Buch lesen: «A Soldier's Pledge»

NADIA NICHOLS went to the dogs at the age of twenty-nine and currently operates a kennel of twenty-eight Alaskan huskies. She has raced her sled dogs in northern New England and Canada, works at the family-owned Harraseeket Inn in Freeport, Maine, and is also a registered Maine Master Guide.

She began her writing career at the age of five, when she made her first sale, a short story called “The Bear,” to her mother for 25 cents. This story was such a blockbuster that her mother bought every other story she wrote, and kept her in ice-cream money throughout much of her childhood.

Now all her royalties go toward buying dog food. She lives on a remote solar-powered northern Maine homestead with her sled dogs, a Belgian draft horse named Dan, several cats, two goats and a flock of chickens. She can be reached at nadianichols@aol.com.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHE FIRST SAW him through the smoke of a forest fire. He was standing on the end of the dock where the smoke jumpers waited for the planes, backpack and rifle case resting at his feet, staring off across the river. Normally the ferry landing could be seen on the opposite shore, but with the wind out of the west, smoke roiled over the water like thick fog that glowed a dark molten red in the sunrise. Cameron took a second sip from her first cup of coffee and squinted out the window of Walt’s cluttered office.

“That him?” she asked, leaning forward until her nose almost touched the grimy, flyspecked pane. Stupid question. Who else would be standing there at dawn? Her brain was muddled from lack of sleep and three beers at the pool hall the night before.

“That’s him,” Walt said, his voice as rough as hers from breathing smoke for days on end. “Said he drove all night to get here and there’s a big storm front right behind him. Been waiting there pretty near two hours.”

“Well, he’ll have to wait a little longer, smoke’s too thick to fly. Jeez, Walt, I can’t believe you called me at oh-dark-thirty to get me down here. This was supposed to be my first day off in over two weeks.”

“Wind’s going to shift pretty quick. I listened to the forecast. You’ll be able to get him where he wants to go.”

“Where’s that?”

“Kawaydin Lake, headwaters of the Wolf River.”

“He’s taking a fishing trip in the middle of a forest fire?”

“Didn’t see a fly rod or a kick float. He’s traveling light. His total kit weighed under fifty pounds.”

“When’s he want to be picked up?”

“Doesn’t. Says he’s going to walk down the Wolf to the Mackenzie.”

Cameron laughed aloud. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Says it’ll take him eight days, and he’ll send us a signal on his GPS transmitter when it’s time to pick him up.”

“He might be standing on that dock for eight days if the wind doesn’t shift. By the way, this coffee’s terrible. When and if Jeri ever comes back, give her a raise. A big one. Then tell her if she leaves again you’ll fire her, and if she stays you’ll marry her.”

Walt looked like he hadn’t bathed, shaved or slept in two weeks, which was just about how long the fire east of the park had been burning out of control and just about how long Jeri had been gone. The first two weeks of August had been fourteen miserable days of nonstop work and bad coffee.

“Plane’s all gassed up, ready to go,” Walt said.

“I thought the park service closed the area down to nonessential personnel.”

“They’ve okayed this because it’s way outside the fire area and it’s not inside the park. Don’t complain. This works out good for us. He’s paying a lot of money to get flown out to that lake.”

“Speaking of flying, the plane was running rough enough to spit rivets yesterday, Walt. She’s overdue for a checkup.”

“He’s paying a lot of money,” Walt repeated. “That plane’s not up for inspection for another month. She’ll get you there and back, and you know it. It’s three hours’ flying time, round-trip. You’ll be napping in your rusty old trailer by noon. Look, see that? The wind’s already shifting out of the south, just like they said it would.”

Cameron glanced at her wristwatch and thought about how dog tired she was. If she’d known about this job in advance, she wouldn’t have played pool until 2:00 a.m. “What about Mitch? Can’t he do it?”

“He ferried a big crew of smoke jumpers out to Frazier Lake yesterday to fight the fire, then he was going to drop another crew back in Yellowknife. He won’t be back till late this afternoon. C’mon, Cam, it’s an easy hop. I’ll throw a bonus at you for flying him out there.”

“How much?”

“Hundred bucks.”

She took another sip of stale, bitter coffee. It was no better than the first. “Walt, that’s your second joke of the morning. You’re on a real roll.”

“Hundred fifty.”

“Two hundred fifty and a week off, paid, or I’m going back to bed and you can fly him out there yourself.”

Walt hesitated. “Hundred fifty and two days off if we get the heavy rains they’re predicting tonight. If not, you’ll have to keep flying the jumpers. I don’t have any other pilots right now, you know that, and you also know we need the money.”

Cameron tugged on the brim of her Gore-Tex ball cap and sighed in defeat. Walt’s expression instantly brightened. “Good. I’ve already loaded supplies that you can drop over to Frazier Lake after you get the Lone Ranger situated.”

“That’s wasn’t part of the bargain.”

“Mitch’s plane was overloaded with smoke jumpers. He didn’t have room for any provisions. Those jumpers have to eat, and you can swing over there easy as pie on the way home.”

“Easy as pie. Right.” She attempted another swallow of coffee and looked out the grimy window. The sky was brightening as the wind shifted and pushed the smoke to the west. The old red-and-white de Havilland Beaver tied to the dock rocked gently on small river swells. Cameron thought about the past four months, moving up here after an ugly divorce, living in a battered old house trailer two miles from the airstrip, flying as much as she could because when she was flying she could outrun her past, and if she flew fast enough and far enough, who knew? She might catch a glimpse of the future, and maybe it would look good.

“What’s the Lone Ranger’s name?” she asked.

* * *

THE WONDERFUL THING about the red-and-white Beaver, tail number DHC279, was the tremendous amount of noise it generated in midflight, that great big Wasp engine roaring away, metal rattling, wind whistling through all the cracks. The noise made conversation impossible, which suited Cameron right down to the ground. She had no desire to make small talk with clients when flying them to their destinations. She hid behind her sunglasses and liked to be alone with her thoughts. She never tired of studying the landscape, the rivers and lakes, the mountains and valleys, the wilderness that appeared so pristine, so untouched by human hands. This wild landscape was a balm to her spirit. She liked to daydream about building a cabin in this valley, or maybe that one, down where those two small rivers converged...or that next valley wasn’t bad, either; it had a natural meadow that would make a good garden spot.

And hey, was that a wolf down there? No, two wolves, trotting along the riverbank. The spotting of wildlife from the air never ceased to thrill her.

Her passenger made no attempt at conversation but seemed equally content to watch the world slip beneath the plane’s wings. The forest fire’s destruction was visible west toward the park. Thick plumes of smoke nearly obliterated the dark bank of clouds advancing from the south. If this front brought the promised rain, two intense weeks of flying smoke jumpers in and out of the park would come to a welcome end.

The plane touched down on the lake just past nine thirty after a one-and-a-half-hour flight. Cameron taxied toward the shore, cut the engine, popped her door open and climbed down onto the pontoon. When the bottom shallowed up, she lowered herself carefully into the water, well aware of how slippery the smooth stones could be underfoot. Bracing her heels, she caught hold of the wing rope to pivot the plane. A second rope hitched to the pontoon acted as a tether, and she hauled the back of the floats toward shore.

Her passenger opened the side door and climbed onto the pontoon, hauled his pack out of the door behind him, slung his rifle case over his shoulder and closed the door. He waded ashore with his pack and rifle case, and leaned both against a big round rock near the shore’s edge. She hadn’t noticed his limp when he was getting into the plane back at the village. She’d been too busy prepping the plane. He straightened, turned to look at her and took off his sunglasses. Good-looking man. Well built. Short military-style haircut. Squint lines at the corners of clear hazel eyes that had seen too much, maybe. Strong features. Early to mid-thirties. But there was something about him that made her uneasy. Not many chose to be dropped off alone in such a remote spot, with so little gear.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Cameron replied, hiding behind her shades. “My boss says you’re planning to follow this river out to the Mackenzie?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s rough going through there. Wild country. Going solo’s pretty risky, and what you’re carrying for gear isn’t much.”

“It’ll get me there.”

“Did you hurt your leg jumping out of the plane?”

“No,” he said.

The wind gusted, and the plane tugged at the tether rope like a balky horse. Cameron tugged back. “This is grizzly country. They can hang along the rivers like brown bears this time of year, and they can be territorial.”

He leaned against the rock, half sitting, and folded his arms across his chest.

“We’re the intruders here,” she continued. “A brown or grizzly will bluff charge. If you get into a Mexican standoff and the bear charges, wait until he crosses the point of no return. Chances are if you stand your ground he’ll stop twenty, thirty feet out or better. No need to shoot him. Of course, if it’s a sow with cubs, all bets are off.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

She felt a twinge of annoyance. Most guys enjoyed talking to her. Most guys actually came on to her. Something about young women pilots really got them all hot and horny. This one spoke politely, but she had the definite impression he just wanted her to go away. “Most people who get flown into this lake want to fish for char or canoe down the Wolf, or both. It’s a beautiful stretch of river. Not too many people know about it.” Why was she trying to make conversation with a man who didn’t want to talk? He’d brought a weapon. Clearly he understood about the bears. “What’s your contingency plan if you get into trouble, say you break your leg or something?”

“I have a GPS transmitter. When I reach the Mackenzie, I’ll request your flying service to pick me up.”

“You really think you can make that distance in eight days?”

“Yes.”

“Well, in case you don’t, we fly year-round. If you signal us six months from now, we’ll pick you up, and if you get into any trouble, I guess you know how to hit an SOS button.” Cameron flushed from the effort of anchoring the plane and making awkward conversation. “Well, it’s your party. I’ll leave you to it. Have a nice hike.”

She unfastened the tether from the pontoon, wrapped it neatly, climbed back into the cockpit, slammed her door harder than necessary, put on her safety harness and fired up the old Beaver. She taxied slowly back out into the lake, taking her time and casting frequent frowns toward the shore, where the man still leaned against the large smooth rock, watching her depart. This remote lake was large and deep enough to make a good place for floatplanes to drop clients, though not many came up here. Most wanted to be flown to the Nahanni, or to Norman Wells. Cameron had never been to this lake before, though she’d dropped adventurers at other lakes with their gear and canoes. Cheerful adventurers, too. Totally the opposite of the taciturn Lone Ranger.

His name was Jack Parker, and he hailed from a place called Bear Butte, Montana, according to the contact information left at the plane base. After the Beaver lifted off the surface of the lake, she banked around for one last glimpse of him sitting on the rock beside his rifle and pack. He lifted his arm in a slow wave, and she dipped one wing in reply. She felt uneasy leaving him there, a loner with an untold story, and wondered if the world would ever see him again.

* * *

THE FLIGHT TO Frazier Lake was uneventful, and the provisions were off-loaded enthusiastically by the crew there. They were glad to get the supplies. She lifted off immediately afterward, declining an invitation to lunch because she didn’t like the look of the weather rolling in from the south. “Gotta go, boys, I’m flying right into that stuff.”

Ten minutes later she changed her flight plan, radioing Walt. “I’d be home napping in my rusty house trailer by now if you hadn’t sent me to Frazier,” she said. “Ceiling’s dropping like a rock, and I’m heading back to Kawaydin Lake. I’ll wait there till conditions improve.”

“Roger that,” Walt said.

“You owe me two weeks’ paid vacation,” she said. He squelched the radio twice, and she laughed aloud. “Cheap bastard.”

Thirty minutes later Cameron was back at the lake, and it was just starting to rain. She landed the plane and taxied to the place where she’d dropped off the Lone Ranger, who was predictably nowhere to be seen. She waded ashore with the tether rope after pivoting the plane, and tied off to the nearest stalwart spruce at the edge of the lake. If the lake got rough, she’d have to taxi back out into deep water and drop anchor to protect the floats from damage, but right now it was fairly calm and she was curious to see how far the limping Lone Ranger had walked. She pulled off her waders and laced on her leather hiking boots while sitting on the same rock her passenger had used, then folded over the tops of her waders to keep them dry. She strapped a holstered .44 pistol around her waist, shrugged into her rain gear, switched her ball cap for her broad-brimmed Snowy River hat and shouldered a small backpack she always carried in the plane with her own emergency gear.

It was raining hard now, big drops hammering like bullets onto the lake’s surface, each impact creating a small explosion. The sound was deafening. She’d reached the lake just in the nick of time to set the plane down ahead of the bad weather, so she was feeling pretty good about things. This heavy, soaking rain would drown that forest fire once and for all. If it rained hard for two days, all the better. It had been a dry summer.

The Lone Ranger’s tracks were quickly being erased by the rain, but they were still easy enough to follow along the shoreline. They made a beeline for the wooded shore on the north side of the headwaters of the Wolf River. She followed them, intending to walk a few miles or until the wind came up and she had to return to the plane. With his pronounced limp and the rough terrain, she figured she’d catch up to him before too long.

When she saw the tent set up on a small bluff, set back from the edge of the river and not one hundred yards from the headwaters, she came to a surprised halt. For a man whose agenda was to hike nearly eighty miles in eight days, he’d set up camp a good twelve hours early. He could have covered five miles, easy, ten if he pushed hard. It was a blue tent with a darker blue fly, made all the gloomier by the rain, which created such a racket bouncing off the fly she could walk right up to the tent without being heard, so that’s what she did.

“Hello the camp!” she said outside the tent’s door, which was zipped up tight. There was no response from within. Her sense of uneasiness built. Why had he come out here all by himself? Perhaps he had no intention of walking to the Mackenzie. Maybe this whole trip had been a suicide mission. Had he already done himself in? Was he lying inside the tent, dead? “Hello the camp!” she shouted.

“Hold your horses,” a man’s voice said, rough with sleep. The door unzipped. He looked out at her, fatigue shadowing his face, and motioned for her to enter. It was a small tent, hardly big enough for the both of them, but she shrugged off her pack, left it in the vestibule created by the fly, and crawled inside on her hands and knees. It was more than a little odd making her way into the Lone Ranger’s tent, but it beat conversing in the pouring rain.

His pack and rifle case took up the rear wall. His sleeping bag was laid out. He doubled it onto itself and sat on it, one leg straight out, the other drawn up to his chest. She sat down cross-legged on the sleeping mat. The door of the tent was open, and the dark blur of river tumbling past the door made her dizzy.

“Sorry to bother you, but the weather closed in and I had to turn around,” Cameron explained before he could question her unexpected visit. “Since I have to wait out the bad weather, I thought I’d just make sure you were on the right trail.”

He grinned wryly at that. They both knew there were no trails except those made by wild animals in this land. “You’re wondering why I made camp when there’s a good ten hours of daylight left.”

Cameron removed her hat, which was dripping water onto the floor of the tent. “None of my business how far and fast you travel,” she said. “You can camp wherever and whenever you like.”

“I’ve been on the road three days and drove all night to make the floatplane base first thing this morning after hearing the weather forecast. Figured I had a narrow window of opportunity to get flown in.”

“You figured right,” she said.

“My plan is to rest up today and get a fresh start in the morning.”

“Good plan.”

They sat and listened to the rain pounding down on the flimsy tent. Cameron hoped the tent pegs held under the strain. “Well,” she said after a long awkward moment, “I’ll get back to the plane, and as soon as there’s a break in the weather, I’ll head home.”

“Good plan,” he said.

“I probably could’ve made it okay, but my father always told me that optimism has no place in the cockpit.”

“Sound advice.”

Once again he’d succeeded in making her feel foolish. Last night at Ziggy’s, three men had hit on her while she was playing pool. She could have gone home with any one of them, if that was her game. It wasn’t, but she liked knowing that she could have her pick. She enjoyed the attention of men when she wanted it, and was used to flirting, having her drinks paid for, then spurning her admirers, holding them at arm’s length and sometimes breaking their hearts. This guy annoyed her. No ring on his finger, not married and not the least bit interested in her. Wanted her to leave so he could go back to sleep.

Cameron pulled on her hat. She loved her Snowy River hat and thought it made her look especially sexy. To most guys, anyway.

“Well, okay then, I’ll head back to the plane,” she repeated. He made no response.

She crawled back out of the tent and into the torrential downpour, pushed to her feet, gave a small wave to the Lone Ranger and headed back toward the plane. “What a weirdo,” she muttered to herself as she trudged away, not sure if she was talking about Jack Parker or herself.