a few hints during the evening, and even though she’d learned he was in the fishing business, he’d not bitten once. Not even a nibble. Paid for her meal, and hadn’t wanted anything in return. She’d not met anyone quite like him, and wished she’d thought to give him her card. It probably wouldn’t have mattered. Crazy, but the thought of never seeing him again caused her a twinge of sadness.
The next morning, however, duty called. During the ninety-minute flight from Anchorage to Dillingham, Teresa tweaked her article on Paul Campbell, juggling how to portray him as an Alaskan political mover and shaker within the confines of a human-interest story. Dicey journalistic terrain, but Teresa found a way to traverse it.
By the time they landed, she felt the piece was nearly perfect. She decided to get settled in at the bed-and-breakfast— which, after discovering there were no hotels there, the newspaper had located and secured—then finish and send the article and then, if time allowed, do a little sightseeing and picture-taking. Photos always enhanced a story, and Teresa had to admit that some of the scenery was breathtaking.
It took her longer than anticipated to finish the article, but thanks to the long Alaska days this time of year, there was still plenty of sunlight. Teresa ate a light meal, layered her clothing, grabbed her camera and set out for the Dillingham attractions that Atka had suggested. Ten minutes into the boat ride to the State Game Sanctuary on Walrus Island erased all of Teresa’s preconceived notions about disliking Alaska and not looking forward to arriving at the last frontier. She’d even jokingly called it “my first and last time there,” when Jennifer had referred to Alaska by its nickname. But the scene before her—crystal-blue water, fluffy white clouds and varied shades of terrestrial greenery—was postcard perfect. She took picture after picture, totally captivated by the uncorrupted beauty. Her transportation resembled less the yacht on which she last hit the water and more the fishing boat her grandpa used when catching crawdads in Louisiana, yet the sights were so magnificent that she truly didn’t mind. She was as surprised as anyone would have been. She didn’t like fishing boats or crawfish.
After one of the most peaceful afternoons she’d had in a very long time, the adventuresome child who’d run barefoot across her grandfather’s lawn had reemerged from an obscure place in Teresa’s past. She returned to town and continued her explorations. The town itself failed to hold her interest. In terms of population, Paradise Cove wasn’t that much larger, although the B and B manager said fishermen and tourists swelled the numbers during the summer months. He also told her of a few sites she could check before visiting the fisheries tomorrow, so she rented a scooter and, per the B and B manager, went traipsing to a spot he said offered spectacular landside views.
He was right. She scooted and snapped, and for the first time since meeting him forgot about Atka, forgot about not having had a serious relationship in almost a year and, more importantly, she forgot George, the reason why she’d taken a break from dating. So absorbed was she in doing her job, at first she didn’t realize the temp had dropped and it had started to snow, a fact that made the landscape appear even more magical.
She looked beyond her and saw a small crest that would afford her a perfect image of the town for her corresponding story. Just one more shot.
The terrain became too rough for the scooter, so she placed it by a tree and continued on foot. Reaching her destination, she climbed the low precipice and quickly snapped several shots. Stepping back and crouching down, she maneuvered the camera so that the main buildings, surrounding terrain and water could all get in the shot. One more step back and she’d have it.
That one step back sent her careening down a trench that had gone unnoticed, twisting her foot in a way that caused so much pain she temporarily blacked out.
Atka stopped and breathed in the crisp evening air. Here, on the outskirts of this small town amid lightly falling snow, he almost felt at peace again. As if the call from his mother that had him miss spending the day hunting with his grandfather and instead backtracking to Anchorage barely a day into his minivacation wasn’t enough, the woman he’d met last night—after being assured that his mother’s chest pains were just a bad case of gas—had caused a special kind of torture. On one hand, he hated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. On the other, hers was the kind of face he hoped never to forget.
Forget it, Atka, he told himself. A city girl like her would never want a frontier guy like you.
A thud. He knew he’d heard one, or something, just ahead of him. But he was here now, at the precipice that had been his destination, a quiet area on the outskirts of Dillingham—or Curyung, as it was called in Yupik— where he could almost always count on spotting some of the more than two hundred species of birds that inhabited the state. Sure enough, he’d seen both a brown-winged sparrow and a black-backed woodpecker and had heard the sounds of songbirds resting in nearby trees. Earlier, he’d spotted a starling and a brown-headed cowbird. It had taken him a while to recall its moniker. But his apaaq would be proud.
A moan. His breath stopped. Nothing, not even a hair on his head, seemed to move. He became one with nature—the ground, the trees, the wind. And something else. Something warm and breathing and...oh-h-h-h-h!...in pain.
The sound spurred Atka into action. His long, lean legs quickly ate up the distance between him and where he’d heard the moaning. The snow had increased, going from tiny specks to giant flakes blanketing the ground. Dry grass crunched under his booted footsteps. His eyes scanned from left to right, searching for a sign of life on the deserted streets.
“Help!”
It was soft, almost inaudible. But his ears, strained and alert, had heard it. To his right, and a bit behind him. He doubled back, moving closer to the precipice he’d walked farther down.
“Where are you?” His voice was loud yet calming, authoritative yet filled with concern. And then he saw her.
He shook his head as if to clear it from what was surely a vision, a mirage brought on by the snow and the cold. There’s no way it could be her. Except it was. Teresa. She lay there, raven hair splayed against the snow, her foot at an awkward angle. The cold and snow had painted her bronze cheeks rosy. The grimace on her face did not mar her beauty. She looked like an angel, though a broken one.
Through the haze of disbelief came a disturbing thought. Had she wrangled information about who he was from Joe the bartender and followed him here? Was she determined to make him a part of her newspaper story? Or even worse, was she one of those materialistic women who, after finding out about his wealth, determined to add money from his bank account to her own? A barking dog snapped him back to the present and the urgent issue at hand. She was in trouble. He could rescue her. His questions and suspicions would have to wait.
“Stay still. I’ll help you.”
The cavern was fairly steep, but Atka, who not only often worked alongside his fishermen but worked out regularly, navigated it with no problem. He reached the wounded stranger, quickly assessed her legs and ankle, and believed the ankle badly sprained but not broken.
Her eyes fluttered, opened and widened in surprise. His heart melted a little more.
“Moving you is going to hurt, but you’ve got to get out of the elements to someplace warm and dry.”
“I’m...it’s...”
“Shh. Save your energy, Teresa. Don’t try to talk. I’ll make a splint and secure your ankle as much as possible.”
He
