Stranded With Her Rescuer. Nikki Logan

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      But wasn’t there some saying about making hay while the sun shone? Or the snow fell, in Churchill’s case. She was in the sub-arctic, cut off from the rest of the world, forced to take some time off from her competitive, all-consuming career. If there was a better opportunity to take a few days out of being Action Kitty to just remember how it felt to be Hobo Kitty she really couldn’t imagine it.

      And keeping busy...now that definitely held a heap of appeal. But she made a last-ditch effort to say no.

      ‘Your plane practically fell from the sky, Kit. As excuses go that one is both solid and on public record. You’re stuck here for days, and insurance is picking up the tab...’

      Kit.

      Time had done nothing to dispel the fluttering of her heart when he used the diminutive form of her name. A presumption he’d made five years ago and she’d never been inclined to correct. She’d come to like it. Wait for it, even.

      The reality was she was stuck here until tomorrow, if not later. Given how much work she yet had to do on the footage still on her hard drive, she’d be spending most of it in her room, tinkering on her laptop. If she stayed another day—or, God forbid, days—she could fill the time with research for a future story. That would keep her busy and out of Will’s way.

      ‘I guess that does open up a certain opportunity.’

      ‘And accommodation is free,’ he added.

      ‘Not if I find somewhere else to stay.’ Which she would, because he wouldn’t want her here any more than he had in Nepal. Will was just doing what was expected when a jet liner fell out of the sky in your back yard.

      He turned in front of her and stopped her progress. ‘You won’t find anywhere, not for a few days. Besides you don’t need to relocate. You’re welcome to stay in my spare room as long as you need it.’

      She stiffened her spine and locked gazes. ‘I was “welcome” in your home once before, remember?’

      And there it was—streaking up his jaw out from under his scrappy beard—a subtle flash of red. The first real evidence that he remembered how they’d parted all those years ago.

      Which meant he’d probably be on the lookout for repeats. Which meant she’d be on eggshells for ever, trying to give him nothing.

      Everything in her screamed caution not to set herself up for more hurt. A single night was one thing...

      ‘I really don’t want to be a bother.’

      His lips twisted. ‘I’m sure we can give each other plenty of room in a forest this big.’

      No, Kitty. You’re no bother.

      It’s fine, Kitty. No trouble.

      Relax, Kitty, it’s out of your control.

      On the scale of denials, Will’s effort was non-existent. Still...maybe picking up after herself and keeping out of his way would be adequate repayment for his dubious hospitality. And her story would get filed. And she’d have some fun reliving the old hobo days.

      Win-win.

      ‘Okay. I guess it wouldn’t hurt for me to see a few things while I’m here.’ She watched him, carefully. ‘You know...research.’

      The look he gave her then was uncomfortable in the way only Will could make it. As if he saw right through her flimsy excuses. As if he knew exactly how he made her feel and how she would feel until she collapsed, emotionally wrung out, into a plane seat and flew far from here.

      As if he knew her better than she knew herself.

      Pfff. This was Nepal all over again.

       CHAPTER THREE

      A DAY LATER, Kitty clung desperately to the back of Will’s jacket as his quad bike flew them out to the local weir that dammed Churchill River. Will was the closest resident to it, which, apparently, made checking on activity at the weir his responsibility.

      ‘I go out dawn and dusk,’ he’d told her as he’d whipped the cover off the quad and hauled it out of the little shelter that kept it frost-free. ‘Put the flag up and then lower it again. Check on conditions. I take a different dog each time.’

      This morning it was Bose’s turn. He’d seemed to know exactly what was happening and his excitement levels were off the chart waiting for them to get moving. Once they got under way, the golden retriever ran full tilt alongside the quad, breaking away to thunder through not quite frozen pools before veering back in to run hard up against Will’s left foot.

      The quad bounced and slid along the snow-dusted track, crunching through the surface ice formed on puddles and practically flying over every dip and mound. Before long, gripping the back of Will’s jacket wasn’t enough to keep her firmly in her seat and the wind chill made her gloved fingers ache. So she slid her arms around his waist and dipped her head against the whipping snow and hoped to heaven that he didn’t mind the intimacy. Or wouldn’t read into it.

      Warmer and more secure. And totally necessary.

      Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.

      The lie got harder to buy every time she breathed a lungful of him in.

      As they came up over the final bend, Bose took off ahead of them and bolted down the long strait as fast as his legs could carry him, towards a watchtower overlooking the river.

      ‘Churchill Weir,’ Will called back. ‘Two hundred thousand cubic metres of rock piled up across the river to control water flow and create a reservoir for boating and fishing.’

      Though obviously not so much in the frigid weeks leading up to winter. It was an impressive—but utterly vacant—facility about a mile up from where the Churchill River opened out into Hudson Bay. A mini-marina with boathouse, pontoon berths, first-aid facilities, fire pits, and the three-storey watchtower that served double duty as a lookout for tourists. The steel tower was fully caged in, in the event of a bear-related emergency, presumably. The massive structure could hold fifty people at a pinch.

      Just two people and one dog was a pure luxury.

      Kitty climbed to the top of the tower while Will checked over the marina and raised a wind-shredded Canadian flag for the day. Bose dived right into the icy river, splashing around like a kid in summer. He found a stick and chased it, tossing it up and letting it drift away on the current before crunching through the ice on the edge of the shore and diving back in after it.

      Eventually, man and dog joined her at the bottom of the watchtower.

      Around them, the river water churned and surged in the gusty, cold air. Icicles clung to the exposed leaves where it whipped up into a froth amongst the water sedge and polar grass. All around were banks of the rich red stick willow that grew so abundantly up here. Kitty pulled her woollen beanie down more firmly against the icy wind that buffeted her face with invisible needles. Even the gentle snowflakes felt like blades when they were tossed against her wind-whipped skin.

      ‘Bear!’

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