Anne Duquette - The Replacement

He deserves better, Lindsey thought. And so do I. I shouldn’t settle…. I want Eric to trust me. He used to. I wonder what lies Naomi told him…. Lindsey suddenly realized that her explosive, deeply satisfying sexual relationship with Eric had prevented them from exploring other facets that two people with a future really needed to know. And why did I let him stop the wedding? Why didn’t I go after Eric? Maybe I was too young.

Those often-asked questions took on a changed relevance as she studied the figure before her with new insight and a weak longing to feel his powerful body once more joined with hers. The image of them together was so strong that she slipped on an icy area, overbalanced and pitched down into the deeper snow on the side of the trail.

Eric immediately turned and Ginger bounded her way to investigate, which only caused more of a tangle of limbs, skis, poles and snow. Despite the serious thoughts of earlier, her mood lightened at the ridiculous sight she knew she presented.

“You okay?” Eric asked, quickly joining her as Ginger licked her face.

“Unless you count feeling stiff, sore and having snow down my neck.” Lindsey giggled, pushing the dog off her. “I don’t need dog hair in my mouth, either.” Ginger bounded at her chest again with puppy playfulness, shoving Lindsey flat on her back in the snow. One ski binding popped open, and a pole complete with leather glove fell across the dog’s back.

Lindsey broke into full-fledged laughter. “Some rescue ranger I am. Get off me, you silly dog. Ginger—move!”

The dog came closer, causing a clump of snow to land squarely on Lindsey’s face. Lindsey groped blindly about, then felt herself being lifted up and away from the snow. She felt the ground underfoot again. One arm remained around her waist, while strong masculine fingers gently brushed at the snow on her face. Lindsey opened her eyes to see Eric’s dear face only inches from hers. Both the intensity in his gaze and the lines around his eyes—lines that weren’t there four years ago—made the grin fade from her lips.

“I’ve missed your smile,” he said hoarsely.

“Not enough to postpone our wedding for forty-eight hours so I could bury a friend.” The anger in her voice surprised him into releasing her. The words she hadn’t been able to say because of shock rushed to her lips.

“I’ll never forget that, Eric. I hate what you did to me…to us.”

“Judging by that ring on your finger, I guess you got over it.”

“One has nothing to do with the other! I just…” Her voice trailed off. At his continued silence, she took in a deep breath. “Don’t know where that came from,” she said shakily, backing away from his grasp to reach for her fallen gear. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t intend to start my first day by dragging out the past.”

“Skip the sir routine. I’m still Eric, same as always.”

Lindsey nodded and stepped back into her ski binding. “Not exactly the same.”

“It’s been four years,” he said simply.

“That’s not what I mean. You seem—different.”

To her surprise, Eric didn’t press for details. “What do you want me to say, Lindsey? Right now, all I care about is that you do a professional job. There’s no reason to think you wouldn’t. You always have. Anything beyond that…” He shrugged. “Like you said, it’s only your first day. We have time to talk later.”

The stillness of the winter snow, a snow high above the timberline, where neither bird nor insect made a sound, wrapped around them.

“A few months, anyway.” Lindsey finished retrieving and donning her gloves and poles, then patted her thigh with her hand to call Ginger. She waited for Eric to take off at a smooth glide and followed, her pulse throbbing against her temples with emotion.

Eric didn’t speak again for some time, and when he did, he spoke only of business matters in a brisk voice that neither repelled nor welcomed. For her part, she spent the next few hours adjusting to the routine of Yosemite. Old tasks came back easily—checking the snowpack, checking the few trails for signs of human visitors that might still remain visible, and watching the sky for indications of changing weather. When they’d traveled two-thirds of the large circle that would return them to the cabin, Eric called the other team by radio.

“We aren’t stopping for lunch?” she asked curiously. On days with clear weather, Eric preferred to take his meal on the trail. The rangers had more than enough cabin time—and cabin fever—when long storms rolled in. She’d packed enough for two, with a nut-and-carbo trail mix and a second bag of dried fruit, expecting Eric to go with his usual dried beef jerky and coffee, but not positive. As he’d said earlier, much had changed in four years.

“Not on your first day,” he said. “I’m assuming you’re still on the Diamox. You need a few weeks to adjust to the altitude and cold. We’ll go back to the cabin for lunch and you can take it easy for the rest of the day.

Let’s take a breather, though. I could go for some coffee. You?”

“I’ll pass. But I think I’ll step off the trail,” Lindsey said, falling back into the expression she used when needing privacy to relieve herself.

“Make it quick,” Eric warned. “I don’t want you chilled from exposure.”

“Don’t worry. I’m no rookie,” Lindsey replied. She removed the snowshoes attached to her pack, substituted them for her skis, and left pack and gear with Eric. “Be right back. Come on, Ginger,” she commanded.

They made their way through the snow—the upper level of loose shallow snow with layers of deep, hard-packed crust beneath. Once she reached some pine trees and scrub that made good cover, Lindsey enviously watched Ginger squat as she herself unzipped thermal-lined ski pants to get to her long underwear.

“Yeah, easy for you, girl,” she muttered. Lindsey took care of her immediate need, finished with the biodegradable camping tissue and quickly redressed, her bottom still pimpled with goose bumps. “No more morning coffee for me,” she said aloud, thinking of the hot chocolate and healthier orange juice she’d passed up. She never could hold caffeine.

She allowed herself a “Brrrr” before quickly treading forward on her snowshoes, using the brisk pace to warm herself. “Come on, Ginger, let’s get back to the trail.”

Ginger started, then suddenly stopped. Head held high, nose even higher, the golden retriever sniffed the air. Her tail extended stiffly, a sign of concentration.

“Whatcha got, girl?” Lindsey whispered. “A rabbit?”

Ginger’s ears perked higher and her nostrils flared even wider. She whined, her tail rapidly swishing—signaling a “find,” a human find.

“There can’t be a person around here,” Lindsey gasped. Maybe she’d read the dog’s body language wrong. No matter how well-trained dogs were, when they switched handlers, there were always communication problems, at least initially. Not only that, every dog signaled a find differently. Best to be cautious. She thrust out a hand for the dog’s collar, but Ginger evaded Lindsey’s grasp and half ran, half bounded through the shadowed snow blanketing the base of the denser pines.

“Ginger, come!” Lindsey ordered, but Ginger remained determinedly on course.

Automatically Lindsey reached for her radio to call for backup, but it remained with the rest of her gear—back on the trail with Eric. She yanked off her glove and whistled through her fingers, the way her father had taught her at the family’s kennels—long and loud—then hurried after the dog as fast as she could on snowshoes.

She heard Eric’s responding two blasts on his whistle, but didn’t slow her pace. Ginger might not have been her partner for long, but she trusted her partner. She always trusted her dogs. Unlike people, they’d never lied to her.