Chinook, Wine and Sink Her. Morgan Q O'Reilly
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Название: Chinook, Wine and Sink Her
Автор: Morgan Q O'Reilly
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Короткие любовные романы
isbn: 9780984113224
isbn:
Also by Morgan Q. O’Reilly
Frozen
Chinook, Wine and Sink Her
Open Window Series
Til Death Undo Us
Courage to Live
Weathering the Storm
CHINOOK, WINE AND SINK HER
By MORGAN Q. O’REILLY
LYRICAL PRESS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to author Carolyn David for the title, and to all my critique partners for all their words of wisdom and help. Special thanks to Liz Selvig, who can be my co-pilot anytime on wild and crazy research trips. We certainly made it to Circle without busting anything!
Last, but certainly not least, I dedicate this book to my husband. In our early dating years he sang the song Squaws Along the Yukon on occasion, and at one point had the words programmed into his digital watch. Mention of it usually earned him a smack on the shoulder. The slight word change of “salmon-colored” to “salmon-scented” is his contribution to the song. Apologies to songwriter Cam Smith and recording artist Hank Thompson for the minor twist.
Song Credits
Squaws Along the Yukon
Recorded by Hank Thompson
Words and music by Cam Smith
Originally recorded in the 1950s
Foreword
Certain artistic license was taken regarding the location of Creed’s cabin and the village of Circle, Alaska.
While there are working gold mining operations all along the Steese Highway, which leads from Fairbanks to Circle, Creed’s is entirely fictional. The Steese Highway ends at Circle on the banks of the Yukon, and there are no roads leading to hidden cabins so far upstream. River travelers, who put in at Dawson or Eagle and float down to Circle, find many camping places along the route. There are also public-use cabins maintained by the Bureau of Land Management. Slaven’s Roadhouse is a real place, reachable only by river. Whether they have sat-phone or not, I don’t know.
The people of Circle are mostly Athabascan and live in a very small village. They live a mainly subsistence lifestyle with few modern conveniences. The roads are unpaved and the villagers haul water much as our characters do. The Washeteria does exist, pretty much the way Linnet sees it.
The few people we met on the late July day a friend and I made the drive from Fairbanks were very kind. We didn’t see many residents, but those we did looked curiously at our ‘Circle or Bust’ sign on the back of my dusty minivan.
The proprietor of the one and only store told us most tourists make it to Circle by accident, thinking they’re going to the Arctic Circle. No, we told her, we were writers who’d made the drive to Circle on purpose. Yes, she thinks we’re nuts, as well as a few dozen other people we talked to about our trip.
Many thanks to Ron and Sylvia of the Chatanika Roadhouse for good coffee, good food, good conversation and information. Ron gave us a personalized tour which included the official outhouse of their annual Outhouse Races held each March. If you’re ever there, be sure to mention the crazy romance writers who stopped by. We left our dollar bill under the nightlight display near the entry.
Of note, there is a wonderful essay and a collection of photos detailing the history of the Steese Highway to be found at: http://www.steesehighway.org/steesehistory.html
Chapter 1
“There’s a salmon-scented girl, who sets my heart awhirl…”
Linnet Greenbriar closed her eyes and grimaced. Despite the pleasant male baritone singing the annoying song on key for a change, she’d heard the lyrics one too many times in her life. Her fingers clenched around the long aluminum pole in her hands. Each time she’d stopped in Circle some joker had made a point of singing it within her hearing. Out here, miles from the small village, the song was no more welcome than it had been there.
“Manley,” she snapped at her borrowed dog without looking around. “Attention.”
His whines subsided and she knew he stood alert, watching for the stranger approaching along the trail from the cabin. Hopefully the man would see the dog and just keep moving downstream.
Leaves crunched and twigs snapped under his footfalls. He could be the friend George had said might come by for a week of fishing. Or perhaps he was someone else who’d beached his boat at the small gravel shingle in front of the cabin. Screened by the trees, she couldn’t see that far. He certainly hadn’t floated past her. Probably George’s buddy.
Even that possibility didn’t quell the sudden fear turning her blood to ice. With great control, she forced the automatic reaction away. Using rehearsed words, she reminded herself he was just a citizen, entitled to fish wherever he wanted along the river. Men who made the effort to reach this remote location were looking for solitude and a meaningful relationship with the river, not women to party with.
“And she lives along the Yukon, far away…”
Just what she needed, some macho man escaping town for a week of fishing. The least he could do was camp someplace else. Determined not to give in to the urge to dash onto the bank and greet him with a .357 aimed his way, she focused on the job in front of her.
Steadying herself, she made sure her legs were solidly braced, then swiped her dipnet through the strong current of the mighty river trying its best to suck her under. Insulated hip waders protected her from the icy flow, thick and gun metal gray with glacier silt. The Yukon was not a river to be taken lightly. It was a good thing she was tall and her active lifestyle kept her muscles strong, or with one misstep, she could have been swept away by the deadly water pushing at her legs.
The little backwash she’d found was popular with the fish as a resting place where the current wasn’t quite as strong. Not to mention easier for her when standing in the river for most of the day. Did her visitor know this spot for that very reason?
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