A lonely, naïve woman, past thirty, desperately wanting love and a family, she’d gone to a singles dance at her church in Salt Lake City. There she’d met a man who’d swept her off her feet—tall, blond, rugged—a bearded Viking warrior in a Pendleton shirt.
That would be Boone all right. Handsome and charming as the devil. Back in high school he’d boasted that he could get any girl he wanted—and did. Evidently he hadn’t changed.
“I thought he was the answer to my prayers,” she said. “He showed me photos of this beautiful log house and told me he needed a wife and children to make it a home. But he didn’t have time for a long courtship because he had to fly back to get his house and boat ready for winter. He could meet me in Ketchikan, he said, and we’d be married there before we left for his home in the bush.”
She fell silent as John made a left turn onto the road that led through the forest to his cabin. He could imagine the rest of the story. Boone was a natural-born con artist. He’d hooked this innocent woman and reeled her in like a fish on a line.
But that didn’t mean he should start feeling sorry for her, John reminded himself. There was no way he’d want to get involved in this mess. He was putting her up for the night. That was all. Tomorrow her problems would be just that—her problems.
“Within two weeks, I’d quit my job as a first grade teacher,” she said, continuing her story. “I moved out of my apartment, bought a ticket on Alaska Airlines, and cashed out the seventeen thousand dollars in my savings account. Boone said I should bring cash, because there weren’t any banks where we were going.” She shook her head. “Like the fool I was, I took him at his word.”
“We’re here.” John pulled up to the log cabin he’d inherited from his grandfather. It was a solid home, not large but comfortable. The old man had built it two generations ago, when his family was young. John had added a garage for storing his Jeep and snowmobile and the freezer for his winter meat supply. He’d also paid for a top-of-the-line power generator. A high water tank had a line to the kitchen and bath area.
He parked and went around the Jeep to open the door for Emma. She slid off the seat, easing her weight onto her lacerated feet. He offered an arm to help her onto the porch. The hand that gripped his sleeve was small and cold.
“The rest of the story can wait till you’re warmed up,” he said. “Come on.”
Clouds had rolled in across the darkening sky. The wind had freshened, smelling of rain. John could hear Emma’s shallow, rapid breathing as he opened the door. She sounded scared, but he could understand that. The woman had been through hell. But that didn’t make him her knight in shining armor. He would keep her for one night. Tomorrow he would drop her off someplace where she could get help.
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “You’ll be safe here. Come on in.”
* * *
Inside the dark cabin, Emma waited while John stepped away to turn on a lamp. What she saw was a long room with log walls and open rafters. At one end was a rudimentary kitchen with shelves above a counter and an ancient-looking fridge and gas stove. At the other end was a tall river stone fireplace faced by a well-worn overstuffed love seat with a woolen blanket in a colorful Native American pattern hung over the back. A stack of books rested on a side table, next to a reading lamp. There was no TV.
A hallway led off one side of the living room to what must’ve been an added wing. Old photographs, in handmade wooden frames, hung on the walls.
Rustic and cozy were words that came to mind. But the room was also chilly. Shivering, Emma pulled the sheepskin flight jacket around her. John moved to the fireplace, where he opened a box of matches, and lit the logs and kindling that were already laid for a fire.
Now that he’d turned away from her, in the light, Emma saw that his straight ebony hair was pulled back into a leather-wrapped braid that hung down to the space between his shoulders. He was Native American, she realized. How could she have missed that earlier?
As the flames caught, he disappeared down the hallway and came back with a faded plaid flannel bathrobe. “You’ll want a shower. Toss your wet clothes into the hall. I’ll put them in the wash. Soap and towels are in the bathroom. The spare bedroom is the door on the right.”
John Wolf was a man of few words, Emma reflected as she returned his coat, took the robe, and carried it back down the hall. It went without saying that he wasn’t pleased to have her here. Maybe that had something to do with her being married to Boone. She shouldn’t have been surprised that the two men knew each other. They appeared to be about the same age, and Ketchikan was a small town.
But were they friends or enemies? Questions twisted the frayed knot of her nerves. After what she’d been through today, she couldn’t rule out anything.
Had Boone known whom he was firing at when he’d shot at them in the twilight? Had he shot to kill, or had the near-misses been deliberate?
If Boone knew John and had recognized him earlier, he could show up here demanding to claim his wife. Could she count on John to protect her, or would he hand her over to her lawful husband?
For all she knew, the two men could even be friends. John could be planning to call Boone on his cell phone the minute she got into the shower.
Either way, she knew better than to feel safe here. But right now she had nowhere else to go.
The small bedroom was spotless, the twin bed covered with a Native American blanket and made up with military precision. The upper part of a double wall shelf displayed model planes and boats, and beautiful little figures of bears, seals, and walruses, hand-carved from beechwood. The row of well-thumbed books—mostly adventure stories written for young boys, filled the lower shelf. An Alaska travel poster, showing an eagle in flight, was thumbtacked to on
e wall. An ancient-looking black bearskin, laid next to the bed, lent a little warmth to the cold wooden floor.
This was a boy’s room, carefully, even lovingly arranged. But Emma had seen no boy.
Standing on the bearskin rug, she laid the robe on the bed and stripped off her wet, muddy clothes. Even her plain pink cotton bra and panties were soaked. She hesitated. An image flashed through her mind—her intimate garments in John Wolf’s hands as he put them in the wash. A warm flush crept up her throat and into her cheeks.
But she was being silly now. Shivering in the cold room, she peeled off the undergarments and wrapped them in her shirt, then slipped on the bathrobe. The worn flannel was soft against her bare skin. The scent that rose from its folds blended clean soap and a hint of male sweat.
Opening the door, she tossed her wet clothes into the hall and found the bathroom. The stacked, apartment-sized washer and dryer sat in a niche outside the bathroom door. The shower was a prefab model. Exposed pipes connected to a small water heater. The arrangement looked primitive, but when she turned it on, the hot water was heavenly. It took all her willpower to turn it off after a couple of minutes to save the precious supply.
With a towel around her wet hair and John’s oversized robe wrapping her body, she walked back into the kitchen. Her lacerated feet were sore. They stung with every step.