Northern Exposure. Debra Lee Brown

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      “Get up.” He slid his weapon into its holster, snapped the leather trigger guard, and hoisted her knapsack off the rock.

      She got to her feet, and for a long moment they just stood there, sizing each other up. She looked even smaller standing. Five-two, five-three tops. Her blond hair was plastered to her head, her clothes soaked through. The temperature was dropping fast, and he realized she was shivering.

      “Come on. Let’s go.”

      “Where?”

      He relatched the tripod case and picked it up, pointing it in the direction from which he’d come. “That way. South.”

      “But my car’s back there.” She pointed west along the barren ridge that ran for a mile or so, then dropped off into a long valley flanking the road, peppered with thick stands of timber and open meadow.

      She was out here in a rainstorm with no jacket, no survival gear and no food. And a story he didn’t believe. No way was he letting her out of his sight until he found out whether or not she was connected to the poacher he was sure he’d seen.

      It was his job to protect the animals in the reserve against unusual disturbances. That included hunters, harebrained tourists, camo-clad mystery men and small, wet women with attitude.

      “This rain could turn to snow. You’ll never make it back before dark.” He glanced at the roiling sky. “My station’s closer. Come on.”

      She blocked his path, shot him a hard look that seemed comical, given her bedraggled state, and matter-of-factly relieved him of her tripod case and knapsack.

      “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s summer. This is Alaska. It doesn’t really get dark until nine or ten.” She turned and started back up the ridge, doing a better job of negotiating the loose volcanic scree than he expected.

      Stubborn, he thought. And damned attractive. He’d been out here a long time, a year. The only other women he saw on a regular basis were Department of Fish and Game co-workers, and he only saw them a few times a month.

      He ought to just let her go. Maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe she was who she said she was. Still, something about her was off. He watched her as she climbed steadily up the dark blanket of broken rock, and had the strangest feeling he’d seen her before.

      He shook off the feeling, and scanned the tree line again for movement. Out there somewhere was another intruder, dressed head to toe in camouflage and toting more than a tripod case. Until he found out who he was, he wasn’t letting Ms. Wilderness Unlimited out of his sight.

      He let her get to the top of the ridge before he moved up behind her and looped a finger under her leather belt. It, too, looked new. He tugged.

      “This way,” he said, and motioned for her to follow.

      “I told you, my car’s that way.”

      He watched her as she slipped her arms through the straps of the knapsack, then redoubled her grip on the case. Rain ran in rivulets down her face. Her soaking clothes clung to her like a second skin. She was trim, athletic, fitter than he’d judged her to be from that first impression—the soft feel of her against him when she lay on top of him on the rock.

      He moved his hand to the holster of his department-issue weapon. “Don’t make me take this out again.”

      She shot him an incredulous look. “You can’t force me to go with you.”

      “Wanna bet?” Two strides later he was chin to forehead with her, his hand closing firmly over her slim upper arm.

      She looked him up and down, openmouthed, not the least bit afraid of him, appraising his wet uniform, her gaze flicking from his gold-tone Department of Fish and Game badge to his eyes. “What are you, some kind of wannabe cop?”

      Now that pissed him off. “Lady, out here I am a cop. The only cop.”

      She glared up at him. “It’s Wendy.”

      “Yeah, and I’m Peter Pan.” He plucked the tripod case out of her hand and pushed her toward a little-used game trail. “Move it.”

      What a jerk.

      The longer they walked, the angrier she got. Wendy stopped for a moment to readjust her knapsack, which had been digging into her shoulders for the past two hours. Her feet were killing her—blisters from the new boots—and her wet clothes chafed against her skin. At least the rain had stopped.

      “Keep going.” Warden Rambo poked her in the back. “It’s not much farther.”

      “Good.” Not breaking her stride, she shot him a nasty look over her shoulder. When she turned her attention back to the trail, she was immediately thwacked by a faceful of wet spruce.

      Behind her, she heard him stifle a laugh.

      “It’s not funny.” She kept moving, and every step of the way could feel his eyes on her.

      They were green, flecked with gold, projecting a confidence and strength that was burned forever into her mind the first time she’d looked into them—as she dangled in space over a glacier-cut canyon, her life in his hands.

      Or hand, she remembered with a shudder.

      A clearing opened up ahead of them, and she stopped to catch her breath.

      “Another hundred yards and we’ll be there,” he said as he came up behind her.

      She turned to face him, and was startled for a moment by his rugged good looks. He’d been walking behind her all this time, barking out directions.

      She studied him now, as a photographer studied a subject, striving for analytical clarity, for truth. What she got instead was a fluid, visceral impression that was all man.

      He was tall and built. Even in wet clothes she could tell he had a great body. She should know. She’d seen enough naked hunks to last her a lifetime. His forearms were big and tanned. The muscles of his thighs were outlined in the olive drab uniform pants that, wet, fitted him like a glove.

      His hands were rough from work. She knew because he’d taken one of her hands in his twice in the past hour. Once to help her over a downed spruce blocking their path, and another time because she’d gone off in the wrong direction, which wasn’t hard to do out here.

      As she appraised him, he cocked his head, eyeing her with more of the same suspicion he was determined not to let go of. A hank of wet, tawny hair spilled into his eyes, and she had to physically stop herself from her first reaction, which was to reach up and brush it away.

      He read her intent.

      She saw it in his eyes and felt suddenly uncomfortable. He was uncomfortable, too. She could tell by the way he stepped around her and pretended to look for something in the trees.

      It wasn’t the first time he’d done that. He’d stopped about an hour ago and had motioned for her to be quiet. He’d stood there, listening hard, eyes narrowed, darting at every shadow, as if he expected someone СКАЧАТЬ