“My boy’s nine,” Jonas was saying in answer to her question. “He’s been pretty sick. He’s—” facing away from her, he either cleared his throat or swallowed something “—he’s had chordoma, a malignant bone cancer in his spine, since he was five.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry. How hard for a young kid who wants to run and play.”
“Yeah,” he said, turning back to face her at the bottom of the central staircase. “Doctors give about a seven-year life expectancy for that when it’s first diagnosed. I’d love to have Emerson here to see Alaska—bears, moose and that rough river out there. Tell you the truth, I feel guilty spending even a few days away from him, but this big opportunity with Carlisle and Bonner.” Frowning, he cleared his throat. Christine saw his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “‘Course, I’d do anything to help him survive, and those massive medical bills keep piling up. Well, didn’t mean to bend your ear, but Mitch said you’re easy to talk to.”
“Did he?” she asked, feeling warm clear to her belly. “It’s because I don’t say much myself. Now, you need anything else, you just let me know. And get some rest if you can because the summer nights not only come later here compared to where you’re from, but the summer sun never quite goes down, even in these mountains.”
“What’s that they used to say? ‘The sun never sets on the British Empire’?”
“Did they say that? Well, we gotta get all the sun and light we can this time of year.”
“In the long, dark winters, I guess you pay the price.”
“But that gives us the gift of the northern lights, the aurora borealis.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see that. Like for Emerson to see that, too. Mitch said you have a lot of Japanese tourists here because they believe a child conceived under the northern lights will be fortunate.” He shook his head and started upstairs before he turned back, looking down at her over the banister. “Do they, you know, conceive the child outside in the winter, really under the lights?”
Christine smiled and shook her head, suddenly feeling irrationally happy. She was very fortunate. She’d done what she had to do to protect herself. And she certainly sympathized with Jonas, because she understood doing anything to survive. “No,” she told him. “In the winter, even the wildest Alaskans do that inside, in bed.”
He smiled sheepishly, thanked her again and went up the stairs toward the east hall guest rooms. Though she had a meal to start for about eight people, counting Spike if he was staying, she stepped out the back door and glanced down the familiar ridge path toward the lake landing. Lisa Vaughn had been no good for Mitch before and wouldn’t be now. Iah, if only that woman hadn’t come with these other lawyers to this haven Mitch had made for the woman he called his Cupid.
3
Once Mitch managed to right the kayak again, he knew he had to abandon it. The current pinned the boat tight to the tree, though he knew it could capsize again. He had to get to Lisa, be sure she was breathing, then get her—both of them—warm. But he’d need some of the supplies that were stowed in the kayak for them to survive out here. They were going to have to hike back to civilization, and the only access road was on the other side of the river.
Bracing himself as best he could with his paddle, with one hand he quickly unfastened the bungee cords securing the dry well at the front of the kayak, opened it and grabbed out the single wet suit. He wrapped it around his neck like a big scarf, then rummaged for the roll of duct tape he knew must be there. Finding it, he shoved it on his arm above his wrist. It was good for patching kayak cracks, but also for immobilizing sprained or broken bones. Being careful not to tip the kayak, he loosed the spray skirt and was surprised he was sitting in water. The cockpit was partly flooded, but he’d been so intent—and so much colder from the waist up—he hadn’t even noticed. His sweatshirt over his T-shirt was soaked and heavy.
He half dragged, half hoisted himself onto the tree about four feet from Lisa. Holding on to protruding broken limbs, he crawled toward her. Her wet blond hair looked like a curtain covering her face. Though his instinct was to lift her into his arms, he reached down to feel for her carotid artery with two fingers. Her skin was so cold it shocked him, but he felt frigid, too, his fingers numb and fumbling.
Yes! She had a pulse—faint, maybe fluttering, or else he was shaking too hard to tell. She was breathing, steady but sure, so he wouldn’t have to do mouth-to-mouth. Gently, he pushed her sopping hair back from her face. She looked pasty and bruised.
“Lisa. Lisa, it’s Mitch. You’re going to be okay. I’m here to take care of you and get you home—at least to my home, the lodge.”
Nothing. No movement, but a pulse and breath was enough for now. He’d seen his uncle revive one of his homesteader friends who fell in years ago, though that had been near lodge property where they could get help, as slow as it was in coming from Bear Bones.
Praying their combined weight would not shift the tree trunk and send them barreling down the river with it, Mitch put his hands under her armpits. Slowly he lifted and laid her out on her back. Her legs flopped on either side of the trunk. Dragging her crawling backward, he inched along the log toward the low ledge where the roots of the tree had caught. Sunlight poured onto them. Sunlight! But it would not last long in this narrow gorge, even with the nights still filled with light.
It seemed an eternity before he had her laid out on the ledge. He curled her up, hoping to preserve whatever core body heat she had left.
“Land ho, sweetheart. You’re going to be all right,” he said as if to convince himself, but his voice broke.
He ventured out onto the tree trunk again, still on all fours. Sprawled on his belly, he carefully reached down to unrig the trapped kayak’s other dry-storage well. Besides the extra PFD he’d shoved in there, he wasn’t sure what was stowed, but it was the first break he’d had all day. He pulled out a four-pound butane camp stove and a one-person tent, though he saw no sleeping bag. There were no provisions but a small, plastic, zipper-locked sack of what Christine called squaw candy—dried salmon. He tossed the PFD and food up on the ledge and, pulling his backpack up over his shoulder by one strap, carefully hauled the tent and stove along the trunk to safety.
At least he had four ginger ales. Otherwise he’d be pouring boiled river water into Lisa. He could carry the tiny tent and stove with them if they could get off this ledge to hike out. But first things first.
Huddled over her to make a windbreak against the breeze, Mitch removed her PFD and stripped her down to her black bra and panties—stunningly sexy even out here where they seemed so fragile and fancy. Despite her tan lines, she looked fish-belly white. Her beautiful body now seemed a cold, marble statue. He moved fast to cover her with the neoprene suit, not putting it on her yet because it felt cold. Rafters and kayakers often wore a layer of fleece under it to maintain body warmth, but she had been depleted of that.
He unzipped the tent from its pack and formed it into a windbreak, making sure it didn’t shade her from the sun on the wall and floor of the small ledge that made—he hoped—a lifesaving pocket of warmth. He needed her conscious to be sure she didn’t drift away, so he kept talking to her as he moved her arms and legs to check for broken bones. She looked battered and bruised, but he was amazed she seemed to have escaped without any serious injuries, not even signs of frostbite.
He tossed her clothes farther down the ledge to dry, then rubbed her all over with the neoprene wet suit, the only dry garment he had, since he was thoroughly soaked, too. He chaffed her fingers and toes in his hands, then wrapped her in the small canvas tent. She’d need his body heat—what there was of it—to come back, to survive, but he could put the wet suit on her later. He had to get hot liquids into her first.