An Alaskan Proposal. Beth Carpenter

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       CHAPTER ONE

      HARD TO BELIEVE people did this for fun. Sabrina climbed over a sodden log and hurried around a boulder to catch up with the rest of the group. A sudden gust whipped the hood of her borrowed plastic poncho across her face, momentarily blinding her. In that instant, she stepped on a wet root and slipped, falling to her knee. A flash of pain shot up her leg.

      “Are you okay?” Clara, Sabrina’s temporary supervisor, offered a hand up.

      “I’m fine.” Sabrina managed to puff the words out between gasps for air. She accepted Clara’s hand and got to her feet. “Thanks.” She rubbed her knee. There would be a bruise tomorrow, but it wasn’t bad.

      “It’s not far now,” Clara said. “And I think we’re winning.”

      “Great.” Sabrina forced a smile, but she needn’t have bothered. Clara had already turned and hurried up the trail, which left Sabrina to bring up the rear.

      What was she doing here, climbing a mountain, in Alaska, in the rain? Sabrina didn’t hike. She didn’t wear ugly boots and plastic ponchos. At least the old Sabrina didn’t. The new Sabrina—the one she’d pretty much created out of thin air—loved spending time outdoors. At least that was the story she’d sold Orson Outfitters’ management during her job interview, and that was the story she intended to live up to. Today’s team-builder outing was her first test.

      You’d think all those hours at the gym would have prepared her for this, but it turned out running on a treadmill and hiking rough trails weren’t quite the same. Her muscles complained, forcefully. Still, she couldn’t quit, or everyone would know she was an impostor. Somehow, Sabrina continued to put one brand-new hiking boot in front of the other. Twenty minutes later, they were still trudging uphill, the rain was still coming down and everyone around her was still acting happy about it. What was with these people? Every place she’d ever worked had a resident whiner—someone who made a federal case out of running out of staples or complained about the quality of the coffee—but she hadn’t heard a peep of dissension from this crowd.

      Then Clara, who was at least fifteen years older and probably thirty pounds heavier than Sabrina, broke out into a song, but she still didn’t slow down. Several others joined in. How did they have enough breath for singing and climbing? Maybe all of Sabrina’s new coworkers were animatronic robots. That would explain a lot.

      Just about the time her legs were seriously considering a mutiny, they crested the top of a rise and saw the company van and another truck parked beside a canopy emblazoned with the Orson Outfitters name. “We’re first!” Clara called out. Everyone cheered. Sabrina cheered along with them, just happy she didn’t have to climb anymore.

      The van’s driver was relaxing in a folding chair beneath the canopy. Sabrina would have tried to snag that job, but the woman who’d volunteered to drive all the supplies to the rendezvous point looked to be about eleven months pregnant.

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