Emma was an efficient shopper. It took her less than forty minutes to pick out a new pair of jeans and two shirts, some spare underclothes, and a light rainproof jacket on sale at Tongass Trading Company next to the docks. While she was buying clothes, John bought her a disposal phone, which she insisted on paying for. Her cash was dwindling faster than she’d hoped, but that couldn’t be helped. If she stayed here more than a few days, she would have to look for a job.
With her purchases stowed in the Jeep, they drove back through the short tunnel toward Refuge Cove, where John had left the Beaver last night. Now that there was a plan in place, his dark mood seemed to have lifted. He was almost cheerful.
Businesses, docks, and warehouses were strung along the highway, which ran parallel to the long, blue stretch of water. John pointed out the airport, located on the shore of Gravina Island, across the narrows. A ferry shuttled vehicles and passengers back and forth from Ketchikan.
Emma gazed across the water as a commuter plane landed on the runway and taxied to the small terminal. How could it be that only yesterday, a naïve woman, brimming with hopes and dreams, had stepped onto Alaskan earth, eager to marry the man she loved and start a new life?
That woman was a different person now. Stripped of her dreams and hopes, she had just two goals—to survive, and to bring the man who’d crushed them to justice.
A few miles beyond Ketchikan, the road looped around Ward Cove, with its deep harbor and surrounding town. Next to the water, on the north side, a complex of docks, sheds, and open space sprawled along the waterline. A few raft-style log platforms floated offshore, some with small structures on them. “That used to be the world’s largest pulp mill,” John said. “From the late fifties on, it processed logs into pulp. The place supported Ward Cove and Ketchikan with factory jobs as well as a major logging operation—that’s why you see so many logging roads in the forest.”
“What happened?” Emma asked.
“In 1997 the government shut it down because of environmental issues, and because the lumbering contract ran out. Seven hundred people lost their jobs. Times were pretty tough around here for a while. A lot of the old structures have been cleared away. I’ve heard talk of converting the property to an industrial park, but that’s mostly about money, or the lack of it.
“I was a teenager when it closed. After it shut down, we used to break into the place and play crazy games like paintball, or just hang out and drink. All the kids did, even Boone. The cops chased us out of there a few times, but we always came back. There’s not much left of it now, just a few sheds and warehouses that are still good enough to be useful.”
“I’d like to have known you then,” Emma said.
“No, you wouldn’t. I was a mess.”
Minutes later, the road turned into Refuge Cove. Separated from Ward Cove by a jutting bight of forest and muskeg, Refuge Cove was small and nestlike in shape, its entrance sheltered by reefs and wooded islands. Seeing it by daylight for the first time, Emma was struck by a sense of coziness. It was the kind of place that made her want to take a deep breath, fill her lungs with clean Alaskan air, and forget the ugliness of the past twenty-four hours.
Narrow floating docks extended over the water, where private boats and sport fishing vessels were moored. There were a few small planes as well, among them the red Beaver she recognized as John’s.
Extending northward from the tiny harbor was a stretch of pristine, rocky beach that curved along the water’s edge for as far as she could see. John had mentioned that this part of Refuge Cove was a state park, set aside to preserve the natural beauty of the coast. Inland from the beach, a line of tall evergreens sheltered walking paths and picnic tables. But at the water’s edge, where waves lapped at the rocks, the shore appeared untouched by time.
While John filled the gas tank and gave the Beaver its preflight check, Emma took a short walk up the beach. The breeze was cool through the light quilted jacket she’d bought. It stirred her hair and teased her nostrils with the smells of saltwater, pine trees, damp earth, and fish. Tiny islands dotted the entrance to the cove, most little more than clumps of rock and tall evergreens.
With the Beaver fueled and checked, it was time to take off. John balanced her while she stepped onto the float and climbed up into the passenger seat. His grip on her arm was light and impersonal, just enough to steady her. But the contact through her sleeve sent a tingle up her arm.
Emma willed herself to ignore the sensation. John Wolf was an attractive man, masculine and mysterious. But he didn’t seem to be the least bit interested in her as a woman. And even if he was, she’d just had her heart crushed by someone she’d thought she loved. She was raw and vulnerable. It could be months, even years before she was ready for a serious relationship. And a brief fling would only burn her again, leaving her even worse off than before.
He climbed into the pilot’s seat, put on his headset, and handed her a second set to slip onto her head. “Can you hear me?” His deep voice crackled through the earpieces.
“I can.” Emma remembered last night, when they couldn’t converse over the roar of the engine. Now that wouldn’t be a problem.
“Buckle up. Here we go.”
The engine thrummed to life. John turned the plane around, taxied out past the islands into open water, then headed into the wind and opened the throttle. Engine roaring, the Beaver shot forward. Emma’s stomach fluttered as the floats skimmed the waves and lifted off. They were airborne and climbing. Wind tore at the wings and fuselage of the sturdy old plane.
“You can unclench your hands now.” John’s voice crackled through the headset.
Emma glanced down at her white-knuckled fists and forced herself to laugh. Every nerve in her body was taut and quivering. But John seemed as relaxed as she’d ever seen him. Here in the plane, in the air, she realized, was where he felt completely at home.
“Is this your own plane?” she asked
, making conversation to calm herself.
“Yes. I bought it six years ago from an old man who couldn’t fly anymore. Sold a big share of my Sealaska stock to pay for it—these Beavers are classics. They don’t come cheap.”
“You say you sold your stock?” Even with the headset, Emma had to speak up. “What’s Sealaska? I’ve never heard of it.”
He took a moment to check the radio. “How much do you know about the Trans-Alaska oil pipeline?” he asked.
“I know what it is, and that it was controversial for a long time. That’s about all.”
“Back when it was being built, in the early seventies, the route lay across land belonging to the Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian tribes. The tribal leaders were powerful, they were smart, and I’m guessing they had damn good lawyers. They dug in their heels and said no. After some long and painful negotiations, the tribes settled for a huge trade of stock and valuable land elsewhere. When the deal was done, they formed a corporation to manage their newfound assets—Sealaska—with all the families as stockholders. It’s very big and very modern these days. And it uses a share of its profits to help the people and support native traditions.”