Northern Exposure

His target fared no better. The man used his hands for balance as he edged farther out onto the precipice. As the distance between them was swallowed up, the man’s intention became clear, and his own suspicions were confirmed.

A black case, the kind used to house a high-powered rifle, held his attention as he negotiated the last few feet and stepped silently onto the wet volcanic slab where the man now crouched dangerously close to the edge.

It wasn’t a straight shot to the bottom of the canyon, he remembered. Jagged rocks protruded from the cliff face all the way down, providing a natural staircase for animals. But no man, to his knowledge, had ever attempted the climb.

The rock was slippery, and the rain an icy torrent that pummeled him from every direction as he edged out behind the intruder. They were both soaked to the skin. He paused, a stride away, to swipe a hank of wet hair from his eyes.

Something wasn’t right.

Khaki, he thought, tightening his gaze on the man’s narrow shoulders. Khaki from head to toe. The target he’d been tracking for the past two hours had worn camouflage. He was sure of it. Predator gray, flecked with green and brown, perfect for their surroundings.

Lightning flashed as a bone-white hand shot toward the black case.

“Hold it right there!” He leveled his weapon. The man whipped his head around, and he found himself staring into clear blue eyes gone wide with shock.

A woman’s eyes.

Thunder cracked behind them in a detonation so powerful it threw him off balance. He pitched forward, scrambling for purchase. The woman jumped back, realized her mistake, then grabbed his shirt to keep from slipping over the edge.

It was no good. She screamed as she went over. He hit the rock hard, prone. Just in time, he dropped the gun and caught her wrist.

This kind of thing wasn’t in his job description.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught another movement, one he’d expected. Below them, on another basaltic slab, a rare woodland caribou leaped clear of the impending danger their presence forewarned.

The woman’s cap blew off, jerking his attention back to their predicament. A tumble of blond hair whipped violently in the wind, framing her heart-shaped face. She gazed up at him in mute terror. He watched as her whole life flashed before her eyes.

A heartbeat later he pulled her up and rolled with her to safety. She was on top of him; they were both drenched. Lightning shattered the sky around them, rain beat down in sheets. She’d nearly killed them both, but all that registered was how warm she felt. Warm and soft.

“Wh-who are you?” Her voice was thin and shaky, her face inches from his. He stared at her, silent, as water dripped from her trembling lips onto his mouth.

After a quick fantasy about her with him in a dry place that was anywhere but here, he came to his senses. “Game warden,” he clipped. He rolled her over, pinning her under his weight. “You’re under arrest.”

The terror in her eyes vanished. Confusion replaced it, then rage. “Get off me!”

“No.”

She fought him, but knew it was useless. He outweighed her by a good eighty pounds. Straddling her, he gripped both her wrists in one hand, pinioning them over her head, then retrieved his gun.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Fear returned to her eyes. “Let me go!”

“Woodland caribou are protected. Poachers are prosecuted.”

Rain beat at them. Another clap of thunder rent the air. The storm was a good one. He liked storms. They made everything clean again, absolved nature of her sins. Too bad it wasn’t that easy with people.

She blinked through a hank of dripping hair that obscured part of her face as his words sank in. “Poachers? You mean you think I’m a hunter?”

“Don’t play me, lady, I’m not in the mood.”

“Where is he?” She tried to get up, but he wouldn’t let her. For a moment he thought she meant the man he’d seen earlier through the trees. Then she twisted around, her gaze sliding to the narrow protrusion of rock where the caribou had stood.

“That bull’s long gone.”

She swore. It surprised him. She didn’t look like the swearing type. “It’s your fault. If you hadn’t—hey, wait a minute!”

Ignoring her protests, he dragged her, one-handed, away from the edge, propped her against a boulder, then motioned with his gun toward the black case. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s not a rifle.”

She looked at him as if he were crazy. “That’s what this is about?” She nodded at the case. “You think I’m a hunter and that’s a rifle.”

“A poacher,” he corrected.

She sucked an angry breath, and he was suddenly aware of her small breasts pushing against the wet fabric of her shirt. She caught him looking, and abruptly crossed her arms over her chest.

“Open it.” She nodded at the case.

“I intend to.” His weapon still trained on her, he knelt in front of the case and flipped the latches. What he saw inside didn’t register.

“That’s right,” she said. “It’s a tripod.”

A tripod?

He swiveled toward her and gave her a good once-over. Her clothes were new. Even wet, the khaki pants still had creases pressed into them. Her boots were new, too, but not the knapsack he noticed wedged under an overhang next to where she sat glaring up at him.

“I’m a photographer.”

“The hell you are.” He didn’t like being wrong. He was never wrong, not about something like this. Instinct told him she was lying. “Hand it over.” He motioned with the gun toward her knapsack.

Another crack of thunder made them both jump. She stared at his forty-five. “Please put that away. I’m not a criminal. And shouldn’t we get off this rock? We’re awfully exposed up here.”

She was right about that. Lightning flashed, closer this time. He fumbled, one-handed, with the knapsack, got it open and checked the contents. Film, leather canisters of varying lengths, and a heavy, professional-looking camera.

“It’s a Nikon F4 with a motor drive, in case you’re interested. The canisters have lenses in them. I told you, I’m a photographer, a wildlife photographer, on assignment for my magazine.”

Her fingernails were polished in soft pearlescent pink, her eyebrows neatly plucked. She didn’t even have a tan.

“What magazine?”

In a cool gesture that screamed arrogance, she tipped her chin at him. “Wilderness Unlimited.”

He knew it, and most of the photographers on staff. She definitely wasn’t one of them. “Let’s see some ID.”

He watched rainwater catch in the hollow at the base of her throat as she swallowed, flustered by his demand. “I…left it back in my rental car. On that little road off the highway.”

“Yeah, right.”

The west road was six miles away, over rough terrain. He couldn’t believe she’d made it as far as she had on her own. Maybe she was working in concert with the guy in the camo. He did a quick three-sixty, his gaze darting over the rocky landscape toward the tree line. Nothing.

“What are you doing here?”