with muscle, hands strong and calloused as if he worked hard for a living. Sexual, in a very primal way—not that she was noticing.
“Look, mister, I’m warning you right now, you’d better vacate these premises. This is Admiral Stuart McCallum’s house, I’m taking possession of it, and if you don’t leave right now I’ll call the police, or the Mounties, or whatever you call them up here.”
“Goway.” The man’s second gruff utterance was an echo of the first.
Senna heard a noise behind her. A stealthy sound, soft and menacing. As she turned her head she saw that the large and grizzled husky, who moments before had been snoring quite loudly on the bed in the other room, was now standing in the doorway behind her. Its eyes were yellow and its stance was rigid and threatening. Senna realized that in the great beast’s eyes she was the stranger here, the trespasser, and she remained very still.
“Easy,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry and her grip tightening on the frying pan. “Good boy. Nice dog. Easy…”
“Chilkat, down.” The man’s voice, muffled by the pillow, was nonetheless authoritative. The husky immediately hunched to the floor, but its eyes never wavered from Senna. She swallowed and glanced toward the bed. The pillow was no longer over the man’s face but his eyes were closed tight on a pained expression.
“He’s lying down now,” she said, wincing at the quaver in her voice.
“Uh-huh.” Spoken as if he already knew.
“Is this your dog?”
“Uh-uh.” Uttered as if she should know that, if she had half a brain. One hand lifted, rubbed his face, then he shifted sideways and squinted up at her. “Who the hell are you, and why are you threatening me with a frying pan?” he said, speaking slowly, as if the sound of his own words caused him great suffering.
Senna’s chin lifted. “My name is Senna McCallum and I’m the admiral’s granddaughter. Who are you, and what are you doing in this house?”
“I’m John Hanson, I live here, and I’m trying to get some sleep.”
Senna was shocked. “But you can’t be my grandfather’s business partner. You’re not old enough.”
He made a noise that could have passed for a groan. “If it’s any consolation, I feel very old right now.” He struggled onto his elbows. “I don’t suppose you could make some coffee and bring me a cup? Coffee’s in the lower cupboard to the left of the stove. And you better put that damn frying pan on the floor before Chilkat grabs it out of your hand. He’s the pot licker around here and you’re driving him crazy.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE ADMIRAL HAD KNOWN he was sick long before he was diagnosed with cancer. His energy levels had been dropping steadily, and the pain that he used to hold at bay with handfuls of aspirin began to cripple him up. He’d finally sought professional advice. Aside from announcing to Jack with blunt matter-of-fact realism, that the doctor had told him he wouldn’t live out the year, McCallum never spoke of his illness. The two of them carried on as if by ignoring the bad news, eventually it would go away. This was fine with Jack. He’d come to like the admiral very much in the eight years he’d known the man, so he’d just as soon avoid any discussions of the unfair and untimely fate that awaited his friend.
Jack knew the admiral came off as a cold-hearted bastard to the multitudes who had dealt with him in the military, but he had an advantage that most people didn’t. He knew the admiral was a dyed-in-the-wool fly fisherman who lived and breathed to cast his lines upon some of the greatest fishing waters in the world, so when Jack’s commanding officer had asked him eight years ago for some advice about where to take his father fishing, Jack never missed a beat.
“Labrador,” he said. “That’s one of few places left on this continent where fish are still the size God intended them to be, and the wilderness is still wild.”
His commanding officer wanted to know more, and Jack was happy to provide any and all information. When his CO asked if he’d like to come along as an informal guide, all expenses paid, Jack could scarcely believe his luck. “Yes, sir,” he’d said, immediately. “I’d be glad to.”
“My father’s an admiral,” his CO had warned.
“I know he is, sir. I’ll be on my best behavior,” Jack promised.
Jack’s CO was Stuart McCallum, Jr., son of Admiral Stuart McCallum, the Sea Wolf, who had long been known as the toughest, meanest admiral in the fleet. But if he was a genuine fly fisherman, Jack was sure he’d find some common ground with the crusty old man. He’d been prepared for the worst, but on that trip with the two McCallums he’d made a good friend of the old admiral. They’d fished annually in Labrador until his CO died in a plane crash and the admiral retired that same year. Two years later Jack had taken a midnight phone call on board a ship in the middle of the Persian Gulf.
“McCallum here,” the gruff voice said. “I’m in Labrador, looking at a piece of property, and I need your advice.”
It took him a while, the Navy being the way it was about unscheduled leave and all that, but the old sea wolf, though retired, still had some pull. Two weeks later Jack was standing on the shore of Grand Lake, a major jumping-off point to all of Labrador’s intriguing wilds, and the admiral was saying in his raspy voice, “I want to retire here, Hanson. I want to build a place right on this lake, and I want to build a fishing lodge in the interior that’s only accessible by float plane for people who care enough to make the effort. I’m looking for a business partner, if you’re interested. How long can you stay?”
Jack stayed as long as he dared, being as he was only a captain himself and not ready or willing to be court-martialed, but when he left, the admiral was already beginning construction of his retirement home. One year later, Jack’s marriage was over and he decided to end his naval career as well. True to his words, the admiral readily allowed the younger man to buy into his Labrador dream.
And what a dream it was. That the admiral could harbor ambitions that required such vision and herculean physical effort astounded Jack, who believed himself to be unique in that regard. But the admiral’s tireless strength had played out rapidly near the end of the project on the Wolf River. His doctor advised him to return to the States for further tests and chemotherapy treatments, but Admiral McCallum had no use for doctors or hospitals. “I’ll die in my own place, and in my own time,” he said. “I want to see our lodge on the Wolf River completed. I want to sit on the porch and sip my scotch and watch the river run past. I want to see the salmon come up it to spawn. I need to know that life goes on, no matter what.”
They’d both worked hard toward making that vision become a reality, though Jack shouldered the brunt of the work in the final year of the admiral’s life. As his health steadily failed, McCallum lost energy but he never lost sight of his dream. The last time Jack had flown the old man into the interior and landed on the river just below the lodge, McCallum had known he’d never live to see it up and running.
“Put my chair on the porch,” he said that evening, laboring for each precious breath. “I’ll sip my scotch and watch the sun go down.”
One week later, the admiral was dead. All of North West River gathered for the traditional Irish wake the old admiral had requested, though McCallum was only half Irish, the other half being pure bull-headed Scot. All of North West River attended the party, a grand send-off the old man would have enjoyed…all except
