“How are we going to cook the fish we catch?” he asked. “We can’t risk a fire.”
“You can build a small fire in the dense forest,” she told him. “Use dry wood so it won’t smoke, and wait until it’s dark enough so the smoke can’t be seen. The breeze will scatter the smell enough that Wayne wouldn’t be able to find the direction it’s coming from.”
She stirred from the comfort of his lap. “I’m going to check out the canoe.”
He helped her stand, but didn’t let go of her. “I think I should check our back trail first.” He looked over at the forty-foot bluff rising up from the opposite shore of the pond. “If I climb up there, I might be able to see if Wayne’s behind us.”
Emma reached down and got the rifle. “Don’t … oh, just be careful,” she muttered, handing it to him.
She couldn’t tell him not to shoot Wayne; that was Ben’s decision. Given the facts, and the position they were in, she wasn’t sure what she would do herself.
He kissed her, ending it much too soon, then pulled a handgun out of the back of his belt. “I assume you’re familiar with pistols?”
Emma took the gun and nodded.
“And I assume you’re not afraid to defend yourself?”
She nodded again.
“Don’t overcook the trout,” he said as he walked into the woods.
Emma watched until he was out of sight before she walked over to a huge tree that had fallen into the pond. She pushed the dead brush and cattails aside to uncover an ancient green canoe, used what strength she had left to turn it over, and quickly stepped back in case any critter had made her boat into a home. Nothing scurried away, and Emma began examining it for holes.
It was in decent shape, despite the years it had spent exposed to the elements. She pulled out the oars from underneath the seat and tested their strength, and decided they would work. Now to catch some dinner.
Emma found the kit she insisted must be in every pack leaving the house. She pulled out the fishing line and bobber, then turned over a rock and searched for grubs. She found several juicy ones and baited the hook, walked out on the fallen log, and tossed the grub into the water as far as she could. The bobber followed and settled nicely onto the surface of the pond, and she waited for a hungry fish to come swimming along. She split her time between munching on Elmer Fudge cookies and watching the bluff on the opposite shore. There was no sign of Ben yet, so she turned her attention to the handgun he’d given her. It was a neat little cannon, of a caliber that could blow a hole in an elephant.
It was also the weapon of a man who meant business.
Emma knew then, as she held Ben’s pistol in her hand, that he would take advantage of any opportunity Wayne Poulin presented.
Tears fell onto the gun in her lap, large drops that bore witness to ten long years of pain. So many lies and misconceptions, so many moments of despair, when she had silently railed at her sister for abandoning her and Mikey. So much energy wasted on hate.
And now, so much regret.
Mikey would be devastated. Emma knew that he, too, had spent many nights lying in bed hating his mother. What kind of guilt would he place on himself?
And what must Ben be thinking? Did he blame himself for any of this? For her father’s death or Kelly’s? Could he have changed the course of history if he’d stayed?
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, but it did no good. The dam broke on her heart, and giant sobs racked her as she buried her face in her knees.
Chapter Twenty-one
“L ook who I found,”Ben said as he walked into the makeshift camp Emma had put together.
“Beaker!”
“Easy, he’s in pretty bad shape,” he warned, setting the dog beside her.
“Oh, you poor baby,” she crooned as she began inspecting him.
Ben sat down beside Beaker. “He’s got a wound on his chest, but it seems to have stopped bleeding. And he was limping when I found him.”
“Look at the pads on his feet,” she said, rubbing him under the chin and kissing his head. “Oh, Ben. He followed Wayne’s truck all the way from my road. He’s a hero.”
“Damn right he is,” Ben agreed, suspecting it hadn’t been training that had pushed the dog to such limits. Beaker was in love with Emma.
Weren’t they all?
Her face, though lit with joy at seeing her dog, was red and puffy, with dirty streaks running down her cheeks. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Emma had been crying.
“Is that supper?” he asked, pointing at the foil of expertly cleaned trout.
“Yes. They’re all ready to be cooked. Would you mind taking them deeper into the woods and building a fire?”
She must be tired if she was asking for help—or her knee was hurting her badly. Ben reached for the fish. “Just point me in the right direction.”
“It looks dense enough over there. Just set the fire low, and place the fish on top as soon as it catches. Twenty minutes ought to do the trick.”
Ben was gone less than half an hour, and when he returned Beaker and Emma were sound asleep, cuddled together on his parka.
So he ate all three trout himself.
And they were delicious.
He didn’t feel the least bit guilty, because he had decided to have Emma home by breakfast tomorrow morning. He left the two of them asleep while he dragged the canoe down over the beaver dam, loaded their supplies inside, then walked back to the pond to wake them up.
“Come on, Em. We’ve got to go,” he whispered, gently shaking her awake.
“It’s dark,” she muttered, sitting up.
“Your eyes will adjust. Come on. The canoe’s loaded and in the stream.”
She stared up at him in confusion.
Ben sighed. “I’ve never known anyone to sleep as soundly as you do.”
“Beaker would warn me if Wayne showed up,” she said, trying to rise.
She gasped when her knee failed to support her. Ben grabbed her under the arms and lifted her to her feet, reached down for his handgun and tucked it into his belt, then tucked the parka around her.
“My knee stiffened up.”
“I’ll help you. It’s not far. Come on, Beaker.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to run the river at night, Ben?” she asked, hobbling beside him.
“I think it’s the safest way,” he said, guiding her over the beaver dam. “If we wait until morning, we’ll be sitting ducks. Poulin can’t shoot what he can’t see.”
She looked up at him, and Ben could see a brilliant smile slashing across her face. “Why, Mr. Sinclair. I do believe you have the makings of a woodsman.”
“Are there any surprises I should know about between here and the falls?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s mostly flat water. The current will pick up as the stream gathers more tributaries, but we’ll still have to do a lot of paddling.”
Ben helped Emma into the front of the canoe and put Beaker in the middle. The dog whined and tried to jump out.
“Beaker, stay,” Ben commanded, shoving off before the dog could dump them.
Emma picked up a paddle and pulled them into the stream, which was narrow just below the beaver dam, but quickly opened up into a winding dead water. Ben put his shoulders into each stroke, intent on getting to the falls by daybreak.
It was still solid night when they arrived.
Ben heard the roar of the falls at the same time he felt the canoe pick up speed. Beaker sat up. Emma pointed her paddle to the southeastern shore, and Ben guided the canoe to the bank.
“It’s going to be a treacherous portage this time of night,” she said, scrambling awkwardly onto the shore. Beaker wasn’t any more graceful as he jumped and missed, falling back into the water with a yelp. Ben grabbed him by the skin of his neck and hauled him onto dry land. The dog immediately shook, soaking everything within ten feet.