From Kiss to Queen (5 page)

After many hours of paddling in the surprisingly warm late October sun, and hoping he hadn't passed the settlement, Mark shored the canoe and gently shook Jane awake. “Jane. Come on, honey. Wake up and tell me if we're close.”

She groggily sat up and promptly sneezed again. Her nose was bright red and had been running most of the morning, her sleep had been restless and her breathing labored. She was working her way into a terrible cold,
and he wanted to get her comfortable and some medicine down her throat as soon as possible.

“It's a little farther,” she said hoarsely, looking around. “There's a beaten path from the stream that leads up to Twelve Mile Camp,” she explained. “You can't miss it.”

Then she closed her eyes and fell back to sleep.

Mark scowled at her and then at the river. Then he scowled at his watch. It was already afternoon. He was hungry, and they were down to three granola bars. He shoved off and headed downstream again, glad they were at least going with the current. He found the path twenty minutes later, and he banked the canoe and pulled it all the way onto shore. He unloaded the pack, the gun, and Jane, setting her on her feet and not letting go until she quit swaying. Mark held the canteen for her to take a drink, popped the last butterscotch candy in her mouth, hoping it would ease the sore throat he suspected she had, then took her hand and headed for the settlement.

Which was a generous description of Twelve Mile Camp, Mark decided half an hour later when he spotted the store and five disreputable cabins. There was another beautiful lake backing the cabins, but not a soul in sight.

“Jane, we're here,” he told the quiet woman beside him, giving her a worried look. “You're sure they have a phone?” he asked, looking for and not seeing any telephone lines.

“Cellular,” she explained, her voice raspy. “He's on the fringe of reception.”

Mark hated like hell to see the energetic, scrappy woman so listless. He touched her forehead and drew back his hand as if it had been scorched. Jane Abbot had a raging fever.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, wrapping his free arm around her shoulders and leading her forward. “Maybe they have more aspirin in that . . . store.”

“I just want an ice-cold Pepsi.”

“I'll get you one,” he promised. “Just hang in there.”

The screen door was so old the meshing was rusted. The proprietor obviously didn't need a bell to tell him when a customer arrived, as the creaking hinges served nicely. It was definitely a Maine woods store, Mark decided upon entering. In the middle of the expansive room was a large, rusted potbellied stove that stood taller than he did. He guided his ailing angel over to one of the chairs positioned near the cold stove, then steadied her descent as she collapsed in a boneless heap with a sigh of relief.

Mark turned and faced the gaunt, aging man walking out of a back room. “I need a cold soda and the use of a phone.”

“Sure thing,” the man replied with a grin as he sized up his latest customer, his eyes darting to and dismissing the woman sitting with her back to them. “Soda's in the cooler and the phone's right here,” he added as he reached under the counter and pulled out an ancient cellular bag phone. “The call will cost you ten bucks.”

Mark pulled an American twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and tossed it on the counter. If the call cost ten, he didn't even want to ask the price of the soda. “Keep the change,” he said as he strode to the antiquated cooler and slid back the cover, which had a limited choice of beverages all standing in cold water. He pulled out an unfamiliar brand, having discerned there was no Pepsi, and twisted open the cap as he returned to Jane.

“Here, honey. Drink this. It will help.”

He had to hold the bottle at first, but the cold drink seemed to revive her enough that she finally grabbed hold and served herself. Mark then returned to the counter.

“Reception's better if you take it outside,” the man said, grinning again.

“I'll do that. You have any aspirin?” Mark asked, mentally reminding himself to check the expiration date before he gave any to Jane.

“Sure thing. Aspirin's five bucks,” the man responded, going over to the wall and pulling down a small envelope containing two aspirin.

Mark raised a brow as he accepted the medicine, noticing the twenty had already disappeared. After checking the expiration date and deciding six months wasn't that long ago, he pulled out another twenty and set it on the counter. “Give me three more packets,” he said, already ripping open the one in his hand. He stuffed the extra packets in his pocket, grabbed the phone, and returned to Jane. “Here, take these,” he softly ordered. “If they don't kill you, they'll make you feel better.”

He had to put the tablets on her tongue, but she swallowed them with the last of her soda. Mark got her another one out of the cooler—tossing another twenty on the counter before walking out to the porch to make his call. By the time he returned, Jane had finished her second soda. She suddenly sneezed again, dislodging a rather unladylike burp, which made her gasp weakly.

“Do you have a cabin available?” Mark asked the proprietor, even as he shuddered to guess what that would cost him.

“Well, now. I think maybe number six is free,” the man said, rubbing his chin. “I'm pretty sure old Matilda finally moved out with her young'uns.”

“Matilda?” Mark asked, wondering if the guy knew he only had five cabins and hoping cabin six wasn't actually a bear's den.

“Matilda's a raccoon that took a liking to my number six cabin,” he explained in all seriousness. “I'm pretty sure she moved on last week, though.”

“Give my appreciation to Matilda,” Mark drawled. “Do you know how the lady and I can get to the nearest town?”

“Well,” the man huffed more than said, rubbing his chin again. “Seeing it's Thursday, Lester's headed to Milo tonight. He could probably take you there.”

“Lester?”

“He comes through here about midnight most weeknights with a load of saw logs.”

“We're talking about a tractor-trailer, right?” Mark clarified.

“Yup. Lester's got himself a right nice rig.”

“Is there any way I can contact Lester?” Mark patiently asked. Lord, this was like pulling teeth.

The man apparently had to think again. “Well, you could call him on my phone. Lester's got hisself a phone in his truck.”

Mark pulled out his wallet, opened it, then stopped and looked across the counter. “How much for the cabin until Lester comes through?”

“I take Visa,” the man said, leaning forward to surreptitiously peer down at the wallet. That was when Mark knew he was dealing with one of Jane's Yankees, realizing
the guy had sized him up as an out-of-stater before he'd even opened his accented mouth. Then again, it might have been his battered but expensive clothes that had given him away. Hell, his leather jacket alone probably cost more than the whole settlement. Or maybe it was the fact that he'd walked in and demanded a phone while blithely throwing twenty-dollar bills across the counter.

The only thing that seemed to be troubling the proprietor was Jane. Looking at her quizzically, the man obviously noticed she was homegrown. She was dressed like a Mainer who knew these woods; she wore wool and sensible boots, and the shotgun leaning against the stove was practical and well-used, not fancy.

Jane suddenly stood up and turned to face them. His wallet still open in his hands, Mark looked from her lopsided smile to the man behind the counter.

The change was instantaneous and quite telling.

“Jane Abbot! Is that you, girl?” the proprietor shouted, forgetting all about his plump victim and scurrying around the counter. “Now don't you look a mess for my sore eyes! What's the matter with you?”

“Hi, Silas,” she croaked, her smile warm. “I have a little cold, is all. You got a cabin for us?” she quietly asked, letting Silas enfold her inside an awkward embrace.

“Sure do, girl. Number two is all clean and ready. You just go on over and lay down before you fall down. I'll run upstairs and get you a kettle of tea and some medicine.” He stepped away and frowned at Mark. “This guy with you?” he asked, sounding suspicious.

Jane patted his arm. “He is, Si. So you be nice to him.”

Silas, it seemed, was duly chastised, hiding his chagrin
behind his hand as he cleared his throat. “You . . . ah, you gotta get to Milo, Jane?”

“I think that's the wrong direction,” she said, turning questioning eyes to Mark. “Aren't you trying to get to Bangor?”

Mark shook his head. “There's been a change of plans. I need to get to a town on the coast called Stonington.”

“Stonington? But I thought you wanted to go to the airport.”

“The friend I just called asked me to meet him in Stonington.”

Giving him a quizzical look, then snuffing and rubbing her nose, Jane nodded. “Okay,” she said, turning to Silas. “My car broke down, so can you help me find a way to get him to Stonington? I think it's on Deere Isle, on the east side of Penobscot Bay.”

“You . . . ah, I could let you take Manly.”

“Your truck? Silas, that's so sweet of you.” Jane rested her hand on his arm. “I can get it back to you tomorrow or the day after. Will you trust me with your baby for two whole days?”

“You know I'd trust you with Manly seven days a week. Hell, girl, I owe you my life.”

“Thanks, Si. And you don't owe me anything,” she answered wearily.

Mark saw her eyelids drooping and hurried over to her, putting his wallet away as he went. He placed a hand behind her knees and swept her up in his arms, ignoring her squeak of alarm, which promptly turned into another sneeze.

“Lead the way, Silas, to number two,” Mark told the gawking man.

Silas worriedly eyed Jane. “Maybe you should carry her to my place upstairs.”

“The cabin will do fine for us,” Mark answered, using his don't-argue-with-me voice.

Silas obviously thought about arguing, though, but only for a second before he spun on his heel, grabbed up Jane's pack and gun, and led the way out of the store.

“You settle her on the bed and I'll go get some lemon tea and honey,” Silas said in a rush, pushing open the door to the cabin. “And I've got some cold medicine she should take,” he added, busying himself with lighting a match to the waiting kindling in the stove.

“That's fine,” Mark agreed, straightening from laying Jane on the bed. “Do you have a map of Maine? I need to see how long it will take us to get to Stonington.”

“I know it's two hours to Bangor,” Silas offered, rubbing his chin again. “But I don't know how far it is from there to Deere Isle. I got a map I'll bring back with the tea.”

As soon as Silas was gone, Mark began unbuttoning Jane's jacket. She protested at first and then tried to help, but he brushed her hands away and told her to be quiet. She tried glaring at that command, but finally conceded and went as limp as a rag doll.

Mark was starting to worry. Her forehead was burning, her cheeks were bright red, and she was becoming even more listless, the hike up from the stream probably doing her in. But it was the fact that she was obeying him that was most frightening. And she remained docile until he
tried to take off her boots. Jane bolted upright and slapped his hand away from the laces on her right boot. Mark tried undoing them again, so she hit him on the shoulder. It was a weak protest, but enough for him to remember the brace.

“Go away and leave me alone,” she said in a winded croak. “Maine woods-women prefer to die with our boots on.”

Mark thought about kissing her—until he remembered her cold. Then he thought about ignoring her protests and making her comfortable—until he remembered her hiding the brace from him last night. So, not wanting to upset or embarrass her, he left her boots on and went to add some wood to the stove.

Silas came back with the tea and medicine, and the map. They managed to get the first two down Jane's throat, then spread the map out on the scarred, wobbly table.

“Here's Stonington,” Silas said, pointing to the southern tip of an island connected to the east coast of Penobscot Bay by a bridge and causeway. “It looks to be a good hour and a half, maybe two, past Bangor,” he guessed.

Mark looked at his watch. “We should leave no later than seven, then. That will give me an extra hour.”

“You're meeting your friend at midnight?” Silas asked, his eyes going to Jane on the bed.

“Yes,” Mark responded. He softened at the sight of the man's genuine worry. “Don't worry, I promise to take good care of her.”

Silas straightened to his full height as he pulled his pants up by the belt and stuck out his chest. “Just what is she to you?”

“She's my guardian angel.”

Apparently not knowing how to respond to that, the aged Yankee let his chest fall back to his buckle. “Well, she seems to trust you,” he muttered, going over and pulling the blankets up to her chin. He turned and looked at Mark. “You just make sure she stays safe,” he warned. “There's plenty of folks in these parts that'll come find you if anything happens to her,” he added, his eyes gleaming with the bravado of all the folks in these parts.

“I understand,” Mark said with a nod, which the old man returned before walking out of the cabin with all the dignity of a prizefight winner.

*   *   *

M
ark woke to the sound of a large, over-powered truck pulling up outside and checked his watch to see it was seven p.m. He carefully untangled himself from Jane and padded over to the door and opened it just as Silas climbed out of the truck from hell, notoriously known as Manly, if the lettering on the bug-shield was any indication. The engine, which didn't seem to have a muffler attached, was definitely idling with the noise of fifty demons under the hood.