Alaskan Nights (6 page)

Too many unanswered questions, and he wasn’t about to upset her again by asking them. Not yet, anyway. She upset too easily. But she sure as hell didn’t want him to know he’d upset her. Another trait he admired in her. Most women he’d known would have burst out crying and waited for him to figure out how to fix their problems. Obviously, she wasn’t one to sit around waiting for any man to fix anything. She’d gone underwater to pull a half-dead stranger out of an airplane, set his dislocated shoulder, and then nursed him back to health. If that wasn’t guts worth commendation, he didn’t know what was.

~*~*~

By mid-afternoon the gnats and mosquitoes were driving Isabella mad. A slight headache had set up a steady thrum behind her eyes, exacerbated by the intense sunlight flashing off the rippling water of the stream. Laying the fishing pole to the side, she stripped off her sweatshirt, grabbed the can of mosquito repellant, and sprayed herself from the top of her head to her waist. With only her sports bra as coverage, sunburn was probable, but singed skin was better than broiling to death. She wouldn’t stay out much longer, anyway. She’d caught five good-sized arctic grayling. One more and she’d reach her legal limit. Not that she expected Fish and Game to be in the neighborhood, but six should be enough to feed the two of them for dinner. She’d make mashed potatoes and open a can of corn. Her mouth watered in anticipation as she cast her line back into the water.

Having only deep-sea fished in the past, she was thankful she’d asked the pilot who flew her in how to use the fly rod. Bottom-of-the-ocean fishing, or trawling for salmon in salt water, was a whole different game than using the eight-foot-long, flimsy contraption. She was getting better, though. Much better. The fish didn’t seem to care how clumsily she cast or how many times her line tangled in the willow bushes behind her or across the narrow stream. Thank goodness Brandon was too incapacitated to be there with her. He’d probably laugh at her.

She hated anyone laughing at her. Men wanted to be macho, show the little lady how to do things. She’d once gone downhill skiing in Aspen with a guy. He’d been nice, until she spent hours on her rear end, unable to stay on her skis for more than a few moments at a time. The jerk had laughed her right off the mountain.

“Asshole,” she muttered at the memory as her tiny mosquito hook tangled in the bushes behind her for about the ten-thousandth time.

Then there’s the other side of it, she thought as she jerked the line free of the willow and shook it out, relieved there were no major bird’s nest snarls in the line this time. The men who couldn’t stand a woman being better at anything. A woman can spend all the time she wants in the kitchen or the bedroom, but beat them at any manly game, and they can’t stand it.

Once, when her ex-husband was at work—before he was her ex—she’d had to do some quick plumbing when the kitchen sink sprang a leak. She’d never done plumbing in her life, but she went down to the local hardware store and explained the problem to the helpful salesman. She bought the fixtures to repair the sink and got instructions from the man at the store. In the middle of the repairs, Bart showed up half drunk, having stopped for a couple beers with the boys on the way home.

“Plumbing is the man’s job,” he’d informed her. After pulling her from under the sink, he completely ruined everything. They’d had to call in a professional plumber after he was done with it.

Isabella gently set the hook and started pulling in the line when she felt a tiny nibble. Backing away from the water, she pulled the fish onto the bank. Huh, this one looked different than the others. She picked it up by its gills and very carefully pulled the hook from its mouth. The fish wiggled and squirmed, but she didn’t want to kill it until she was certain it was edible.

One-handed, she reached into the tackle box and pulled out the fishing regulations booklet and flipped through the pages until she found the pictures of all the freshwater fish in Alaska and their names. A dolly varden. What a strange name. But, it was edible. She finished the job quickly and put it on the small metal stringer with the five grayling.

Her stomach growled. After all the weight she’d lost, her body was doing its best to make up for it. After rinsing her hands in the icy stream, she sat on a small boulder and picked up her bag of barbeque potato chips. The skin on her stomach bunched and sagged grotesquely when she slouched, and she could almost see her ribs. She’d always been a little on the plump side. Not fat, just...a little rounded. Now her skin didn’t know what to do. Not only was she too thin, her muscle tone, something she’d always been proud of, had shrunk to nearly nothing.

Her back, shoulders and legs ached from hauling Brandon’s considerable weight around. Looking back on it, she realized she must have been running on some major adrenaline. How else would she have been able to drag him all the way to the cabin? Even before, when she’d been in excellent shape, she’d have had a tough time dragging his limp body that far.

It’d been worth it, though, even if he asked questions she couldn’t yet answer. He was getting better, and she had to admit it was nice to have someone to talk to. A month of solitude had sounded heavenly not so long ago when, in all actuality, she probably needed some good long-term head shrinking, something better than the crisis counseling she’d gone through upon her return to the USA.

Confusion and numbing pain swirled through her at every turn. She missed Cam with all her heart. Except for the three years she’d been married, she’d lived with Cam since she was twelve years old. He’d been only ten years her senior and acted like a big brother rather than an uncle. She’d thought Bart a Godsend for both her and Cam. Her uncle needed to lead his own life, not spend his youth watching over his orphaned niece. But when she’d walked in on Bart in bed with their very married, much older neighbor, she’d had nowhere else to turn. And Cam had welcomed her back with open arms.

He’d been gearing up for his first adventure to South Africa to see firsthand how bad the living conditions were. His only goal in life was find and show the world the truth. About everything.

So, he’d invited her to go with him. She’d hated it. Ethiopia had been hot and miserable. By the time they’d returned to San Francisco, her heart had broken a thousand times from witnessing the horrors of the squalid living conditions, the disease, poverty and starvation.

The next trip had been better, though. Two weeks on a fishing trawler off the coast of North Carolina. There to observe, she’d quickly slipped into the role of keeping her rather unorganized uncle in line. He, on the other hand, had gotten right into the thick of it, risking life and limb alongside the fishermen. That trip had been an adventure, an exciting, incredible learning experience.

Cam paid her twenty-five percent of whatever he made from the published articles. The more he wrote, the more famous his name became, the more he could demand. They’d become partners without even realizing it was happening.

That first trip to Africa seemed so long ago, and they’d had so many adventures over the last ten years. Some wonderful, some horrid.

How much more honest could you get than being shot point-blank in the forehead by a government refugee?

No more adventures. This trip to Alaska would be the last one for a while. Her exploration into The Last Frontier had turned out more exciting that she thought it would. Out of all the tiny lakes across the tundra-covered North, DEA agent and ex-Viper Brandon Wilks had fallen into hers.

“Fallen Hero,” she said with a little smile, reminded of how she’d helped Cam title his pieces. Yeah, she liked the sound of that.

Brandon stood at the kitchen counter drawing water from the jug when she stepped back into the cabin.

“You’re up.”

“What did you do with the blasted aspirin?” His voice was rough, strained, his eyes glassy when he turned toward her.

“Oh, no! I’m sorry. I put them back in the first aid kit.” Dropping her sweatshirt and the tackle box on the table, she laid the string of fish in an aluminum bowl on the counter and fetched the first aid kit from the pantry. When she turned back with the bottle of aspirin, Brandon was eyeing her strangely. She must look an absolute fright, sagging skin and all. Ignoring his stare, she popped open the bottle and handed him two white tablets. “I... I always put things away so that I can find them again.”

He downed the aspirin with the water then went back to the couch and carefully lowered himself. “Awfully small space to misplace things. You know how to use that thing?”

She realized he hadn’t been looking at her uninteresting figure but the pistol strapped to her hip. “Of course. At least, I can’t imagine I’d shoot my toe off or anything. Why? You don’t think a woman can handle a gun?”

Brandon’s brow crinkled slightly in a frown but almost immediately relaxed. Probably hurt to make faces at her. “I said no such thing.” His eyelids closed and he sighed. “I once had a female partner who was damn near the best marksman I ever met. That just looks a bit big for someone of your size.”

“It’s a loaner. The man who flew me in here didn’t want to leave me without protection. Told me to wear it whenever I left the cabin. Something about rabid squirrels and killer mosquitoes.”

Brandon’s soft chuckle at her joke made that strange tingling return to her skin. “You shoot a squirrel with that, I bid you luck finding much more than a few pieces of fur. Seriously, did he show you how to fire it?”

Isabella shivered. She knew all too well how to fire a handgun. “Don’t worry. I was taught how to shoot when I was very young. I won’t harm myself.”

Brandon’s eyes opened, and he gave her that little lopsided smile. His eyes were a bit glazed, though. “I was more concerned about my own hide than yours.”

She unbuckled her belt to remove the gun. “I only fire when I feel threatened. So, unless you plan to attack me, you’re safe. Of course…” She grinned at him. “…all I’d have to do is hit you in the head and you’d be down for the count.”

“That I would. Nice looking fish. You know how to cook ’em?”

She set the pistol, still in its holster, on a shelf in the pantry. When she turned toward Brandon, she scowled and planted her fists on her hips, bristling at the know-it-all male tone in his voice. “I think I can manage. I also do laundry, dishes, and windows. If you’ll notice, I managed to catch them, and I’m pretty sure I cleaned them properly. If not, I’m sure you’ll point out my flaws, now won’t you?”

“Whew, inhale a little too much Deet out there? Someone came home in a rotten mood.” He held up his hand in surrender. “Guess all the sweet-talking and pampering is over, huh? Time to fend for myself?”

Surprising herself, she burst out laughing. It seemed like it had been so long since anyone put her in her place when her mood got bent out of shape. “Sorry. I hate mosquitoes, and I hate the smell of bug repellant. Deep woods scented, my butt.” Her smile faded. “But most of all I hate my competence being questioned. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“And anyone else that drops in your lap. I’m sorry. Outside of Alaska, I’m not used to seeing women walk around with a .45 strapped to their side. I guess I’ve been away from home too long. I know you are perfectly capable. You’re wonderfully capable. You’re just plain wonderful.”

She laughed again as she headed to the counter to start peeling potatoes. “Laying it on a bit thick now, aren’t you?”

“Not in the least.” He stretched out on the couch, his head where he usually propped his feet, and watched her work. “I have a feeling you saved my sorry hide. I owe you.”

Sending him a frown, she shook her head. “You don’t owe me anything. Actually, it’s nice having you here. I think I was going a little crazy being by myself.”

“I thought you wanted solitude. That’s why you came here. All I’m doing is ruining your alone time.”

Isabella laid the first peeled potato in a cooking pot. “I thought that’s what I wanted too, but I was wrong.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I’m not good with loneliness.”

A tiny fist seemed to squeeze Brandon’s heart. What was her story? He had to know. But he wouldn’t push for answers now. Timing was everything during an interrogation, and if the wrong question was asked at the wrong time, the subject would clam up. She needed to feel comfortable with him before he dove into the big questions.

“So, how do you plan to cook those fish? I’m not questioning your competence now,” he added hastily, flashing his trademark make-the-women-swoon grin, “so don’t get upset. I’m just curious.”

She glanced at him, a little smile tipping her lips a fraction of an inch. Damn, she was pretty.

“Actually, I asked the pilot. He spent the first afternoon here with me, showing me how to use the fly rod. Showed me how to clean the fish and how to cook them dipped in seasoned flour and fried in oil. I had no idea the tails were even edible, all nice and crispy. I swear these are the best fish I’ve ever eaten. Well, no. The one night I stayed in the hotel in Fairbanks I ordered Alaskan halibut. Now that is some good fish.”

Brandon chuckled. “I have a feeling you’ve seen things and been places in this world I could only dream about, yet you carry on about Alaskan fish like it’s ambrosia.”

“I think it is.” She flashed him a quick, warm smile that made her simply light up. “Well, fresh Maine lobster and haddock is right up there on the list.”