LOST WITH YOU - Lisa Ann Verge Page 0,15
doing it with someone who could carry him miles out of the woods on a strong back—”
“Did you bring doughnuts, Anne?” Dylan hiked his hands on his hips. “I was looking forward to a last doughnut.”
“Yes, I did buy doughnuts, and no, you’re not distracting me from this conversation. She’s a little thing. What are you thinking?”
“I know what he’s thinking,” Bill guffawed.
Anne ignored him. “Do you know about the portages, Casey Michaels, freelance reporter? And the bears—”
“Try not to scare her off,” Dylan interrupted, “before I get her into the canoe, all right?”
Anne threw up her hands. “I sure hope your insurance is all paid up, girl.”
She felt like a ball on a pool table getting shot sharply into corners.
“Anne’s husband sells life insurance,” Dylan explained. “But now’s not the time to pitch it, sis.”
“I’m not trying to sell anything, you goof. This isn’t a honeymoon cruise.”
Dylan’s brother barked a laugh. “It might be.”
A clatter startled Casey. She glanced toward the Jeep and noticed some of the men loosening the ropes tying the canoe down in an attempt to slide it off the roof.
“Hey,” Dylan said sharply. “Watch that—”
Dylan darted to the Jeep, shouting instructions. She turned to follow, though there were already too many cousins and siblings in the mix, but Anne’s firm grip stopped her.
“Will you look at that thing?” Anne sucked air between her teeth. “Can it even be classified as a boat?”
“A small version of the Love Boat”—Bill grinned—“that’s for sure.”
Casey focused on the canoe because it was easier than meeting Anne’s probing gaze. She’d had a moment of uncertainty when she’d first seen the birch bark vessel this morning, when Dylan asked her to help him load it onto the Jeep. It was beautiful, a masterful handcrafted canoe made of all-natural materials. She just hoped it wouldn’t develop a tear in the middle of a deep lake. She yearned a little for the solid safety of aluminum.
“Ah, look at that,” said an older, reedy voice. “That’s a beauty.”
An elderly man in a wheelchair was rolled closer as the canoe was lowered and carried toward the shore.
“Keep your shoulders on the seat,” the elderly man shouted as they shuffled by. “Don’t poke a hole in the bottom with your damn head.”
Bill crouched by the side of the wheelchair, patting the elderly man’s arm. “Dylan’s got it, Pops. No worries.”
Pops? This was the grandfather Dylan had spoken so wistfully about? Casey looked at the elderly man more closely. He was thin in his clothes, his lap covered with a plaid wool blanket despite the temperate weather. She had assumed that Dylan’s Pops was no longer around, but this gentleman bore the strong stamp of a MacCabe on his face.
Why hadn’t Dylan told her he’d be here?
Then Pops glanced up, and she caught her breath at the sight of Dylan’s Icelandic eyes in the man’s kind face.
He said, “Who’s this?”
“I’m Casey Michaels. A reporter.” She took his hand and shook it. “Dylan told me all about your stories.”
“Aren’t you a pretty one?” He grinned. “You hitched yet?”
Yet?
“Don’t mind him,” Bill said over his grandfather’s head. “He’s always asking the home health aides to marry him.”
“Why the hell not?” Pops said. “I’m not dead yet.”
Pops had Bill’s smile, and she couldn’t help but smile back. The family resemblance in this big clan was strong.
She said, “I’m joining the expedition with your grandson. We’ll be looking for Owl’s Head Rock. And the petroglyphs. All those places you told him about.”
“Ay-uh. Owl’s Head Rock is a few hard days’ paddling, that’s for sure.” His gaze drifted to the shore, where the men had started loading the canoe with supplies. “My grandson said he’d go out and find that someday.”
“Look, Pops.” Bill turned the wheelchair toward the lake as the younger family members formed a line as they unloaded the Jeep and carried the gear to the shore. “Today’s the day. Dylan is setting off in a few minutes.”
“That’s a beauty, that canoe. Just like my father made.” He looked up at her, grinning. “Who’s this?”
Words lodged in her throat at the fresh curiosity in Pops’ eyes. Bill caught her gaze over Pops’ head and gave her a regretful shrug. Alzheimer’s, she thought. Her heart squeezed a little. Maybe this was why Dylan was willing to take a novice on the expedition, despite his reservations and the disadvantages that even Anne could see. His Pops had inspired the trip in the first place, and Dylan was slowly losing him.
“That’s Casey, Pops.”