Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,42
water was the best she’d ever tasted.
“Easy,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
When she ignored his advice, he wrenched it out of her hands.
“Give it back!” She lunged at him. Hobbled by the sleeping bag, she stumbled headlong into him. The canoe rolled, sides all but dipping below water level with each lurch.
“Do something!” Allison grabbed the gunwales. “We’re going to upset!”
“Sit quiet.” He shoved her back into sitting position, grabbed his paddle, and, with a few deft strokes, stabilized the craft.
“What have you done?” When they were once more moving smoothly down the river, she stared at the water and wilderness that surrounded them.
“I’ve shanghaied you.” He put aside his paddle, picked up the canteen, and took a swallow before recapping it.
“Kidnapped, you mean.” Outrage surmounted all her previous emotions.
“No, shanghaied.” He plunged his paddle deep, sending the canoe to the right to avoid a rock. “You’ll be working your passage.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. And for future reference, what did you do while I was out cold?” she raged.
“Loaded you into a sleeping bag and this canoe.” He kept his eyes focused over her head, at the river beyond. “Check your clothes if you’re concerned. I’ve never been turned on by an inebriated woman.”
“I was not inebriated, you backstreet slim. Ouch!” Her outburst brought on a pounding ache above her eyes. She caught her head between her hands. “Take me back to the Lodge right now! Otherwise, I’ll have you charged with kidnapping!”
“Really? I’m shaking in my boots. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a couple of aspirin and some lunch.”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me!” She clenched her fists and sucked in her lips. “I’m deadly serious!”
“Well, then, that’s too bad. Because I can’t take you back. We’re a good six miles downriver from the Lodge, deep into roadless wilderness, and with the force of the freshet that’s pushing us, a superhero couldn’t paddle us back upstream.” He dipped his paddle deep and nosed the canoe to the left.
“Hang on,” he ordered. “We’re heading into rapids.”
Allison glanced over her shoulder just in time to be hit full in the face with the spray from the first wave of white froth. She gasped and swung back on Heath, water running down her cheeks, ready to yell more incriminations. His expression stopped her. Mind and body, he was concentrated on controlling their craft over the turbulence.
Through the next few minutes that seemed like a lifetime, the canoe bucked over rapids and skittered around protruding rocks like a thing possessed. All she could do was cling to the sides and give thanks she was seated backwards and couldn’t see what was coming next. The only comfort she could find was in remembering Heath was a veteran canoeist—one of the best, her grandfather had told her.
When they finally reached the calmer waters of a pool on the far side, she slumped against the back of the canoe’s front bench.
“I thought…I thought we were going to capsize,” she choked, feeling overwhelmed by the situation. Suddenly her stomach revolted. She leaned over the side and retched. Oh, God, is it possible to feel more miserable?
“We’re okay, and we’ll be okay.” His voice was calm, reassuring. “You got a little wet, that’s all. It was my fault. We wouldn’t have hit that white water at the angle we did if I’d been paying attention. We’ll go to shore, you can freshen up, and I’ll make lunch. Strong coffee, a couple of aspirin, a sandwich, and fresh clothes will make that hangover a lot better.”
“Where’s Jack?” The thought hit her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What have you done with Jack?”
“He’s a great dog, but hardly a wilderness type. I put him in the care of the couple of guys I’ve left manning Chance Lodge. His dog-sitters are both dyed-in-the-wool canine fanciers. He’ll be fine.”
He swung the prow of the canoe shoreward. In a few minutes, Allison was standing on the riverbank and realizing for the first time she still wore the jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers she’d put on twenty-four hours earlier. Only now they were wet and rumpled, and she felt sweaty and dirty and all out grungy.
She watched as Heath pulled the canoe well above the waterline, noted the knife in a scabbard at his belt, and shivered. While she might pity him as the underprivileged teenager he’d once been, she realized he was also the adult version of a child so consumed with rage against the