“Stinkers was the French name for the Winnebago Indians,” he explained.
She lifted her eyebrows. It was difficult if not impossible to view the scene below as ever having been unsettled. Fisheries, limestone quarries, shipyards, paper mills…and right next to the massive paper factory was a harbor in which floated piles of wooden planks that looked like toothpicks.
The landscape changed rapidly as they headed farther north. First there was Marinette and Menominee, small shipping harbors northwest of Green Bay, and then Escanaba, Michigan, on the northern shore of the lake. Then…
Wilderness. It was as if they were going back in time. Forests stretched as far as her eye could see, dense spruce and balsam. There was an atmosphere of sudden quiet, as if their small aircraft were the only intruding sound.
Kyle had teased her about the black bears around Newberry, but now she could picture them. Bear and moose, beaver and mink, living just as they must have for centuries, totally unaware that civilization threatened the rest of their species. Endless streams and lakes curled into the wild country, sparkling in the sunlight beneath them. For short periods, they couldn’t see a stretch of road, not a sign of human life.
It was wild, raw country. The look of it unconsciously evoked a shiver in Erica, half an uncomplicated anticipation at seeing and experiencing something completely new, and half an unconscious awareness of the beauty around her. She was not a pioneer woman and had hardly been raised as one. It was not a place she would want to visit alone, even if the adventuresome spirit struck her.
She raised her eyes to Kyle and studied him. The thought was immediate; there was no place she would hesitate to go with him. Morgan’s face flashed in her mind, and when she put aside the memory of his assault, when she tried to remember the best qualities in Morgan and the best qualities she’d thought existed in their friendship, she wondered swiftly why she never
It all seemed so simple, looking at Kyle. She liked his eyebrows; she liked his stride; she liked his knees. During that one hurricane they’d weathered in Florida a long time ago, he’d become exasperated with her when he couldn’t get her to move quickly. She’d found it extremely difficult to get alarmed. She’d known he would always put her first; it was difficult to feel fear, knowing that. He was protective and strong and-a little-bull-headed. She loved all of that. Integrity, honesty…all those little things that made up such enormous love, right down to what a bear he was when he had a cold. A total bastard when he was ill, really. She loved that, too…
Kyle, as if suddenly aware she was staring at him, turned to her and raised one eyebrow. “What on earth are you thinking about?”
“That I don’t give a simple damn what you saw. It wasn’t like that.”
“Pardon?” He couldn’t hear her over the engine’s hum.
She raised her voice obediently. “I asked you how long before we touch down?”
“Oh…another fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Erica pushed down the armrest, cupped her elbow on it and cradled her chin in her palm, waiting. Not long after that, Kyle radioed the tower at Newberry. A flutter of anticipation, and a little fear, settled in her stomach. He was going to have to listen to her. Isolated and totally alone with each other, they were going to have to find a way to talk again-about the things that counted-not Morgan, not their business, not money, not the move to Wisconsin. It seemed to Erica that the wilderness was a perfect place for both of them. Back to nature, back to basics. Back to the thing that mattered at core: the elusive nature of the love they both brought to their relationship…or didn’t bring.
Ground loomed up to meet the small plane; Erica had the peculiar sensation of falling. Five minutes later, Kyle cut the plane’s engine, though for seconds after that she could still hear its incessant hum vibrating in her ears.
“We’re here,” Kyle said shortly.
Chapter 13
The canvas top of the Jeep was a buffeting sound-maker in the wind, and the countryside around them was getting wilder all the time. In Newberry, there had at least been token traffic; for ages now even one passing car was a rarity. Erica unfolded a map and studied it in the last of the late afternoon sun, making a marginal effort to play navigator, though Kyle didn’t really need one.
It had taken time to arrange for the plane, pick up the Jeep and organize their supplies. Then they had stopped to have a snack and buy a few food staples to take with them. Through all of that, they’d both maintained an even mood, yet Kyle had barely spoken for miles now, and was driving north toward Lake Superior as if the devil were after him, on roads not built for speed.
There were more deer-crossing signs than road markers. The endless spruce and balsam and birch forests seemed to encroach more and more on the narrow road, making Erica uneasy; increasingly, it seemed as if they were going nowhere, as if the primitive woods could swallow them in the darkness, and no one would know.
It should have been an opportune moment to talk to Kyle, to explain what had really happened between her and Morgan, and yet she didn’t. She was afraid to. His expression was increasingly grim, his whole body tense with concentration, his silence ominous; and the tension kept growing. The gray dusk finally settled into darkness; wearily, Erica leaned back. Vermilion could not be far now. Finally, she dozed off.
She awoke to the tang of lake air and the crispness of pines, vaguely aware she was in the Jeep, curled up against the door. A soft sweatshirt was draped over her shoulders, nestled under her chin; beneath it she felt kitten-snug, perfectly content. The softest click next to her ear made her stir, unwillingly. Suddenly, her head was falling and collided with a warm, solid cushion…a cushion that chuckled.
“Kyle,” she murmured sheepishly.
“Don’t wake up,” he whispered. “Everything’s fine. Erica…” He scooped her up and cuddled her close; sleepily she nuzzled her cheek to his chest. He smelled like warmth and freshness, like dreams. “Sleep,” he murmured next to her ear. His lips touched her forehead, reinforcing that soothing order.
She was willing. She felt the world falling away, her head against something soft and downy and cool and not nearly as comfortable as Kyle’s shoulder. Vaguely, she protested, and felt his finger touch her lips, hushing her again. She loved the feel of that finger. Her lower lip felt like a flower that only opened when touched; she savored that sensation until she felt his hands brush at her waist, where her camisole was tucked in. His knuckles pressed lightly into her stomach as he unsnapped the white jeans soundlessly. She smiled in sleep.
He wanted to make love.
She wanted to make love. She could smell the lake and the trees. She could feel the night all around them like something tangible, privacy and darkness and silence. The rich scent of the man only added to that, a primal, evocative scent that she could inhale, that filled her lungs.
He was leaning over her, his hands parting her jeans. His hands slipped inside the fabric, almost but not quite touching… She murmured at his teasing. As he shifted her just a little, one of his hands slipped to her back, sliding the jeans over the curves of her hips, then down over her thighs, over her calves, then off.
The cool night air was enough to make her shiver-she reached instinctively for him-but not quite enough to make her open her eyes. She was loving the sensations coursing through her too much to open her eyes; in the darkness every nerve ending, every heartbeat, every tactile sense was intensified. Desire was a soft, silky cloud covering all of her, protective and luxurious and sweetly wild.
Her hand brushed his thigh, then moved up to where his legs parted, vaguely aware that for some reason her own legs were no longer cold, but covered by the fabric of a sleeping bag she didn’t want. She wanted freedom to twist her legs around him, to scissor him close. He wanted the same. She could feel his arousal in her hand, through his jeans; she could hear his sucked-in breath in that night silence.
She opened her eyes.
Their gaze met that instant in the darkness. Brooding and indigo-dark, his eyes were filled with desire, as deep as the night. She could see a pearl of moisture on his forehead. Two pearls. A row of them. Abruptly, he moved her hand, tucked it into the sleeping bag and zipped the fabric up around her.
