Читать книгу Down River - Карен Харпер - Страница 11

Once Mitch managed to right the kayak again, he knew he had to abandon it. The current pinned the boat tight to the tree, though he knew it could capsize again. He had to get to Lisa, be sure she was breathing, then get her—both of them—warm. But he’d need some of the supplies that were stowed in the kayak for them to survive out here. They were going to have to hike back to civilization, and the only access road was on the other side of the river.

Bracing himself as best he could with his paddle, with one hand he quickly unfastened the bungee cords securing the dry well at the front of the kayak, opened it and grabbed out the single wet suit. He wrapped it around his neck like a big scarf, then rummaged for the roll of duct tape he knew must be there. Finding it, he shoved it on his arm above his wrist. It was good for patching kayak cracks, but also for immobilizing sprained or broken bones. Being careful not to tip the kayak, he loosed the spray skirt and was surprised he was sitting in water. The cockpit was partly flooded, but he’d been so intent—and so much colder from the waist up—he hadn’t even noticed. His sweatshirt over his T-shirt was soaked and heavy.

He half dragged, half hoisted himself onto the tree about four feet from Lisa. Holding on to protruding broken limbs, he crawled toward her. Her wet blond hair looked like a curtain covering her face. Though his instinct was to lift her into his arms, he reached down to feel for her carotid artery with two fingers. Her skin was so cold it shocked him, but he felt frigid, too, his fingers numb and fumbling.

Yes! She had a pulse—faint, maybe fluttering, or else he was shaking too hard to tell. She was breathing, steady but sure, so he wouldn’t have to do mouth-to-mouth. Gently, he pushed her sopping hair back from her face. She looked pasty and bruised.

“Lisa. Lisa, it’s Mitch. You’re going to be okay. I’m here to take care of you and get you home—at least to my home, the lodge.”

Nothing. No movement, but a pulse and breath was enough for now. He’d seen his uncle revive one of his homesteader friends who fell in years ago, though that had been near lodge property where they could get help, as slow as it was in coming from Bear Bones.

Praying their combined weight would not shift the tree trunk and send them barreling down the river with it, Mitch put his hands under her armpits. Slowly he lifted and laid her out on her back. Her legs flopped on either side of the trunk. Dragging her crawling backward, he inched along the log toward the low ledge where the roots of the tree had caught. Sunlight poured onto them. Sunlight! But it would not last long in this narrow gorge, even with the nights still filled with light.

It seemed an eternity before he had her laid out on the ledge. He curled her up, hoping to preserve whatever core body heat she had left.

“Land ho, sweetheart. You’re going to be all right,” he said as if to convince himself, but his voice broke.

He ventured out onto the tree trunk again, still on all fours. Sprawled on his belly, he carefully reached down to unrig the trapped kayak’s other dry-storage well. Besides the extra PFD he’d shoved in there, he wasn’t sure what was stowed, but it was the first break he’d had all day. He pulled out a four-pound butane camp stove and a one-person tent, though he saw no sleeping bag. There were no provisions but a small, plastic, zipper-locked sack of what Christine called squaw candy—dried salmon. He tossed the PFD and food up on the ledge and, pulling his backpack up over his shoulder by one strap, carefully hauled the tent and stove along the trunk to safety.

At least he had four ginger ales. Otherwise he’d be pouring boiled river water into Lisa. He could carry the tiny tent and stove with them if they could get off this ledge to hike out. But first things first.

Huddled over her to make a windbreak against the breeze, Mitch removed her PFD and stripped her down to her black bra and panties—stunningly sexy even out here where they seemed so fragile and fancy. Despite her tan lines, she looked fish-belly white. Her beautiful body now seemed a cold, marble statue. He moved fast to cover her with the neoprene suit, not putting it on her yet because it felt cold. Rafters and kayakers often wore a layer of fleece under it to maintain body warmth, but she had been depleted of that.

He unzipped the tent from its pack and formed it into a windbreak, making sure it didn’t shade her from the sun on the wall and floor of the small ledge that made—he hoped—a lifesaving pocket of warmth. He needed her conscious to be sure she didn’t drift away, so he kept talking to her as he moved her arms and legs to check for broken bones. She looked battered and bruised, but he was amazed she seemed to have escaped without any serious injuries, not even signs of frostbite.

He tossed her clothes farther down the ledge to dry, then rubbed her all over with the neoprene wet suit, the only dry garment he had, since he was thoroughly soaked, too. He chaffed her fingers and toes in his hands, then wrapped her in the small canvas tent. She’d need his body heat—what there was of it—to come back, to survive, but he could put the wet suit on her later. He had to get hot liquids into her first. It was just as important to be warmed from the inside as out.

With its burner protected by its little windscreen, the butane-fed, self-igniting cooker heated rapidly. He had a small pan, but, shivering, he ignored that for now. Somehow his stiff fingers got two of the cans of ginger ale open. He put them directly on the burner. When he realized the bag that had held the tent was still dry, he put it over Lisa’s head like a too-big bonnet. So much body heat was lost through the head. He’d kidded Jonas about that, but the big guy never seemed to get too hot or too cold. Damn, what he wouldn’t give for a hairdryer out here, and the lodge’s hot tub.

While the cans of ginger ale heated, he huddled close to the stove’s burner to get feeling back in his fingers. Shaking in his haste, he stripped off his PFD and his own wet clothes. With one can of ginger ale in his hand, he managed to wrap himself and Lisa in the small tent as if it were a double sleeping bag. He pressed his hip to hers and threw one leg over her to warm her thighs. The sudden, sweeping impact of mingled protectiveness and possessiveness astounded him.

A memory leaped at him of the day he’d really looked at her for the first time as a beautiful woman and not just as an associate at the firm. She had not been wearing much that day, either. In a way he’d wanted Lisa the moment he’d seen her on the beach, when he was coming in from windsurfing. What a shock to see Ms. Wet Behind The Ears Lawyer out of a business suit and wet all over.

At work and especially in court, as if she’d wanted to hide from something, she’d often worn dark-rimmed glasses and her hair pulled back. Yet that day on the beach he saw classic features with a naughty tilt to her green eyes even sunglasses couldn’t conceal. Her lithe body in that black bikini was so graceful, even when she spiked a volleyball with her long blond hair flying. Yet there was always something vulnerable about her.

“That’s Lisa Vaughn?” he’d said to himself that day. He’d decided right there he’d do what he shouldn’t—date a colleague and hope she wouldn’t only agree to see him socially because he was Graham Bonner’s heir apparent at the firm. There was nothing on the books about not dating coworkers, though he knew it was a bad idea, and one Graham would frown upon.

He soon learned Lisa was so much more than a beach babe or an ambitious attorney. She was bright and funny, though she had a problematic past she hadn’t mentioned for the first few months they dated. She’d finally shared that she’d seen a shrink for years when she was a child and in her teens. The doctor had told her that her history, what she called her Darth Vader secret—her dark side—was a combination of shock fatigue and survivor’s guilt from witnessing the drowning of her mother and little sister.

Now, come hell or high water, he was not going to let her be a victim either of the Wild River or the wilds of Alaska. He had to get some of this warm liquid into her, so he lifted her head into the crook of his arm and pressed the heated can to her lips.

“Lisa, drink this. It will warm you.”

He got some in her mouth. It dribbled back out, so he tried again. His chest pressed to her breasts and his cheek to hers, he spoke close to her ear. “Lisa, it’s Mitch. You’re going to be all right. You have to drink this to get warm.”

“M-M-itch.”

Thank God! He was so thrilled she was still in that stone-cold body he could have flown.

“Drink this. You have to drink this.”

Her teeth began to chatter, and she quivered all over, actually a better sign than nothing moving. She was hopefully coming out of hypothermia, and he was shaking as if he was plunging into it.

“Mitch.” It was a mere whisper. She still didn’t open her eyes and had barely moved her swollen, bluish lips.

“Yes, it’s Mitch,” he repeated. “I’m here and I’ll take care of you. Drink this.”

She sipped some. Praying he had enough warmth to give, he held her closer. The slant of sun helped so much. If you could find the right spot in July or August, get out of the wind, the sun could get the temperature up to the high eighties.

She drank. He positioned himself ever closer, trying to get in contact with every inch of her. Hating that he had to let cold air into their cocoon, he reached for the second can of soda, then thought to shove the first warm, empty can down at her feet like a heated brick.

He took a quick swig from the second can, then poured more into her. When that was gone, she broke his heart by cuddling close, though she still seemed limp and cold. With her upturned face tucked under his chin, he held her tight again. He knew she wanted to sleep, but he had to keep her awake and talking. Hypothermic people often felt warmer, even stripped off their clothes before they went comatose and fell asleep forever.

“Lisa, talk to me. Keep talking. How did you fall in the river?”

Her eyes still closed, she frowned. “Dunno.”

“Did you stumble or trip?” he asked.

A tiny shake of her head, but no answer. Of course, it wasn’t unusual for someone in trauma to lose their memory of the horror of it. But since her memories of the ultimate horror of her life—the shock of witnessing the terrible loss of her mother and sister—were so vivid and, he knew, sometimes haunted her yet, surely she’d be able to recall how she’d fallen in.

Suddenly, strangely, she went stiff in his arms. “I’m here,” he said. “It’s all right.”

Her eyes opened wide for one moment as if she was seeing something again. She shook her shoulders slightly. At least she was moving, but was she trying to shake off his arms from holding her?

Then she frowned, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. “Pushed,” she whispered. “Pushed in.”

“Someone pushed you in the river?” he demanded, much too loudly, because she flinched as if she’d been struck.

“Yes. Pushed.”

“Pushed by whom?”

“Didn’t see.”

“Did you hear anyone?”

“Heard the river—rush of river.”

She was talking, but she must also be hallucinating, he thought. The shock of it had made her—hopefully temporarily—delusional. He knew his staff and his guests. No way had someone pushed her in the river.

“The sun …” she whispered, suddenly opening her eyes and blinking into its brightness, her mind evidently wandering again. She looked slit-eyed at him before she seemed to almost swoon in his arms. Her pupils were huge. Could she have a concussion? That would explain her thinking she was pushed.

He gave her a tiny shake to keep her conscious, happy to change the subject from what would be, in a court of law, attempted murder. “Yes, summer Alaska sun. Our own northern light,” he said.

Even so, he knew it would be shifting away soon, and it would be a cold night on the ledge. When would Christine or Spike or someone else realize they were gone? What would they think? Even if someone figured out they needed rescuing, no way could they be spotted by an airplane here or be helped if someone didn’t tackle that damned dangerous river. Even if the sheriff came from Talkeetna or Spike and Christine summoned a search party from nearby little Bear Bones, the two of them were on their own.

“So,do you need any help?” came the melodious female voice.

Hearing the tap-tap of heeled boots on the pine floor, Christine turned from setting the table to see another of the guests, Vanessa Guerena, come in from the wooden deck overlooking the lake. She’d been out there, pacing like a caged cat, as if waiting for someone to arrive or something to happen.

From their first introduction, Christine had admired Vanessa’s appearance—sleek figure, shiny, shoulder-length ebony hair, bronzed skin and flashing, dark eyes. In another world, they could have passed for Yup’ik cousins with the same height and build. Christine guessed the woman must be about her age, thirty-five or so. But Vanessa reeked self-confidence and charisma, the words Spike had used to describe her. He’d probably had to pick his jaw up off the ground when he first saw Vanessa.

But size, skin and hair was about where it ended for her and Vanessa’s similarities. With her suede boots and her butterscotch-colored leather knee-length pants and jacket—in this warm weather, no less—she looked so dressed up next to Christine’s running shoes, jeans and layered T-shirt top. For everyone else, including the obviously wealthy Bonners, denim was the name of the fashion game around here. Maybe Vanessa hadn’t gotten the message about how to pack for the land of remote fly-in lodges and cabins in America’s “last frontier.”

Vanessa’s pent-up energy and jumpiness made her stand out. The woman’s Cuban heritage and temper, which Christine had noted when she’d seen her arguing with Jonas from a distance earlier, was a far cry from a Yup’ik personality. Yet Christine saw Vanessa had a good side, what the Yup’ik called catngu, the gift of friendliness and helpfulness. Had she been hanging around the back of the lodge just waiting to help out? Maybe she thought being prompt would impress the Bonners, when they hadn’t even come downstairs yet. Or was she lurking around, maybe trying to keep an eye on her competition for Mitch’s old job?

“I’m just fine, but thanks for the offer,” she told Vanessa. “You just make yourself at home. Go ahead and enjoy some of these appetizers. I’m sure the others will be here soon, and you don’t have to wait for them.”

“Thanks,” she said, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “So, have you seen Mitch?”

“Not for a while.”

“Lisa?”

“Briefly.”

“Were they together? Oh, sorry, too used to interrogating potential witnesses, I guess,” Vanessa said with a little shrug and smile.

Christine nodded and went back out in the kitchen for more food. She glanced out the window down the path toward the lake landing. No Mitch, when she was expecting—wanting—him back.

She carried the last plate of appetizers to the table. Now Vanessa was pacing inside, pretending to look out the big bubble window. When she saw Christine was back, she said, “I didn’t want to miss anything, but I’ve got to get my exercise in, since my appetite’s gone as wild as the woods up here.”

When Christine put the last plate of food down, the woman came over and pounced on it. “I hope I burn off these calories with everything Mitch has planned,” she said, pouring herself a glass of Chardonnay to accompany her full plate. “Jonas said he’s ready for more of your delicious deep-forest fare, too.”

Christine was willing to bet both of them—Lisa Vaughn, too—had been just plain hungry for Mitch’s old position since he left the law firm. But, yes, where in all creation was Mitch? And, as Vanessa had asked, where was Lisa?

All Lisa wanted to do was sleep, to get lost in the arms of warm, lazy sleep. She must be on the beach because a canvas cabana covered her head and wrapped around her. She loved the sun but knew too much of it on her skin could be dangerous, even deadly. Dangerous … deadly … just get warm. So sore and exhausted … Just stay warm and go to sleep … sleep …

Someone shook her, held her. A lifeguard? Was a lifeguard here because a big wave had hit her?

A man with a deep, raspy voice said, “Lisa, I said you have to keep moving your arms and legs. Wiggle your fingers and toes.”

She dragged her heavy eyelids open. Mitch. Mitch on the beach with her. No, there were tall stone walls, and she could hear the roaring surf. But this wasn’t Florida. “I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Dorothy said to Toto after the tornado had picked her up and spun her silly. Lisa tried to do what Mitch said, what the good witch told Dorothy to do to get home. She tried to click the heels of her sparkly shoes together and make a wish but she had no shoes, and her feet were so cold….

Someone shook her again. Mitch. Mitch was here.

“Lisa, listen to me. I wish we were back at the lodge but we’re not.” He shook her shoulders and squeezed her tighter to him. “You fell in the river. You are hypothermic and you have to get warm. Drink more of this and move your arms and legs.”

It took great effort, but she obeyed. Sore, so sore. But she swallowed a warm, fizzy drink. Champagne? No bottles or glasses were allowed on the beach.

Then she really remembered. Back at the lodge, outside on the lake landing path, she’d been waiting for Mitch. Looking at the roiling water and almost seeing Mother and Jani there, Mother’s face staring up at her through the river foam. And then—

She jolted alert in his arms. Someone had pushed her in! Hadn’t they? No way she had fallen or jumped just because she was thinking about Mother and Jani. Surely Mitch had not pushed her, then rescued her, so he could be a hero, so he could win her back. No, wishful thinking, wishing upon a star. There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. Home was where your loved ones were. But her loved ones had been swallowed by all that raging white water.

A second jolt shot through her, cosmic compared to anything else except the initial impact of that freezing water. She was in Mitch’s arms, in some sort of bed, and they were both naked.

She tried to sit up. He pulled her back down. Where were they? What had they done? No, no, Mitch was right. She fell in the river, and he must have come after her, saved her. But she fell because she was pushed. But by whom and why?

She went rigid against him. “I’m better, warmer. You can let me go.” She didn’t sound like herself. Her lips were swollen and bruised. She was almost mumbling, stuttering.

“I’d like to believe that, but you were close to comatose. You’ve only been out of the river for about two hours.”

“I—th-thank you. You came in a b-boat?”

“I chased you in the kayak that we were going to take across the lake.”

“Oh.” She tried to process that. Yes, they’d agreed to have a talk, but now this.

“M-Mitch, someone pushed me in the river. I fell down the bank and rolled, but someone pushed me first.”

“You said that.”

“Don’t you believe me?” It came out as Don’t you leave me.

“When we get back, we’ll look into it. I did see the stuff Christine packed for us strewn down the bank toward the river. Why didn’t you go down to the lake landing to wait for me? Didn’t you see or hear anyone?”

“Hear them, with the roar of the river? I—I was just looking at the salmon in the water. My mind is working all right now. I’m better,” she said, shifting away again. She wanted to remember what had happened, but not feel the hopeless panic, the fear of riding the river. Was her memory messed up like her mind?

And Mitch—he felt more solid than she recalled, so good, warm and strong with rock-hard muscles like the ledge under her. Had Alaska done that to him? Yes, he’d looked more bulked up when she’d seen him yesterday after an entire year apart. If it wasn’t a crazy idea, she’d almost think his new life had made him taller, too.

“I’ll see if your clothes are dry, and we’ll get the wet suit on you for warmth, too,” he said. “The little cookstove may warm your hands, but don’t be in too much of a rush to get up. The shock of it—you’ll come back slowly and may have some scrambled thoughts.”

That’s for sure, she told herself, but demanded, “You don’t believe I was pushed in?”

“It’s good you’re getting angry at me. That will get your blood and temp up—and besides, that’s more like picking up where we left off, isn’t it?”

“That’s all past now. I can’t thank you enough for risking the river to come after me. Can’t I just get d-dressed, curl up and sleep for a while? I’m so exhausted. It’s a trauma for both of us.”

“Sure has been, and not just this river ride. But no, you can’t just go to sleep yet. I’m not the doctor in my family, but I know a hypothermic victim shouldn’t do that—too dangerous for a while. I think it’s like having a concussion. My clothes were soaked, too, and you needed core body heat badly, so if you’re wondering why we’re both undressed in here—”

“I knew that. See, I’m compos mentis again.” She had to fight very hard to form thoughts and words. It was like groping for something in the dark. “Thank you, but I’m all r-right now. And if you’re thinking I did really fall in, or just trip—or if you’re thinking what you know about my mother, it isn’t that. Someone pushed me, and I can think of at least two people with motives, maybe more. I wasn’t halluc … hallucinating….”

Her voice trailed off as her thoughts swirled again. Or had she been? Had she actually been pushed in, or had that river lured her, seduced her because, after all was said and done, little Lisa had actually wanted to be with Mommy and Jani? Was little Lisa still terrified that she had sent them right over the edge?

Even though she hadn’t seen her psychiatrist, Dr. Sloan, for years, she heard his voice. “You have to get over the idea you should have died with them or that you caused their fall. I know you blame yourself for not realizing your mother was so sick, but you were just a child. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.”

Mitch’s voice broke into the memory. “Lisa, can you hear me? Your eyelids fluttered, and you looked as if you were going to pass out again.”

“Only to sleep. I need to sleep.”

“Me, too, but no. We’re miles overland from the lodge and help—from any civilization—so we’re going to have to hike out of here. Just rest here a few more minutes. I’ll get dressed first, if my stuff’s dry. But keep your eyes open and keep talking.”

“I—I don’t have shoes to hike. The river took them.”

“I know. I’ll make you some from our extra PFD, tape pieces of it around your feet.”

“Wow, a guy who understands how girls love shoes.”

He actually chuckled as he moved out of their warm little cocoon. She caught a glimpse of skin and curly, black chest hair. The cold air slammed in on her, and she fumbled to pull the canvas cover closed. But his laugh had warmed her. That and the fact he told her to keep her eyes open while he crawled out naked on the ledge to get dressed. But she didn’t want to give him the idea she cared about him that way, so she pulled the canvas bag closer around her and turned away.

Just business—and survival—between them now. She had to be strong to help get them out of here and so that he could give a good report on her to the Bonners. At the very least they would think she was a klutz for falling in the river. Would they all think she was crazy if she claimed someone had pushed her? Maybe she should tell Mitch she had just imagined it, not tell people what had really happened. Then she could investigate who could have pushed her, set someone up for a confession—or, God forbid, another attempt to eliminate her. But who would be that desperate to get rid of her?

But then another thought drifted in. Maybe the person didn’t think she’d really fall in the river, just wanted to warn her or shake her up. But why? Maybe it wasn’t just Jonas or Vanessa who had motive, means and opportunity to shove her down a clearing toward the river.

On Spike Jackson’s plane, flying in from Anchorage to the lodge yesterday, she remembered a strange exchange between him and the Bonners. “So this is some kind of a marathon or endurance test for your candidates?” Spike had asked Graham. Strapped in next to Lisa, Vanessa had strained forward to hear what Graham said over the loud hum of the plane’s single engine.

“Sure, a test of sorts, both with the activities Mitch has on tap for us and some others we have planned,” Graham had said. “We’ll have some group endeavors, some individual efforts.”

Jonas had joked from the single jump seat in the back, next to the pile of luggage, “Like pitting us against an Alaskan bear or wolf in a deep-woods arena?”

“Nonsense,” Ellie Bonner had piped up. From her place next to Spike in the copilot’s seat, she’d twisted around to face the rest of them. “This is not some face-your-worst-fears, Survivor-like game show. Graham and I want you to enjoy yourselves and focus on what are essentially bonding, not competitive experiences.”

“Just so long as she didn’t say ‘bondage,’” Jonas had whispered from the backseat so only Vanessa and Lisa could hear.

But could the Bonners have planned some sort of face-your-worst-fear survival test, and hers just got out of hand? Several years ago, after she came to know and trust both of them, she’d confided in them about her childhood tragedy and trauma over dinner at their home.

No. No, she scolded herself. She had to fight being paranoid, had to fight to show everyone she deserved the senior partner position and that she didn’t want Mitch anymore. Maybe bringing her to face Mitch was really her endurance test, and now, here she was, alone with him and dependent on him. Surely the Bonners—or Mitch—could not have planned or wanted that.

Her head snapped down, then jerked up. She’d almost nodded off, but he hadn’t seen. He was her rescuer, the one who knew the wilds, so for now she would try hard to do what Mitch said. She chatted, even chattered, tried to answer his questions about how she felt. She was bruised and battered all over but grateful no bones were broken. She was absolutely aching for sleep. But she had to cooperate so he could get them back to civilization, back to safety at the lodge. But, since—if—someone had pushed her, was it really civilized or safe there?