Debra Brown - Northern Exposure

“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 to pop out of the bushes and surprise them.

On impulse she said, “Thank you.”

He turned to her and frowned. “For what?”

“Saving my life.”

“If I hadn’t stumbled, you wouldn’t have gotten spooked and slipped.”

“If you hadn’t pointed that gun in my face,” she corrected, “maybe the whole thing wouldn’t have happened.”

His eyes turned cold. “Come on. The station’s over there.”

Anger rippled up inside her, but she worked to keep it in check. That wasn’t going to help her now. Besides, most of her irritation stemmed from the fact that Warden Rambo was exactly like Blake—domineering, pushy, directive.

In short, overbearing. She could think of a hundred synonyms to describe that kind of behavior. All of them got her fur up, as her dad would say.

As she followed him across the clearing, she made a minor correction to her initial judgment. He and Blake had one distinct difference. Blake’s bad qualities were hidden, wrapped up in a package that was all charm. Blake was a manipulator, a snake. This guy was up front about who he was.

Which reminded her of something she’d meant to ask him. “What’s your name?”

He held a broken branch aside, ushering her through a thicket choked with gooseberries, then pointed to the white lettering engraved on the black plastic name tag hanging limply from his wet shirt. “Peterson.”

His arched brow told her he thought she was an idiot if she’d spent the past two hours within ten feet of him, and hadn’t noticed it. She had.

“So, what should I call you? Mr. Peterson? Warden Peterson? Just plain old Peterson?”

“Joe,” he said. “Or whatever.” He moved quickly through the small stand of trees, and she followed, thinking it was a nice, simple name. Joe Peterson, game warden.

“Here it is.”

She stopped in front of what he’d described to her as a station. It was really just a big cabin, one that looked as if it was built a long time ago. Constructed of rough-hewn logs, it was painted over a dull brown, like so many Forest Service or National Park buildings were these days. A big deck ran all the way around it. There was a drop-off on the far side where the deck hung out over the forest, reminding her of a tree house she’d once had when she was a girl.

Joe fished a set of keys out of his pocket, opened the door and waved her inside. The front room had a huge picture window looking out over the deck. A snowcapped mountain range loomed in the distance. A set of French doors led outside. The room was half office, half living quarters, and the contrast between the two halves was almost weird.

A computer, a multiline phone, a fax machine, and what looked to her like a shortwave radio all sat perfectly aligned on a clean desktop. Files were piled in neatly spaced stacks, sharpened pencils stood in a clean glass jar, points up, like a bouquet of flawlessly arranged flowers.

In contrast, the other side of the room looked like somebody’s grandfather’s mountain cabin. She liked it. Big comfortable furniture sat crowded together in front of a stone fireplace that looked as if it was used every day.

Stuffed fish and a pair of deer antlers hung on the walls. A pair of snowshoes stood in a corner jammed with skis, a rifle and a couple of pairs of well-used boots. Joe’s, she thought, gauging their size.

Magazines were scattered in disarray across a coffee table that held the remains of what she guessed was his lunch: a half-eaten sandwich and a big glass of milk. Wendy’s stomach growled.

“I’ll get this cleaned up.” He snatched the plates from the table and disappeared into another room.

While he was gone, she moved to the fireplace and studied the single, eight-by-ten photo housed in a silver filigree frame that sat alone on the varnished wooden mantel.