Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,55

something like heartburn nagging her chest.

He threw the bundles onto his shoulder and headed for the canoe.

An hour later they’d loaded the canoe on a small set of wheels and packed all their gear in it except for one well-filled large packsack.

“Let me help you with this.” Heath picked it up and turned to Allison.

“Do I look like a pack mule?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“I can’t pull all our gear and the canoe over the rough terrain up ahead. So unless you want to wait alone at the other end of the portage while I make two trips, you’ll have to carry your own stuff. Or aren’t you up to it?” His eyes challenged her.

“Strap it on, buddy.” She turned her back to him and waited. “I’m Jack Adams’ granddaughter, remember?”

He slipped the straps over her shoulders, but as she fastened the chest support, he leaned around the side of the pack to place a kiss on her temple.

“Remind me never again to promise Myra Armstrong I’ll remain celibate around her daughter,” he muttered. He took up the straps to pull the canoe. “Right now I’d rather live up to my uninhibited wild man persona.”

“That image gets foggier by the minute. A genuine lord of the jungle—er, woods—would heft this little bitty canoe over his head, packsack on his back, and stride off into the bush, resting it on his manly shoulders, the woman walking proud and unburdened by his side.”

“You left out the fact that his woman probably would be scantily clad.” He started off with the canoe in tow. “That might inspire a man to give it his best shot.”

They were battling their way up a rocky promontory above the river twenty minutes later when an explosion rent the quiet of the forest. Heath dropped the canoe straps and dove at Allison. Together they crashed to the ground. The freed canoe bounced down the slope, splashed into the river, and bounded away in the current.

“Ah, hell!”

“Ouch…Heath, you’re crushing me. What…”

“Lie still!” Heath hissed. “That was a rifle shot!”

“What? Someone is shooting at us?”

“Yeah, someone. No bear, no sasquatch. A real person. Start edging behind those rocks. Whoever he is, he’s back in the trees. If we can get over the lip of the cliff and down under it, we have a chance.”

“A chance? Wasn’t that an accident? A hunting mistake?”

“In May? Hunting season starts in October. Now crawl…fast…like a crab.” She obeyed, scuttling over rocks and moss until she dropped over the edge of the cliff above the river. A split second later Heath landed beside her with a grunt.

“Keep your head down and follow me.” He started off over the shedding shale of the high river ledge, stooped like a handsome Quasimodo.

Allison glanced down at the river roaring below them and shuddered. One wrong step and she’d be following their canoe over rocks and rapids.

Praying and crossing her fingers, she scrambled after Heath, the packsack threatening to destroy her equilibrium. At one point she slipped, the loose rock crumbling under her boots. Only Heath’s hand grabbing her shoulder strap saved her from tumbling down into the rapids. With a gasp she righted herself and scrambled after him.

“In here.” He caught her hand to pull her into a dark hole under a ledge.

“Phew! What’s that awful stench?”

The smell engulfed her as they came to a crouching stop in the blackness.

“Quiet,” he muttered. “This is a bear den.”

“Are you crazy?” She leaped upright, hit her head, and fell back rubbing it. “What if he comes home? What if he…?”

“He won’t. He’s too busy looking for food. Anyway, hiding here beats the hell out of dodging bullets.”

“Frying pan or fire.” She hunkered down with a pounding heart and a sore spot on her head. “How long do you reckon we’ll have to stay here?”

“Until dusk. Then we’ll sneak back up over the ledge and find a safe place for the night. Your sleeping bag is in your pack, as well as a frying pan and a pot. We’ll manage.”

“An empty frying pan and an empty pot,” she breathed, the full extent of their predicament washing over her. “Miles from civilization with our canoe, food, and ninety percent of our camping gear gone.”

“Not to panic. Remember you’re with the Lord of the Woods. He and his woman always survive. They have to. Otherwise there’d be no more movies.” In the darkness he slipped an arm about her sagging shoulders and planted a kiss on her taut lips. “Relax and enjoy

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