Solomon's Decision (7 page)

His next task was to convince his body that sexual frustration was good for it.

He pointed out the route he wanted to follow. "Can you manage that?" She was
tired, he could tell, and had been having trouble keeping up, just before lunch. He often
forgot how difficult many people found the going in a typical wetland.

"You lead, I'll follow," she said, her chin set stubbornly.

By the time they reached the creek, Erik wasn't sure it was worth their while to go
any farther. The ground was barely supporting their weight. He'd gone in almost to the top
of his boots more than once. Thankfully the mud wasn't the heavy, clayey kind--the slow
mud he'd kidded Madeline about. So far.

There was a log wedged across the creek, the remnants of its root ball rammed
into the near bank by a spring flood. Water poured under it, barely wetting it. Years of
pounding by spring floods and scorching by summer suns had eaten away the bark and left
a shiny, silvery surface, probably slippery under the thick rubber soles of his boots. "You'd
better stay here," he told Madeline, testing the footing. The trunk was only about a foot in
diameter. He was used to walking logs like this--or even narrower. She probably
wasn't.

"I can make it," she said, and he heard the unspoken challenge:
Anywhere you
can walk, I can follow.

"At least wait until I get to the other side."

She looked mulish.

"Look, Madeline, if I fall in, I want you ready to pull me out, not standing on the
log, ready to fall yourself. Okay."

She glared. "Okay."

His first few steps were easy. Along about the middle, he hit a patch of rotted
wood that crumbled under his feet, but he was ready and managed to get past with no
trouble. "Watch your step here," he called back. "It gets a little dicey."

On the other side, he waited as Madeline inched her way across. "Don't watch
me," she said, windmilling her arms and carefully putting one foot in front of the other.
"I'll fall if you do."

He obeyed, knowing exactly what she meant. Balancing on a log was bad enough,
but having someone watch while you exhibited your innate clumsiness was another thing
entirely. He waited until she was on solid ground, then struck off across the patch of sedge
between the creek and the next tree.

Ten steps and he was in up to his right hip. The other leg was only buried to the
knee. Immediately he flopped forward and grabbed handfuls of the tough-rooted sedges.
Working his left leg free was easy, but the right one seemed solidly enmired. He rolled
onto his back and began working his leg back and forth, using all his strength to lift it out
of the sucking mud.

Water seeped around him, wetting his butt. With a curse, he wriggled out of the
knapsack, not wanting its contents to be ruined. As he was doing so, he heard a squeal,
then another one.

"Madeline!" With renewed effort, he struggled to release his right leg.

"I'm all right." Her voice faded as she went on speaking, until it was only a faint
sound without comprehensible words.

He continued to struggle, but felt no give to the mud. Whenever he tried to use his
left foot or his hands to gain leverage, they too began to sink. The only way he was going
to get out was to lift the right leg while he was lying flat on his back. Even sitting made
him sink.

Finally he gritted his teeth and reached for the knife sheathed at his belt. He'd
heard of trapped beaver biting off their legs to escape, but this was ridiculous. He plunged
his hand into the mud beside his leg, holding the knife blade up, parallel to his wrist. The
mud resisted, but little more than thick soup or heavy pancake batter would have.
Eventually he found the knotted ties of his boot and slid the sharp blade along them. He
felt the prick of the blade against his arch and carefully withdrew his arm, laying the knife
at the limit of his reach. He didn't want to lose it. His grandfather had carried that knife in
World War II.

"Erik! Where are you?"

"Stop!" He put command into his voice. "Don't take another step." She was
somewhere between him and the creek.

"What on earth?"

He took a deep breath, then gave a mighty pull. His foot slipped free of his boot
and slid through the clinging mud. Once it was at the surface, he rolled to his belly and
carefully crept backwards, imitating an inchworm. A few feet and he felt the ground grow
firm.

Pulling his knapsack to safety, Erik just lay there, breathing deeply and wondering
how the hell he was going to get back to the pickup point with one bare foot.

He looked down. One bare and bleeding foot. The knife had done more than prick
his arch.

"Is that slow mud?" He opened his eyes. She was standing over him,
dripping.

She looked like the proverbial drowned rat. Erik wondered how she'd managed to
fall in after she'd crossed safely. All he could think of to say was, "Did the maps get wet,
too?"

Madeline sank to the ground, more miserable than she had ever been in her entire
life. It wasn't exactly cold, but clouds had drifted in, concealing the sun. A fitful breeze
stole her warmth as it evaporated the water dripping from her clothing.

"I could have drowned," she said, as she wrapped her arms around her quickly
chilling body, "and you're worrying about maps?"

Erik rolled over and raised himself to a crouch. He was covered in mud to his
waist and seemed to be missing a boot. She couldn't be sure, for the mud was so thick and
so black that it made his legs appear knobby and misshapen.

"So could I," he said, his voice shaking. "I was stuck in the mud--slow mud." He
gestured at a patch of crushed and mud-smeared weeds about ten feet away. His hands
became as muddy as his legs when he began scraping his legs and feet clean.

Yes, he
was
missing a boot. "What happened?"

He explained, and she was instantly contrite. "You weren't kidding--I thought you
were pulling my leg." His tall tale of slow mud had sounded so farfetched she hadn't really
believed him.

"I was. You looked so gullible." Pulling his knapsack to him, he began rooting
inside. "I made it up--slow mud, I mean. But I just discovered it's for real." He pulled his
binoculars and camera out and examined them, "Ah, good. They didn't get wet. How about
the maps?"

Madeline muttered to herself as she shed her own knapsack. While she hadn't
really been in any danger when the bank had crumbled under her feet--the creek hadn't
been over three feet deep--she'd have appreciated a little concern. But she apparently
wasn't anywhere nearly as vital to Erik Solomon as his precious maps were.

She pulled them out, knowing as soon as she touched the roll that they had gotten
as wet as the rest of her. The paper disintegrated under her touch and blue drips ran from it.
The maps she'd brought had been diazo copies--blueprints--of enlarged topographic maps.
While new copies would be easy enough to obtain, these had been annotated by Erik at
each of their stops, including in the copse where they'd eaten lunch.

Unrolling them was impossible. The paper stuck to itself and tore when she tried
to separate it. Erik, watching, cursed under his breath. She recognized the cadence, if not
the syllables.

"I'm sorry," she said, wondering if he really would hold her responsible.

"Don't sweat it," he said. He took the roll from her. "I'll take 'em back to my room
and see if I can get them dry before they mildew. I should have insisted you stay on the
other side."

Madeline admitted, just to herself, that she'd have crossed the creek, come hell or
high water, no matter how strongly he'd insisted she not follow him. She watched as he
stood and took a couple of testing steps back the way she'd come. She noticed he only put
his weight on tussocks of the harsh, grass-like stuff that grew everywhere on this side of
the creek.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm checking to see if it's stable. I don't want to fall in again."

"I didn't have any trouble. It didn't even feel wet."

"You lead then. Any route's better than the one I took." He stood aside and let her
lead him back to the creek.

Madeline didn't even bother trying the log. She had always had a problem keeping
her balance on things like logs and railroad tracks. She would rather get wet by choice than
make a fool of herself falling off again. Get wetter, that was. She waded through the creek,
splashing great sheets of the icy water on either side of her. Perhaps if she moved
energetically, she'd be warmer. Right now she felt like a refugee from an ice cream
factory.

She was warmer by the time they reached the spot where the helicopter was to
pick them up, but at the cost of every bit of stamina she had. Erik had walked in a straight
line between the scene of their wetting and the landing area and let nothing stop him. He
didn't slow down once, despite the rough walking, the numerous creeklets they had to
jump, or the nettle patch they traversed, bare hands held high to protect them. He didn't
even limp or otherwise favor his bare foot. Right then, she hated him.

The sky was completely overcast and the wind had quickened. Erik slipped out of
his knapsack and began picking up branches and twigs.

"What are you doing?" The words came out almost unintelligible. Her teeth were
chattering and shudders shook her frame.

"Help me," he commanded. "We've got to get warm. No telling how soon the
helicopter will get here."

She picked up a few twigs, but her hands seemed incapable of grasping. Most of
them slipped through icy cold, nerveless fingers. She finally sat on a rotting log, too cold
and too defeated to keep trying.

"Get up!" Erik was on his knees, blowing on a pile of tinder in the midst of a
pitifully small collection of wood. "Keep moving."

"I-I-I c-c-c-can't-t-t-t." The shudders wracked her with greater force and her teeth
clacked together until they hurt.

Wisps of smoke rose from the wood. Erik kept blowing, until at last he was
rewarded with a few tongues of flame. When it seemed as if the fire would maintain itself,
he came to her and pulled her roughly to her feet.

His arms went around her and his hands moved hard and fast up and down her
back. The friction and the pressure seemed to help, but her body still shivered
uncontrollably. Finally he pulled her to her knees and held her, back to his chest, close to
the fire. Its warmth soothed her icy cheeks, but barely penetrated her sodden sweatshirt and
clammy blue jeans.

Madeline was beyond caring. She grabbed the bottom of the sweatshirt and pulled
it--or tried to--over her head. "Help m-m-me," she whimpered when its wet folds wrapped
around her head and shoulders.

Her shirt was just as cold, just as clammy. She tried to unbutton it, but her fingers
refused to manipulate the tiny buttons. Again Erik helped her, until, with relief, she felt the
wind, warm by comparison, on her bare skin. "My jeans," she gasped, warmer now the
shirts no longer robbed her upper body of precious heat, but still shivering and fighting an
urge to just quit, wrap her arms around herself, and give in to the cold.

Erik wrapped his wool shirt around her, scratchy against her bare shoulders and
through the lace of her bra. Then he attacked her boots.

Even her socks were wet. No wonder she'd squished when she walked. With relief
she rolled from side to side as Erik peeled her tight jeans down, thinking how much
warmer the grass in the clearing felt than she did. Perhaps she could just lie here
and....

"Turn your back on the fire," Erik said. Madeline was amazed to see that the twigs
and branches were being consumed by leaping flames. "You'll be able to sit closer."

She obeyed and immediately felt wonderful warmth on her back. Gradually the
shivers lessened, until they occurred as occasional spasms, rather than constantly shaking
her body. She pulled her legs up and clasped them, resting her chin on her knees. Eyes
closed, she tried to relax as her body slowly regained the heat it had lost.

"Turn around now," Erik said, some long time later. Madeline opened her eyes. He
was standing before her, clad in nothing but very scanty, very red briefs.

A new warmth began in her lower belly and flowed through her. She knew that
body, knew its pulse points and its erogenous zones. She had buried her face in the springy
pelt on his chest and nipped at the dark, almost concealed nipples. She had dipped her
tongue into the deep indentation of his navel, tasting his musky, male scent.

Some of her feelings must have showed in her eyes, for he kneeled before her, one
hand reaching out to touch her cheek. "Madeline?" His voice was husky, little more than a
whisper.

She found no words. All she could do was look at him, still wanting him and still
certain that they had made a mistake.

Her certainty could no more resist her body's need than a drifting feather could
resist the wind. She fought to keep from leaning into his touch, resisted the urge to find his
fingertips with her lips. She told her eyes to close, rather than drowning in his fiery
gaze.

When his breath blew hot on her mouth, she silently screamed at her lips to close,
her jaw to set. And when his lips brushed hers, with a touch as delicate as a spider's silk,
she was still telling herself not to welcome him back into her life.

"Madeline." Her name was almost a prayer on his lips.

Pull back, her mind screamed. Don't let him.

Just this once,
her body argued.
Just this one time more, for the
memory.

His lips found hers and were hot. Oh, so hot. Demanding. Pleading.
Promising.

His arms were strong around her. Protective. Cherishing.

Madeline had forgotten how good being held in a lover's embrace could feel. No
one had held her since Jesse....No, since Erik.

"Ah, Madeline. You smell so good, taste so good." His tongue toyed with her lips,
begging entrance.