Praise for the novels of
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Karen Harper

“Will keep you awake until bedtime and beyond.”

—Tess Gerritsen on Empty Cradle

“A compelling story … intricate and fascinating details of Amish life”

—Tami Hoag on Dark Harvest

“A strong plot, a pair of well-written characters and a genuinely spooky atmosphere add up to yet another sterling effort from Harper. Fast-paced and absorbing, this one will keep readers turning pages far into the night.”

—RT Book Reviews on Deep Down

“The story is rich … and the tension steadily escalates to a pulse-pounding climax.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Hiding Place

“Strongly plotted and well written, featuring a host of interesting characters, Harper’s latest is a winner.”

—RT Book Reviews on Below the Surface

“Karen Harper proves yet once again why she is on my ‘auto buy’ list.”

—www.longandshortreviews.com on Below the Surface

“Harper keeps tension high as the insane villain cleverly evades efforts to capture him. And Harper really shines in the final act, providing readers with a satisfying and exciting denouement.”

—Publishers Weekly on Inferno

“Harper spins an engaging, nerve-wracking yarn, alternating her emphasis between several equally interesting plot strands. More importantly, her red herrings do the job—there’s just no guessing who the guilty party might be.”

—Romantic Times on Hurricane

“Well-researched and rich in detail. With its tantalising build-up and well-developed characters, this offering is certain to earn Harper high marks.”

—Publishers Weekly on Dark Angel, winner of the 2005

Mary Higgins Clark Award

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author KAREN HARPER is a former high school and college English teacher. Winner of the 2005 Mary Higgins Clark Award for her outstanding novel, Dark Angel, Karen is the author of thirteen romantic suspense novels and four historical novels, as well as a series of historical mysteries. Karen and her husband, who divide their time between Columbus, Ohio, and Naples, Florida, love to travel both in the US and abroad. For additional information about Karen and her novels, please visit www.karenharperauthor.com.

Also available from

Karen Harper

DEEP DOWN

DARK ROAD HOME

Coming soon

DARK HARVEST

DARK ANGEL

Down River
Karen Harper

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To the wonderfully independent Alaskans

I met on our trip, and, as ever, to my

traveling companion through life, Don.

Prologue

August 20, 1982

Lisa Vaughn fought to pull her wrist loose from her mother’s strong hand. “No, I’m afraid. I’m going to tell Grandma. No, Mommy, no, nooo!”

They were up on the deck where everyone had done the lifeboat drill but now no one else was around. Eight-year-old Lisa loved the big cruise ship she was on in the middle of the blue sea with Grandma, Mommy and baby Jani. But Grandma was taking a nap in their cabin, and Mommy was crying. So was Lisa’s baby sister, maybe because Mommy was holding her so tight against her chest with only one arm. With the other hand she dragged Lisa toward the back railing of the ship with lots of bubbling white water underneath.

Walking around the deck with Mommy and Jani, Lisa had thought it was pretty at first, all that wild water like when you swished your hand real fast to make lots of bubbles in the bathtub. But Mommy kept saying something about “Getting away just like your father did, just getting away with my girls … peace forever …”

Lisa started to cry, too, when her mother put one leg up high over the railing. Still, she didn’t let go of Lisa’s wrist, dragging her closer. Jani cried and squirmed. Wet-faced from her own tears, Mommy kissed her little cheek, then looked back at Lisa.

“You have to come with us, Lisa. Stop struggling!”

She gave Lisa a huge tug, trying to lift her over the rail, scraping her stomach.

“No!” Lisa shouted as she pulled back and kind of shoved Mommy away at the same time.

Lisa fell hard on the deck, so surprised and scared as Mommy, still holding Jani, fell backward, down. Lisa jumped to her feet in time to see Mommy and Jani drop and disappear, sucked into the sea by the wild white water.

Part I

Fighting the Foam

Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,

Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and for ever!

—Sir Walter Scott

1

Duck Lake Lodge

Near Bear Bones, Alaska

August 20, 2008

Despite the calm beauty of Duck Lake ten feet below the pine-tree-lined path, Lisa Vaughn felt compelled to watch the Wild River on the other side of the low ridge where she stood. Because the summer sun had warmed the snow-tipped Talkeetna Mountains for hours, the snowmelt river roared. When the temperature dropped at night, despite the fact the skies barely darkened, the river rumbled like distant thunder. She was amazed by the reddish-colored salmon as they battled the fierce current on their long journey upriver to their breeding grounds. It almost looked as if the river was bleeding.

But mostly the river awed Lisa because, exactly twenty-six years ago, she’d seen her mother and baby sister drown in the turbulent, foaming wake of a cruise ship. Since then, roiling water mesmerized her. And she had never seen anything like the rapids of the Wild River.

She pulled her gaze away and hurried along the ridge toward the cutoff to the lake landing where she and Mitch had agreed to paddle a kayak to a picnic spot. “I know you’ve never been in a kayak,” he’d said when he suggested it, “but we’ll be fine as long as you match your strokes to mine, so we don’t slam our paddles together.”

Match your strokes to mine. His words echoed in her head. Was it just she who was still furious about the death of their passion? Although their romance and future together had ended when they’d slammed their different goals into each other, the man still got to her in a dangerous way. This trip had to be all business for her, all about getting a promotion, not rehashing the wreck of their relationship. She’d been dreading this whole slippery situation, but maybe talking it out could help her to finally write the obituary for what she’d thought was mutual love. She let out a breath, then inhaled deeply, not to savor the fresh, pine-scented air, but to calm herself.

Mitch Braxton seemed a different man from a year ago when they’d broken their engagement and he’d left her and Fort Lauderdale for the heart of Alaska. He’d broken her heart, but she’d been so angry with him that she’d quickly patched herself back together, at least on the surface. She’d gone on with a vengeance, not looking back until her boss set up this command performance at Mitch’s lodge.

Lisa had worked hard to pretend to get over her resentment of his shattering her prettily planned-out life. She had expected to be a skilled attorney, a wife, a working mother to their future children. Though she knew better, sometimes she felt that, at age thirty-four, her marital and biological clocks were not only ticking but clanging. Just when she’d thought never to see Mitch again, Graham Bonner, the managing partner of Carlisle, Bonner & Associates, had been adamant that he had a unique plan for screening the three candidates for the next senior partner of the prestigious law firm.

Graham and his wife, Ellie, insisted they were taking the three junior partners to participate in the family/corporate bonding program Mitch offered at the lodge he’d inherited in Alaska. Since they’d only arrived yesterday, all they’d done so far was walk blindfolded through an obstacle course by following vocal directions—but so much more was in store. Scheduled during the week were ziplining and whitewater rafting, all the while being observed by the Bonners to decide who would get the coveted senior partner position Mitch had abandoned.

Some of Lisa’s friends had argued it was a crazy way to vet a lawyer, though it sounded like a great, free vacation. But Graham was clever and convincing. He’d learned the law-firm ropes from Ellie’s father and her brother Merritt, who used to run the firm and had used it as a stepping stone to his fast-rising political career.

Come hell or high water, Lisa intended to be the new senior partner, but she knew her competitors Jonas and Vanessa were just as tenacious and ambitious. Maybe that was what the Bonners were judging them by anyway. She couldn’t help but wonder if, as upset and betrayed as the Bonners had also felt by Mitch’s defection, they hadn’t still enlisted him to help them make the important decision. He’d always been the Bonners’ golden boy. Once Lisa had even thought they were grooming him not only to take over the firm but to partner—in more ways than one—with their twenty-four-year-old only child, Claire, who was now in law school at Duke University, and would soon join the firm as its third-generation lawyer.

Stopping above another clearing where she could see the river, Lisa brushed several mosquitoes away, then put down the small plastic cooler she carried. The cooler had been beautifully packed, down to bright cloth napkins and a tablecloth by Mitch’s lodge manager and chef, Christine. Like the lodge, Christine Tanaka seemed both down to earth, yet frontier elegant. Lisa had sensed something between Mitch and the striking, ebony-haired, high-cheek-boned woman, and was annoyed that it bothered her.

While Christine knew where they were going, Lisa hoped they wouldn’t be missed by the others during this three-to-five afternoon break, when everyone had some private time before gathering for pre-dinner appetizers and wine.

She sprayed herself lightly with the bug repellent she’d brought along. Close to the lodge they fogged the area and the brisk breeze today kept most of the mosquitoes away. She was used to them, being from South Florida, but the Alaska version seemed especially voracious. At least, in his introduction to them yesterday, Mitch had mentioned the bug season was waning.

She forced her gaze away from the river rapids and stuffed the small spray can back in the top of her sock, then rolled her jeans back down. She wore her running shoes and a life preserver over a light jacket and T-shirt, but the day seemed warm—too warm, if she kept thinking about Mitch.

Turning back to the river, Lisa fastened the Velcro straps of her orange PFD jacket. Mitch had warned them, “No one, not even Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps, if he shows up here, goes out on the lake or the river without a PFD!”

She and her colleagues had joked that an attorney, on the losing end of a lawsuit, must have named it a Personal Flotation Device, but then it wasn’t a plain old life preserver. PFDs were made of sleek, contoured neoprene, a far cry from those old bulbous, canvas jackets the cruise ships had passengers wear during lifeboat drills. For all she knew, that drill had given her mother the idea to jump overboard.

If Lisa was getting in a kayak for the first time, she was going prepared. She could swim like a fish, but since her family tragedy—though she tried not to let people know—churning water not only horrified her but lured her.

She picked up the cooler and glanced back down the path toward the sprawling two-story log lodge with its four rustic cabins huddled nearby like chicks around a mother hen. No sign of Mitch yet; he was busy here, king of his realm. But then, he’d seemed to be master of his fate in Florida, too, before the dam broke and their mutual future was swept away.

She heaved a huge sigh, staring down into the river. Mitch said he’d bring the drinks, and she wondered if it would be wine. Last year, the night they had broken up, she’d snapped her wine goblet off at the stem when he’d told her he had to get out of the rat race and leave Fort Lauderdale. Her hand had bled from a puncture wound; she still bore the scar—that and too many others as she went on with her high-flying career. That terrible night, she had tossed her engagement ring at him, and would have thrown the gold bracelet with the flying seagulls he’d bought her as well, except the clasp had stuck.

But now, when she looked back on that night, she knew she’d done things to upset him, too. She recalled Mitch’s explosion when she’d told him she had volunteered both of them to testify at a state senate committee hearing. They were both under pressure then, working day and night on a high-profile money-laundering case. They’d been harassed, even stalked by someone, until Graham had suddenly taken them off the case for their safety. She was trying to find another way to keep them in what she thought of as “the local lawyer limelight.” They were having drinks on the patio of her condo with its view of a golf course she’d never played.

“No way!” he’d shouted, shocking her. “I just can’t take time to testify at some senate hearing! Leave that political stuff to Ellie’s beloved brother, who will probably be our next senator or even president, for all I know!”

“Listen, I realize it will take time from your other cases, but it’s great PR, and your name carries clout now,” she’d insisted.

“I may be successful, but I’m so stressed I’m getting distracted—careless—when people’s futures are in my hands. I’m scared I’ll not only ruin someone else’s life, but my own. Carelessness can lead to self-destruction. Sometimes I don’t give a damn about things I need to care for, to control. Half the time, all I’ve worked for seems pointless.”

“Including a future with me? Our love, our plans, both professional and personal?” she’d demanded in her best litigator’s voice. “Mitch, we can have everything together, including our careers, helping people, not wasting time on something pointless!”

That was when he’d dropped the bomb that he’d inherited his uncle’s land and lodge and wanted to move to Alaska. He’d been meaning to find the right time to tell her. Would she change her plans to go with him?

Shocked and angry, she’d refused, accused him of being self-centered. But she saw now she had been, too. Why couldn’t he understand that no urban career woman who loved luscious, lively Fort Lauderdale needed a dropout who preferred the lonely wilds of Alaska? No, she couldn’t risk loving someone who suddenly claimed to be nearly suicidal, not after all she’d been through.

Now, lost in her regrets, trembling again at the memory, she frowned at the raging river. Then something happened. Somehow, it was as if her rage at her past, at her mother, at Mitch, pushed her over some psychic edge. She tumbled headlong off the path, off her feet. The cooler went flying, hit her knee. She screamed, lost her balance, then rolled sideways down the ridge.

She landed on a spruce sapling, but before she could grab it, it bent under her weight to fling her forward. In the clearing, nothing else stopped her fall. Over, over she rolled, until she slammed into the rushing river, going under. The frigid water shocked her. She gasped and sucked some in. Choked. Her sinuses burned while her skin froze.

The PFD lifted and righted her, head up, but foam crested over her. Mother with Jani in her arms fell over the rail again. The boiling foam devoured them, devoured Lisa. Had Mommy pulled her in with them? How did this happen? She was horrified for her family, for herself. Terror screamed at her, in her, echoing the smashing water, clawing at her courage.

She was swept around, past jutting rocks. She pulled her hands and feet in close. She had to get out but found nothing to hold as she was tossed, whirled, pulled and yanked, bumped by boulders, cold and drowning, dragged downriver.

Though the two glasses Mitch had thrown in his backpack with the cans of ginger ale were plastic, they clanked as he walked the ridge path, their dissonant sound nearly drowned by the river’s roar. If Lisa thought he’d cart wine out here for some sort of a lovey-dovey reunion, she was wrong. This was strictly a business meeting, he told himself.

So what if he still felt he wanted her? It was a pure physical reaction from hot memories. His body’s reaction to being near Lisa again was something he could absolutely handle—had to.

When he moved to Alaska, he’d needed to cleanse himself of the dirty feeling of defending clients he knew damn well were guilty. He felt guilt-ridden by his own obscenely high fees and the busy schedule that left no time for pro bono work. Pressure, pressure, pressure—and for what? Prestige? Cruising Lauderdale’s canals in his boat, chasing women or raising a future family he didn’t have time for? Unlike Ellie Bonner’s brother, Merritt Carlisle, he didn’t want the power that came from a place in national or even state politics. Back home—though this was home now—he’d been fed up with convoluted power connections in the fast-fleeting fame lane. Thank God, Alaska had helped to heal him. It was said people who came to Alaska from outside were either running from something or to something. He guessed, in his case, it was both.

He knew he had let a lot of people down when he’d come north, but helping other people’s families, friends and coworkers to connect with each other was far more fulfilling than his old life. He’d continued his uncle’s work here through his adventure-bonding program. At least Graham and Ellie bringing their three candidates here to decide who should fill Mitch’s vacant position showed they still trusted his judgment and had forgiven him for leaving.

But golden-skinned, blonde, beach-baby Lisa Vaughn had never understood why he had to change his life, leave Florida for Alaska to keep his sanity, even if it meant changing the plans they’d made. They needed to just talk it out, this time briefly, unemotionally, objectively, then they could get back to the business at hand.

He wished Lisa well in her quest to make senior partner, but he wasn’t playing favorites. He owed Graham that—Ellie, too, because her father had founded the firm, and the old man had eventually made his son-in-law Graham a full partner before he died. Graham had been Mitch’s mentor, just as Mitch had tried to mentor Jonas, the candidate he actually favored, although both Lisa and Vanessa were excellent lawyers. No one worked at Carlisle, Bonner & Associates of Fort Lauderdale, Miami and Palm Beach, if they weren’t. Though Mitch didn’t especially trust politicians, Merritt, who had still been a lawyer at the firm when Mitch first worked there, was someone who had managed to keep his nose clean.

Just before he cut off the ridge path onto the downward spur toward the lake landing where he’d told Lisa he’d meet her, he spotted the small, white cooler Christine had said she’d given to Lisa. It was open, with wrapped appetizers, bright plates and napkins, strewn down the ridge toward the river like a hand pointing toward the water. Had Lisa seen a bear and run? No, the bear wouldn’t have left the food.

He stooped and squinted down toward the river. The drop-off over the ridge was fairly open. Surely she knew to turn right toward the lake, not left. Had she fallen toward the river? Dear God, please don’t let her have fallen in the river!

“Lisa! Lisa!” he shouted, but he knew the roar of the river would cover his voice if she wasn’t nearby. She was physically fit, an outdoors girl, but the kind who loved sunny skies and sand. Beach volleyball, at which she excelled, was her sport of choice.

“Lisa? Liiiisaa!”

Holding on to a couple of spruce saplings, Mitch went down the steep bank to the river. He gasped when he saw her in the foaming water, about ten yards away, clinging to a rock on the far side. He never would have spotted her, except she wore an orange PFD that showed up like a beacon in the rapids. If she let go, she’d be a goner, because not far beyond was a narrow gorge with a hairpin turn of boiling white water, and later, a series of small falls that didn’t stop the salmon coming up but could kill her going down. Worse, exposed to water this cold, she’d go numb and hypothermic in twenty minutes, then die. His uncle had told him that feeling in the limbs went after about seven minutes, consciousness in the next seven, and life itself in the following seven or so. And a South Florida girl was hardly prepared for a snowmelt swim.

He waved his arms and shouted again but she was facing downriver and didn’t see him. She was hanging on for dear life—literally.

He half climbed, half crawled back up the bank. A kayak! He needed the kayak that was on the other side of the ridge. There was no time to get help. No one at the lodge would hear him above the water if he shouted, nor could they see him from here. How long could she hold on?

He’d have to get her in the kayak without tipping it, shoot the next eddies, humps and holes to get them to a landing spot before the gorge where he could tend to her. But there was no easy way to return. They’d have to either hike back on the other side of the river or portage the kayak around the falls and ride the rapids all the way out of these mountains.

He yanked himself up from Sitka spruce sapling to sapling, digging his nails into the green moss and orange lichens. He scrabbled past where she’d dropped the cooler, over the ridge, then raced down the path to the red, two-person kayak sitting by the serene lake awaiting their easy trip across to one of his favorite picnic spots. Damn, why hadn’t she fallen down this side of the ridge?

His heart pounded; adrenaline stoked his strength. Kayaks weren’t overly heavy, but he had to get it up the path, then over the ridge to launch it without splitting the quarter-inch plastic. Yes, two paddles in it. Two PFDs, too. He glanced once across the lake to see if his friends Ginger or Spike might be somewhere in sight, but saw no one. Ginger’s little motor boat was pulled up on the shore near the lodge, but she was nowhere around.

“No one but me,” he grunted as he shoved the kayak before him up the path. Please Lord, he prayed, let her hang on to that rock.

Panting, his heart pounding and muscles screaming, he got the kayak up and over the ridge, now trying to keep it from crashing down into the river and taking off without him. Sweat burned his eyes as he squinted to see if Lisa was still hanging on. Yes!

He cursed the time it took him to get the spray skirt out of the fore dry storage well and tight around him while he hung on to a sapling so the kayak didn’t take off from under him. Otherwise, if too much water got in, he could go hypothermic himself, or capsize. He fought the violent pull of the water—nothing like surfing offshore in South Florida.

Mitch realized he still wore his backpack when it bumped against the kayak. He yanked it off and exchanged it for one of the PFDs in the front seat. He jammed the backpack into the well. He needed the neoprene wet suit he saw there, but no time, no time. He realized he had no helmet—hadn’t put one in for a simple paddle across the lake. He was breaking the rules he’d laid out for safety, but this was life and death—Lisa’s, and maybe his, too. “Be stupid and a kayak can be your coffin,” he’d told more than one group of guests.

He felt a jab of anger at Lisa for being in the river, for getting them into this nightmare, when he’d thought things in his life were going so well. So well, that is, except that for the week he had to be near the woman who loved her career and her sunny spot on the planet more than she had loved him.

He shoved off, stabbing the river with deep strokes, fighting for control and balance so he wouldn’t shoot past her. He prayed he could get over to her and somehow get her on board without rolling them both under. “Don’t let go! Don’t let go!” he shouted, though he figured the roar of the water would keep her from hearing him.

He squinted through sun and spray to locate her by her orange PFD again, and, in that instant, saw her swept away, flailing in the foam.

2

Lisa tried to cling to the next rock she saw, even claw her way atop it, but the water pinned her against it. She couldn’t breathe. Should she let go? Try to find a flatter rock to hold?

But the choice was not hers, caught in the cold current, being twisted and turned. Her shins scraped boulders on the riverbed; she pulled her legs up and arms in for warmth, for safety, but found neither. She saw bloodred salmon streak past her in the foam, going the other way. How could they fight this water? she wondered. It might be easier going deep down.

Deep down, deeper … Mommy and Jani had gone deeper, so deep. The wet, white arms of water and death had taken them away. It would be easier that way, to let it all go, let everything go.

Lisa tried to swim for the riverbank, but each time she neared a handhold, the river snatched her away. She knew enough to try to point her feet downstream, but she couldn’t control that. When her numb legs bobbed up, she saw the water had ripped off her shoes.

She was doomed. Dead. Smashed by violent fists of water … her lungs burning to get a breath. Icy water surged up her nose into her sinuses. Get your head up! Take another breath! Hold the air in!

How had she fallen in? The water had looked so beautiful, even alluring. Did something trip her? Surely no one had pushed her. Had Mother and Jani pulled her in to be with them at last? Was this just her memories turning to a drowning, screaming nightmare again?

No, this was not some awful dream where she could will herself to wake up. She had to fight. To live. Dear Lord, help me. Help me be safe and warm.

But the force was brutal, banging her through waves like giant fists, slamming into rocks. Like a leaf going down a storm sewer … lost at sea. Her mother had lost her mind, Grandma said, postpartum depression or some sort of mental aberration made her kill herself. Daddy’s desertion of the family might have caused it, too. That’s what a psychiatrist had told her once.

Mother, I didn’t know. I was only a child. I knew you were sad, but if I had known you were desperate, I could have helped you. At least I could have saved Jani for Grandma to raise along with me…. Someone once said you loved me, so you wanted to take me with you. But it’s wrong to kill someone who hasn’t had a chance to live ….

But should she have drowned, too? Why had Lisa lived when Mother and Jani died? She was haunted by a thought she’d told no one, not even her psychiatrist. When she’d yanked back so hard from her mother’s grasp, did that send her over? If she had not pulled back, maybe there was a split second where her mother would have changed her mind. In that last moment, had she sent them into the wild, white water?

So confused, so dizzy, so caught in a spin of water, of fears …

Whispers, loud ones, roared all around her, wet and cold in her ears. Stop it! Stop the memories! This was real. She had to find a place to get out. If only she’d told Mitch she was sorry. Not sorry she didn’t go with him, but that she still cared, still wanted him in some sort of angry way, but now all she wanted was out of this forceful, freezing water. Fingers going numb, so cold. Keep your head. Keep your courage. Don’t let go! She heard a voice in her head and heart shouting, “Don’t let go!”

Mitch was getting panicky. Because Lisa was in the river and his kayak was on top of it, she was moving away from him faster and faster. And she had a head start.

At times he lost sight of the flash of orange that was his best chance of tracking her in the foaming rapids. On river right, he passed a big boulder, fighting hard not to be smashed into it. Unfortunately, he was in a wide, flat-water kayak best used on the lake, not the narrower white-water craft designed for mobility. It took much more strength and skill to maneuver this craft in white water. Yet, heedless of humps and holes and the danger of submerged rocks, he dug his paddle in faster, faster, trying to catch up.

Trying to catch up—the story of his life. He’d been raised in the shadow of an older brother who was brilliant, Superman, his parents’ all in all. There was no mountain too high, no challenge too big for Brad Braxton. Eagle Scout. High school student body president. University of Miami Gators swim team, All-American. Couldn’t try out for the Olympics because he was a Rhodes Scholar. Now a thoracic surgeon in Miami, with a gorgeous wife and two kids. Unreal expectations to keep up with … keep up with.

This was unreal. Could not be happening. How in hell had Lisa fallen in? No way to call for help. Cell phones didn’t work in the Talkeetnas, and he needed both hands on the paddle. The snowmelt had the river up to at least a Category III with four-foot waves and a rocking roll with worse ahead in the tight turns of Hairpin Gorge. His friend Spike had told him that the old prospectors had called that part of the Wild River the Turn Back Gorge, but there was no way he could turn back now, even if he lost her.

Using the paddle, he braced himself away from another rock, then righted the kayak when it was yanked into a pivot point. Off to the races again, squinting through the spume, hoping to see that slash of orange. She had to be here somewhere, unless she’d been trapped in a snag or sieve underwater.

In the first twist of Hairpin Gorge, narrow, gray haystacks of constricted water piled up into standing waves on both sides of the bow. He saw the path through it was chaos. Lisa would never survive.

The crash of the water almost deafened him. He pointed the kayak toward the chute and plunged into it. He glimpsed red king salmon struggling to go the other way. He fought a force he felt he’d never conquer, but sometimes a narrow ribbon of white water was faster than other places in the river. He was chilled and sopped down to where the spray skirt gripped his waist. He braced his knees against the inside of the craft, working the foot rudders, praying he wouldn’t capsize. When Uncle John had taught him kayaking years ago on his summer vacations, he’d joked it was really an underwater sport. He’d taught Mitch the Eskimo roll, but it would be a life-and-death combat roll if he flipped today.

Lisa knew she’d be dead already if she hadn’t been wearing her PFD. To keep her arms and legs from being banged by rocks both above and below the surface, again she fought to wrap herself into a ball, knees pulled up, arms around them. But when the water rolled her head under, she had to let go to right herself. She tried to kick and paddle but she still got tossed aside and around out of control.

She saw the taller walls of the gorge ahead. The first turn into it nearly finished her. She held her breath until she thought her lungs would burst. For one wild moment the sun was in her eyes. She tried to think of hot days on the beach, the South Florida sun beating down on her, not the weight of all this water. She might suffocate before she’d drown.

On the next turn, she knew she had to make one last grab for something along the bank or she’d black out. She had to drag herself out of this water, hang on. Back at the lodge, Mitch would miss her, maybe figure out what happened. But what had happened to get her in this killer river?

She tried to grab a rock and was shocked to realize both arms had gone numb. What was that called when you got so cold you fell into a fatal sleep. drifted into death? She couldn’t die of something she couldn’t recall the name of. Lawyers always had the right terminology, whether in English or Latin. Qui bono, who would profit from a crime? Lawyers knew all about plea bargains … the way out … but there was no way out here.

Though Mitch was in great physical shape, the muscles in his arms and back not only ached but burned. He had to find her now or it would cease to be a rescue and become a body recovery, if he could even manage that. But a whirlpool snagged him, and when he freed himself, he shot into another chute. It was fast, very fast, suddenly a smoother ride than any of Spike’s musher sleds on sleek snow with his huskies barking. He imagined he heard them now, heard voices in the roar of the current, heard a woman’s screams, but it was all in his head.

After the second twist of the gorge, he saw her again, pinned against a busher—a fallen tree—caught like a salmon in a Yup’ik fish wheel. Danger! Bushers were deadly, because they could trap a kayak or smash its thin plastic hull to bits.

But he had to risk it and go after her. Maybe they could climb out onto the tree, make it to the rock ledge. Was she moving? She’d have to be hypothermic by now, but could it be even worse? The power of the water pinning her there must be brutal.

He tried to edge in next to her, but the kayak corkscrewed and the current capsized him. Praying he wouldn’t hit his head on the trunk or a submerged rock, he held his breath as he went under. The frigid slap of water shocked him, and made him fear for Lisa even more.

“Eskimo roll!” He heard his uncle’s voice, clear and crisp. “Paddle thrust, body twist! Up! Over and up!”

He fought to keep from panicking. His lack of helmet could kill him, too. Upside down, with his body submerged but buoyed by his PFD, he lifted his paddle above the water with both hands out, then swept his torso and paddle while he snapped his hips up. The rotation worked, though the thrust of the current slammed the kayak sideways against the tree trunk again, jarring his teeth as he shook his head and upper body like a dog to get the water off. The entire craft shuddered.

He sucked in a huge breath. Despite the warmth of the air and sun, he felt as if he was rolling in snow. Five feet away from him, Lisa lay sprawled, unmoving, draped over the tree trunk like a drenched rag doll, apparently not breathing as the water crested in white plumes over and around her back. At least it had stopped her before the rest of the sharp turns and then the series of small falls a couple of miles beyond. And, thank God, she was upright with her shoulders and head out of the water.

He tried to brace himself with the paddle to get close enough to at least touch her, pull her down into the kayak or get them both out onto the tree. But when he took another stroke, the washing-machine effect of the churning river flipped him back under again.

Christine Tanaka occasionally glanced out the kitchen window of the lodge, but she kept cutting smoked salmon strips with her small, sharp ula. She was readying plates of appetizers for their guests from Mitch’s old law firm—his job in his past life, as he liked to put it.

“Iah, don’t say it that way!” she’d told him more than once. “It sounds like you’re a ghost come back from the dead!”

But really, Mitch could do no wrong in Christine’s eyes, including the fact he mispronounced her name in her Yup’ik tribal language when he called her Cu’paq. It was a tough language for a kass’aq, with its clacking sounds deep in the throat. But it always sounded like Mitch was saying Cupid, that little winged spirit who zinged arrows into people to make them fall in love. She knew too much about that and how dangerous it could be. But the thing with Mitch was he honored her people and was trying hard to become an Alaskan. She loved him for that and for so much more.

She jumped at the deep voice behind her and turned off the Yup’ik radio broadcast she often listened to in the summer when she worked, just to hear the language of her kin. One long, beaded earring snagged in her thick, shoulder-length hair, and she tugged it free.

It was Jonas Grant, the tall, African-American lawyer here with the Bonners. He was one of the attorneys vying for the senior partner position that used to belong to Mitch.

“Mind if I come into your kitchen?” he asked, holding the swinging door ajar. “Tell you the truth, I’m starved, and Mitch told us to see you if that was the case. All this fresh air or my jet lag’s making me hungry.”

She was surprised she hadn’t heard him come in because she had sharp ears and usually sensed someone’s presence, but this man moved so quietly. Jonas had a shaved head, which wasn’t the wisest thing in Alaska, but it probably worked well where it was hot and humid.

Mitch had joked, “I taught Jonas everything he knows, which means he’s pretty smart.” She thought the man’s wide, dark eyes under his sleekly arched brows backed that up. Jonas was always watching others—keeping his own counsel, as Mitch had put it when he’d given her a pre-arrival rundown on their guests. Yes, she could see that Jonas Grant was always calculating what to say and do. Truth be told, she was wary, too, so she’d recognized that in him right away. And she liked the color of his skin, a lot like the Alaskan sun- and wind-burnished complexions of her people—that is, her former people, before so many turned their backs on her for what she had done.

“Sure thing,” she told him with a nod. “I’m fixing salmon tenders with strawberry dip, moose enchiladas and squares of fresh-baked bread with black raspberry spread for appetizers. You want something to drink, too?”

“No, thanks—just hungry.”

As she fixed him a hearty plate, she glanced out the window to note no Mitch, but no kayak either. She squinted into the sun to see Ginger Jackson getting in her motorboat for the across-lake trek home. Ginger made all of the baked goods for the lodge and brought them each afternoon, especially the array of yummies for the breakfast buffet the next morning. How she managed to bake all that with a bum right hand was beyond Christine. The only bad thing about Ginger’s baking was that she fed her brother Spike too much. In the summer, when he wasn’t running the dogs but was mostly taking tourists flightseeing, he put on weight around his middle.

Spike Jackson’s red seaplane sat at the far end of the lake since some guests had complained about the early-morning noise when he took off near the lodge. If guests didn’t want to drive or land at Talkeetna’s airport, he flew them in from Anchorage. He also took people on what was called flightseeing. Earlier today he’d flown Mrs. Bonner, who had her own private pilot’s license no less, to view the entire area from Talkeetna clear down to Wasilla. She’d said she wanted to see the little town where that spunky, ambitious Sarah Palin was from, who had come out of nowhere—though folks hereabouts didn’t think of big-boom Wasilla or the capital, Juneau, as nowhere—to run for vice president of the United States. Mitch had mentioned that Mrs. Bonner had a brother who was big in Florida politics and aiming higher, so no wonder Mrs. Bonner was interested in Alaska’s Governor Palin.

Christine handed the filled plate to Jonas. “Thanks,” he said with a big smile that flaunted lots of straight, white teeth. “My boy would say this really rocks—not the smoked salmon but moose in an enchilada.”

“How old is he?” Christine asked as she followed him toward the door to the big common room that comprised the living area and dining room. The lodge bedrooms were upstairs in two wings, guests to the east side, Mitch’s suite to the west. Christine’s room was at the back corner of the first floor, next to the small library loaded with books about Alaska and overlooking the stone patio with the barbecue, fire pit and Finnish wood-fired sauna and hot tub, and then the lake beyond.

Actually, the Duck Lake Lodge—the original name for the lake was Dukhoe—was the most beautiful home she had ever had. Made of rough-cut local spruce with pine-paneled walls, it boasted a seven-foot bubble window overlooking the lake. The entire building and the outlying cabins were heavily insulated, so in the winter it was like being in a thermos that held heat from the big, central stone fireplace.

The fourteen-foot cathedral ceiling above the common room had hand-hewn beams that soared above comfortable clusters of upholstered sofas and chairs interspersed with rocking chairs all set around woven area rugs in muted blues and greens. Snowshoes, quilts and antlers decorated the walls, except in the little library where Mitch had insisted she put the remnants of her collection of Yup’ik dolls on display. Her real realm, the kitchen, looked strictly modern, with new stainless steel appliances that would make a Fairbanks restaurant proud. Off and on, as needed, two women came in from Bear Bones to help with housekeeping chores.

“My boy’s nine,” Jonas was saying in answer to her question. “He’s been pretty sick. He’s—” facing away from her, he either cleared his throat or swallowed something “—he’s had chordoma, a malignant bone cancer in his spine, since he was five.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry. How hard for a young kid who wants to run and play.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning back to face her at the bottom of the central staircase. “Doctors give about a seven-year life expectancy for that when it’s first diagnosed. I’d love to have Emerson here to see Alaska—bears, moose and that rough river out there. Tell you the truth, I feel guilty spending even a few days away from him, but this big opportunity with Carlisle and Bonner.” Frowning, he cleared his throat. Christine saw his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “‘Course, I’d do anything to help him survive, and those massive medical bills keep piling up. Well, didn’t mean to bend your ear, but Mitch said you’re easy to talk to.”

“Did he?” she asked, feeling warm clear to her belly. “It’s because I don’t say much myself. Now, you need anything else, you just let me know. And get some rest if you can because the summer nights not only come later here compared to where you’re from, but the summer sun never quite goes down, even in these mountains.”

“What’s that they used to say? ‘The sun never sets on the British Empire’?”

“Did they say that? Well, we gotta get all the sun and light we can this time of year.”

“In the long, dark winters, I guess you pay the price.”

“But that gives us the gift of the northern lights, the aurora borealis.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see that. Like for Emerson to see that, too. Mitch said you have a lot of Japanese tourists here because they believe a child conceived under the northern lights will be fortunate.” He shook his head and started upstairs before he turned back, looking down at her over the banister. “Do they, you know, conceive the child outside in the winter, really under the lights?”

Christine smiled and shook her head, suddenly feeling irrationally happy. She was very fortunate. She’d done what she had to do to protect herself. And she certainly sympathized with Jonas, because she understood doing anything to survive. “No,” she told him. “In the winter, even the wildest Alaskans do that inside, in bed.”

He smiled sheepishly, thanked her again and went up the stairs toward the east hall guest rooms. Though she had a meal to start for about eight people, counting Spike if he was staying, she stepped out the back door and glanced down the familiar ridge path toward the lake landing. Lisa Vaughn had been no good for Mitch before and wouldn’t be now. Iah, if only that woman hadn’t come with these other lawyers to this haven Mitch had made for the woman he called his Cupid.

3

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?

4

Mitch knew they had to get off the ledge. He had planned to spend the night here, but if he made Lisa get up and walk, she’d have to stay awake. He was also exhausted and feared he’d fall asleep. The worst scenario was that he’d have to hike out for help alone, but no way could he leave her near the river that could have killed her.

Besides, when he explored, edging along a narrow curve of cliff face, he was excited to discover a cleft in the gorge rocks, one he could even glimpse sky through. On one side of the cleft was a ledge where they could make their way out. From flying over the area with Spike, he knew that beyond these rocks lay not only muskeg, a shallow bog, but dry tundra. And he knew that, because of the contour of the land near the lodge, it would take them days to hike directly back to the west.

So if they could get beyond this gorge, they would go east, then ford the river below the falls where it was divided into braided streams that were much more shallow. The salmon had easier going there, and they would, too. On the other side of the Wild River was a dirt access road, which might have some traffic from fishermen or hunters who could give them a ride back home. But he wouldn’t tell Lisa all that right now. Finally, he was making decisions for her as he had for so many others.

But, unfortunately, like a few other clients Mitch had defended, he questioned if she was a trustworthy witness of what had actually happened to her. He just couldn’t accept Lisa’s claim she’d been pushed into the river. Who at the lodge would be that desperate and dangerous? Opportunity for that must have been pure chance, and what would be a motive? Surely not just this competition among colleagues the Bonners had set up.

If Lisa had hit her head in a tumble down the slope near the lodge, she could have just thought she was pushed—or be lying about it so she didn’t look careless or reckless to him and the Bonners. No, she wouldn’t be that devious to gain sympathy, even if she’d always been ambitious.

Granted, she had been haunted by the drowning deaths of her mother and baby sister for years. He was sure, though she’d denied it, she’d been suicidal years ago, survivor’s guilt and all that. But to think of her jumping in of her own accord was as crazy as the idea she’d been pushed.

Whatever had happened to get her in the Wild River, they had to risk the ledge over the chasm to get away from it right now. Even if rescuers rafted or kayaked down the river after them, their attempting to land on the ledge where they were hemmed in could be deadly, or they might shoot right on by toward the falls.

“Lisa!” He hurried back to her. She sat slumped on the ledge with her back to the rock face. Upset she’d fallen asleep even sitting up, he shook her shoulders. “I see a way we can walk out. I think we should go now, since we’ve lost the sun on the ledge. And if the river rises even more, we’d get more than wet here. I’m going to fill our empty cans with water and get things together. Can you get dressed by yourself?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” she insisted, sounding and looking annoyed right back at him. “I’m just f—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re fine!”

“And don’t try to read my mind! I’m just feeling a bit funny but more alert—that’s what I was going to say.”

“Sorry I jumped to conclusions.”

“Since you only saved my life today, you’re forgiven—for that,” she grumbled.

That warmed him, not only because her spirited response sounded more like her but that she was grateful. She’d thanked him already, but he’d felt so guilty for so long about throwing a fire bomb into her life and then leaving Florida, that maybe, just maybe, what he’d done here could begin to make up for it. Not that he wanted her back—for sure not that—but it might make him feel less of a heel. On the other hand, he thought, hardening his heart when he realized he wanted to hold her, if she’d really loved him in the first place, she’d have understood and maybe even come with him to Alaska, taken a leave of absence, or visited the lodge on her own—at least given it a shot. He sure wasn’t the only one to blame for their breakup.

The moment stretched out between them as, both frowning, they looked deep into each other’s eyes while the river roared.

“We’re partners at least for getting out of here safely,” he said, then cleared his throat when his voice caught. “And when we get back, we’ll look into what really happened to you.”

She started to say something, then just nodded.

“I’ll pack our stuff,” he added, taking his Swiss Army knife out of his jeans pocket so he had something to do with his hands rather than touch her again. He rose and moved a few feet away on the ledge. “I’ll cut up our extra PFD for your feet.”

“I’m hungry enough that I could eat a piece of a PFD!”

He tried to grin but he knew it was more a grimace. She was not the only one who felt stiff all over. “We’ll have to stick with some of Christine’s dried salmon. Not sure what we’ll find on the other side of the chasm through the gorge, but there should be some berries to eat and fish to catch, if we get out of here.”

“If?”

“I can only see so far down the ledge. We’ll have to watch our footing, that’s all. As a matter of fact, maybe you should go out barefoot, and we’ll put these fancy, schmancy Manual designer shoes on you after.”

“Do you mean Manolos?” she asked with a little laugh.

“Yeah. Just testing your memory.”

He turned away to let her get her clothes on over the body-hugging wet suit she already wore for warmth. He glanced at his waterproof watch and noted it was way past pre-dinner time back at the lodge. Surely they would realize that he and Lisa had not just decided to run away together.

Spike and Christine were overseeing the search effort. Of course, Spike was trying to order her around, but she wasn’t taking any guff from him. Whatever she’d done in the past, she wasn’t going to be a doormat for any man.

Iah, but Spike Jackson was an imposing man. Nearly six and a half feet tall, red-haired and big-shouldered, he seemed larger than life—certainly larger than any Yup’ik man she’d ever known. Yet he had a lanky grace and a boyish manner at times. But when cornered, or upset as he and all of them were now, he turned into a real macho man.

“Okay, listen up here,” he told the guests assembled in the great room of the lodge. “I radioed my sister, Ginger, and she checked the area across the lake where Mitch said they were going. No sign of them. The red two-seat kayak’s missing, but sure as hell someone as skilled as Mitch didn’t capsize in the lake.”

“I repeat,” Graham Bonner put in, “I’ll gladly pay for an air search and rescue.”

Christine figured Mr. Bonner was used to being in charge. Still, the Bonners had pitched in to help scour the immediate area of the lodge for Mitch and Lisa. The Bonners were such a handsome couple—trim, silver-haired and blue-eyed. Although they were fish out of water in the Alaskan wilds, she could tell they were used to being in control of all they surveyed.

“Yes,” Ellie Bonner added. “Spike, if we take your plane up, we’ll pay for the gas, and I’ll go with you to copilot while you use binoculars or vice versa.”

Christine guessed Mrs. Bonner was in her late fifties, a natural beauty aging gracefully, petite and pretty with a cap of hair that contrasted with her sharp, sparkling eyes.

“Thanks,” Spike said, “but thick tree cover around here and the river gorge and mountains make that not a good option for spotting them. Besides, they couldn’t have hiked out this fast to the flatter tundra and valley areas where we could see them. Both of his vehicles are still here. They’ve gotta be around somewhere—maybe took a walk in the woods, skidded into a hole, someone turned an ankle, then ‘cause of predators, they thought they had to stick together, something like that. The locals we got coming from Bear Bones know the area and can fan out around the lake. Mitch and Ms. Vaughn must have decided on a different place than where he told Christine he’d beach the kayak so they could talk things out.”

“On a private little picnic?” Christine heard Vanessa whisper to Jonas behind her. “Talk things out, my foot!”

“Just don’t put your foot in your mouth,” he muttered back. “You’d better cooperate with all this and look like you mean it.”

Christine didn’t let on that she’d heard them. Spike was saying, “Mitch must of just pulled the kayak up on a stretch of beach where we haven’t spotted it yet, that’s all.”

The sound of vehicle engines and the blast of horns drew them all outside. At least forty people, nearly half the population of the nearby town of Bear Bones, piled out of pickup trucks or SUVs. Some wore backpacks; some carried rifles.

Christine went back inside quickly. She didn’t need their stares right now and even the sight of guns made her uneasy. Her stomach was tied in knots already. Lisa lost was one thing, but she couldn’t lose Mitch.

“Okay,” she heard Spike tell everyone in a booming voice from outside, “you all know what Mitch looks like, but the woman he’s with—LisaVaughn—is about five feet five, blond hair to her shoulders, slender, but athletic-looking, green eyes, real pretty face….”

Oh yes, Christine thought, a real pretty face all right. Obviously Mitch’s ideal, maybe Spike’s, too. She saw out the opposite set of lodge windows that Ginger had come back across the lake. She was not putting in at her usual spot but ran the prow of her old motorboat up on the shore farther down. Christine went out to fill her in. The two of them were going to hold the fort in case Mitch or Lisa came back or the sheriff or medical help needed to be summoned from Talkeetna.

Christine strode the path to the lake landing and hurried down to it.

“Any news yet?” Ginger asked as she tossed her little anchor on the pebbled shore. Like Spike, she was lanky and redheaded, but with gray eyes and a distant gaze that could really unsettle you. Sometimes she seemed to look past or through you. Even for backcountry Alaska, Ginger Jackson was as eccentric as they came, dressed in a combination of gypsy and frontier-woman clothes.

Ginger lived mostly hand to mouth. Besides baking for the lodge, she picked up random short-term jobs in Bear Bones and always helped Mitch with ziplining for his guests. Ginger’s brother, Spike, loved flying, but Ginger’s high-flying thrills came from zipping along on a steel cable through tall Sitka spruce. Christine admired Ginger’s independence. She’d turned down an offer of marriage from a guy because he insisted she move into town. Ginger wouldn’t accept anything from her big brother but the firewood he cut for her baking and heating stoves for the cold months. She was even scrimping to save money to pay Spike for that, since the price of jet fuel was, literally, sky-high. Yet since Ginger’s mail came to the lodge, Christine knew that she received lots of high-end catalogs with all kinds of exotic luxury goods—her “dream mags,” she called them.

“We still don’t know anything,” Christine called to her, hurrying closer. “It’s like they vanished into thin air.”

“Maybe they just had things to settle and said the heck with everyone else. That’s what I’d of done. Did Mitch talk about her? I mean, we knew somebody threw somebody over, but I’ve learned never to hold people’s pasts against them.”

Christine wondered if she meant her own past. “No, he didn’t talk about her until just before they arrived,” she admitted, wishing Mitch had confided more to her. That was another thing she liked about Ginger—live and let live. But she didn’t like the way the woman was staring at her, still standing in her boat, hands on her hips, head tilted, almost as if she were accusing her of something. Christine had gone through enough of that.

“What?” she challenged Ginger.

“There!” Ginger pointed past her. So she wasn’t staring at her after all. “Maybe Mitch didn’t put the red kayak I saw here earlier into the lake. See? Someone shoved a kayak up or down here and to or from where? That ridge path above the lake and river?”

Christine turned and looked, then had to shade her eyes and stand back a bit to see what Ginger was pointing at. She gasped and scrambled up the bank toward the path with Ginger right behind her.

They looked at the path, then down it to the other side. Strewn there was the food and cooler Lisa had carried as well as the path of what could well be the kayak sliding down toward the river. A wolverine hunched there, too stubborn to move, bolting down the food, but that wasn’t what upset them.

“Mitch decided to take her white-water kayaking?” Ginger screeched. “Is he nuts? We gotta make folks search the river!”

“But this food strewn here.” Christine began, then stopped in midsentence. “Or maybe she just set the cooler down here and that wily wolverine opened it after they took off. But I can’t believe Mitch would do that.”

The wolverine hustled away as Ginger skidded off the path and looked downriver, shading her eyes with both hands. “No one. Nothing!” she shouted up over the river’s roar, but Christine was already running to tell Spike before the searchers set out on a wild-goose chase.

“Feel your way with your feet, one slow step at a time,” Mitch told Lisa as they edged into the cleft in the gorge, both facing the rock. “Don’t look down!”

“I won’t!” she vowed, but she already had. About twelve feet below, she had heard and seen white water surging into the bottom of the cleft, then being sucked back out. She could almost feel it washing over her, like when she was in the river, or in her worst nightmares. But Mitch was just behind, talking to her, urging her on.

Because she could feel the firm rock under her, she was glad she was barefoot, even though she ached all over, including the soles of her feet. Words from her grandma Colleen’s favorite Psalm came to her: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …

Mitch had said she should lead the way out because he needed not only to watch where they were going, but watch her. They’d abandoned the kayak. All their other goods were strapped to his back, but he wouldn’t let her carry one thing.

“You’re doing great,” he said. “We’re making good progress.”

“I’m shaking. It makes me feel as if the wall is,” she admitted as she tried to find handholds, yet not push away from the rock face so she tipped back. Their yellow brick road out of here was only about two feet wide in places. She knew she had to do this just right, because if he had to make a grab for her, they’d both bounce down into oblivion.

Finally, finally, the ledge widened, but then it came to nothing.

“Mitch, dead end.”

“So I see. But we’re almost out of the gorge. Just stay very still.”

“I feel like we’ve already climbed Mount McKinley—Denali, you called it.”

“Don’t talk.”

He came very close to her, even putting one foot between hers where she was standing with her legs apart for better balance. He pressed her closer to the rock face. It almost felt as if she were sitting on his lap. She could feel his breath on her temple, stirring her hair. Her heartbeat kicked up even more than it had from fear. In the worst of extremities, why did she let this man who had deserted her and hurt her get to her like this?

“I see a place just a ways down where we can get onto another ledge to make it out,” he said. “I’m going to take this weight off my back and drop our stuff down to the ledge below. Stand very still. I may have to press into you harder.”

She closed her eyes and held her breath. Why a certain memory came to her then, she wasn’t sure, but she saw—and felt—Mitch standing behind her on his boat, Sea Dancer, to help her handle her fishing pole when a big fish had hit off Key Biscayne in that warm, sparkling water. It had been a very calm day, no waves, no white water, no turbulence. They had just started dating, and she’d thought he was so perfect then. A combination of GQ magazine handsome and Pro Football Today rugged. Whether in a tuxedo or cutoff jeans, the man reeked of masculinity with his dark hair, square jaw and thick eyebrows over deep-set, coffee-colored eyes. His voice, somehow both refined but rough, sent shivers down her spine. Then they’d landed that big fish together and—

She felt him drop his pack and heard it hit below.

“How far down?” she asked, not daring to turn to look.

“Not too bad. I’m going to lie on my stomach, help you down to our stuff, then scoot down to join you. Here, turn carefully and sit on the ledge. You’ll have to look down, just for a sec, so you know what I mean.”

As he held her, she turned and sat. Pressing her back to the rock, she looked down and gasped. The ledge was at least five feet below and only about four feet wide! Although no water churned beneath them now, their escape route had narrowed so much that if they slipped, they’d be wedged in jagged rocks.

But looking left, she could see that from the lower level, they could work their way down to the valley that spread out below. And the most glorious sunset stretched across the sky, streaks of pink and orange and fuchsia. In blinding colors, it looked almost neon, like in The Wizard of Oz she’d been somehow thinking about—hallucinating—the part where Dorothy lands in Oz. This was the part where the movie went from being black and white to amazing hues.

“Lisa, you ready?”

“I better be. I don’t see we have a choice. And, at least this time, I’m ready to ride off with you into the sunset.”

The minute that was out of her mouth, she regretted the choice of words, but he only said, “That’s one of the treasures of living in Alaska. This time of year, though you can’t see the aurora borealis clearly, that kind of sunset will last all night.”

All night. It must be night now, she thought as she somehow found the courage—or sheer desperation—to turn on her stomach and inch her legs and lower torso over the edge while he held on to her. She scraped her thighs, belly, breasts and chin while he slowly dangled her lower. After what seemed an eternity, she stood alone on the ledge, praying silently for his safety, while he scooted closer on his stomach.

“I said, don’t touch me in case I fall,” he gritted out, but she pressed her hands to the backs of his thighs, then to his hard buttocks as he came over.

“On second thought,” he said when he finally stood beside her, “that felt great. Maybe you can boost me up there again and—”

“We’re just hiking and camping buddies, remember.”

“And we’re going to have the time to talk we’ve needed.”

“I’d like to say ‘water over the dam,’ but it isn’t, is it? Not with either of us.”

Pressing his lips tight together, he just shook his head, then bent to pick up their gear again. He slung the makeshift pack over one shoulder. “Let’s find a good place to rest, and we’ll get these shoes taped on you,” he said, sounding all business now, just the way he always had in the office or in court when she used to study how controlled he was, how self-assured. Even that had moved her deeply, because she knew the other, passionate side of him, when they were alone—as they were now.

5

When Spike told the search party what Christine had said about the kayak trail from the ridge to the water, many of them rushed to the river. A few went down to look at the exact spot, but most stood on the lawn of the lodge, gazing in the direction Mitch and Lisa must have gone in the two-seat kayak. Some whispered and shook their heads, then turned away, heading back to their trucks.

“But why?” Mrs. Bonner asked her husband. “Has Mitchell become such a daredevil in extreme sports here? He seemed all about safety rules and regulations yesterday.”

“Life in Alaska can be an extreme sport,” Spike said just loudly enough for Christine and Ginger to hear from his position between the two of them. The Bonners stood directly behind. “But something’s weird—really wrong,” he added.

“And I can’t believe,” Mrs. Bonner went on to her husband, “Lisa would agree to such a thing, not after losing her family that way.”

Despite the fact Christine never would have let on she could overhear, Spike turned to the Bonners and said, “You mean her family drowned in a river?”

“An accident in the Atlantic—or maybe it was the Caribbean,” Mr. Bonner said, frowning at the churning foam.

“What kind of accident?” Spike pursued, though Christine elbowed him as subtly as she could.

“Boating, not swimming,” Mrs. Bonner said, sounding brusque. “Her mother and her sister drowned. It was a long time ago, but I’m sure it’s something one never gets over.”

That was sad about her family, Christine thought, but she couldn’t help resenting Lisa Vaughn’s continued sway over Mitch, her power to still hurt him. Christine had seen it in his eyes and heard it in his voice.

“I’m going to phone the state troopers,” Spike told them. “I’m not sure what they can do if Mitch and Ms. Vaughn are kayaking the rapids, heading for the gorge, but they gotta be informed.”

“Wait!” Mrs. Bonner cried, grabbing for Spike’s arm. “I—I was reading online about Alaska before our trip and learned that law enforcement officials are really scarce and have to cover hundreds of miles. Maybe my husband can pull some strings to get some here.”

“Here wouldn’t help,” Spike told her. “In that river they’re long gone—from this area, I mean. But the local police may be able to get the Denali Park Rangers to help with the search way downriver. I’ll call the locals and the feds.”

He strode away briskly, with the Bonners following. Christine went, too, leaving Ginger with just a few stragglers to gaze out over the river. Spike muttered, talking aloud to himself as he often did, “They’ll have to look for them below the series of falls in case they got around or over them.”

“Falls?” Mr. Bonner said, his voice stern and clear, compared to his wife’s sweeter tones. Christine had seen lawyers up close and personal. That’s why the guests made her uneasy. She could just imagine Graham Bonner cross-examining someone on the witness stand. “Waterfalls?” he repeated in his clarion voice. “How many, how large?”

“Four fairly small ones, but any one could put you in that cold, rough river,” Spike said, still walking. “Mrs. Bonner, as soon as I contact the police and park rangers, I’ll take you up on that offer to fly with me for an air search.”

“But with these rapids—and the falls—you think they can survive all that?” she asked, tears in her eyes and her hand clutched at her throat. “They are both very dear to us.”

“Gotta try.”

“Mitchell should have known better,” Christine heard Mrs. Bonner mutter as the couple fell behind and she and Spike hurried into the lodge to make the calls. “Graham, it just shows you they are both a bit foolhardy yet, just when you think they’d learned to stay apart and away from all that past pain.”

Christine stood next to Spike while he used the kitchen phone. She wrapped her arms around herself tight, as if to hold herself up. She shook all over and blinked back tears. If she lost Mitch, she lost her future. Mrs. Bonner was right. Mitch knew better than to risk the river, no matter what the reason. But she kept hearing Mrs. Bonner’s last words: You think they’d stay apart and away from all that past pain …

She and Clay should have stayed apart. She should have left him—fled—but Yup’ik women were loyal and tenacious. She bit her lower lip hard, trying to stop the jagged memories of the lawyers picking apart her testimony about being beaten black and blue … all that pain … but she stayed with him too long….

But now—far worse—she knew Mitch had been gone on that devil of a river far too long.

Lisa hurt all over, as if she’d been beaten by someone’s fists. Her skin, what she had seen of it before donning the wet suit earlier, was turning black and blue, even greenish in spots. A new fashion statement in an eco-conscious world—green blotches to complement her green eyes. She was so exhausted she thought she could fall flat on her face and drown in this shallow, spongy-bottom muskeg they traversed. But she went on, step after painful step, behind Mitch as he made a wobbly path for them around thickets and through grass and sedge in about one foot of water.

“How are those Mitchell Andrew Braxton designer shoes holding up?” he asked. He sounded and looked exhausted, too, plodding under the burden of that pack like some old, worn-out Santa Claus.

“They’re a bit buoyant so I’m almost walking on this water.”

“When we were first dating, I used to think you could walk on water.”

“I know you keep talking just to keep me going, but I can’t even concentrate—can’t go on.”

“You can because I see tundra instead of this muskeg ahead of us, and, I think, some berry bushes. It’s about time for blueberries but that might be lingonberries, something like cranberries.”

“I just want to lie down.”

“We will, soon as we hit dry ground. By the way, in case an airplane should fly over, looking for us or not, raising two hands means we need help. Raising one means we’re okay.”

“I don’t have the strength to raise one, let alone two.”

“You know what? It looks like a patch of blueberries, so I hope the bears have left us some.”

“Bears?”

“They love them. Come on, Lisa Marie!”

“I told you a long time ago not to call me that, even if it is my name. I hate my middle name. It reminds me of Elvis’s daughter, who married Michael Jackson, no less. Married Michael Jackson!”

“Yeah, but they didn’t last long. You know, it sounds like you’re awake enough to be mad at me and at Michael Jackson, Lisa Marie.”

“You’re just trying to get me riled so I keep going to spite you.”

“Riled? Now, isn’t that a good frontier word? As it says on the state’s license plates—The Last Frontier.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that picture. And you’re starting to sound like a travel brochure.”

But she had to admit, as he’d said earlier, the sunset never ended. It was still glorious, a rainbow of hues that didn’t just hang in the west but covered the entire sky. Mitch turned back to help her up to higher, dry ground. She didn’t care what he said, if he insulted her or praised her. She sank down where she was, surrounded by some sort of spiky pink flowers. He dropped his pack beside her with a thud.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, jolting her alert again.

“Right back from where?” she blurted, getting to her knees to rise until she realized he might have to relieve himself. They’d both managed some privacy for that, on and off the ledge, but she seemed to have sweated all her hydration out now.

“I see a birch tree, and I’m going to use my knife to cut you some of the inner bark to chew. It’s what the Inuit use for aspirin. I know you’ve got to be hurting.”

Got to be hurting. When had she not? Actually, as sore as she was, as many aches and pains that plagued her right now, she knew from experience that this physical agony was nothing next to that of the heart and spirit.

She closed her eyes. Did she doze off?

“Chew this,” Mitch said, already chomping on a piece of bark when he came back and offered her a short, white strip. “Honestly, it will help. Then, take my knife and cut some of these fireweed greens for us. They make good salad greens, even though I don’t have a variety of salad dressings to offer. I’m going to get the backpack full of berries, and we’re going to have a feast before we go to sleep.”

“Sleep right here? Will it be safe?”

“You said you couldn’t go on and neither can I.”

They ate the last of their smoked salmon, gorged themselves on plump blueberries—the best she had ever tasted—and chewed fireweed washed down by river water. Mitch had made stoppers for the soda cans with plugs of neoprene so it wouldn’t spill out. Neither of them said much, until she watched him spread out their tent, lie down and gesture for her to come into his arms.

“We can’t sleep the way we did before,” she protested. “Both in there, I mean.”

Looking exasperated, he shrugged. “Suit yourself, but after being hypothermic, I’d think you’d want to keep warm. This cover is fine for two and, once again, we’ll need the body heat. Nothing personal, Ms. Vaughn. Besides, I’m expecting some voracious females tonight, if I’m not covered up.”

“What?”

“Mosquitoes. The females of the breed are vampires, you know, but I think we’ll be safe from everything else.”

“I’ve got this wet suit on under my clothes, and I’ll put your backpack over my head. I’ll be fine.”

He snuggled into the canvas tent, and his voice came to her, muffled. “I thought you were exhausted. Say your prayers but quit talking.”

She lay down about four feet from him. At least he could have let her use the tent he made a big deal of wrapping tighter about himself like a cuddly cocoon. Facing him, she curled up on her side and pulled her knees up nearly to her chest. What if a bear came by after those blueberries? She heard the high-pitched whine of a mosquito, and she swatted at it. But she was so tired, nothing would make a difference now, nothing….

She drifted away—away on the foam where her mother beckoned to her through the whirling white water.

“Well?” Christine said to Spike when he hung up after the second call to the authorities. “Can they help?”

“Yeah, but they wanted to know why he’d be crazy enough to kayak that part of the river. They said he had permission only to put rafts or kayaks in six miles to the west of here which is a good mile before all the rapids get dangerous.”

“He knew that. I—I can’t understand it either. Unless—”

“Unless what?” he said, turning to her. He looked into her teary face—he had never seen her cry—and put his hands on her shoulders. Big, warm hands when she was shaking all over. She lifted her hands to clasp his wrists.

“I don’t know. Unless he was showing her something about the kayak, and it just took off with them in it.”

“Not like him. Too crazy,” he said, then leaned against the counter. He pulled her into his arms and held her tight.

For once she didn’t flinch when a man so much as touched her. Her head found a perfect fit under his chin. Mitch always smelled of pine and fresh air, while Spike emanated Lava soap, gasoline, motor oil and his precious sled dogs. But she didn’t care. She needed his strength right now, maybe more than that. She sniffed hard, then, instead of just standing stiffly in the circle of his arms, hugged him back hard, her arms around his waist.

“I don’t think of you this way—crying and needy,” he murmured, his lips moving in her hair atop her head. “You’re always so strong, even … with everything. Hell, honey, got to get going,” he said, setting her back and avoiding her eyes now as if he’d seen something there that scared him.

“You and Ginger stay near the two-way. I’m gonna go get the plane and fill it up, then take Mrs. Bonner up with me. Hard to believe it, but that little lady knows cockpits, loves to fly. Keep the home fires burning now,” he added as he made for the door, nearly running into his sister as she came into the kitchen.

“Spike!” Christine called to him, and he turned back. “If you go right now, you’ll have the sun in your eyes over Denali and the top of the gorge. You may have trouble seeing anyone. Just be careful….”

Had she called him back for that? He knew this area better than she did. Or was it that she just couldn’t bear to let him out of her sight right now?

“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and hurried out.

In touch. She still felt his touch as she turned away from Ginger’s probing gaze.

Lisa heard herself crying in her grief, howling inside her head like an animal in pain. She felt so alone since Daddy ran off with some woman, with Mommy and Jani dead. Grandma Colleen took her in and loved her, but it wasn’t the same, wasn’t right. Nothing was right until she made friends she clung to and then Mitch. Mitch, let her down, down onto the next ledge.

She dragged herself from the depths of sleep. Where was she? She saw strange colors overhead, more muted now.

She jerked fully awake. She was sleeping in the Alaskan wilderness with the man who had ruined her life but then saved it.

She saw he had moved a bit closer to her in the twilight. Yes, he’d said it never got dark this time of year. The sunset had faded to pale hues with cirrus clouds roped across the heavens. Mitch had been right—she was cold. But nothing compared to being in the river. Yet a chill snaked up her spine when she remembered that someone had shoved her in that river. Hadn’t they? Jonas or Vanessa? Christine Tanaka knew where she was going and maybe knew that Mitch was running a bit late. Surely not the Bonners? Or could she have just stumbled and hit her head? No way had she been so drawn by that white water, felt so strange and guilty and then leaped toward it of her own accord.

The howling, long, low and lonely, came again. What was it? How close? Surely that was not a bear.

“Mitch. Mitch!”

He stirred, then lifted his head. “What?”

That horrible howling again. The hair prickled on the back of her neck, and her stomach cartwheeled.

“Just wolves,” he said.

“Just? Then what are we doing here near them? They hunt in packs to eat big game, don’t they?”

“My guess is they have plenty to eat out here besides humans. That’s probably their version of a love song to a mate. I think they avoid people.”

“You think they avoid people?”

“Yeah. Bears do, too, if you make enough noise—unless they’re protecting cubs. Are you warm enough?”

“Not really.”

“Since you won’t sleep with me—you know what I mean—you could take my knife and cut some more fireweed and make a kind of extra blanket for yourself.”

“I changed my mind. I want in the tent.”

He said nothing, but unwrapped and lifted the edge of it for her. She scooted close, put her back to him and rolled inside the warmth and safety of his arms. Her cheek was on his bicep, as hard as the ground had been, but so comforting. She felt his hot breath on the nape of her neck, and her bottom pressed against his thighs. What would it have been like to have a lifetime of closeness like this with him, not forced but chosen? A relationship not damaged and broken but healthy and whole?

“When are we heading out?” she asked.

“Let’s give it a couple of hours unless those howls get closer. Blueberries and water for breakfast, then we’ll head for the river below the falls. The Wild River’s not so wild there, divides into four or five more shallow braided streams where we can walk across. There’s a road on the other side. We can hike out on it or maybe even hitch a ride.”

“How long a trek?”

“Never walked it before, only seen it from the air.”

He yawned, stretching a bit, flexing his muscles, then relaxing. She was panicked to realize she could feel his merest movement in the pit of her belly. Even in this tight wet suit, her breasts tingled. She had to get him talking, maybe really wake him up so they could push on now.

“I’m sorry I ruined everything,” she told him. “I mean at the lodge, where you had those bonding activities planned for everyone.”

“Yeah. The Bonners’ bonding experiment.”

“It’s not fair if this disqualifies me.”

“Maybe they’ll see you as a survivor who can handle anything after this.”

“I’d like to pretend so—that this is all some sort of test, and they’ll jump out of the berry bushes and say, ‘Surprise! You were just on Candid Camera, ‘or something like that. Then the emcee will say, ‘Here in the Alaska twilight, we have seen how a wimpy South Florida native was saved from the raging river and taught to survive in the wilderness by—’”

“Shh!”

“Sorry. I’ll shut up and try to sl—”

“Lisa, shut up! I think I hear a plane!”

He yanked their canvas cover open and jumped up. She heard it now, too, a much better sound than wolves howling. She staggered to her feet as he ran back toward the bog, into more of a clearing than where they were with bushes and birch trees.

“Damn!” he shouted, pointing back toward the river. “I think it might be Spike’s plane, though there are lots of red ones. But it’s over the gorge, heading west!”

“Can we wave something? If we only had something for a signal!”

“It may circle back if they’re searching. If they’ve found evidence we put a kayak in the river, maybe they’ll look below the falls, and that’s where we’re heading—right now. Come on. We’ll sleep when we get back to the lodge. Let’s pick some more blueberries and head out.”

She helped him gather their goods and stuff them in the tent that made his pack. The drone of the plane faded, but at least it wasn’t dark, and Mitch’s shouting seemed to have made the wolves move on. Now they had to move on, too.

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