Bear of a Honeymoon Read online

  It was easy to mark the moon's progress as it rose behind a bank of tattered clouds. Their shadow closed over me like a moth-eaten shroud and I was pathetically grateful when the shining disc climbed free. In a burst of sentiment, I thought how the moon connected me to Matt. How this same silver light was passing over him, wherever he might be. Holding the romantic notion close, I drifted into exhausted sleep where time passed in a godsend of dreamless oblivion.

  Annoyance registered first, when the sound of distant barking penetrated far enough to rouse my dormant mind. Cold was still the dominant sensation, though it helped to clear my head. My stone mattress was as unforgiving as ever. And I noticed that the moon had flown its course, disappearing behind the ridge. I sat up and strained to listen. The noise came from a lone animal. Dog, not coyote. I'd heard a pack of the wild creatures earlier, calling to one another and singing to the night. But this was different—excited, frenzied even—and getting closer.

  Sudden joy washed over me like a balmy summer breeze. Surely a more splendid sound was never heard in cathedral or concert hall. Scrambling stiffly to my feet, I filled my lungs to cry out. But the sound died in my throat, stifled there by some internal alarm. Perhaps I'd heard the other noise before it consciously registered. And something in its frantic nature gave me pause. Straining harder, I scanned the darkness with my ears.

  Closer now, clearly audible between sporadic bursts of howling canine exuberance. By comparison, this sound was deeper, muffled— gradually coalescing into a succession of pants and snorts.

  Closer still. Accompanied by the crash of brush trampled under racing feet. Leaves tossing, branches cracking, breath caught in jagged, rasping gasps. Always followed by the chilling howl, now rising in an unearthly crescendo. Tiny hairs rose on the back of my neck. And a shiver, in no way related to the cold, coursed through my frame. With the clamour nearly upon me, I sank to my knees, withdrawing from the cliff-edge, and peered carefully into the pit of darkness below.

  Abruptly the headlong rush came to a halt and in the momentary pause that followed, the sound of tortured breathing filled the night. Then a volley of howls burst from the woods, and a series of grunts combined with the snorts and panting—all getting nearer to my elevated perch. Unless I was very much mistaken, an animal, a big one, was scaling a tree opposite my ledge. And it was scared.

  Seconds later, the owner of the frantic yapping exploded into the clearing below. Though invisible from my position, it was easy to imagine a wildly excited hound, prancing impatiently at the base of the tall pine as he summoned reinforcements. Between outbursts, I could plainly hear its quarry, now just metres from where I crouched, furiously gasping for breath.

  I couldn't say how long the three of us remained in this bizarre tableau, but it must have been several minutes. Long enough to conclude that my aerial neighbour was definitely a bear. And long enough for a vague hope to start germinating in my mind. Maybe the dog was on its own. If so, it would eventually tire of this game and go away. I was feeling quite optimistic until a beam of light pierced both the night—and my hopes.

  At first, I saw just an occasional flash, here and there among the trees. But soon, the unmistakable crunch of boots joined in. Moments later, a blinding beam lanced the clearing. When my eyes adjusted, the prancing figure of a honey-coated hound at last connected with the relentless noise below. Though his words were inaudible over the din, the keeper of the beam must have issued a command. For the racket abruptly ceased.

  I froze on the spot, hardly daring to breathe. Terrified, in the sudden hush, of revealing my presence. A probing shaft, like a prison searchlight, swept the branches before me. It settled on a massive black form, clinging to the tree-trunk not three metres from where I crouched. Trapped in the searing light, the great animal's eyes gleamed in terror. It pulled back, trying to escape the blinding glare. A low growl started deep in his chest and rumbled into the night. But it was a futile show of courage.

  I knew what was coming. Was powerless to stop it. And that knowledge made me sick inside. Clearly this man and dog were poachers. Almost certainly the ones responsible for the carcass we'd found on Monday. They were operating outside the law and doing it with a lethal weapon. I wasn't fool enough to harbour any illusions about the consequences of an attempted intervention. If I died on this ledge, it was more than a reasonable possibility that my body would never be found. I kept still. And hated myself for doing it.

  "Good job," raved a partially muffled voice far below. I didn't catch the dog's name clearly. It might have been Hooch. The words came to me indistinctly, like a radio signal fading in and out. "Another five hundred in the bank."

  Suddenly the spotlight swung earthward, plunging our elevation into blackness. Hazarding a peek over the rim, I saw the torch now settled on a stump, creating a narrow arc of illumination in the clearing. The hound sat at attention, every muscle quivering with barely contained excitement. His master squatted nearby, a featureless mass. He unzipped a long, narrow case and reached inside. A beam of light glinted off the barrel of the rifle he withdrew. I strained for a better look, but the poacher chose that moment to rise. The brilliant arc now revealed nothing more helpful than a pair of dark hiking boots on jean-clad legs.

  Again the shaft of light turned skyward, pinning the magnificent bear like a mounted butterfly. I heard a sharp metallic click—before an explosion ripped the night. The anguished cry tore first at my ears and then at my heart. Two gleaming eyes swung accusingly in my direction. For a beat, the great animal managed to hold on. Then it fell, snapping branches as it hurtled earthward. The scene might have been almost endurable if the great beast had died in the tree. But I heard a massive grunt as the bear struck the ground and tears flowed unbidden as I peered once more into the pool of light below.

  I stuffed my fist into my mouth, desperate to stifle the sobs I couldn't control. No need. Poacher and dog were completely absorbed with their prey. He lay on his back, eyes rolling, his low moans partially audible where I hid. The hunter edged closer and I raised a prayer of gratitude as he levelled the rifle, carefully aiming at the bear's skull. Another ear-splitting report and the clearing fell silent.

  "...a beauty," the poacher's voice burst out. The words I could catch sounded genuinely awed. "...we weren't trophy huntin'. This guy's a monster.... Don't need his skin, do we fella?"

  The dog made no reply, still sitting obediently just a few feet from his downed quarry. He watched with singular focus as his master withdrew a fearsome looking knife and bent over the fresh kill. It was hard to make out the details of what followed. The light kept flashing about as the poacher worked. But I pretty much knew what was happening and had no real desire to see more. I felt sick enough already.

  When, like a receding nightmare, the dancing beam had disappeared into the forest, pent-up emotion overwhelmed me. Curling myself into a defensive ball, I wept the tears of shame and sorrow. Except for the few private moments before my parents' funerals, I had never felt such intense grief. Now physically exhausted and spiritually drained, my mind retreated once more into the void of sleep.

  A new sensation came with the return of consciousness. My joints still ached. My hip and shoulder still rebelled against the unforgiving stone mattress, but a heavenly warmth caressed my back and the brilliant sunshine made me blink. I stretched to relieve the stiffness and awkwardly scrambled to my feet. The sudden movement left me weak and dizzy and I reached a steadying hand to the rapidly warming rock face. Despite the change in temperature, goosebumps rose on my arms. The back of my hand felt unnaturally cool on my clammy forehead. Apparently, I'd acquired a fever. Not surprising, given the night I'd been through.

  Reluctantly, I succumbed to the morbid curiosity that dragged my gaze past the cliff-edge. Bile rose in my throat and I backed quickly against the wall. How ridiculous it would be to crash to earth in a fit of shock-induced vertigo. Rescue was my current priority, not useless self-recrimination. There'd be plenty of time for that later. R
ight now, the sun was climbing and there was work to do.

  Fishing in my bag, I extracted the small rectangular mirror that had miraculously survived my fall, and angled it to flash a brilliant signal. It's truly remarkable what a measure of control, no matter how slight, can do for sagging morale. The effect was plainly evident in my voice.

  "Hello!" I shouted, sounding optimistic and assured. "Can anybody hear me? I'm on a ledge on the east side of the cliff."

  Echoes rebounded up and down the ravine and I waited in silence for a response. Nothing happened, but that was hardly unexpected. It would probably be noon before anybody reported me missing. If someone heard me now, it would be a wildly lucky break.

  "Hello," I called again, repeating my position.

  "Hello yourself," came a reply from the direction of the cabin, so unexpected I nearly forgot to answer.

  "Down here!" I finally shouted and reached to jostle the Saskatoon branches. When my rescuer looked over the edge, I wouldn't be visible, but my red-flag teddy sure would.

  "Who's down there?" demanded a voice from my recent past.

  "It's me, Lyle. Taylor Kerrick. Taylor Anderson," I corrected, irrelevantly.

  "What in blazes—" It was the nearest Lyle Abel ever came to actual profanity.

  "Long story," I called. "Have you got a rope?"

  "Of course. Are you hurt?"

  "No. Just a little bruised. I can climb out if you get me a rope."

  "Okay. Hang on. I'll rig a line to Midnight's saddle."

  I could hear footfalls and muttered comments as Lyle led the horse nearer and made his arrangements. While he worked, so did I. Though ecstatic about imminent rescue, I wasn't about to abandon my honeymoon teddy. By the time the lifeline was secured and dangling within reach, my treasure was safely stowed.

  "You know how to tie that rope around yourself?"

  "Yes."

  "Get it right up under your armpits. And tie it good."

  This final instruction was hardly necessary. One carcass at the foot of the cliff struck me as more than enough. "Okay," I called. "I'm ready."

  "Here we go. Sing out if you need me to stop."

  "Right. Let's go."

  The rope tightened painfully, pinching under my arms. But I barely noticed as I struggled to keep from twisting off to the side. It took all my strength to push clear of the cliff face and inch slowly upward. My hands, burned raw by bristled rope and rasped on jagged rocks, were a pitiful mess when I finally reached up for Lyle's grasp. He pulled me over the lip as gently as possible. But it still felt like a naked ride over a rusty washboard. I doubted there was a single square inch of unbruised territory anywhere on my body.

  It sure will be fun when Matt gets back, I thought, in a fit of irrelevance quickly doused by Lyle's no-nonsense presence. "That your car back by the cabin?" the big man asked, helping me carefully to my feet.

  I nodded weakly.

  "Good. I'll get you right to the hospital. We'll call the others from there."

  "Don't need a hospital," I protested. "Let's just get back to the lodge."

  "Right. And have you keel over from shock or pneumonia."

  I did a double take at the sarcasm in his tone. This was another first, though the man had a point. I was starting to feel a little unsteady. Lyle looked down at me and slowly shook his head.

  "Come on. Let's get you up on Midnight."

  Without waiting for any more objections, he hoisted me bodily into the saddle. We were back at the car before I had a chance to realise the full extent of my gratitude. Suddenly every bit of my remaining strength drained completely away and I slid into his arms like a handful of cooked spaghetti. With gentleness remarkable for a man of his size, Lyle set me on the ground while he rummaged in my bag and found the keys. He lifted me into the car and wrapped me in a blanket he scrounged from the back seat, then disappeared for a few minutes. I was aware of the hatchback opening and closing before he wedged himself in beside me.

  "What about your horse?" I had the presence of mind to ask.

  "Oh, he'll get back to the barn on his own," Lyle replied. "Knows this country better than me. He'll be home before we get to town."

  "Won't Dan worry when he comes back without you?"

  "Dan'll know I sent him when he shows up without his tack. I put the saddle and bridle in the trunk." Lyle fit the key in the ignition and started the engine. "I'll call when we get to the hospital. There's no signal here."

  "Oh." That was all I could manage for the time being. My brain seemed barely functional and there was little point in fighting it. For a while nothing much registered as we bumped and jostled over the rutted track. Then a thought began to develop. It was one of those notions that starts out hazy and indefinable, then gradually gathers substance. I wasn't keen on the direction it was taking.

  "Lyle, why were you out here this morning?" I finally asked.

  "Just lookin' around," was the non-committal response.

  "You do that often?"

  "Some."

  Obviously, my rescuer had no intention of telling me more.

  Hopefully the reason was a taciturn nature and not a guilty secret. But I was beyond further speculation. When we hit pavement and the ride smoothed out to a steady rhythm, my eyes drooped shut and I was out for the count. I didn't come fully awake until the hospital intern asked my name—apparently for the second time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Following the preliminary assessment and a massive shot of antibiotics, I was relegated to ER limbo. Gasping asthma sufferers, coronary victims, and serious bleeders all took precedence. Like the survivors of toppled bicycles and persistent viruses, I could wait.

  They outfitted me in the standard issue, air conditioned hospital gown, though relenting enough to add a couple of toasty blankets on top of the regulation tissue-thin sheet. My fever must have been worth some consideration. I dozed away in the curtained enclosure, oblivious of the activity surrounding me until Lyle tapped me gently on the shoulder.

  "How're you doing?" he asked, his broad features genuinely concerned.

  "Just tired now," I assured him, then managed a wry grin. "And I think this is going to be the granddaddy of all colds."

  He nodded gravely. "I won't disturb you for long. You need rest. The doctor wants to keep an eye on you for a while. I'll get on back to the lodge, now. Brooke and Dan will pick you up this afternoon."

  "Oh dear. I hate to disturb them. And I've caused you such a lot of trouble, too."

  "No trouble," he said in a tone that made me feel guilty for my previous suspicions. "And Dan and Brooke insisted. They were going to come right over. I told them it would be better to wait. You need rest and there's nothing they can do until the doctors spring you."

  Of course, he was right. His quiet efficiency was so reassuring. But two loose ends remained to be tied. First was my concern for Matt. Drifting in and out of sleep, the thought of my husband had kept gnawing at my subconscious. Did he know what was going on? Had anyone tried to reach him? Had he been trying to reach me in the last twenty-four hours? Was he wondering why I didn't answer? I asked Lyle for my phone.

  "Sorry," he said. "But I left your purse locked in the car when I brought you in. Don't worry, though. Brooke said she'd get in touch with Matt."

  "Oh." I tried not to sound too ungrateful, though I was disappointed. "Okay, then. There's just one other thing, Lyle. I need you to make a different call," I said, feeling heartsick and weary. "I need you to call Roy Friesen."

  The big man's black eyebrows drew together in a questioning frown. Then, as I explained the reason, his features settled into a grave mask. "Right away," he said. "I can tell him exactly where to look."

  I nodded my thanks as Lyle turned to leave. Weariness and medication overcame me then, and I let go with gratitude. Over the next few hours, my dreamless sleep was interrupted from time to time by the ministrations of various medicos: blood pressure readings, stethoscope gropings, and another whopping needle applied
to my derriere. But I was so tired, each time I dropped right off again, sometimes before they were finished.

  When I finally did come around, consciousness was a big disappointment. Every movement caused a twinge. I was afraid to look under the covers. Who wanted to see a black and blue rainbow? And I was starving.

  No, famished—voracious—ravenous...

  I tried every description in my considerable lexicon. None fit the bill. I couldn't even remember my last meal and I felt so empty my ribs were getting acquainted with my backbone. A tentative test of the call button pinned to my pillow produced surprisingly quick results.

  "Hi there," said a chipper voice belonging to an equally cheery face poked through the gap in the curtains. A short woman, with pixie bright eyes and a flash of white teeth advanced into the enclosure. "Decided to rejoin us, eh?"

  "Looks that way."

  "Headache?" she asked, automatically fastening the rubber blood-pressure cuff around my arm.

  "A little," I said, noting that my ministering angel was called Fay Resnick. Name tags can be handy.

  "Dizziness?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Nausea?" Nurse Resnick lifted my wrist for a pulse check.

  "Not really. Just empty."

  "No wonder." She jotted notes on my chart as she spoke. "We'll get Doctor Bower in for a look, then see what we can rustle up."

  "Thanks. I'd really appreciate it."

  My hand received a reassuring pat and Nurse Resnick winked as she turned to go. "Can't have you wrecking our recovery stats."

  I agreed whole-heartedly. Only Doctor Bower had better get a move on because my death by starvation was surely imminent. And I was in no mood for comfort from the notion that fasting is spiritually revitalising, though there might be something to it, for the curtains parted almost immediately and the good doctor appeared, as if by psychic command.