loops she'd sewn on her knapsack to hold the tripod. A minute later she felt the familiar weight of it against her back.

“Like that?” he said.

She shot him a small smile. “Just like that. Thanks.” She moved in front of him, ready to go, and waited while he readjusted the blue pack. “Better?”

Their gazes locked, and she read an uncomfortable resistance in his eyes, as if they'd crossed into territory foreign to him.

“Yeah,” he said, at last. “Better.”

 

Ten miles, two changes of socks and an inch of slushy snow later, they reached the next cabin.

Almost.

“How the heck do we get to it?” In the fading light, Wendy squinted against the sleet at the tiny DF&G cabin perched on a slab of basalt on the other side of what Joe had come to consider his own little private nightmare.

“This happens every time there's a storm and the river jumps its bank.”

They both stared at what amounted to a new tributary, a frothing, boiling ten feet of water that separated them from what promised to be a warm, dry place to eat and to catch a good night's sleep—if they could get to it.

“Is it deep?” Wendy eyed the water speculatively.

“No, just fast and full of debris. Rocks, downed tree limbs, all kinds of stuff beneath the surface you can't see. There's no real chance of drowning, but in a heartbeat you could slip and bust a leg if you're not careful.”

“What about you?” She gave him a once-over that he caught himself enjoying. “You're not exactly Tinkerbell-light on your feet carrying that pack.”

He wasn't, and they were both exhausted. He did a slow three-sixty, on the lookout for their mystery man. There'd been no sign of him all day, but Joe knew he was there, watching them. He also knew if the guy had wanted them dead, they'd already be dead. Any idiot with a firearm and the wherewithal to kill, could have accomplished it with a minimum of trouble.

But that wasn't it. The guy wanted Wendy, alive, but not bad enough to off him to get to her. He was smart and patient as hell, but so was Joe, and he didn't intend to let Wendy out of his sight until he had the bastard checked in to a nice cold cell in the State Troopers' holding tank back in town.

“Okay,” he said, dragging his attention back to the problem at hand. “This is what we're going to do…”

But Wendy wasn't listening. While he'd been thinking about their escort, she'd evidently hatched
a plan of her own to cross the water. No way was it going to work.

“This is the narrowest part, right here.” She pointed to a place he wouldn't cross even if he wasn't wearing a pack that weighed close to sixty pounds.

“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “It's too deep there, too many rocks.”

“That's the point. Some of them are huge, and look pretty stable. If we go slow, and—”

“No freaking way.” He shot her a look that said he was going to have to kill her this time if she didn't listen to him.

“Look.” She pointed to the closest rock, submerged only an inch or so below the water's surface. “That one right there. And there's the next one.” Her gaze traveled in a snaking pattern from rock to rock. He watched her as she planned each step in her mind.

“There's got to be a better spot.”

“No, I've already looked. This is it.”

“We'll go together, then.”

She frowned at him. “How?”

“I'll wade through the water, and help you from rock to rock.”

“Don't be silly. You'll get soaked. Besides, with that pack on, you're more likely to fall helping me cross than crossing yourself.” She stepped to the edge.

“No. I'll leave the pack here and come back for it later.” He secured a hand around her upper arm, remembering the incident at the bridge where she'd defied him.

He didn't like the idea of leaving her alone on the
other side of the water, unprotected, while he retrieved the pack. On the other hand, he had a gun, he was a damned good shot, and was prepared to demonstrate that fact if he had to.

“Your boots will never dry by tomorrow. We can each cross on our own.” He started to argue, but she cut him off. “Can't you trust me, Joe, just once, to take care of myself?”

It wasn't her words but the way she looked at him—almost as if she felt sorry for him, as if he was the one who was difficult, who was the problem in the equation—that finally broke his resolve.

Maybe he
was
the problem.

“Okay,” he said, wiping the sleet from his eyes and looking at her hard. “But be careful, damn it.”

“I intend to.” She shot him a smile, and he thought again about how pretty she was, her cheeks rosy from cold, how her blue eyes didn't so much reflect light as were lit from within. “Wish me luck,” she said, and leaped.

Joe's gut clenched. A heartbeat later she landed on the first rock, struggling for balance, her arms outstretched like a tightrope walker.

“I did it! See, it was easy.”

“Yeah, you were great,” he said, recovering his composure. “Just don't quit your day job.”

She glanced back at him. “This
is
my day job, remember? I'm a wildlife photographer.”

“Right. I forgot.”

She smirked, then turned her attention back to the water rushing all around her, lapping up against the sides of her newly waterproofed boots.

As she made her way across the tributary, leaping from rock to rock, he thought about the things he'd
read about her in the tabloid article recounting the drug overdose death of that male model.

None of it added up.

Hosting lavish sex parties, procuring illegal drugs, covering up evidence, lying to the police. The sordid picture the reporter had painted of Willa Walters was nothing even remotely like the woman who now held his attention.

He wondered how much of it was true, whether any of it was true. And if it wasn't, why the hell she hadn't said something. When he'd alluded to some of the things printed about her, she hadn't bothered to defend herself, not with specifics.

The question was
Why?

He knew she was keeping something from him, but he also knew he couldn't force the truth from her. Watching her traverse the water, his stomach twisting in knots for fear she'd slip or take a wrong step, he realized he didn't want to force her. What he wanted was for her to trust him. And maybe, in order for that to happen, he needed to trust her, too.

“Made it!” she shouted when she reached the opposite side. The smile she tossed him did him in. “Now you!”

He redistributed the weight of the pack high on his hips, cinching the padded belt tight, and stepped from the muddy trail onto the first rock. As he crossed, faster and more recklessly than he should have, drawn by the magnetism of her smile, he asked himself whether he could forgive her if all the things he'd read about her in the article turned out to be true. He was thinking that it mattered, as if it were possible for there to be something between them.