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RUNNING FROM LOVE |
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RUNNING FROM LOVE | |
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Alex gripped the door handle as the single-engine Piper Cub
lifted off, grateful that it cleared the trees. The pilot, Cooley, had
studied her earlier with a skeptical eye and grumbled something about her
exceeding the weight limit when she climbed aboard from the small
motorboat hauling a backpack and cameras. Ahead of her and all around she could see for miles. Endless
blue skies and a myriad of lakes that sparkled like glitter along the
tundra. Trees, thick and green but stunted, carpeted the base of the bald
jagged mountains that layered one in back of the other. Sometimes the pilot would go around and through the sharp
walls of granite and sometimes he’d barely clear them and then dodge the
next row that suddenly appeared. She began to wonder if he knew what he was
doing. As if in answer, he took a sudden dive for a lake below and
then spun into a 90 degree turn. When she white-knuckled the dash he
chuckled softly. For the first time since leaving Philadelphia, she
questioned her sanity in coming here. While the thousands of acres of
untouched landscape was beyond anything she could imagine, there was no
sign of a road, let alone a house. No sign of anything. People, help, a hospital, drug store to
buy tampons. She felt the beginnings of a self-imposed panic attack and
took deep breaths, reminding herself that the isolation it offered was
exactly the point. Instead, she rehearsed the story she’d concocted and
counted the minutes until she could plant her feet on the ground
again. An hour later Cooly spoke into the radio through clenched
teeth, black spittle pooling at the corners of his mouth. Alex could only
distinguish the words "buzz the camp" over the hum of the
engines. She closed her eyes as he leaned forward and with perfect
aim spit into a small vessel in the corner of the miniscule cabin. The
smell of rancid chewing tobacco in the claustrophobic cabin had her biting
back the bile rising in her throat. This was male territory, Bush Alaska.
She had better get used to it. A voice scratched over the radio signally that they were
close. As they rounded another mountain, it suddenly appeared. Lush and
pristine, untouched. She drew in a breath and pressed her face against the
cool side window until Cooley tapped her shoulder and pointed for her to
look ahead. The nose of the plane dipped and dove straight for the
shimmery blue of the water, dazzling in the high afternoon sun. The
engines roared and the dials on the dashboard spun crazily. Her heart
leaped into her throat. This can’t be how a floatplane lands. Just as suddenly the plane nosed up and continued to climb
until Cooley turned sharply and began another quick descent. The Rusty
Rudder Café’s morning special of sourdough pancakes and blueberries
flipped in her stomach. If this was how she would die, she only hoped it
was quick. And to think this was only her fifth flight ever. It took
two flights to get her to Seattle, another to Anchorage, and because her
final destination was so isolated, it took two more flights just to get
her where they were headed now. She’d been flying for almost 24 hours. Was
her first exploit off the East Coast to end in a watery
grave? Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the beefy grin of
the pilot. When he gave an abrupt yank on the throttle she knew her pale
skin must have turned dust white. Her heart hammered as the plane hovered
just a few feet above Snake Lake and then skidded and bounced off the
glassy water several times before it came at last to a
stop. She slumped back against the worn vinyl seat and breathed a
sigh of gratitude to the gods of fate. Cooly cut the engines and shook off
his headphones, hooking them overhead. With a push of his shoulder he
flung the door wide and stepped onto the floats. The sudden silence and the clean scent of the air, cool
against her heated skin, was a welcome relief. But before she could catch her breath, Cooley called out to
someone across the water. "I got Hawk’s photographer for you." He let out a
deep-barreled laugh. "Come and see." He poked his head back in and smiled
at her. "You can get out now." Hawk. He must be a local...maybe Professor Sheppard’s
assistant. She tightened the ponytail under her ball cap and tucked errant
tendrils of curl under the rim before adjusting her sunglasses. It didn’t
hurt to make a good first impression on the world-renowned expert in
entomology. Not that she cared about science or knew anything about it.
She was lucky she made it out of eighth grade. But she wasn’t about to
announce that to a stuffy old codger who studied bugs, a Ph.D. in biology
and one of the University of Pennsylvania’s claims to fame. She snapped off her seatbelt and tugged at the door. Ramming
her shoulder against the padded flat of it did no good, so she waited for
the pilot to come around. A quick wipe of the window over the dash showed
two men wading through the water with long black boots that came up to
their hips. She glanced at her own knee-high plastic rain boots.
When the Center for Young Artists awarded her the grant for
this project, she’d had one week to get her stuff together. Her film and
chemicals were what mattered most. In between, she pieced together as much information about
Alaska as time allowed. It wasn’t much, but she knew enough that May in
Alaska meant thawing ground that turned to knee-deep mud. Now she knew why
Cooley had the same boots as the others. While the water came to the tops
of the men’s thighs, on her five-foot-two frame it would reach her
waist. She sighed. She’d just have to wade to shore. Cooley stood in front of the plane waiting for the men, his
craggy brows raised in amusement. A young man about her age with a Hard
Rock Café t-shirt stretched over his lanky frame approached. His sunburned
nose was peeling at its tip. He slowed down and gaped at her as he got
closer. An older man followed a distance behind. Cooley came around and flung the door open with a flourish.
He grinned at her while the young man continued to gawk. Before she could
puzzle over their strange behavior, the dark skinned man came up from
behind and stepped around. "Lemme see, Scott." He was about fifty, with a round face
and only a trace of facial hair. His small deep-set eyes were dark and
tilted at their ends, and his straight coarse hair, dark as coal, fell to
his shoulders. A carved ivory ring pinched the flesh of his thick fingers.
Dr. Sheppard? He looked too rough for a distinguished
professor. "Agsh sha pitt ouck." He stared. "A woooman?" he said in a
guttural, harsh tone that sounded Russian. "I told ya, Runner." Cooley grinned. "Hawk’s gonna be pissed," Scott mumbled, pulling on his
blonde goatee. They turned in unison to the splashing sounds behind them,
and Alex saw a third man in faded jeans and a worn blue work shirt coming
at them. He was as tall as Scott but broader in build and more solid
looking in every way, from the aggressive set of his jaw to the muscles of
his forearms, bared by his rolled up sleeves. His wide brimmed safari hat
and mirrored glasses shielded his face from her, but even at this distance
she could see from the lines around his mouth that he wasn’t happy.
He raised his chin at Cooly. "You better be kidding." As
they cleared a path, he bounded up to her, the water parting as though
flowing out of his way. She was over four thousand miles from home - home
as she knew it – in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by four men, with
this man, double her size, looking anything but glad to see her.
Feeling herself on shifting ground, she mentally regrouped.
This was no different from other problems she had faced. Whatever the
confusion, she would land on her feet. The hard-looking man ducked and peered into the cabin. Her
confidence faltered as she found herself facing a jaw of
steel. "What the hell is this?" he said, his voice low. He studied
her a minute before turning slowly to Cooley. "This can’t be Alexander
Perry." Cooley sniggered. "Like I told Runner here. This is Alex
Perry, Hawk." Alex had confronted enough men in her life to know it was
safer to say nothing until you knew where you stood. "Take her back." The man they called Hawk turned his back on
the small group and flipped off his hat. As he walked away, a thick mesh
of waves, restrained into a ponytail, fell down his neck and over his
collar, dark against the light blue shirt. Take her back? Who did he think he was? She scrambled out onto the strut. "I’m here to see Dr.
Sheppard," she called after him, making sure her voice was firm and
steady. She might be little more than half his size, but she hadn’t let
that stop her before. She lowered herself carefully onto the float and
straightened. "And I won’t leave until I see him." "Is that right," he said and began walking slowly back to
her. Cooley guffawed. When the Hawk gave him a measuring look,
the pilot clamped his hand over his mouth, but his shoulders
shook. Hawk came within a foot of her, and when he removed his
glasses she met the coldest pair of eyes she had ever seen and as a
photographer and aspiring artist she had studied plenty. The cobalt orbs
held not a hint of light and dark lashes and brows added to his sinister
aura. Couple that with the dark shadow of his beard on a razor-sharp jaw
and the effect would cause anyone to shudder. The only softness was his
mouth, full and wide, but forming now into a hard line. "You’re looking at him," he said, not a trace of emotion in
his voice. She had been afraid of this, but still she held out hope.
"You’re Professor Sheppard?" Involuntarily her eyes dropped to his chest,
down his long legs, and then swept up again. She hadn’t intended to size him up, but this muscled male
with unruly hair conflicted with her vision of the bespectacled
absent-minded academic she had been expecting. No argyle sweater and
wingtips? She probably should have factored in that this was rural Alaska.
At least he could have accommodated her stereotype by having graying
temples. But this man was too young. "Dr. Nicholas
Sheppard?" "You got it. I’m not happy either. This isn’t going to work.
We were expecting a man." With a dismissive wave he motioned for Cooley to
get back in the plane, but she held up her hand to stop
him. "I’m not going anywhere," she said, addressing Cooley and
then turning back to Professor Hawk. "I came here to shoot this trip. I
have a contract." His eyes narrowed. "Let’s see that contract." He held out
his hand. She didn’t have one. Instead she retrieved the yellow
envelope that held her introduction letter from Stephanie, the director of
the community arts center in Philadelphia. The thought of Stephanie in her
paisley skirts with her long braid trailing down her back with this Hawk
didn’t fit. Stephanie and Dr. Sheppard had been colleagues at a university
in the late 80s. Alex couldn’t picture the unassuming former hippie with
this ... Neanderthal. After he read the letter, he refolded it and handed it back
to her. "Says here your name is Alex. They thought you were a man. Since
you’re not, that settles it." "What?" She took a step forward and nearly tripped into the
water. When she flailed, he grabbed her up with amazing speed and thumped
her back down onto the strut. The letter floated in the water between
them. He picked it up and crushed it in one hand. "Give me that." She grabbed for the paper, but he stuffed it
in his shirt pocket. "Like I said—" "Stephanie knew exactly who and what I was." She watched the men take in her non-descript jeans, long
flannel jacket, ball cap, and dark square sunglasses so large they covered
half her small face. All of it was carefully chosen to distract attention
from her being female. What they didn’t know is that her unisex style of
dressing had nothing to do with this assignment. She had adopted the
strategy when she was fourteen. Life was safer when she
did. "Show me some identification." She withdrew a billfold from her back pocket and gave him
the ID card that allowed her access to the center’s darkroom. Since she
would never risk getting a driver’s license, it was the only picture
identification she carried. "Take off your hat and sunglasses." When she removed them, he blinked, and his nostrils flared
on his straight nose for the briefest of moments before he glanced down at
her picture. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Cooley leaned in closer. "Pretty little thing, isn’t
she?" Hawk handed back her I.D. "No way you’re twenty-three and
Native American," he drawled, looking her over again. "And this
grant—" "I am Native American. One quarter." His lips tipped at one corner. "Blue eyes and red
hair—" "My hair is ... mahogany. I take after my grandmother on my
father’s side." Scott smiled at her. "It’s like new copper pennies." She
tucked her hair hastily back into her cap. Hawk eyed her. "And the freckles?" "They’re ... blemishes." Hawk lifted a dark brow. Cooley jabbed his elbow at Scott. "I never seen blemishes
that creamy." Scott shot him a grin. Hawk gave them a silencing glare and then bore down on her.
"You’re here under false pretenses. You may even be a
minor—" "I’m twenty-three, quarter Iroquois, and my name is Alex
Perry. You can’t prove otherwise." At least one fact was true.
After a lifetime of foster homes she found she could
re-invent herself into anything and she often had. "Besides, no other
Native Americans applied, so I’m hardly taking anyone’s
job." Without another word he turned away and trudged back through
the water, speaking to Cooley as he left. "Like I said, take her
back." "The university and the center agreed to this," she called
after him. "I am not leaving." He continued walking. "How do you think your supervisors will react when I charge
you with gender discrimination? There are laws against that, you know,"
she shouted at his retreating back. He emerged onto the bank and disappeared through the
trees. She turned calmly to the small group of men staring at her
and tipped back the brim of her hat. "Open that hatch please, so I can get
my bags." The native man, Runner, and Scott were watching for Cooley’s
reaction. He shrugged at them and scratched his leathery cheek. "The
Native Corporation paid me good money to bring her here. They like the
idea of her snappin’ pictures of the area. I’m not takin’ her
back." Runner turned his expressionless face to her and studied her
quietly. Scott murmured. "Hawk’s gonna be real pissed." | |