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.
It was of a young woman. A blond, like her. Only not like her at all. Tall and willowy with long straight hair, the woman in the photo wore a short black cocktail dress and the most fragile, deadly innocent smile Wendy had ever seen.
She’d noticed Joe didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything these days.
Wendy picked up the photo as he breezed back into the room. “She’s beautiful. Is she your wife?”
“Put that down.”
She felt as if she were ten years old again, caught with her hand in the cookie jar. The heat of a blush warmed her cheeks. “Sorry.” She quickly replaced the photo and clasped her hands together in front of her in contrition.
Wait a minute.
What was she doing? So she picked up a photograph of the guy’s wife. So what? She hadn’t done anything wrong. Her reaction to his censure told her she still had baggage to unload, lots of it, from her years with Blake.
“Okay, let’s do this.” Joe grabbed the phone off the desk and plunked down into the single office chair.
“Do what?”
“Your magazine. What’s the number?”
“What?” He was going to call them?
“Wilderness Unlimited. The number.”
“I heard what you said, I just don’t know why you’d want to—”
“You said you were a photographer. I’m checking it out.”
“Why?”
“To find out if you’re telling the truth.”
She couldn’t believe it. “Of course I’m telling the truth. Why would I lie?”
“You tell me.”
“This is ridiculous.” She fisted her hands on her hips and bit back a curse.
“Fine. We’ll do it the hard way.” He retrieved a back issue of the nationally renowned magazine from the pile on his coffee table. A second later he was dialing the number.
“It’s in New York.” You idiot. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. “It’s what, one in the morning there?” She checked her watch, noting the four-hour time difference.
Their gazes locked. Gently, in a motion that screamed control, he placed the receiver back on the hook. She could tell he was hopping mad—not at her, but at himself for being so stupid.
The moment stretched on, until she couldn’t stand the tension. “All right, fine.” She walked over to the phone, dialed and handed him the receiver. “My editor’s a night owl. She’s probably still up.”
“You know her home number by heart?”
Wendy shrugged. “She’s a friend of mine.” Her only friend right now.
“What’s your last name?”
“Walters.”
“Wendy Walters. Sounds made up.”
