Three open wooden steps led to the porch of the cabin. It was on the second that Justine tripped.
“Aaaahhh!” she cried out as she stumbled forward, ramming her elbow in the process. Though protected by the padding of her thick down parka, she nonetheless felt the impact. Her small overnight bag thudded to the ground, her pocketbook sailed forward, its contents spilling over the porch. “Damn!” she swore beneath her breath.
“Uh-uh. Not ladylike,” Sloane chided softly, reaching for her. “Are you hurt?”
Lips drawn taut in frustration, she pulled away, gingerly kneading her elbow as she looked up to scold him. “It's just my funny bone ⦠and I'm sure this is only the first of the accidents I'm bound to have in this primitive place.” But her annoyance was fast fading. Slowly a sheepish grin stole over her features. “See what you're in for?”
“I can take it.” He smirked, putting down his own things to help her gather hers. “I'll just have to keep a closer eye on you.”
Just what she needed, she mused in silent sarcasm, stuffing personal belongings back into her purse. “It's a miracle this hasn't happened before. But then, when there are others around I do just fine. It must be the bad influence
you
have on me,” she quipped puckishly.
“Could be.” His comment was a distracted one, his attention caught on something else. “What's this?” Reaching down, he retrieved the plastic bottle containing her vitamins, those her doctor had prescribed and which she had taken, faithfully, every day.
“Vitamins,” she barked with undue haste, grabbing the
bottle from his hand and stuffing it into her bag and out of sight.
“Do you always take them?”
“Yes.” A slight stretch of the truth, she reasoned.
“By prescription?”
“Yes. They are more effective than anything sold over the counter,” she explained, mustering every ounce of nonchalance she could find. “As you've seen, I work very hard.”
He eyed her skeptically for several moments before retrieving his things and leading the way into the cabin. Before she had even had a chance to look around, he was on his way out once more, ax in hand. “I'm going to chop some wood for the pile. Make yourself at home.” There was an undercurrent of tension in his voice, making her infinitely grateful for the moments of privacy he gave her in which she might collect herself and her scattered composure.
Several deep breaths bolstered her, enabling her to look for the first time around the cabin. Moving slowly, her eye perused the large, single room of the structure, absorbing the freestanding wood stove for heat to her left, the similarly footed wood-burning stove for cooking to her right, the rough-hewn table and chairs farther in, the built-in shelves and storage units all about, before finally coming to rest on the bed. One bed. Large. Anchored to the wall with long, steel spikes. Covered with layers of home-styled quilts. Beckoning and foreboding at once.
It was to the bed that her unsure footsteps took her, crossing the wide rust carpet which was intended for warmth. Slowly, she lowered herself, then looked about once more. How would she survive the intimacy of this cabin? Could she love Sloane freely, as every nerve end screamed to do, all the while knowing that, once back in New York, things would never be the same? There was her
career, the fact that Sloane would have her in marriage or not at all, and ⦠the baby.
For what seemed an eternity, the rhythmic hammer of the ax echoed through the silent wilderness, the closeness of the cabin, and the ache of her heart. Her mind's eye pictured the ripple of muscles beneath the parka he wore, the flex of muscles in his arms as he would raise the ax, drive it downward, then raise it again. Yet, even amid her inner turmoil was the solace, strange but distinct, that Sloane was here to care for her. Rocked by the steady percussive beat, she slowly relaxed.
“There, that should do it for a while.” The tall figure burst into the cabin, his hair gleaming with the light behind, his eyes warm and deep. “Do you feel better now?”
“Yes.” Suddenly shy, she struggled to find something to say. “Amâam I supposed to be doing something here? I can't just sit and watch you work.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's not my way, and you know it, Sloane Harper.”
His grin seared its path to her heart as he turned from lowering the wood before the stove and approached. Parka removed, he wore only the wool shirt which clung to his damp chest. Perspiration put a sheen on his nose and forehead, his hair dipped into its moistness. “You could come out and keep me company while I fish for our dinner.” He arched an eyebrow in suggestion. “The fresh air would be good for you.”
“Hah! I've had more fresh air in the last few weeks than I've had in years. I'm not sure my lungs will be able to adjust to that thing they call air back home.”
“All the more reason to enjoy it now. Come on.” The tilt of his head seconded the invitation. Justine accepted it.
Moments later she found herself back on the dock, this time in better humor and engrossed in Sloane's deft handling
of the rod and bait. “What do we catch?” she asked.
“Depends what's biting today. Could be salmon; more probably rainbow trout. If you look closely, you can see the breaking of the water as they come up to grab at insects. Look.”
Her eyes following his finger to the center of the lake, where, indeed, after a few minutes' silent wait, the surface dimpled for a moment, then was still again. “What else should I be on the lookout for?” she asked facetiously. “Snakes? Sea creatures? Wolves?” Her eyes widened. “Bears? Oh, no, Sloane.
You
heard those stories right along with me. There are plenty of bears out here. Do you have a gun?”
His attention did not waver from his work. “There is one, I think, in the cabin, but I have no intention of using it unless we are in dire danger of attack. Most bears are simply curious. If you see one, just freeze and watch. Unless it is a mother with her cubâand the little ones are pretty big by this time of yearâyou will be in no real danger.”
“Very reassuring,” she sneered good-naturedly. “My real danger is from you, is that it?”
In place of the smart retort she had expected came a silence, shrouded by Sloane's abrupt tensing. “No, Justine. Your only danger is from yourself and those preconceived notions you've built your life around. I pose no danger to you.”
Swallowing convulsively, she looked away. Unbidden came memories of an earlier discussion, one that had prompted the pain and anguish which only the discovery of her pregnancy had alleviated. Perhaps he was right. How simple it would be to give in to him, to agree to a marriage, even knowing how potentially devastating it might be. But, no. She couldn't change her mind.
“If you brought me out here to sermonize, I won't
listen,” she murmured softly, her eyes glued to the far-off peaks.
His answer was as low. “Then I won't waste my breath. The silence is too lovely to spoil, unless the talk is constructive.”
A new thought hit her. “How long
are
we going to be here, Sloane?”
“Gus will be back in three days. If the weather holds. And if his plane keeps flying. As he said, he may be late, but he always makes it.”
“You've been here before, haven't you,” she asked, wondering why the realization hadn't come to her sooner.
“To this cabin, no. Out there”âhis eyes rose to the mountainsâ“yes. I was part of an expedition that scaled Mount McKinley nearly ten years ago.”
“Were you?” Enthusiasm softened her features quickly. “What was it like?”
He thought for a minute, searching for the words to describe the experience. “It was cold and long. It was the most trying thing, physically, that I've ever done. It was also the most exhilarating, the most satisfying, the most climactic. Almost.”
“Almost?” Without thinking, she prodded him. “And what was the
most
climactic?”
The hold on his line slackened as he turned intense eyes toward her. “Making love to you, Justine ⦠that topped everything.”
“Sloane,” she moaned, turning her back to him in self-defense. “Why do you say things like that?”
“Because it is true. You wanted the truth, didn't you? Or would you rather I cushion everything I tell you?”
“No, of course not,” she whispered softly. “It's just ⦠it makes things ⦠so difficult.”
“Only if you make them so.” Propping the fishing line between his knees, he touched her. For what seemed to be the first time in an eternity, his hands closed over her
shoulders and brought her back against him, half-turning her in the process. Instinctively, she finished the turn, burying her face against the warm fabric of his shirt, breathing in his scent and its intoxicating freshness.
God, how she had missed just this, she realized with shock. Much as she had put the physical from mind in the all-encompassing demands of the expedition, this was what her body craved. Her arms stole around his back as she hugged him, mindless of all else but his warmth.
“Whoa!” he cried suddenly. “Wait! I've got a bite!” Sure enough, within minutes, a large fish lay fluttering its last bit of life out on the aged wood planks. “Trout! Perfect! We'll dine in style tonight, my dear!” he drawled, infinitely pleased with himselfâas, to her surprise, Justine was with him.
They did dine in style that night. The rusticity of the dark log cabin took nothing from the meal of trout, vegetables, and potatoes, the last two from the supplies they had brought. Even the pains of adjusting to the primitive wood stove as a cooking vessel were forgotten with the first sips of wine and the final taste of fresh-brewed coffee.
“Whose cabin is this, anyway?” she asked as, together, they cleaned up later.
“A young couple, originally from Fairbanks, built this several years ago. They are back in the States, visiting with relatives before the winter sets in. They kindly agreed, through an agent, to lend us the use of their home.”
“They built it themselves?” she asked, eyeing the low-beamed ceiling, the close-fitted walls.
“Uh-huh. It is a traditional Alaskan trapper's cabin, the same design that has been used for years. It is built snugly to serve as protection against the cold ⦠and the mosquitoes.”
“I haven't seen any mosquitoes.”
“The season, my dear,” he crooned softly, his tone at far odds with the topic of discussion. “The mosquitoes are
rampant during June and July. It is too cool and dry for them now. We're lucky. The droning can drive one insane, not to mention the welts they raise. Alaskans do things big ⦠including their mosquitoes.”
Justine laughed easily. “We heard about those mammoth blueberries. Do you think we'll find any here?”
“Could be. The growing season is short, but the sun shines for such long hours during that time that things seem to grow beyond normal limits. We'll go looking tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. But, she asked herself, what about tonight? With the last of the meal finished and cleaned, her eye roamed helplessly to the bed. That one, large bed.
“You go on.” He read her mind. “I want to sit up awhile and make some notes for myself.”
“IâI didn't bring a nightgown,” she mumbled, half to herself. “I more or less assumed that I'd have my own room in a hotel. It seemed silly to pack lots of extras.” Even to her, the rationalization sounded feeble.
Sloane was unfazed. “I presume you're wearing long johns beneath those jeans and top?” His gaze speared her.
“Yâyes.”
“Then wear those. It will be pretty cold before the night is through.”
Given all they'd been through together and particularly given the fact that she carried his child within her, modesty seemed ludicrous. Yet, Justine could not get herself to relax. Sidling uncomfortably toward the bed, she slowly and reluctantly removed her boots, then her heavy denims and her wool sweater. The chill itself hastened her movements at the end, though she was appreciative of Sloane's preoccupation with his papers on the far side of the room. The weight of the quilts fell in welcoming array about her, yet sleep was elusive.
How long she lay, thinking, wondering, imagining, she couldn't tell. Though the sun had stayed late, its glow had
now deserted the small, single window at the front of the cabin. The kerosene lamp by which Sloane worked cast an orange luster about him, its warmth a reflection of that which stole through her quivering limbs. Defensively, she turned her back and snuggled into the far corner of the bed. But, while she might deprive her eyes of the sight of him, his image was vivid in her mind, his presence alive in her senses. When his soft footfall and the rustle of clothing heralded his approach, she stiffened, cringing farther from him. It wouldn't work, she told herself. Yielding to him now would accomplish nothing but a renewal of that devastating torment. But was that worse than the agony she suffered, wanting him, needing him, loving him as she did?