Stevie Lee (18 page)

“Better take this right over to the bank, Stephanie,” Mr. Naish suggested, handing her the check. “And congratulations. I know your folks are glad to see you out from under the burden of running the Trail. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“Yes. I’m going to take a vacation, to Papua New Guinea. I’m meeting a friend.”

“Sounds adventurous. You must have been talking to that bartender you had working for you this summer. I’ve never met anybody who’d been to as many places as that boy, or anyone who could spin a yarn better. After a while, it got so his drinks weren’t too bad either.” He chuckled.

“Yes. He turned out okay,” Stevie found herself agreeing impersonally. Mr. Naish might understand an exotic getaway, but she doubted if he’d approve of Richard and Elizabeth Carson’s daughter chasing around the world after the man she loved.

“Well, good luck. Be sure and tell your dad I’ll be coming up for a side of beef next week.”

“I sure will, Mr. Naish. Thanks.”

Stevie walked out of the lawyer’s office and made a beeline for the Granby National Bank. Even more than selling the Trail, deciding what to do with Hal’s property had caused her sleep-wrecking hours of thought. In the end, fighting off her superstitious instincts, she’d settled on the sensible thing. Hal had told her to take care of business, and that’s exactly what she was going to do—no matter how awful it felt.

Two hours later she walked out of the county courthouse and headed home with a tax receipt made out to Stephanie Lisa Marie Brown burning a hole in her pocket. Now all she had to do was get her shots, her passport, and somehow find the courage to board a plane taking off into the great unknown.

* * *

Hal sat hunched over a table in the ramshackle hotel lobby, sweat running down his face and chest. Using a finepoint pen, he marked in a few names and places on his map, places that hadn’t been there before. He’d seen enough of Papua New Guinea in these last few weeks to hold him for a lifetime. But he had a friend in the cartography department at
National Geographic
who’d appreciate the new information.

The phone tucked between his shoulder and his chin crackled back to life, and he immediately grabbed it with his hand. “Lola? Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Liar,” he said, and heard her laughter bubble back at him. Loud and clear didn’t exist between Kundiawa and Western Australia. “How’s your dad?”

“Back on his feet and ready to go. He’ll be in Kundiawa tomorrow afternoon to help out.”

“Tell him to relax. We found the kid three days ago. He and his father left for the States this morning, and they took their lawsuit with them. Your dad is off the hook.”

Hal had found Chauncey Keats and the other experienced river guides during the third week of the search. Finding the eighteen-year-old had taken quite a bit longer. Never in his years on the rivers of the world had Hal known someone to bolt into the jungle after a boat capsized. The kid must have been scared senseless. When they’d finally tracked him to a remote village, he still thought everyone else had died, drowned in the river.

One of the best things about finding the boy was getting his old man off everybody’s back. He’d been spouting litigation drivel nonstop from the moment he’d arrived. He’d even threatened a few of the natives—as if they had anything he’d want. Hal had been sorely tempted to verbal, if not physical, violence many times, but now he was glad he’d held his temper. The old man had proven to be as generous in victory as he’d been abusive in defeat. Hal, Lars, and Charlie were all holding mighty fat checks for their days of grinding through the jungle.

“Lola, did you get that package put together and sent?”

“Plane tickets, itinerary, hotel accommodations, and a personal letter—the works. I mailed it first class, airmail, express, registered—everything I could think of. If Stevie Lee Brown wants to come down under, all she has to do is step out her front door.”

“Backdoor.”

“What?”

“She always leaves by the backdoor,” Hal explained, a broad grin splitting his face.

“Well, as long as she leaves. I worked my tail off arranging her trip.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll leave.”
She’ll be nervous, unsure, maybe even a little scared, but I know she’ll leave—I know her. She’ll take that first step into the world, whether I’m there to hold her hand or not.

His lady with the big dreams never backed away from a challenge, be it a ton of hairy ape, a two-bit bar with no place to go but down, or the chance of a lifetime. “Make sure you’re there to meet her at Denham. The airport looks a little empty to the uninitiated traveler.”

“It’ll take more than my presence to make that place look inhabited.”

“Just be there. Did you sign the letter ‘Love, Hal’?”

“ ‘Sincerely yours, Lola Keats,’ is more my style.”

“Keep in touch with Rocko so you know when he’s dropping her off.”

“I’m glad you mentioned that, Hal,” the phone line went silent for a moment, then Lola continued hesitantly. “You know, I had to pull some pretty mean strings to get this whole shebang arranged. I don’t think you have another favor left south of the equator. Dad says he’s got you cornered this time for sure. What do you think about a partnership? Morgan and Keats Adventure Travel?”

“Well, you have the names in the right order, but I’ve got another partnership I need to work on first.”

“Stevie Brown?” she asked, and when he confirmed it, she let out a long, low, whistle. “Looks like the great Halsey Morgan is finally biting the dust, hitting the wall, losing his—”

“Right,” he cut her off with a chuckle.

“What are you going to do if she doesn’t show up?”

“That’s easy, Lola.” He pulled the long, silver chain out of his shirt and turned the turquoise cabochon over in his hand, watching the afternoon sunshine play across the aqua and green stone, remembering the sweet warmth of Stevie Lee’s smile and the soft light of love in her eyes. “Real easy. I’m going to go get her.”

* * *

Denham International Airport. Stevie read the sign, shaking her head in disbelief. They had to be kidding.

Four poles supporting a grass-thatched, chicken-wire roof baked in the sun. Miles of bare dirt and scrubby brush stretched to the horizon. The only amenities offered by the “international airport” were a Porta Potti and a low wooden bench. What was she doing there?

Sweating her guts out, and inhaling enough dust to choke a goat
, came the obvious reply. Jamming her hands into her back pockets, she did a slow pirouette, scanning the desolation for a sign of life. She found only one; The retreating speck of Rocko’s two-seater plane which had deposited her, bag and baggage, onto the hot, parched earth. Her first adventure was off to a precarious, panic-edged start. What
was
she doing there?

Actually things could be worse, she consoled herself. She could be stranded in Papua New Guinea. The thought alone buoyed her spirits. At least in Australia they spoke English, and cannibals hadn’t been mentioned in any of her books and brochures.

The poor travel agent in Grand Lake had come darn close to tears when Stevie had raced into her office with a completely different trip already booked and paid for. The lady had worn out her phone lines just trying to find Kundiawa and arrange all the details necessary for such a journey. Clutching the big manila envelope to her chest, Stevie had apologized profusely, but she was sure the giddy smile on her face had made the agent doubt her sincerity. Stevie’s feet barely had touched the ground since Lola’s letter had arrived—until she’d landed in Australia.

Rocko’s plane slowly disappeared into a cerulean sky over an equally blue sea, and banked left for the run back to Perth, leaving her on a spit of land jutting into the Indian Ocean. Stevie pulled the brim of her black Stetson lower on her forehead and turned back to the east. In front of her the whole of Australia stretched for miles to the Pacific, but Lola Keats had sent her to the desolate edge of the continent. And as far as she could tell, she was alone with only a couple of flies for company.

A tinkling sound drew her attention back to the “airport.” Hung from a wire, blowing in the wind, a thermometer knocked against one of the metal poles. Part of her mind said, “You don’t want to know.” But curiosity pulled her forward. She’d never felt anything like the heat burning up the earth around her. She doubted if she could spit.

Dragging her canvas duffel bag behind her, she stepped over to the thermometer and tilted her head up.

“One hundred and two degrees,” she whispered aloud, not quite believing what she saw. With her finger she tapped the instrument a few times, seeing if the mercury would go down. It didn’t. No wonder she felt like a dried-out rag that had been left on the line too long.

Wishing she hadn’t looked, she pulled her hat off and used her forearm to wipe away what little sweat she had left. Lola was supposed to be meeting her. Stevie wished she’d show up. In truth, she wasn’t sure how long she’d last. The blue bandana tied around her neck and her white T-shirt were stiff with dried perspiration, the cotton sleeves and the neck of the shirt stretched out from her repeated tugging. Her khaki pants, though pleated to give her more room to maneuver, chafed her skin, and her brand new hiking boots felt like lead weights on her sweltering feet.

Ah, yes, she thought, her eyes scanning the horizon, adventure travel is a grand way to go. Back to the east, a wall of wind and dust was forming and heading to Denham, probably the only consistent visitor the place ever received. She hefted the bag to her shoulder and started for the Porta Potti, the best available protection. As she strode across the hard-baked earth, she settled her hat on her head and pulled the bandana up to cover her nose and mouth. Looking like a two-bit cattle rustler and feeling like the last lemming, she plopped herself down on the west side of the metal structure to wait out the windstorm.

The dust swirled up and around her narrow patch of sanctuary, caking the exposed mask of skin between her hat and her bandana, and adding a painful layer of grit to her sunburned cheeks. Heat off the tin wall broiled the back of her neck. A thin band of sweat formed under her hat.

The minutes turned into quarter hours, one after the other, until they made a whole hour, and still the wind blew and no one came.
What a place to die
—the thought came unbidden to her mind, rattling her waning composure. Days from now they’d find her desiccated body, a mere shrivel of her former self, clinging to a Porta Potti. She could see the hometown headline:
STEVIE LEE FINDS HER TRUE TRAIL’S END—DIES IN A BATHROOM DOWN UNDER
. Half the town would be wondering down under what? And the other half would be clicking their tongues and thinking, foolish girl, why did she go running off like that?

Why did she go running off? Try as she might, the answer eluded her. All the reasons she’d been accumulating for a lifetime, all the dreams, all the excitement, were slowly but surely being beaten out of her by the dry Western Australian wind.

What would Hal do in this situation? she wondered. Well, she figured, he’d probably make do, and she was doing that. He definitely wouldn’t panic, and she was doing her darnedest not to. He might just get up and go, using his long legs, indomitable spirit, and his walking boots to find a better place. Stevie glanced down at her own boots and knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

Squinting, she peered across the barren landscape and tried to hold her fears at bay. With effort she forced her mind to conjure up a vision of the Rocky Mountains: Blue-gray peaks pushing into the sky, pine-laden slopes cut through by fresh running streams, and glades of aspen sprinkled with the fairy flower Columbine. Her eyes closed on the sweet memories, trying to make them real—a freshet of icy water flowing through her hands and numbing her fingers with its clear, pure coldness; the crispness of a late autumn breeze blowing across her brow and tangling her hair; the sound of a dust-choked engine crossing a dirt runway.

The wayward image drew her eyes open to narrow slits, and sure enough, she saw an approaching vehicle winding its way between the dust devils. Relief, pure and joyful, washed through her. She was saved.

Not wanting Lola to find her snuggled up to the bathroom, she pushed herself up to her feet and slapped the first two layers of dust off her pants. Now stay cool, Stevie, she reminded herself. The last thing she wanted was to look like a frantic, overwrought tourist—which was exactly how she felt.

Standing with one hip thrown out to counterbalance the weight of the duffel slung over her shoulder, she held onto her hat and waited for the Jeep to reach her. Strands of her hair whipped around her head, tangling up and mingling with the windblown dirt. She pushed her hat lower and hefted the duffel higher, trying to create a windbreak.

The driver raised a hand in greeting, made a wild sweeping wave, actually, but it was all Stevie could do to waggle a few fingers away from their grip on the duffel strap.

“Come on, Lola, come on,” she mumbled into her bandana, bracing herself against a heavy gust.

The Jeep lurched to a groaning stop and continued whining what Stevie instinctively knew was a death song. She knew it as surely as she was frying in the wind and the sun—and her heart plummeted back to her stomach. What could possibly go wrong next?

She didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Before her very eyes, the hood of the Jeep blew back against the windshield, lifted by a rising plume of steam and water. The driver bailed out, and, fighting against the wind, made his way toward her.

No way did those broad shoulders belong to a lady named Lola, Stevie thought, watching the whole scene unfold like a bad dream—the steaming, dead Jeep in the background, a strange man bearing down on her, his head lowered, his stockman’s hat jammed on low.

She started to back off when two things caught her eye: The flaxen glint of the hair under the hat, and the long sure stride eating up the distance between them. He walked like he owned the earth under his feet.