A Soldier's Pledge

“You’ll be okay,” he reassured her. Those words had haunted him ever since his sister’s visit while he was at Walter Reed.

* * *

“SO, THAT’S WHY I’m here,” he said, returning to the present and looking across the campfire at Cameron, who had listened quietly while he told the story of a soldier and his dog. “I told her she’d be okay. I lied.”

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_1fa8bbcd-022e-5cbe-bf96-f778275490da)

CAMERON REFILLED JACK’S wineglass a third time while he told her his story. The wine, after a long and challenging day, had loosened his tongue. The man who had been so aloof, so silent, had revealed a side of himself that she suspected few had ever seen.

“You didn’t lie,” she said. “You did what you thought was right. You couldn’t have known what would happen. Your sister did her best, too. A bear came into their camp. Your dog chased it out. That was nobody’s fault.”

The sun had set and the air was chilly. She forked a big steak and a potato onto his plate, buttered and seasoned both, added a generous side of dressed salad, nestled a knife and fork on the plate and handed it to him.

“No more talk,” she ordered. “Eat.”

Cameron fixed her own plate and sat. She was ravenous. The steaks were grilled to perfection. They ate in silence while the river rushed past and the deepening twilight brightened the campfire. When they were done, she covered the grill with coals, threw a few more pieces of wood on the fire and let the heat burn the grate clean. In bear country, one kept a clean camp. One also camped a good distance from the cook fire, but she was stretching the rules in this instance due to Jack’s exhausted state.

“Now,” she said, “you go into the tent and get out of those wet clothes. I’ll put your pack inside, and you can set up your sleeping bag in there. No point in setting up two tents. I’ll wash these dishes in the river.”

She gathered the supper dishes and went down to the river’s edge to give him time and privacy, and to think about her next moves. He was exhausted but well fed, and he’d drunk half a bottle of wine. Things were going pretty well. It baffled her that anyone could be so attached to a dog, but people were funny about their pets. Some put more value on a dog than a human. Her father’s hunting dogs were good hunting dogs, but they’d been focused on two things: her father and hunting. To them she’d been an ancillary figure in the family pack. By the time she was fifteen, both had died of old age and they’d had no other dogs. The life of a bush pilot in the far north was unfavorable to owning pets.

The river water was cold. Years of traveling in the bush had taught her to carry all essentials on her person, so when the supper dishes had been scrubbed clean she fished her toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste out of a pocket and brushed her teeth and washed up as she crouched on her heels beside the river.

In a few days she’d be rich. She’d buy Johnny Allen’s red Jeep with the money. It was flashy and bold, with a good stereo and aggressive tires. The guys would think that was sexy.

When she’d finished with her nighttime routine, she walked quietly back to the tent, unzipped the door and eased inside. Darkness wrapped around her like a thick blanket, but she could make out a long shape lying prone against the far wall, darker than darkness. She stripped down to her camisole and panties and slipped into her sleeping bag, only then switching her LED headlamp on low, providing just enough light to read by. She picked up her book, nestled into her comfortable bed and cast a secretive sidelong glance toward her quarry. In the dim light she could see only that he was there. Awake? Asleep? She didn’t know. It was a shame he hadn’t seen her matching black and very sexy underwear, but tomorrow was another day.

“No talking in your sleep and no snoring,” she said softly, and turned the page of her book.

“No worries” came the low reply.

* * *

WHEN JACK OPENED his eyes, it was already light and Cameron was up and gone. Her sleeping bag was rolled neatly into its stuff bag and sitting on the cot. He could smell wood smoke and coffee. He dressed in clothes that were still slightly damp from the day before and moved to the door of the tent. She was nowhere to be seen, but a small fire burned in the fire ring, and the coffeepot was off to one side where it would stay warm without boiling. A cup had been placed thoughtfully beside it. He exited the tent and filled the cup, taking a long appreciative look at the predawn wilderness that stretched away from him in all directions; the river, the mountains, the forest; mist rising from the rushing water into the cool morning air. He spotted her down on the riverbank, fly casting to that spot below the riffles she’d spoken about last evening. Her movements were practiced, graceful. The girl could also fly-fish, among all her other talents.

He took a sip of hot coffee. Rich and delicious. Perfectly brewed. He expected nothing less after the meal she’d served him last night. He carried the coffee down to the river, upstream of her, and washed the sleep from his face. He contemplated shaving but discarded the idea. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was trying to look good for her. The sooner they parted ways, the better. In the meantime, he’d add to his scruffy look.

He returned to the campfire, poured more hot coffee into his cup and walked down to where she was fishing the river.

“Good morning!” She greeted him with a bright smile after making an impressive double haul and delivery, the fly settling clear across the river from her. “You must be raring to go. You slept like the dead last night.” She watched the fly drift quickly toward the big boulder.

“Did I talk in my sleep or snore?”

“If you did, I didn’t hear you. I was tired, and the sound of the river was nice.” She was fishing the drift, watching the fly. “I hope you’re hungry. I caught three trout while you were sleeping.”

“I could eat.”

She smiled, and at that moment a trout struck her fly. Within five minutes she’d landed a fourth trout, an eighteen-inch arctic char. She walked into the water to release the fish without lifting it out. “What a beauty,” she said, watching it swim away, tired but uninjured. “I file the barbs on my flies. Makes catching them a little harder but hurts them less, especially if you release a lot, like I do.”

“Admirable,” he said.

She reeled her line in and cast a glance in his direction. “You don’t like me much.”

“Not true. You’re a great cook, and your coffee is excellent.”

“But you think I talk too much,” she said, bending to lift the stringer of cleaned trout out of the cold water. She gave him a critical up and down. “I see you’re wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday. What am I supposed to ferry down to the trapper’s cabin?”

“Three stinky socks. I draw the line at backpacking in the nude, especially when it’s buggy.”

“You didn’t bring a change of clothes?”

“I brought a set of long johns, spare socks and underwear.”

“Three’s an odd number of socks.”

“I have an odd number of feet,” he said.

She flushed and dropped her gaze. “Well, I’ll fix you a good breakfast before I leave. You’ll need it.” She marched back to the campsite, and he followed at a slower pace. In jig time she had bacon frying and the trout prepped and ready to slide into the bacon fat while he studied the map she handed him. He unfolded it over his knee and tried to figure out their location.

“The black circle halfway down the Wolf is where the cabin is,” she told him. “It’s a little farther than I thought. And that other mark upriver of it is where I think we’re camped right now. I don’t know how long it will take me to reach the cabin.” She forked the cooked bacon onto a plate. “Calculating distances on a twisty river can be tricky. I’ll unload the heavy gear, most of our food into the camp and then ferry the canoe back up here. That’ll take me considerably longer. You can keep hiking downstream, so I won’t have to come back so far.” She thought about her plan for a moment and frowned. “What if we miss each other on the river?”

“Why don’t you just stay at the cabin, and I’ll meet you there.”

She thought about that suggestion briefly, then shook her head. “We should stick together. That’s the safest way. You should come with me.”

“No, thanks. I’ve seen the way you handle a canoe.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m good with a canoe. I just didn’t see that rock because I was distracted by you.”

“Not my fault I have that effect on women.”

“If you took the canoe down to the cabin, I could do the walking,” she offered, ignoring his comment. “I’ll drag your socks behind me on a piece of parachute cord and lay down a good scent trail. I could make ten miles easy before dark, camp the night and meet up with you at the cabin tomorrow. Have you ever paddled a canoe?”

“Hell, I’m part Indian, remember? I can paddle, and shoot a bow and arrow and my tomahawk skills are unmatched. It’s a genetic thing.”

Cameron took a slow breath. “There’s no need for sarcasm. I’m only trying to be helpful. I think we’d make better time if I did the walking and you did the paddling.”

“Backpacking along this river with no trail brushed out is tough work. My sister must be paying you a small fortune.”

Her expression turned to stone as she slid the three char into the frying pan. Bacon fat spattered. The edges of the trout curled. His mouth watered. He figured if there was a grizzly within ten miles, they’d have company for breakfast, but any bear would have to tackle him first to get a bite of that fish.

“I’m offering to help you,” she said. “It was a genuine offer. Do you want to find your dog, or don’t you?”

He had no response for that. They sat upwind of the small cook fire and ate the three trout and finished off the pot of coffee. He thought of Ky when he tossed the fish bones into the coals. Thought about how she’d shadowed him, slept beside him, watched over him, protected him, loved him. Depended upon him. He thought about how he’d let her down. He had to find her. Ky was out here, somewhere, and he had to find her.

Cameron was offering to help. Why did she irritate him so much? Was it because he was sure she was being paid handsomely to guarantee he made it out to the Mackenzie? Was it because he didn’t like being chaperoned? What red-blooded man wouldn’t want to keep company with a great-looking gal who could cook and clean and set up camp and drive a plane and paddle a canoe and fly-fish with such panache?

“Who taught you to fly a plane?” he asked as he ate the last of his bacon.