A Soldier's Pledge

“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 (#ulink_de10be5b-0726-5340-8456-f20910ec06ee)

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.