A fine and bitter snow (16 page)

"You're jealous," he said.

She erupted in a fury of denial, kicking, butting, hitting, elbows, knees, feet, everything in action. "Let me go!"

He felt as if he were trying to hold on to an earthquake. "Christ! Stop it, Kate! Ouch!" This when she kicked him in the shin. "Kate!" She tried to head-butt him again. She was strong and agile, but he was bigger and getting angrier. After another attempt on his balls, he kneed her legs apart and pressed her down.

She froze. He froze. Sight of the edge of the cliff they were about to go over came to them both at the same moment, but then he'd been hard since they hit the floor.

"Kate," he said, her name an unrecognizable husk of sound. He bent his head.

"No!" She erupted again, fighting, clawing, even trying to bite him.

Maybe it was the click of her teeth in his ear. Maybe it was just the result of all that friction. Whatever it was, something inside him slipped off the chain, something famished and feral and prowling, something totally out of his control. He could smell it, smell the need in her, the craving. It was as strong as his, as basic as his, and if it wasn't, he didn't care. He would take what he wanted anyway. His hand tightened around her wrists and she cried out. He used the other to yank up the hem of her shirt and tear off her bra. Her breasts were small and firm, the nipples hard and brown, and he took them into his mouth in turn, suckling as if he were starving. She cried out again and arched up, her body a tense bow. He slid his hand between her legs and rubbed the heel of his hand hard against her. She screamed then, in ecstasy or outrage, her body pressing into him, her head pressed against the floor, and he went for the snap of her jeans before she could start fighting him again.

But she wasn't fighting him now. She had one hand free and knotted in his hair, holding his head still while she kissed him, her teeth and tongue voracious, one hand clawing at his shirt, one leg hooked around his waist. The coffee table got in the way and she kicked it over. It smacked into the unsteady pile of paperwork leaning up against the wall and the classics dictionary came crashing to the floor, barely missing their heads.

Oblivious, she ran her teeth down the side of his neck and he nearly came then and there. "Wait, damn it, wait, wait," he said, tugging desperately at her jeans. Her hips gave a quick wriggle and the jeans slid, oh thank god, all the way down; he managed to pull them off one leg before she went for his belt. One second he was free and in the next he was caught again, driving into her, the one place he'd wanted to be for a year and a half, longer than that, an eternity of wanting, back where it was tight and hot and wet and Kate, Kate, Kate.

He was pretty sure she came again. He knew he had, hard enough to wonder why the floor hadn't splintered beneath them. Hard enough to wonder if he'd hurt her.

Jim Chopin in the sack was all about control, all about subtlety and skill and patience. He liked women, and he was self-aware enough to know that he was one up on most men in that he didn't fear them, either. He liked the getting and giving of mutual pleasure, mutually arrived at, mutually satisfying. He was proud of that, taking a certain amount of smug satisfaction in his expertise. He was not into pain, he liked to take his time, and it just wasn't any fun if his partner wasn't enjoying herself as much as he was. Life was too short to have bad sex.

But this time, this one time, he had been hasty, rough, and reckless, frantic to get at her, ridden by a red devil of lust that whipped him on and over the edge into madness. This time, he had displayed all the refinement and sophistication of a moose in rut. This time, he still had most of his clothes on.

So much for control. So much for finesse. Ah, shit.

He summoned the strength from somewhere and raised his head to look down at her. Her eyes were closed, her neat cap of hair a tangled dark halo. Her lips were swollen and parted as she gulped in air. A pulse beat frantically at the base of her throat, and he couldn't resist—he had to bend his head and settle his mouth over it, sucking at the warm, throbbing lifeblood beneath the skin. He could hear her breathing. He could feel her hands on his back, the sting of the scratches she'd left there. She radiated heat like a furnace. He could smell her, the aroma that to him was redolent of a cold draft beer after a long, hot day, a piece of Auntie Vi's fry bread, Bobby's special caribou steaks, quick-fried in hot oil and then baked in a wine and cream sauce, a shot of Ruthe's framboise—every good thing to eat and drink he'd ever had in his life, that's what Kate Shugak smelled like to Jim Chopin. Her pulse beat against his tongue and he wanted to eat her alive. For the first time, he understood the eroticism underlying the story of Dracula, and the unexpected thought made him laugh low in his throat.

He felt her lashes flutter, and he looked up, to see her eyes open.

"Hey," he said, gentling his voice.

She didn't say anything, and that scared him.

"I'm sorry I was so rough." He traced a finger down her cheek. There was blood. It was his, from his temple, where she'd connected with the box. It didn't seem to matter much now. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she said, her voice a thread of sound.

"Good." He lowered his head and kissed her slowly, deeply, thoroughly, feeling himself begin to harden inside her again. Jesus, he thought, not again, no way, not this quick. Not since I was fifteen anyway. He was more than willing to go with it, though, until he felt her hand against his chest, pushing, and raised his head again. "What?"

"No," she said again, and pushed him off her to wriggle free. She caught him unawares and he rolled into the coffee table, catching the back of his head on a corner.

"Ouch! Damn it!" He grabbed the back of his head. "Didn't we do this already?"

She didn't apologize, just reached for her clothes and skinnied into them as fast as she could.

"Kate." She didn't answer. "Kate," he said, rising to his feet. He'd lost his tie, one shoulder seam of his shirt was ripped, and he had to grab at his pants before they fell down. "What's wrong?"

She gave him a hunted look. "Nothing's wrong. I have to go is all. Where's my other shoe?"

"Kate." He reached for her and she stepped quickly out of range. "Wait."

"No. This can't happen."

"Why not?" he said, starting to get angry again and trying to tamp it down. He'd just had the most exciting sexual experience of his life and now the cause of it was about to walk out the door. He didn't like it. He didn't like it one little bit. "And I'm pretty sure it already did."

"It was a mistake." She swallowed and shoved the hair out of her face. "I shouldn't have thrown the box at you. I—I shouldn't have done a lot of things. I—I'm sorry, I have to go."

"Like hell!" He reached for her again and would have caught her if he hadn't stumbled over her other shoe.

"Oh, good," she said, and scooped it up. Gal hissed from the loft, to which she had retreated when the shooting war began. Kate retrieved her and tucked her inside her parka.

"Kate, don't go!"

The slam of the door was her reply. The cabin shook beneath the weight of her hasty steps on the stairs. Her snow machine roared into life a moment later, followed by a surprised yip, probably from Mutt.

"Shit!" Jim said. His left eye had crusted over so that he could barely see out of it. "Shit," he repeated. "Shit, shit, shit."

He cleaned himself up as best he could, checking his reflection in the little mirror on the kitchen wall. Yeah, he was going to have a shiner. His shoulder was sore, too. He thought at first it was from where she had hit him with the dictionary, until he investigated and saw the teeth marks. He didn't even remember her biting him.

Well, his uniform was going to require some serious rehab. "Not to mention my life," he said out loud. He sighed heavily and began to clean up, stacking the papers back beneath the dictionary, righting the table, picking up the papers that had scattered from the tin lockbox.

One caught his attention, a thick piece of parchment beginning to turn yellow with age. He read it twice, disbelieving his eyes, and a third time, just to be sure.

"Jesus Christ," he said blankly. He stared around the room as if he'd never seen it before. He read the piece of paper again. Was this a joke? This had to be a joke. "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ."

The door opened. Dandy Mike peeped in. "Is it safe to come in now? It's freezing out here."

"What?" Jim remembered Dandy poking his head in the door in the middle of his very own personal firestorm. "Oh. Yeah. Sure. Hey."

"Hey yourself." Dandy sidled inside and cast a wary look around. He seemed surprised at the relative order that reigned inside the little cabin. "I saw Kate leaving, so I figured it was safe to come up."

Oh no. "Were you outside all this time?"

Dandy's eyes slid away. "No. Well, kinda. Well, okay, yeah, I was. What was she so mad about anyway?"

Dandy Mike was, Jim's own activities in that field notwithstanding, the biggest rounder in the Park. He knew women. There was nothing wrong with his hearing, either. Jim repressed a sigh. It'd be all over the Park before sunset, which on this day was less than an hour away. One more thing for Kate to be pissed about.

Although, now that he thought about it . . . Jim felt a smile spread slowly across his face. If word got at least as far as Ethan Int-Hout, that would be okay with him.

"Jim?" Dandy said.

"What are you doing here anyway, Dandy?"

"Who, me? Oh, I don't know, I heard you were in town, and I figured you'd be up here, and, you know, I was first on the scene, so I . . ." His voice trailed off when he noticed Jim's stare. "Well, I wondered if you could use some help is all. I can see you had help, so I'll go."

"Dandy."

Dandy stopped, his hand on the door.

"What's up?"

Dandy turned, pulling off his knit cap and examining the
brim as if his soul depended on an even rib stitch. "I hear you're moving your post to the Park."

Oh, hell. Billy Mike hadn't waited to spread the word, and who would he tell but his own son? His own chronically out-of-work son. "News travels fast."

"Yeah. So I was wondering ..."

"Wondering what?"

Dandy shifted his weight. "Well, if maybe you'd be hiring. Like, I don't know, an assistant."

Jim was momentarily dumbfounded. "You want a job?" he said, heavily stressing the first and last words.

Dandy flushed. "Well, I might. Maybe. I guess. Yes." He shifted his feet. "I'm thinking about getting married, and—"

Jim stared at him. "I beg your pardon?" Dandy started to speak, but Jim waved him to silence. There was nothing wrong with Jim's hearing, either. "Never mind, I don't think I'll still be standing if I hear it twice."

He took a long look at the floor, vaguely surprised that there wasn't a charred outline of his and Kate's bodies marking the spot. He still wasn't sure he hadn't died and gone to heaven right there.

"I've got some calls to make. Let's head back into town."

7

Kate had given a potlatch for her grandmother. This would be her second, and she felt relatively experienced. The place—the gym—was set and the principal was declining rent. "Even if their, er, lifestyle wasn't one that we would want to set up as an example for the children," she told Kate, and since the woman hadn't been in the Park even a year and was totally clueless, Kate forbore to snarl.

There had to be a lot of food, but everyone would bring a dish, so all Kate had to do was make sure there was pop and that it was cold. George had promised to fill up a plane and would only charge for freight. She had coerced the senior class into filling half a dozen coolers with snow.

There ought to be gifts to give away, things that would remind the guests of Dina. That was more difficult, especially since Ruthe was still hanging on to life by a thread in the Chief William Memorial Hospital in Ahtna, and Kate did not know which of Dina's possessions Ruthe would want to keep.

Kate had flown to Ahtna two days before, to sit vigil next to Ruthe, a figure swathed in bandages, hooked up to enough machines to launch a space shuttle. One was breathing for her. The doctor, who was personally acquainted with Kate Shugak's built-in bullshit detector, was very frank. "We've done all we can. It's up to her now."

So Kate settled into an uncomfortable armchair and read out loud for two hours, parts of
Travels with Charley, The Monkey Wrench Gang,
and even a few entries out of
Alaska's Wilderness Medicines.
She thought Ruthe had given a tiny smile when she read the entry on devil's club, but it could have been her imagination.