Midnight Sun (Sinclair Sisters) (13 page)

“The truth is, I haven’t the foggiest idea what drew me up here. I just feel like the history of this place is somehow part of me. That’s the reason I had to come.”

Call watched her a moment more, then his hands relaxed on the steering column. Apparently, he didn’t think she was entirely insane. They talked about his brother, who was a year younger than Call and a dedicated bachelor. They talked about business and the projects he was involved in.

“A couple of them are becoming problematic. Datatron’s on the verge of a lawsuit. Legally we should be in the clear, but tempers are running hot.”

“You’re talking about the company that digs up information over the Net.”

He nodded. “That’s the one. Financially, they’re doing great, but sometimes people get unhappy when you’re nosing around in their business affairs.”

“You told me it was legal.”

“Legal
doesn’t necessarily mean people like it. A couple of companies have threatened to sue. So far, they’re only blowing smoke. We’ll have to wait and see if there’s going to be any fire.”

She cocked her head in his direction. “Which I have a feeling you would very much enjoy putting out.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I used to like the challenge of running a business. I guess in some ways I still do.”

The plane buzzed along at something near a hundred and thirty miles an hour and Charity settled back in her seat, enjoying the conversation and the view. Call dropped down a couple of times to show her something special along the route. He pointed out a huge bull moose near the edge of a marshy stream, this year’s set of antlers just emerging from the velvet that marked their new growth.

She leaned back again after that, content to watch the pleasure she saw in Call’s face as he handled the controls.

“You really love flying, don’t you?”

He slanted a look her way. “For years I was too busy to fly my own plane. American Dynamics owned a company jet with two full-time pilots on staff. I traveled with them most of the time. I owned a twin-engine Baron for a while, but I used it so rarely that I finally sold it. A couple of years after I moved to Dawson, I bought the Beaver and had it completely rebuilt. Yeah, I really love to fly.”

They made a rest stop and refueled in Whitehorse, then crested a last, tall range and dropped down over Skagway, which sat at the mouth of the Skagway River where it dumped into the sea. The town nestled in a flat spot on the ocean, surrounded by jagged granite mountains higher and more brutal than those around Dawson City.

Those craggy, forbidding peaks, Charity marveled, formed the barrier between success and failure for the men who traveled to the Klondike in search of gold.

“Imagine—a hundred thousand people set off from here for Dawson,” she said as Call expertly circled and began to spiral down toward the bay. “Only about a third of them made it.”

Easing back on the throttle, he set the small plane down with a light splash followed by a rush of water over the big pontoons. Call taxied to the seaplane dock, where they left the aircraft moored. After a brief stop at customs, they made their way to the white, front-wheel drive Chevy Call had rented from Avis via his cell phone.

Sourdough Taxi did the Rent-A-Wreck thing, said a nearby billboard, but Call, it seemed, wasn’t the rent-a-wreck type.

“I don’t like hassles,” he said. “I want something reliable that will get us where we want to go.” Not only could he afford a nicer car, it was just his way to be efficient and thorough about everything. His home and property were immaculately clean and well cared for and his plane was in top condition.

Jeremy had been that way, but he carried it to ridiculous extremes, lining his shirts up an inch apart in the closet, keeping every pair of his expensive shoes in a little felt bag that fit into a shelf on the wall. For heaven’s sake, the man sent his dress shirts from Manhattan all the way to New Jersey because he liked a particular laundry. Charity inwardly grinned, trying to imagine Jeremy with a three-day growth of beard.

Settling back in the seat of the Chevy, she relaxed as Call aimed the car toward the main part of town. Though it was crisp and clear today, it had rained in Skagway the night before and the streets were still muddy. The vehicle navigated the roads with ease and soon they were driving through town, parking on one of the side streets.

“First we’ll take a look around, then we’ll find a place to spend the night.” His gaze connected with hers and she didn’t miss the message:
Not that you’ll be getting much sleep.

Charity ignored the hot look in his eyes and the answering warmth in the pit of her stomach. She had come to see Skagway. She wouldn’t be living up here all that long. This might be her only chance.

They spent the afternoon wandering through shops and boutiques. In spite of the tourist bent the town had taken on to survive over the years, the place retained a good deal of its late-1890s appearance. Long-board sidewalks and wood-framed buildings reminiscent of Dawson stretched along Broadway, the main street of town, and establishments with names like The Purple Moose, Lynch and Kennedy Dry Goods, Mile Zero Bed and Breakfast, and the Miners’ Saloon.

“This wasn’t the original landing site for the gold seekers,” she told Call as they looked into the window of a little boutique called The Klothes Rush. “It was a town named Dyea in a bay just a few miles from here.”

“I’ve been there. There isn’t much left. A few historical markers, a couple of old cemeteries. Where Skagway survived, Dyea faded away. The Chilkoot Trail starts there.”

“The Chilkoot.” Charity stared off toward the mountains as if she could see it. “The meanest thirty-two miles in history. The main route into the Yukon.” She looked up at him. “You think maybe we could go there?”

“We can hike partway up in the morning if you want. I always keep outdoor gear in the plane. The trail’s damned tough, though. Not like going to the lake.”

“No. It climbs thirty-seven hundred feet, some of it nearly straight up. Can you imagine twenty thousand people trying to make that climb in the dead of winter?”

“I’ve seen old photos. There’s one above the bar in the Miners’ Saloon. Come on, I could use a cold beer.”

They went into the bar, which had been built in 1898, a survivor, like many of the buildings, of the town’s Gold Rush glory days. It looked as it must have then, the bar a long slab of scarred, battered oak running the length of the narrow room, the floors wooden and worn, the walls covered with red flocked paper that was frayed in places. Yet it didn’t seem seedy, just old and somehow charming.

Charity climbed up on one of the wooden stools in front of the bar. Call sat down on another, propping a heavy leather boot on the long brass rail. While the bartender fetched them bottles of Alaskan Amber, Charity studied the picture behind the bar, a three-by-four-foot blowup of a famous black-and-white photo she had seen once and never forgotten.

Taken by a journalist in route, the picture showed a wall of ice and snow too steep for horses, notched with twelve hundred icy steps. The Golden Staircase, they called it. From the bottom of the hill on the left, an endless line of exhausted men trudged upward, stumbling half-frozen to the summit on the upper right, the would-be miners so heavily laden they could barely stand up, their hands, feet, and bearded faces white with frost and numbed by the unbearable cold.

A frozen vision of hell.

Even at a distance, the photo betrayed the men’s exhaustion. The picture was so moving a lump formed in Charity’s throat.

“Amazing what those men were willing to endure,” Call said.

“There were women there, too.” Though she tried not to think what they must have suffered.

“Not many women, I don’t imagine, but definitely a few. They must have really been something.”

“That photo was taken in the winter of ’99. The year before, there was near-starvation in Dawson. The Mounties declared any man traveling to the goldfields had to take a year’s worth of supplies—about two thousand pounds. Some of the men walked more than a thousand miles back and forth up that hill just getting their goods across the border.”

“And they were still more than three hundred miles from the goldfields.”

Charity took a sip from her icy bottle of beer. “They cut down trees at Lake Lindemann and floated the Yukon to Dawson. Unfortunately, a lot of them drowned in the rapids at Miles Chasm. They called it Miner’s Grave.”

Call eyed her as he sipped his beer. “You really know a lot about this stuff.”

She stared up at the photo. “You’ve heard of the ‘call of the wild,’ haven’t you? I guess that’s what happened to me.”

“Lady, you definitely have a wild streak—at least in bed.” He cast her a hungry glance, set his empty beer bottle down on the bar. “As soon as you’re finished we’ll find a place to stay.”

Charity met the challenge in his gaze, set her half-full bottle down on the bar. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Call’s eyes turned a scorching shade of blue. “Sweetheart, I’ve been ready since you strolled into my office at nine o’clock this morning.”

They left the bar and checked into a motel on sixth and State called Sgt. Preston’s Lodge. It had all the modern conveniences: phone, TV, and king-size bed. The minute they walked into the room, Call slammed the door, turned, and backed her up against it.

“I thought we’d never get here.” A big hand slid into her hair. He fisted the heavy strands and dragged her mouth up to his. The kiss was hot, deep, and thorough, the kind of kiss that made her toes curl up inside her shoes.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he said, kissing the side of her neck, “but this time we’re going to take things slow and easy.”

He kissed her again, more gently now, more of an erotic tasting. Charity gave a little sigh of pleasure and kissed him that same way, sliding her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his thick dark hair.

“I want your clothes off,” he said between soft, nibbling kisses. “I want to see you naked and stretched out on the sheets.”

Her pulse accelerated as he popped the buttons on the front of her blouse and eased it off her shoulders. He unsnapped her bra and tossed it away, worked the zipper on her jeans and slid them down her legs.

She stepped out of the walking shoes she wore instead of her hiking boots. Call peeled down her socks and stripped off her jeans.

“God, you’ve got the prettiest legs. I’ve always been a leg man and yours are definitely a ten.”

She laughed. “I’m glad you think so.” She gave him a long, soul-burning kiss. “I want you naked, too.” She started unbuttoning his shirt, impatient to run her hands over the long, sinewy muscles she remembered from the night before.

She eased the light cotton fabric off his shoulders and marveled at what a fabulous chest he had, wide and darkly suntanned, with bands of smooth, hard muscle. Desire burned through her, made her breasts begin to ache. He was kissing her neck, trailing moist kisses along her collarbone, when a muted ringing crept into her awareness.

“What the hell is that?” Call muttered, kissing her one last time before lifting his head to survey the room for the irritating noise. It wasn’t the phone beside the bed, they realized, as the muffled ringing started again.

“Oh, my God, it’s my cell phone!” She broke away from him and raced toward her purse, carelessly dropped at the foot of the bed. “I tossed it into my bag before we left. Force of habit, I guess. I always carried one with me when I lived in the city.”

She pawed through her purse, a big, black leather bag she had bought at the mercantile to replace her little Kate Spade, tossed out her wallet, then her lipstick and powder compact, and finally located the phone. Conscious now of her near-nudity, she turned her back toward Call, flipped open the phone, and pressed it against her ear.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Charity. It’s good to hear your voice.”

Her pulse took a leap, started an uncomfortable thudding. “Jeremy.” She flicked a glance over her shoulder and didn’t miss Call’s frown. “H-how did you get my number?”

“I got it from Deirdre. I can’t believe you haven’t called me since you got up there.”

“I-I thought it would be better this way. I thought we’d both be happier if we just left things alone for a while.”

“Well, I wish you’d phoned. I’ve missed you, babe. I can’t believe how much. I want to know when you’re coming back home.”

She sank down on the bed, sweeping her hair over her shoulder out of the way. She kept her back to Call, hoping to gain a little privacy, but she could feel his fierce blue eyes burning into her from where he stood just a few feet away.

Jeremy went on about the city, about the concerts and plays she had missed, as if he couldn’t imagine how she could live without them. With Call so near, Charity could barely concentrate on what he was saying.

“Umm, listen, Jeremy, this isn’t a good time to talk. I’m out of town right now. I won’t be home for a couple of days, but as soon as I get back, I’ll call you.”

“Tell me you’re coming home. Tell me you’ve had enough of this crazy adventure of yours.”

She sighed into the receiver. “Jeremy, I really have to go. I’ll call you. I promise.” Pressing the disconnect button, she hung up the phone and stuck it back into her purse.

Call stalked over to the foot of the bed. “Who the hell is Jeremy?”

She didn’t like the way he towered over her, so she stood up and faced him, her arms crossed over her naked breasts. “He’s the man I was seeing before I left Manhattan.”

“Seeing? As in sleeping with?”

“We went together for almost two years. I had a life, Call. I had a job and an apartment and a man whose company I enjoyed.” For a while, at least.

“Had.
That’s past tense. If it’s over, why is he still calling you?”

“I-I didn’t exactly end things when I moved away. More like, left them up in the air. But the truth is, Jeremy and I aren’t really right for each other. There was a time when I really wanted us to be. In the beginning I hoped we’d get married and have a family. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t exactly know. Maybe I needed to come here first.”

He eyed her for several long moments. “But you wanted to marry him. You wanted a husband and kids.”

“Isn’t that what most people want?”

He hesitated, glanced away. “I wanted that once. Not anymore.” He tipped his head pointedly toward the bed. “That’s all I want now. Hot, mindless sex for as long as it lasts, until we both get tired of each other. Friendship, maybe, after that.”

“Friendship.” She dropped her arms and straightened, thrusting her breasts out in front of her. All she wore was a pair of tiny, red-silk, thong panties. “Do you really think we could ever just be friends?”

Call’s eyes turned hot and a muscle leapt in his cheek. Sliding an arm around her waist, he hauled her against him. “Not now, that’s for damned sure. Right this minute, friendship is the last thing I want from you.” He kissed her hard and a few seconds later she was lying beneath him in the middle of the big king-sized bed.

Their lovemaking wasn’t slow and easy, as Call had planned. It was hot, frenzied, multiple-orgasm sex like she’d never had with anyone but him, the kind that left her weak and barely able to move.

She knew their wild encounter had something to do with the phone call she had received from Jeremy, but she wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

They didn’t leave the room until just before time for the restaurants to close and only then because both of them were starving. The days were even longer this time of year, nearly twenty-one hours of daylight. Charity had never really gotten used to it and even after the fabulous sex, she wasn’t sleepy at all.

Instead, she and Call headed down the wooden boardwalk to an Italian eatery called The Portobello. Once inside, a waiter seated them at a table near the windows of what turned out to be a surprisingly sophisticated restaurant. Done in dark green and red, with painted cement floors and lots of Italian bric-a-brac on the walls, it had a cheery atmosphere that immediately wrapped around them.

“I’ve never seen you in anything but jeans,” Charity said, admiring the way he looked in brown wool slacks and a tan cashmere sweater. With his hard jaw and lean, tanned features, God, the man was gorgeous. “You clean up good, Hawkins.”

His gaze ran over her body, taking in the short, A-line, apricot jersey dress that clung softly to her curves. She had purposely left her hair down, hoping it would please him. His eyes fixed on her mouth. “So do you, Sinclair,” he said a little gruffly.

Seated at the table across from her, he lifted his glass of red wine. “To good Chianti, a beautiful woman, and a night on the town in Skagway.”

Charity also lifted her glass. “To handsome men and Klondike gold.”

They clinked their glasses together and each took a drink. The meal was delicious, a buttery shrimp scampi for her, a smooth chicken piccata for him. The wine was rich and mellow, the candlelight enticing. At first they laughed together, each of them relaxed and enjoying the evening, but as the meal progressed, Call’s mood began to shift. He grew more and more silent, more pensive and brooding.

“You shouldn’t be thinking of work,” she said, hoping the problem was with one of his companies and not with her.

Call straightened in his chair. “Business doesn’t interfere in my life—not anymore. It never will again.”

But his mood went steadily downhill and all the way back to the room he stayed silent. Charity was afraid she knew what he was thinking.

Call was thinking he must have been out of his mind to agree to this trip. Charity Sinclair had a way of getting under his skin, of touching him in ways he didn’t want to be touched, of making him feel things he didn’t want ever to feel again.

In bed, she drove him crazy. He’d never met a woman who liked sex as much as he did and yet she had an underlying innocence that told him she hadn’t been with many men.

“I can’t believe it,” she’d said with a dreamy smile that afternoon, after an incredible round of lovemaking. “I’ve read about women having more than one climax, but I never thought it would happen to me.”

What guy wouldn’t be turned on by that? The bad news was that instead of getting his fill of her, as he had imagined he would, he wanted her even more than he had before. Every time he looked at her he got hard. He wanted to make love to her every way he could think of. Christ, he couldn’t seem to get enough of her.

Worse yet, when they were finished, instead of the usual male urge to get the hell out of Dodge, he wanted to sleep with her, feel her body curled against him, wake up with her in the morning. Considering he was determined never to let his emotions get entangled with a woman again, it scared the holy hell out of him.

Call sighed into the silence of the motel room. It was nearly three in the morning and he needed to get some rest. Charity slept the sleep of the dead, snuggled against him in a way that made him feel masculine and protective.

His feelings for her were growing and that could only spell disaster. He had no plans for marriage. Charity wanted a husband and kids—and she deserved to have them. But a family was the last thing Call wanted. An image of Amy popped into his head—curly, brown hair, big blue eyes, baby face smiling as she raced into his arms for a good-bye hug before she climbed into the BMW for the fatal trip down the mountain with her mother. It was the last time Call ever held her.

His eyes burned. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried to think of something else, anything to erase the image. The memories had been coming more often lately. Making his way back into the world of the living had disturbed the ghosts of the past and he wanted nothing so much as to bury them again.

Maybe he was moving forward too quickly, taking things too fast. When they got back to Dawson, he would do what he should have done before. He’d stay away from Charity, let things cool down a little between them. It would be better for both of them, he told himself.

But he still couldn’t fall asleep.

A harsh, late-June sun radiated through the windows of their ground-floor motel room as Charity dressed in jeans and hiking boots for the morning outing they had planned. Over her shoulder, she cast a glance at Call, worrying at his continued silence. He was up and showered before her eyes cracked open, moving around the room with a restlessness that hadn’t been there the day before.

It was obvious he hadn’t slept well. There were smudges beneath his eyes and his features looked drawn.

“Are you hungry?” She cast him a glance on her way out of the shower, a little disappointed he hadn’t come in to join her. “Because I feel like I could eat the hide off a bear.”

“I’m a little hungry, I guess.”

But he didn’t seem hungry. He seemed distracted and edgy, as if he couldn’t wait to get out of there. They ate a killer breakfast at the Gold Dust Café—crisp bacon, eggs over easy, fluffy homemade biscuits drenched in butter and slathered with strawberry jam, the old-fashioned kind of meal that was hard to find in New York City. But Call mostly picked at his food.

She wished she knew what was wrong. Maybe if she gave him some space he would talk to her about it, but Call was the strong, silent type and she didn’t really think so. Instead, he paid the bill and they climbed into the rental car for the eight-mile drive around the bay to the site that had once been the starting point for the famous Chilkoot Trail.

As they rounded a curve in the road that hugged the mountain beside the bay, she could see the vast mud flats that had welcomed Stampeders, the first ordeal they faced when they arrived.

“Well, this is Dyea,” Call said, as if now that she had seen it maybe they could go home.

The flats stretched out, brackish and ugly. Weary steamship passengers had to get themselves and their supplies across the thick, waist-deep mud before the tide came in—an often impossible task.

“As you said, there isn’t much left.”

Call drove her through what had once been a thriving boomtown, now a series of dirt roads winding among the trees, bare spots where buildings once stood, markers relaying the history of the town, and signs pointing toward a couple of forgotten cemeteries.

From the town site he drove to the trailhead. They parked the Chevy next to several other cars, most with out-of-state plates.

“There are more people here than I thought there would be,” she said as she opened the door.

“June, July, and August are the big tourist months. Technically, we need a permit to climb the trail but we won’t be going that far so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The Chilkoot was different from what most people expected. The beginning of the climb was damp, almost rainforest tropical. Huge cottonwoods interspersed with spruce ran along the Taiya River. Broad-leafed ferns hung over the trail, and the rocks were slick with moss. The sound of rushing water accompanied them as they climbed over boulders and wound their way through damp foliage, following the trail steeply upward.

They passed a man and his wife in hiking shorts and boots, their backpacks heavily laden with gear, obviously intending to travel the length of the trail, a four-to five-day trek even at this time of year.