A Soldier's Pledge
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To her credit she came up swiftly, paddle in hand. She flung the paddle onto the riverbank, grabbed the nose of the canoe and began hauling it ashore. The river swept her along, but within ten yards she got her footing and lurched backward out of the water, both hands clamped to a snub line fastened to the nose of the canoe. By the time he reached her, she had things pretty much under control, but the canoe had taken on water and was heavily loaded with gear, securely lashed in place or it would have been floating down the river. She was having trouble finding a spot to haul the canoe out. She had her heels braced against the pull of the river, and tossed the slack coils of rope to him when he came near.
“Tie her off to something, anything,” she ordered. “And hurry, this current’s strong.” She struggled to keep it from ripping the canoe out of her grasp.
He plowed through the dense tangle of alder and willow with the rope, hauled himself up the bank, found a black spruce that looked up to the task and snubbed off to it. When he returned to the river, she was watching for him over her shoulder.
“Okay?” she said.
“Okay.”
She relaxed her grip on the rope, and the canoe remained obediently tethered to shore. She was soaking wet from her swim and out of breath from the struggle to hold the canoe. Her hands flew to her head, then she stood staring downriver, stricken with shock.
“You all right?” he asked from the riverbank. “Did you hit your head?”
“I lost my Snowy River hat. I loved that hat.” She stared downriver through a veil of rain, as if it might be floating just out of reach or stuck on an overhanging branch. Her shoulders slumped, she dropped her hands and looked back at him. “I didn’t see that rock. I was too busy looking at you. Stupid of me. Now I’ll have to unload the canoe and bail it out.”
“When you’re done bailing, my camp’s just a few yards upriver. Coffee’s on.”
Her expression brightened. “Thanks,” she said.
He made his way back to the camp. The coffee was boiling over. He shut off the little multi-fuel stove and poured himself a cup. A part of him felt guilty not staying to help with the job of unloading the canoe, but he was equally annoyed that she’d invaded his morning and literally crashed his party uninvited. What was she doing here? It obviously had something to do with him, and he didn’t like that one bit.
Forty minutes later she tramped into his campsite. Her hair had come loose from the ponytail and was dripping with river and rainwater. She crawled into his tiny tent on her hands and knees, and took the insulated cup he offered with a grateful smile. She sat cross-legged and inhaled the steam.
“Thanks. This smells like real cowboy coffee.”
“It’ll float a spoon,” he said.
“Just how I like it.” She took a sip. “Perfect.” Her eyes were as dark as her hair, fringed with thick lashes. Her face was slender, cheekbones high, lips curved in a smile. In the dim confines of the tent, after that plunge in the icy river and the mighty struggle with the canoe, she should have looked like a scrawny wet rat, not a sexy Abercrombie and Fitch fashion model.
“Why are you here?” he said, blunt and to the point.
She shook her head, took another swallow of coffee. “My boss dropped me off up at the lake so I could canoe downriver and deliver a message from your sister.” She ran the fingers of one hand through her wet shoulder-length hair, sweeping it back from her face, and gazed at him frankly. “She’s very worried about you. I spoke with her by phone yesterday. She told me what happened to your dog, and she feels bad about it.”
He made no comment. He had nothing to say about his dog or his sister. His life was none of her business.
“She wanted me to tell you how sorry she was that she didn’t tell you right away, when she got back from the canoe trip last summer, and she wanted me to try to make you understand that the reason she didn’t tell you when you were in Afghanistan was because she was afraid you’d be upset by the bad news, and you’d get hurt because you were distracted.”
He pulled his pack toward him and began stuffing his sleeping bag into the bottom compartment.
“I mean, I can understand how bad your sister feels,” she continued. “And I can tell you, she was genuinely upset on the phone. She wanted me to find you and bring you out by canoe. She also said to tell you that your mother is really sick, and you need to come home right away.”
“My mother’s fine. I talked to her on the phone every day while I was at Walter Reed. I talked to her the day before you flew me out here, and she was fine. She’d have come to visit me herself when I was in the hospital, but she’s afraid of flying. My sister just told you to tell me she was real sick to get me to quit looking for a dog she thinks is dead. She feels guilty about leaving Ky out here, and she should. How much did my sister’s rich banker husband of hers offer you to find me?” he asked, not pausing in his work.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Cameron said.
“Sure you do,” he said. “You’ve wasted your time, and now you’re wasting mine.”
She finished the coffee in the mug and sat dripping quietly onto his tent floor. “I figured that’s what you’d say, but I promised her I’d try.” She watched him in silence for a few moments. “Listen, I could help you look for the dog. We could travel downriver until noon, beach the canoe, then I could walk back to this campsite, looking for tracks while you set up camp. We’d cover a lot more ground that way.”
“Tracks?” His flinty gaze locked with hers. “You know as well as I do there’s no tracking anything along this shoreline. Right now this journey is all about leaving my scent and hoping Ky gets downwind of it.”
“Well, leaving a scent trail won’t work worth a damn until it stops raining,” she said. Her eyes dropped from his, and after a brief pause she scrambled out the door and went down to the river. He watched her crouch there and wash the metal mug. His guts were churning. His sister shouldn’t have put either of them in this awkward position. It wasn’t the young pilot’s fault that she’d been sent on an impossible mission. He shouldn’t take his anger out on her. He finished packing his gear. The only thing left to do was pack up the tent, lash it to his pack and keep walking.
* * *
CAMERON TOOK HER time washing the mug, reflecting on her next move. His hostile response to her arrival hadn’t been unexpected. What she hadn’t anticipated was ramming the canoe into that submerged rock, getting all her gear wet and making a fool of herself, but that wasn’t altogether a bad thing. At least she’d found him, and rather easily, in fact. The rest of her job would be much simpler. It was just a matter of wearing him down, and the rough country would do that for her.
By the time she returned to the campsite, he’d taken down and packed up the soggy tent, donned his rain gear, shouldered his pack and picked up his rifle. They faced each other, separated by five feet of steady rainfall. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said, handing him his mug. “I’ll be heading downriver as soon as I get the canoe repacked.”
“Good,” he said.
“There’s a trapper’s cabin about a day’s easy paddle from here. Maybe twenty miles, by my calculations. That’s near the place where the bear came into your sister’s camp. I figure that’s the best place to start searching, so I’m going to find that camp, off-load most of my gear and wait for you there. You’re welcome to join me right now. We could make day trips up and down the river from there.”
“Walking this river’s my best shot at finding her, and I prefer to do it alone.”
“Suit yourself.” She stuck out her hand. “My name’s Cameron Johnson, by the way. I don’t believe we’ve ever been formally introduced.”
It took him a moment, but he returned the gesture. His hand clasp was brief and firm. “Jack Parker.”
“I have a satellite phone in my canoe, if you want to call your sister and ask her how your mother’s doing.”
“I don’t.”
“Suit yourself.”
She turned on her heel and retraced her path back to the canoe, where her small mountain of gear was piled untidily on the rough bank. The canoe, relieved of the weight of water and provisions, was safely hauled up on shore. She slid it back into the water, secured snub lines front and rear to the most stalwart of alders, and commenced repacking. There was a skill to packing a canoe, and Cameron knew it well. It took her less than thirty minutes to accomplish the task and lash the gear securely. During that time, she’d rethought her plan of action.
The wind was shifting out of the west. By nightfall the rain would have stopped, and she’d have a chance to dry out her gear. In the meantime, she’d drift downriver four, maybe five miles and set up camp in as nice a spot as she could find. She’d build a good cook fire, plan a hearty supper, get things ready for his arrival, then walk back upriver to meet him. She had three more days to land her man, but in spite of them getting off on the wrong foot, she didn’t think it would take nearly that long.
* * *
THE RAIN STOPPED before noon and the wind picked up, shredding the heavy overcast and providing brief, promising glimpses of blue sky. Jack had made poor progress. The walking was so rough along this stretch he’d had to bushwhack farther inland than the day before. At one point he’d gotten so turned around in the thick undergrowth he’d had to pull out his compass and take a bearing to navigate back to the river. The protein bar he’d eaten for breakfast had long since burned off, and he was hungry. He found a fallen log to sit on and ate another protein bar between swallows of water. His leg was really sore, but he didn’t see the point in examining it. There was nothing he could do except clean it well at night and keep the socks and liner as clean and dry as possible. The doctors had told him it was going to take some time to get used to the prosthetic limb, and adjustments would need to be made. This was just part of the breaking-in period and it was bound to be painful.
During his lunch break, the mosquitoes arrived in a hungry swarm and had him rummaging in his pack for gloves and mosquito netting. The netting had an elastic hem, and he pulled it over his hat and down onto his shoulders. The gloves were leather gauntlets. The swarm would have to find their lunch elsewhere. He rested only ten minutes, then pushed off the log and continued his journey downriver.
CHAPTER FOUR
CAMERON’S CAMPING SPOT was picture perfect, situated on a raised point of land overlooking the river. A nice breeze kept the blackflies and mosquitoes at bay, and a stately spruce with a sturdy branch about ten feet up provided the anchor point for the peak of her tent, making the pole unnecessary. Along the river’s edge, she gathered enough partially dry driftwood to build a fine campfire come evening. On the downriver side of the peninsula, she’d beached the canoe in a calm backwater eddy. Because the river curved around this point of land, the site offered good visibility both upriver and down.
Cameron felt quite pleased with the efficient way she’d set up camp. She took her time because there was no hurry. She built a functional stone fire ring for cooking, then erected her thirteen-pound center-pole Woods Canada nine-foot-by-nine-foot tent with its deluxe midge-proof screening on the doors and windows, blew up the thick air mattress, laid her sleeping bag atop it and set the novel she was reading on her pillow next to her little LED headlamp. It was a very homey nest and something to look forward to, come bedtime, plus it was plenty big enough for two people, which might end up being a distinct possibility if she played her cards right.
Gathering kindling from the nearby woods, she laid the fire in the ring then set up two camp chairs flanking it. When all was completed, she stood back to admire the campsite. Everything was shipshape, almost as if she did this on a daily basis. Almost as if she knew what she was doing. The thought made her laugh out loud.
* * *
FOR LUNCH SHE fixed herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it sitting in a camp chair, admiring the river views. The sun swept out briefly, warmed her skin then vanished behind scudding clouds. Amazing how just a little dose of sunshine bolstered the spirits. She finished her sandwich and drank some tea from the thermos she’d filled the day before. The tea was still vaguely warm, strong and delicious. Earl Grey.
Afterward she sat with her kit in her lap, pulled out the small mirror, leaned it against the backrest of the second chair and brushed then braided her hair. She deftly applied eyeliner and mascara, some lipstick, a little foundation to hide the freckles over the bridge of her nose. It took minutes and completely transformed her. She smiled approvingly at her image. “Not bad.”
She had earlier contemplated taking a postprandial siesta but decided to scout upriver instead, in order to see how much ground the Lone Ranger had covered, how far he had left to travel and then figure out when to plan supper for his arrival. The wine, a nice organically grown 2011 Les Hauts de Lagarde Bordeaux, really should breathe awhile before being served.
She checked the pistol on her hip, pulled on her ball cap and shouldered her day pack. Hiking would feel good after being cramped in the canoe. A few hours should be plenty of time to find Jack Parker and shepherd him back here. She hadn’t come that far downriver from where she last saw him. She checked her watch and started out.
* * *
TWENTY MINUTES INTO the upriver slog, she stopped to don her mosquito netting. Once away from the river and the breeze, the bugs were fierce. She’d already inhaled enough to qualify as an appetizer before supper. She was sweating from exertion. Her eyes stung from the makeup. Everything she brushed against was wet. Rainwater still dripped from the spruce trees, and having left her rain gear at camp, she was soon as drenched as she’d been after her morning swim, and the temperature was dropping.
The walking was tough, but she’d known it would be. She didn’t bother looking for signs of a lost dog because she knew that Ky was long dead, and searching for a dead dog, as far as she was concerned, was a complete waste of time.
One hour into the hike, she paused for a break. She should have found Jack by now. Even with the tough going she was probably covering at least a couple miles an hour, and he had to have made two miles since leaving his camping spot. It was entirely possible she could have missed him. They were both bushwhacking inland, away from the river, and the undergrowth was thick. Maybe he’d reach the campsite before she did.
She beat her way out to the river to get her bearings and was grabbing two handfuls of alder branches to steady herself on the riverbank when she heard the whistle from upriver. At first she thought she might be hearing the wild, territorial whoop of a pileated woodpecker, but then she heard it again. Definitely not a woodpecker, and ravens made all kinds of noises, but that wasn’t one of them.
Was the Lone Ranger signaling for help?
She balanced herself carefully, released her grip on the alders, pushed up her mosquito netting and returned the finger whistle with a high-pitched, shrill one of her own. She thrashed through the alders and moved away from the riverbank where the walking was easier and the sound of the rushing river not so loud. She took off the mosquito netting and stuffed it into her jacket pocket, rearranged her hat, smoothed her wet hair. Then she whistled again, just in case he hadn’t heard the first signal. In this whistle she tried to convey a calm reassuring signal that she’d soon be there. No need to panic. Help is on its way.
There was no response to her second whistle, which was odd.
Cameron waited a few moments, then pushed onward. It wasn’t long before she spotted him working his way slowly along with his backpack and rifle case, and wearing a veil of mosquito netting pulled over his hat. She had to get pretty close before she could read his expression behind the netting. He didn’t seem too pleased to see her, but she was getting used to that. He most certainly didn’t look panicked.
“I heard your whistle, and I thought you might be in trouble,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Do you always whistle when you walk?”
“Isn’t there someplace else you’d rather be?” he asked.
“Not particularly. I haven’t had a vacation in years. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m enjoying myself. It’s nice to get out of the canoe and walk a bit.”
“Then maybe you should turn around and walk back to your canoe.”
Cameron blew out her breath. “Look, all I’m trying to do is help you out. You’re looking for the dog, I’m looking for the dog. If we both look, that’s twice the search power.”
“The only thing you’re looking for is to make some money.”
She started to voice her indignation and inhaled a mosquito instead. By the time she’d coughed the insect out of her lung, he’d walked past her and continued on his journey. She turned and followed after him, fumbling her mosquito netting back out of her jacket pocket and spitting out pieces of wings and proboscis.
“I’ve set up camp about a mile downstream from here,” she said, pulling the netting over her head. She was past the point of trying to look sexy. “It’s a real nice spot, good breeze, no bugs, high and dry. I’ve got a couple steaks marinating and a nice bottle of wine ready to go.”
“They must be paying you a lot of money.” He didn’t turn around when he spoke, just kept moving forward at that slow steady pace.
“Your sister’s worried you might be suicidal.”
“If I was going to commit suicide, would I torture myself first by trying to walk down this river?”
“How should I know? I’ve never been able to figure out why men do the things they do,” Cameron said, adjusting the netting over the brim of her hat. “My ex-husband was a complete mystery to me.”
He paused and half turned toward her. “I came out here to find out what happened to my dog. That’s all.”
“What if you don’t find him?”
“Her. I plan to keep looking until I do. She’s out here somewhere. She wasn’t killed by that bear. Hurt, maybe, but not killed. She was wild when I found her in Afghanistan, and she knows how to survive. She’s a fighter. She’s smart and she’s tough. I came out here to find her and bring her home, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
He resumed walking with his stiff, awkward limp. She matched his pace, keeping three steps behind. “Where’s home?”
“Northern Montana. A place near Bear Butte, on the Flathead Reservation.”
“Aha! No wonder you’re so tough. You’re not only the Lone Ranger, you’re Tonto.”
“Just because you live on the rez doesn’t make you an Indian. Whites can own land there. The Allotment Act of 1904 gave every Flathead Indian a certain amount of land on the reservation. The rest of the reservation land was sold off to whites in a typical government scam, half a million acres. One of the settlers who bought a holding was my great-grandfather. He married a Kootenai girl and had a bunch of kids. My mother has the place now, but it’s falling down around her. She should just give it back to the Indians. It rightfully belongs to them.”
“But you’re part Kootenai, so that makes it your home, too.”
“I only call it home because I was born and raised there.”
“You said when you find your dog you’re going to bring her back there, so it’s more than just the place you were born. You must want to go back.”
He kept walking and didn’t respond.
“What about your army career?” Cameron asked after a respectful interlude of silence. “Don’t you have to go back and finish that up first? How many years have you been a ranger in the army?”
“How many years were you married?” came his curt reply.
“Too many,” Cameron said, ignoring the jab. “Getting married to Roy was a big mistake. He liked women. All women. He said he liked me best, but I got sick of sharing him with all the others about a year after saying ‘I do.’ I didn’t know what I was agreeing to when I said my vows. How could I cherish and honor someone who was screwing around with every willing female north of 60?”
Each step was a study of caution, navigating the tangle of underbrush, fallen branches and mossy logs.
“Anyhow,” she continued, “Roy was a real sweet talker. He could charm the pelt off an ermine. My father raised me while working in a string of backcountry sporting camps, so I was brought up among men, but those men were all too respectful to be anything but polite to me.
“Then along came Roy. He was hired by the same big outfitter me and my daddy were working for at the time, so that’s how I met him. He was flying trophy hunters and fishermen into the bush, same as we were. Roy was dashing and handsome, and he was the first man who made me feel pretty. He told me I had a smile that could light up New York City. I think I fell in love with Roy on our very first date. He took me to the village dump so we could watch the bears pawing through garbage, but that was just an excuse to get me alone in his pickup truck. He was the first man who ever kissed me, and holy boys, could Roy ever kiss.”
“How would you know?”
“How would I know what?”
“How would you know Roy could really kiss if he was the first man who ever kissed you?”
Cameron laughed at the silly question. “Either a man can kiss or he can’t, and any female worth her salt can tell the difference between a good kisser and a bad one right off the bat. She doesn’t have to kiss a thousand men to know something as simple as that. Anyhow, I finally figured out how Roy got so good at kissing, and when he wouldn’t give up his philandering ways after we got married, I divorced him. I suppose we’ll run into each other from time to time, we’re both still bush pilots flying in the north country, but I won’t be kissing him, that’s for sure. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Where’s your father now?”
Cameron focused hard on the ground at her feet. “Oh, Daddy flew his plane into a mountainside about a month after I got married. He was a real good pilot, careful. It was an unexpected turn of real bad weather, rotten luck and mechanical failure that killed him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” she said. It still twisted her up inside to talk about it. She guessed it always would. “Were you ever married?”
“Nope.”
“Smart.”
He was having more and more trouble getting his leg over obstacles. Finally he stopped. “You go on ahead. I’m just slowing you down.”
“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll go start the cook fire. You can’t miss the camp. Just follow the river. It’s not much farther. We’re almost there.”
Cameron took it as a very good sign that he didn’t put up any argument about sharing her camp. It had been a hard slog, and he was ready for a break. They both were.
This was only day two, and things were working out just the way she’d planned.
* * *
BY THE TIME he reached the camp, the sun was angling into the west. Cameron had started the campfire and opened the bottle of wine. The steaks were nicely marinated, the potatoes were all dressed and wrapped in aluminum foil jackets, ready to be nestled into the coals, and she’d made a salad, courtesy of the well-stocked cooler. Best of all, the breeze was still stiff enough to keep the bugs down. She had removed her mosquito netting, changed into dry clothes and touched up her makeup. The stage was set.
He didn’t say anything when he arrived at the camp site, just looked around, laid his rifle case down, shrugged out of his pack and dropped into one of the folding camp chairs. He pushed the mosquito netting back over the top of his hat and sat there, looking completely wrung out. Cameron poured a glass of the bordeaux into one of the fancy polycarbonate nesting wineglasses that were a wedding gift she’d never used, and handed it to him, then poured a second glass for herself and sat in the other chair.