Bear of a Honeymoon Page 2

  As I walked past the garage door wall toward a two-by-four workbench dominating the far corner, a few possibilities occurred to me. This might have been planned as the initial phase of a longer-term construction project, like the homesteaders whose first cabin was often relegated to the status of barn or other outbuilding when they became well enough established for a larger home. Or maybe it was just what it appeared, a practical way of creating a large opening. The cabin was certainly furnished sparsely enough to accommodate a small boat, say, for winter storage. And there was evidence of some such use. Lines of dried sand marked the gold shag carpet remnant that covered the concrete floor.

  Searching further, I noticed oil lamps hanging from brackets on the cedar-panelled walls. A Coleman camp stove sat on the kitchen worktop—no electricity—and the stainless sink, minus faucet, told its own story. Open-faced shelves contained a variety of provisions: canned soup, condensed milk, chili and stew, boxes of cereal and crackers, and a jar of coffee. A five-gallon jug, half-full of water, sat on the counter. A single mug lay inverted in the plastic dish drainer. On impulse, I touched the dishcloth folded neatly on the edge of the sink. Dry and stiff.

  A shiver suddenly ran through my torso and goose bumps rose thick on my arms. Gripped by a spasm of fear, so real yet so unfounded, it took all my mental strength to keep from bolting through the door. I managed not to run, but my pace was far from dignified and the relief that surged through my veins was as warm and welcome as the touch of spring sunshine outside.

  Just a guilty childhood throwback I assured myself. Like the throat-gripping panic produced by the sound of my mother's footsteps in the hall as I froze like a light-blinded deer, elbow deep in her special drawer. And I guess I had it coming. Nobody invited me into that cabin. But there was more to it than simple shame for being nosy.

  Looking at the empty picture window that stared like a sightless Cyclops from the centre of an otherwise featureless face, I decided it was the sterility. Not sterility in the sense of excessive cleanliness, there were plenty of cobwebs and lots of dust. It was more a question of what wasn't there.

  Nothing personal. No clothes lying around. Not a hat or jacket or spare pair of shoes. There wasn't even a dresser. And the line of pegs by the door was as bare as a bleached skeleton. Why were there no books, no pictures, no hunting trophies, fishing rods or even a deck of cards? The place reeked of pure functionality, eating and sleeping. It gave me the creeps.

  I shook off a final shiver and turned my back.

  "This is more like it," I told the sun-bathed clearing, "I wonder how many of these wildflowers I can remember?"

  Scarlet gilia was easy to spot, wisps of blazing colour reaching skyward on whisper thin stems, and perky arnica, like yellow daisies to my unpractised eye. There were wild strawberries in delicate white and wild roses in delicate pink, tiny yellow clusters of Oregon grape and extravagant colonies of lavender penstemon. Dozens more wove together like the threads of an intricate oriental carpet. Bunch grass, lichen, moss, rocks, flowers and dirt, all essential to the pattern. I stepped carefully, you might even say reverently, but each cushioned footfall still crushed a blossom or two. Without the gift of levitation, there was no way to avoid every flower.

  My progress slowed even further with frequent stops. I paused to look at the trees—towering, spike-needled ponderosas and moss-draped firs. I stopped to look at the sky—a seamless, cerulean dome. I stopped just to breathe—consuming great quantities of pine-rich air. And I stopped at the edge of a canyon.

  Before I reached the brink, I didn't even realize it was there. From any distance, the clearing simply appeared to meld with the surrounding forest. Now I realised only the tops of these trees were visible from where I stood. For mountain country, it wasn't such a long way down, maybe about sixty metres. But the drop was vertical. Instinctively I took a step backward—my only mistake.

  Random patch of loose gravel ... Split-second flash of vertigo ... Nauseating crack of skull on rock ...

  Chapter Two

  A heartbeat later, Saskatoon berry was my favourite plant. Rooted tenaciously to a narrow rocky outcropping about six metres below my last solid foothold, one hardy bush had single-handedly forestalled the demise of the Taylor Kerrick byline.

  White blossoms surrounded me in a lazy shower of confetti and I watched rapturously as they floated earthward. Such a long way down. So slow and dreamy.

  Yes, dreamy, I thought, lulled by a gentle motion. It was like... Rock-a-bye baby...

  How strange. My head felt light—disconnected—like chugging a tumbler of wine on an empty stomach.

  On the treetop...

  Why did that rhyme keep running through my mind?

  When the wind blows...

  Oh look. The confetti's all gone. Way down there on the ground.

  Just like the confetti on the sidewalk—that Ben threw—and Jessie, my friend Jessie—she threw such a lot it got in my eyes—and my mouth. Still finding bits in the car. After all these weeks.

  My head felt peculiar. I reached to massage one temple. The motion released another spray of petals. With a growing sense of anxiety, I watched them fall.

  Why were the flowers falling? It seemed so important.

  The cradle will rock...

  And why did that stupid rhyme keep running through my head?

  "Shut up and let me think," I commanded, jerking both hands to my temples.

  A burst of insight answered all questions. It struck when the branch cracked—crisp and decisive as a rifle shot. The sound did wonders for my comprehension. That and the sensation of falling. It's remarkable how the imminent prospect of sudden death clears the mind and focuses thinking. But the strength and agility that saved me had nothing to do with grey matter. It was born of pure primal instinct, no conscious thought involved. I simply found myself sprawled on a rocky ledge; sweating and gasping like an out-of-shape marathoner.

  When I had the breath, I let out a string of expletives as creative as it was extensive. In the past, my penchant for unplanned, independent action had landed me in some pretty unhealthy situations. Apparently, I'd done it again.

  Eventually the self-flagellation wore thin and some part of my brain kicked into gear with the reflex to reach for my phone. For sure I still wasn't thinking straight, but when my hand closed on the zipper pocket of my shoulder bag, the fog cleared a little as I realized the miracle of finding it still slung around my body. My hand shook badly as I extracted the device, barely daring to hope that it had survived the fall. With a leap of joy, I saw the face light up—what crashing disappointment when I realized the only thing not illuminated were the signal strength bars—not one.

  For the first time since my unceremonious landing I looked around to properly assess the situation. My findings were not inspirational. I was sitting on the outside of a relatively flat ledge that was more like a shallow cave, about a metre deep, ten paces wide and the same height. No mystery now about my phone not working. Nothing short of a satellite signal could find me here and I was going nowhere on my own. With that reverse angle cliff face, there was no way to get a foothold even if I'd known the first thing about rock climbing. Nobody but the Human Fly was getting out of here without a rope. Worse still, with the surrounding rock and scattered bushes, I was virtually invisible from every vantage point but the tree branches directly opposite. Even the providential Saskatoon helped to screen me from above. When people finally realised I was missing, I was going to be extremely hard to find.

  And when might that be? Matt and I had left so early there had been no one around and no reason to leave a message. Our absence from meals and activities might be noticed, but more likely than not, it would simply provide grist for the ribald joke mill. Newlyweds missing in action, nudge, nudge—wink, wink. I gave a sour snort. Some romantic tryst. Matt on a story. Taylor on a ledge.

  Noon tomorrow, I decided. With luck, the maid would report that our cabin appeared undisturbed since she cleaned it today. Bed n
ot slept in, towels still freshly folded—and the cats. Surely, she'd notice their food and water running low. Dudley and his new friend, Nell, should be okay. I always left lots of supplies, the newspaper business is notorious for unpredictable hours, but their rations wouldn't last forever.

  Scanning the narrow confines of my temporary accommodations I cursed my predictable impulsiveness. "Idiot," I raged, savagely kicking a pile of loose pebbles in a vain attempt to vent a cauldron of impotent fury. Looked like I'd be spending the night, unless I could attract somebody's attention.

  There was the owner of the garage-door cabin. He might return any time. And what about hikers, or hunters? Folks could be tramping through the ravine at this very moment.

  "Help!" I bellowed. "Is anybody there? Can anybody hear me?" My words echoed off the canyon walls, reverberating up and down. As the sound died away, I stood in motionless concentration, straining to catch the merest hint of a response. Nobody answered but the birds. There were lots of them, although the nasal honk of a Canada goose was the only call I could positively identify.

  "Help!" I tried once more. "I'm caught on a ledge. On the eastern face of the cliff. Can anybody hear me?" Same result. Fading echoes, rising bird song.

  Again and again I called, my controlled shout rising to a high-pitched scream as I grew more frantic. A well of fear surged within me, threatening to explode into full-blown panic. I screamed until nothing remained of my voice but a hoarse croak. Then the tears came. Hugging my arms around myself, I swayed against the jagged rock face and slumped to the ground.

  The tears were a surprise. Although I cry a lot—at sappy commercials, touching movies, and maudlin songs—I never cry for myself. And I guess I wasn't now. The warm, salty flow that seeped from my eyes and slid unhindered down my cheeks to fall from the angle of my jaw was born of frustration and anger, not resignation or self-pity. And when I fished for a tissue, to stop the flow from my dribbling nose, I was once more in complete control.

  It was time to take stock of my assets. All that hysterical screaming had threatened to rob me of one of the most important. From now on, I would have to ration my voice. And it was about all I had to ration. Equipped with nothing but my bag, a useless phone and the clothes on my back, I was anything but prepared for an impromptu camping expedition. Worse yet, my cell-like location prevented me from making any use of natural resources. No pine bough lean-to for shelter. No crystal mountain stream to soothe my parched throat. No dry twigs and branches to build a comforting fire (not that I had anything to light it with anyway). I would enjoy neither signal beacon nor warmth. And the question of warmth was becoming an issue.

  Up in the clearing, pants and T-shirt were almost too warm and I'd long since shed my fleece, though thankfully, it was still tied around my waist. But here in the cliff shadow, the caress of spring sunshine was just a nostalgic memory. I didn't want to think about tonight. Typical of semi-arid climates, the highlands experience temperature extremes. Despite the heat of the day, I knew the mercury would drop uncomfortably close to freezing after dark.

  And the lack of sunlight raised another problem. Without the use of my phone or the ability to start a fire to signal my position, the only option was a mirror, which I did have in my bag. But it would only be useful while the sun shone directly on my ledge. How long could that be? A quick glance at my watch confirmed my dismal suspicion. Barely past noon and already in deep shadow. How else could I draw attention?

  I pulled the bag into my lap and unzipped the main compartment. The contents weren't much help. Comb, nail file, pocket knife, more tissues, a couple of wrapped mints of the restaurant check-tray variety, lipstick, notebook, and pen. In some scenarios, these items might have been cause for cheer. But there was no nearby vanity mirror on which to scrawl a Kasbah Coral message and neither bottle nor ocean for a note. The mints would have to do for dinner. Disgusted, but not surprised, I jammed the stuff back and zipped the bag shut. There was no point in checking the other compartments. One held my space-junk phone, there was about fifty dollars cash in a long narrow pocket, and the small one in front contained my driver's licence and credit cards along with the mirror that was my one main hope—but not until morning.

  I hugged my legs, resting my chin on my knees, and looked around for inspiration. Maybe I could tie something to one of the Saskatoons within reach. The branches were flexible. I could bend one back and tie my flag to the outside end. When it sprang back into place, the signal should be visible to anyone who was looking.

  Instantly cheered by the opportunity to do something constructive, I jumped to my feet and took inventory. The signal would have to be a piece of my clothing. Now what would do the best job of attracting attention? My spirits took another nosedive as I reviewed the possibilities. After all, I had dressed in a hurry with no thought whatever of needing rescue before the day was out. Typical shortsightedness on my part, maybe, but the pickings were slim. Given the current surroundings I might as well have been wearing camouflage. A hunter green T and buff coloured chinos weren't going to get me far. Even the white fleece was a lost cause. Tied to the branches of a white-flowered bush, it would prove about as conspicuous as a golf ball in a blizzard. I was entertaining the thought of full-scale depression, when I remembered that this was my honeymoon.

  Surely a cause for joy under the circumstances.

  In point of fact, though, it was at least a cause for hope. Thanks to a certain loving and lascivious husband of short duration, my wardrobe happened to include one or two post-nuptial essentials. I thought the red lace teddy would do best. Matt would have loved the effect. Firmly attached by silken spaghetti straps, the filmy concoction blazed in contrast with the background of delicate creamy blossoms.

  By then my voice had recovered sufficiently for another go. But the results were the same and, conscious of the need to conserve this precious resource, I knew I had to establish a routine. Reasoning that sound must carry a fair distance in the echoing canyon, I decided to call out at regular intervals. That way, even if someone passed nearby when I was silent, they should still be in earshot when I tried again. I'd keep this up until nightfall, then start again at dawn.

  Surveying my tiny domain, I searched for the most comfortable place to settle down. Although there were patches of brown and grey lichen, chameleon-like against the uneven rocky surface, there was none of the thick, springy moss that had made crossing the clearing something like a moonwalk. I grumbled a few worthy epithets and was resigning myself to an indeterminate period of discomfort, when a distant but unmistakable sound snagged my attention.

  An airplane approaching fast from the west.

  I was pretty sure my ledge was nowhere near a flight-path for the airport, so this must be a private plane. Within moments, my assumption was confirmed when a smart four-seater floatplane soared by, directly overhead and climbing. But there was no point in shouting or waving my arms in frantic semaphore. Given the direction of travel, the pilot would have needed hundred-and-eighty-degree vision to see me. And I knew this pilot was not blessed with eyes in the back of his head. Max Edelman, owner of the sleek little aircraft was a fellow guest at Bear Lake Lodge. One I had no desire to know any better than I already did, despite my current circumstances. His superior attitude had rankled from the moment Matt and I encountered him in the reception area the day we arrived.

  Puzzled by the disgruntled mumbling of the twenty or thirty other guests milling around the concourse in scowling little groups, we'd been searching for a friendly face. My throat was feeling tight and my stomach was getting queasy by the time I finally spied Brooke Craddock, barricaded behind the counter. Impeccable as ever in a crisp cotton blouse with her blonde hair falling to her shoulders in a graceful sweep, my former roommate should have looked every inch the incharge professional. Instead, she reminded me of a fox at bay. In all our years of friendship, I had never before seen her face so drawn, never known the laughter to be completely absent from her genial brown eyes.


  But there was no hint of humour now as her gaze fixed on a grey-haired man of above average height, whose trim figure and broad shoulders probably owed more to the impeccable tailoring of his suit than to the generosity of nature. He spoke to her in a patronising tone, clearly audible above the surrounding hubbub.

  "Brooke, this simply will not do," he scolded, like the Lord Chamberlain reprimanding an errant parlour maid. "You cannot inconvenience valued regular clients such as myself and expect the lodge to maintain any sort of desirable reputation."

  "I know Mr. Edelman, and I'm terribly sorry," Brooke replied, her carefully modulated professional manner sounding frayed. "But it will only be for two nights. And I think you'll actually enjoy one of the new cabins," she added. "They're wonderfully appointed and very private."

  "I am sure they are an admirable addition to the establishment," he countered, his tone belying the words. "But I particularly enjoy the Cascade Suite. That is why I reserve it every time I come here—which, I might remind you, is quite often." A look at Brooke's face hinted that quite often might be too often, but she remained silent. "And I see no reason why your technical inadequacies should force an alteration in my plans. I assure you, if I were the owner of this establishment, no such debacle," he said, sweeping the assembly of grumbling patrons with a contemptuous gesture, "would ever be permitted."

  I didn't have to look at Brooke to know that Mr. Patrician-Condescension had just stepped over the line.

  "Well you don't own this establishment," my friend hissed through teeth clenched so tight her jaw must have hurt, all pretence of professional deference now abandoned. "The Cascade Suite will not be available until Tuesday night. We can accommodate you in Douglas Fir cabin, if you choose to stay." Her tone made it clear she hoped he would not. She turned to an attractive young woman, who had continued to serve other guests throughout the exchange, and spoke in glacial tones. "Rachel, please see to Mr. Edelman. I believe he prefers your attentions to mine in any event."