Bear of a Honeymoon Read online

  His enthusiasm caught me by surprise. So, what else is new? I thought. Matt was always doing something to keep people off balance. That's why he dressed like the Midnight Cowboy. It was a costume, part of his offbeat act. How was I to know he harboured a genuine interest in things Western? In so many ways my husband was still a stranger.

  But I was learning. Little by little, Taylor. If you wait long enough, you'll finally get to know him—little by little.

  I cherished this new thought as we walked hand-in-hand to the reception area. Of course, it wasn't completely satisfying. No reporter could accept such an arrangement with perfect equanimity. We're natural excavators, compelled to dig and probe and relentlessly worry a subject until we're satisfied we've found the nugget of truth. Reporters are proactive, take charge, okay—control freaks. But it didn't work that way with Matt. No amount of prying loosened the jaws of his rock-hard shell. It opened only when he chose to spring the hinge, and then only for the briefest of glimpses at the pearl nestled inside.

  And it was a pearl. I'd learned enough to be absolutely certain of that. I squeezed his hand and he returned the pressure, probably unconsciously. He was still babbling on about hoof picks and trench foot. What a romantic!

  We joined the happy hour party in progress. The volume suggested a crowd well on the way to happy. A substantial group clustered around a seating area at the far end of the foyer. Among them I noticed some of this afternoon's grumpy-faced travel agents, their frowns now noticeably absent. Hopefully that was a good omen for Brooke and the lodge. I didn't see how anybody could stay mad for long in such a gorgeous setting.

  Because of the massive window walls the surrounding natural wonders formed an integral part of the interior design. The lake had changed into party clothes, trading its marine blue business suit for a Joseph's coat of sunset hues. And the sky was filled with matching party streamers. In the central fire pit, a complementary blaze warded off the evening chill and danced to a rhythm all its own.

  We made a fuelling stop at the portable bar—a glass of Okanagan Shiraz for me, a local micro-brew for my partner. Then recognising Brooke and Claire as the focal point of another animated group, Matt steered us in that direction. Claire, who had tactfully abandoned us when Matt returned to the family quarters—no doubt on strict parental command—was overjoyed to see us again. She rushed to grab my husband by the hand and towed him to the group like a salvage tug returning triumphant to its home port. Apparently, she was on a self-appointed mission of introduction. But her efforts were rudely forestalled by a flaccid lump, conspicuous in suit and tie, who waddled into our midst.

  His face was a doughy square with pendulous jowls and multiple chins. The lipless mouth cut a straight line as expressionless as a surgical incision and his shoe-button eyes were barely magnified to normal size by a pair of thick-lensed wire rimmed glasses. Though surely old enough for a liberal sprinkling of grey, his hair remained suspiciously coal black, trimmed close at the sides and pulled long over the top in a futile attempt to camouflage the acre of shiny scalp exposed there.

  Without so much as a curt nod to the assembly, he took Brooke by the arm and drew her aside. "You should be mingling with the travel agents," he wheezed in a voice more appropriate to a winded jogger. "Help them forget this afternoon, try to repair some of the damage"

  Who the heck was this guy? He made me react like a cornered cat. My hackles rose in primal response. If I'd had a tail like the Dudster's, it would have been puffed like a bottlebrush. Then my jaw hit the floor. Instead of delivering the cut-him-off-at-the-knees response I expected, Brooke turned to us, and deliberately avoiding all eye contact, meekly excused herself and left. They were barely out of earshot when Claire piped up.

  "I told you he was creepy," she declared.

  "That was Kenny Legge?" I asked, stunned at the accuracy of her earlier description.

  She nodded emphatically.

  "Who's Kenny Legge?" Matt wanted to know. He echoed the quizzical looks on the faces of the other members of our group.

  "According to Claire, he used to own the place."

  "What an unpleasant man," observed a grandmotherly type in a cheerily striped cotton blouse and coordinated pants. "I can hardly imagine anyone like that making a go of the hospitality business.

  "He didn't," said Claire with her usual directness. "He inherited the lodge from his mom and dad. They originally built it."

  "It was a hunting lodge back then, wasn't it?" said a silver haired gent who was apparently paired with the grandmother. He bore a striking resemblance to Don Amici in the movie Cocoon.

  As Claire nodded once more it seemed to hit us all simultaneously that introductions had been forestalled. "By the way," said the Don Amici look-alike, I'm Art Fisk and this is my wife Belle—pretty as her name," he added, giving her a playful squeeze. And he was right. Her face wore the signs of her sixty-some years, but those lines spoke of years filled with laughter. The twinkle in her clear hazel eyes looked to be a permanent feature. Her smile was broad and ready, and her pale blonde hair tint went well with a glowing complexion. Obviously accustomed to her husband's corny intro, Belle tut-tutted goodnaturedly.

  "Hi," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Taylor Ker— ... Anderson," I stammered. A sidelong glance told me Matt wasn't bothered, but I felt myself blushing furiously anyway. I really had to sort this out. Though I'd decided to keep Kerrick as my legal name, I still hadn't got my head wrapped around these social situations. Should I stick with Kerrick or use Anderson to make our relationship clear to others?

  "Newlywed, I'll bet," Belle cooed, postponing the issue for later review. "Don't worry honey, you'll get used to it soon enough."

  "You're quick enough to be a news hound," I said, hoping she was right.

  "Too diplomatic," Matt corrected, giving me the eyebrow before introducing himself.

  We learned the Fisks were old friends of Bear Lake Lodge. It was a regular resting point on their annual northern migration. Typical Edmonton snowbirds, they headed for Arizona the minute the tinsel was off their Christmas tree and stayed south until they could count on tulips and crocuses back home. They had gleefully cheated six hard winters since trading Art's heating and air conditioning business for what sounded like a palatial RV.

  Claire jumped in with an all too enthusiastic account of recent Anderson exploits and I was left red-faced when people realised that I was the "Ivory Lady" of recent talk show fame.

  Our other two companions turned out to be a biologist and a university student. Liam Maloney was about my age, with a boyish face and solid athletic build. He was a semi-permanent resident of the lodge while he completed a field study for EnviroWatch, a well-known and equally well-respected environmental advocacy organisation.

  His assistant, Tovey Aquino, had just arrived the previous week. Fresh from completing her second year as a biology major, her enthusiasm and zeal were as evident as the froth of paprika-coloured curls that boiled around her face and tumbled exuberantly to her shoulders. She looked more like a candidate for the cover of Seventeen than a serious contender for wilderness research, but I had a hunch that petite stature was backed up by a spirit as big as a Sumo wrestler.

  "Tovey's helping Liam count bears," Claire announced, with an expression and tone suggestive of serious doubt over Tovey's sanity.

  "Oh my," Belle gasped, one diamond studded hand flying to her throat in an antique gesture that reminded me of my grandmother. "That sounds very dangerous."

  "Don't worry, ma'am," Liam interjected. "We'll be working with live-trapped animals, most of which have already been tagged."

  "Please call me Belle," she said, transferring the same jewelled hand to his arm. "Ma'am is for old ladies and the Queen." A chuckle circled the group as she continued, now showing real interest. "How

  did the bears come to be tagged?"

  "As part of a long-term study by the Ministry of Environment," Liam explained. "Although there are lots of black bears now, no one knows exact
ly how their numbers will hold up in the face of modern pressures." His youthful features had become serious and his voice grew more intense.

  "That's one of the reasons this area was chosen for the EnviroWatch study. It's really a sort of microcosm with all the factors represented. New logging operations and pressure for residential, commercial, and recreational development, all added to traditional hunting and fishing. We're interested in the impact on all the indigenous wildlife, but having baseline data available on the bears makes it most practical to concentrate on them first."

  "Back in February, Liam was actually listening to bears in their dens," Claire exclaimed, her eyes like Wedgewood saucers. "He's got pictures, too."

  "No kidding," Matt cried. "What kind of lens did you use? How did you get the camera into the den?"

  "Whoa back, there, Big Fella," I laughed, circling his waist with a playful hug. "Don't encourage him," I warned Liam. "It doesn't take much to set him off."

  "No kidding." Liam's face was split in a white-toothed grin. "But I'd be happy to show you how it's done. I'm afraid I'm just as bad when it comes to talking about my own work," he confessed.

  "Maybe they'd like to come on the nature walk tomorrow," Tovey suggested.

  "Great idea."

  Fisks and Andersons looked blank.

  "Liam's helping Brooke with her travel agents," Tovey explained.

  "A guided hike, complete with expert commentary."

  Fisks and Andersons looked interested.

  "Can a couple of old crocks keep up?" Art asked.

  "Have you looked at some of those travel agents?" Liam replied. The older man snorted. "I guess we're in."

  That made it unanimous, I was as excited as Matt. We'd come here for a good healthy dose of Mother Nature; two enthusiastic biologists were an unexpected bonus. From that moment on, all conversation revolved around our upcoming adventure. We'd worked our way through timing and footwear and circled back to the inevitable question of cameras when Brooke arrived with more fuel for the fire.

  She introduced a square-cut man in his late fifties, wearing a rancher's weathered tan and a thatch of abundant silver hair, cropped close. He regarded us through friendly brown eyes, surrounded by a forest of plough-furrow lines. "This is Griff Moody," she announced with a mysterious twinkle in her eye. "He comes here every year to bag his limit."

  Given the composition of our group, it wasn't surprising to note six jaws dropping with the precision of an honour guard drill-team. We were all still searching for our tongues when Claire piped up. "Griff always comes for the spring season," she observed sweetly. "He shoots a bear every time." That one warranted a double take. Little Miss Friend-to-all-creatures sounded full of admiration. She returned my startled gaze with forced equanimity.

  "What's going on?" I demanded, detecting a twitch at the corner of her carefully composed little mouth.

  "Ask him." she replied, breaking into a merry grin.

  Six pairs of eyes wheeled in lockstep

  "I am a hunter," the newcomer admitted, with elaborate sheepishness, apparently enjoying his role. And I do shoot a bear every year," he affirmed. "Sometimes more than one."

  "But—," said Liam, willing to play along.

  "But I use a special kind of weapon."

  "Which is—," Belle chimed in gamely.

  "DSLR," said Griff, sounding like he was confessing to serial murders.

  Matt burst into a wide grin. "You fraud," he teased. "You shoot bears with a camera."

  Wonderful. I fired a reproachful glance in Brooke's direction. As though my husband needed any sort of encouragement. This was like offering a starving man caviar. Excessive in the extreme. But Brooke had known what she was doing. Griff was such a fascinating guy, the conversation had no chance to get bogged down in photo-speak. If anything, Matt was going to have to fight me for him. I could hardly wait to interview this guy. A story line was already assembling itself in my brain, though I didn't have long to think about it. A big-boned woman, as tall as myself and broad-shouldered as Matt, had come striding up to our group.

  "Hello, everybody," she boomed. "I'm Denise Pardue." She thrust her hand at the nearest warm body like a veteran political campaigner. Liam, who happened to be the warm body, responded automatically, accepting the hand and returning the introduction in a wooden tone that reflected our communal surprise. Even Brooke was caught off guard. I could practically see the wheels turning as she tried to place this latest arrival in context. But Denise was oblivious to the cool reception. An awkward silence followed the last stilted handshake. Belle finally stepped into the breach.

  "Did you just arrive today?" she inquired, politely.

  "Sure did," came the brassy reply. "Drove in from Seattle."

  "Is that where you're from?" Art asked, gamely taking up the baton.

  "No. But that's where I hang my hat right now."

  Denise seemed perfectly comfortable acting the part of laboratory specimen. Members of the group took turns asking questions in a conversational relay that kept her talking, but the easy chatter that had flowed before her arrival was sadly lost. I found myself giving her an admittedly catty once-over.

  Dressed like a latter-day hippie in a burgundy cotton sack that hung shapeless from neckline to mid-calf, where the hem met a pair of faux-suede mukluks, all the outfit lacked was a string of love beads and a peace sign pendant. She did wear the requisite shoulder-scraping earrings and a platoon of silver bangles clattered at her wrist. I was willing to bet her sagging features were total strangers to lipstick and mascara and her long, wispy locks owed their fullness to a multitude of untended split ends. I don't know where she'd been since Woodstock, but I was sure she'd look more at home cooking rice on a Coleman stove next to her VW camper than she did here picking at the nibbly tray in a multi-star resort.

  "It's always the same," Denise Pardue groused, poking at the tasselled toothpicks on a tray of hors d'oeuvres held into our circle by a pretty server. "Shrimp and scallops and chicken bits," she was warming up like a gospel preacher. "It's bad enough our fellow creatures have to face this needless slaughter, but then these cannibals have to go and soak everything in fat. Hideous," she declared.

  "I'm a vegetarian, too," Tovey interjected, showing the spunk I'd guessed she possessed. "But I feel people should be free to make their own choices, don't you?"

  "Not when that freedom infringes on the rights of other creatures and the integrity of the environment," Denise shot back. "Not when multi-national forestry giants mow down vast tracts of virgin timber and leave their clear-cuts looking like war zones," she continued, her eyes shining with the fire of true zealotry. "That's when people like me have to take a stand. Ordinary people have to show their courage, have to do whatever it takes to stop the carnage."

  "Is that why you're here?" Brooke asked softly. I knew her well enough to recognise the nervous edge regardless of her carefully modulated tone.

  "You bet," Denise declared. "Timber International has just secured cutting rights in this area and my group is out to stop them going into operation."

  "Why?" asked Claire, in her wonderfully straightforward way.

  "Because they're wanton despoilers of the last old-growth forests,"

  came the answer, delivered like a carefully memorized commandment.

  "But the forest around here isn't old growth," Liam told her. Between logging in the last century and recurring forest fires, none of these trees is more than a hundred and fifty years old."

  "And that's not old enough?" Denise demanded.

  "I don't think that's the point," Liam continued, calmly. "Of course a century-and-a-half-old tree is something to be respected. But it's not the same as fighting to save the few remaining watersheds that have never been subjected to human intervention. I would have thought you'd be working with some of the organisations waging that battle."

  A derisive snort accompanied Denise's haughty reply. "Sellouts," she scoffed. "Milquetoast, namby-pamby's. Blocking logging roa
ds and marching around like off-duty war protesters."

  "A lot of those protesters have been willing to face arrest for their beliefs," I countered, waging my own battle with the famous Kerrick temper. "Look how successful the Clayoquot Sound protests were."

  "So what," Denise sneered. "That was over twenty-five years ago and it may have saved Clayoquot—for now—but it hasn't stopped all the logging. Blockades and marching aren't enough."

  "What do you suggest?" Matt asked with a liberal dash of sarcasm. "Spike trees? Sabotage equipment?"

  "Whatever it takes," came the belligerent reply.

  I saw the colour drain from Brooke's face and Belle stared bug-eyed. The others wore a variety of pained expressions each tinged with a degree of hostility. Silence gaped between us and it was long past the point of unbearability when Brooke recovered her wits enough to make a show of consulting her watch. Mercifully it informed her that the dining room should open for dinner.

  Our group disintegrated with the force of a minor explosion. Excuses ranged from trips to the powder room to pre-dinner strolls. Matt and I opted for a stop at the bar, there to conduct a leisurely post-mortem of the preceding events. When the Fisks turned up, we organised a dinner foursome and found their company as delightful as the meal.

  It was after ten when Matt shut the world out of our temporary quarters and wrapped me in his arms. His kiss was slow and tasted of cheesecake and Icewine. I drank him in like a desert wanderer, feeling his pulse accelerate to match my own. We clung together in the velvety darkness, awash in our private sensations. But the privacy was far from complete. A slammed door jarred us apart and angry voices crashed through the silence.

  "Where the devil were you?" Brooke's voice sounded shrill and unnatural.

  "As far away from you as I could get," Dan shouted.

  "You were needed at the lodge," his wife raged from just beyond our door.