The Drakes of California

Chapter 2

Teresa snuggled farther down in her newly purchased sheepskin coat, the sexiest one she could find at the store the hotel concierge had recommended. The black wool pantsuit, turtleneck, high-heeled boots and faux-fur coat had gotten her through the flight and the interview with politician Paul Campbell. For her meeting at his campaign office, she’d dressed to impress. For the rest of her itinerary she planned to heed her boss’s advice to layer to stay warm.

During the ride back to the hotel, she scanned her notes from the morning’s interview. All in all, she thought it had gone fairly well, especially given the fact that she’d immediately sized up her interviewee as an arrogant know-it-all, clearly prepared to do and say whatever it took to get into office. Two minutes in and he’d played the flirt card. Within five, she’d been informed the victory he considered a fait accompli was only one of three steps to the US presidency. It was one thing to be confident. Thanks to her brothers, even a shred of cockiness was tolerable, sexy even. But privileged arrogance was a turnoff. Like Paul, she’d grown up in the lap of luxury. Unlike him, she still had compassion for those less fortunate and a perspective ever mindful that her lifestyle was a blessing and not her just due. She casually eyed the passing scenery as their meeting replayed in her mind.

* * *

“Ms. Drake!” His blue eyes had twinkled with open admiration as he approached her with outstretched hands. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She extended her hand. “Please call me Teresa.”

He took it. “Only if you call me Paul.”

Teresa’s eyes had narrowed when he unabashedly scanned her body and seemed to nod his appreciation. She had pulled her hand from a shake that had lasted too long. She was not a pork chop, and thought his wife might have a problem with the fact that her husband viewed some journalists as he would a piece of meat. Bad career move, Paul. As a seasoned politician who thought he knew everything, he should have known better than to act like this.

“I understand you’re a part of Paradise Cove’s first family. Your brother is Nicodemus Drake?”

“Yes. First family is a generous description, and that title belongs to him and his wife, Monique. I am simply a citizen of that wonderful town, the same as your parents and other relatives still living in PC. Speaking of which, I understand you graduated a year ahead of my oldest brother, Ike Jr. Do you remember him?”

“Are you kidding? Who could forget Ike? He was as brainy, gregarious and charming as they come, something that obviously runs in the family.” He had winked, and gestured toward a seating area in his roomy office. “Shall we?”

Teresa had covered the urge to gag with a patient smile, taken a seat and steeled herself against what would surely be a taxing interview. On the bright side, all she had to do was get through it. And she did.

* * *

Hours later, she reached the hotel. After securing a bellman to deliver her many purchases, she continued to her room, ordered room service and changed into comfy clothes. A crash course in all things Alaskan, gleaned from the information she’d been emailed and more than a dozen sites bookmarked on her browser, had helped her come up with a time-effective game plan to make the most of her time on the last frontier and, most important, be able to make her flight leaving Anchorage for Saturday morning at 12:45 a.m. She’d decided to theme her four-part series around Alaska’s people, places and plentiful resources, all of which she’d discussed with Paul in order to set up the rest of the series. By dinnertime, she’d finished a nearly perfect first draft of the leading article and also firmed up her travel plans for the next two days. Figuring she’d benefit more from dining in the restaurant than again in her room, she called downstairs, and after another conversation with a helpful concierge, she decided on the Glacier Brewhouse. She pulled on a pair of woolen stretch pants, paired them with an oversize sweater, her “sexy” sheepskin coat and new Ugg boots, and headed downstairs to an awaiting taxi.

Five minutes and she’d reached her destination. When asked, the driver had agreed that this restaurant was a fine choice. Both he and the concierge must have been right: a weeknight, yet every table was taken.

She approached the host stand. “How long is the wait for a table?”

The hostess looked around. “About fifteen to thirty minutes. But there are seats at the bar.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks.”

She walked over and found a seat next to a guy engaged in conversation with the bartender.

The bartender smiled. “Good evening. What can we get for you tonight?”

“A menu for starters, thanks.”

“Coming right up.” The bartender gave her a menu. “Your first time here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in for a treat.”

“I don’t doubt that. The restaurant came highly recommended.”

He placed a glass of water in front of her. “As you know, we’re a brewery, with over a dozen selections on tap. We’ll surely satisfy your taste for a cold one, no matter the palate.”

“Um, personally, I’m more of a wine girl.”

The bartender’s eyes widened. He looked at the man he’d conversed with before she arrived. “Did you hear that, man?”

The man smiled, answering without looking up from his phone. “I heard that.”

Teresa glanced at him. Great hair. Smooth skin. Nice teeth. And a nearly hidden dimple that flashed when he smiled. Had she been on a mission to meet a man, this one would have definitely intrigued her. Even with his five-o’clock shadow, when she liked her men clean-shaven. But she wasn’t here for that. She was in town on business and in this place for something to eat. That was all. She wasn’t here to flirt with, or pick up, handsome men. These words she repeated more than once as the two men interacted.

“Who’d walk into the best brewery in America talking about wine?”

Handsome shrugged. “A woman pretty sure of herself, I’d say.” He looked at her. His eyes were dark, almost black, and smoldering. Had someone just turned up the heat in the room? Teresa forced her eyes to the menu, while they’d really wanted to linger on the man’s tantalizing lips.

The bartender went on. “Tell me the type of wine you prefer, and I’ll serve up a few samples that will convert you from a stemmed glass to a hearty, chilled mug.”

Teresa laughed. “I like a semidry Chardonnay, with hints of fruit and a little spice.”

“I’ve got a couple choices, either of which will be perfect.” He walked away.

Teresa looked at the sexy stranger seated beside her, noted the strong, tanned fingers gripping the mug he’d just set on the bar and imagined he could perform one heck of a massage. Just as quickly, she chided herself on not being able to rein in her errant thoughts. That she’d not had a good fracking in months was no reason to entertain fracking a stranger. Or was it?

“What kind are you drinking?”

The man looked up from his phone, and over at her. “Me?” She nodded. “A Belgian pale ale.”

“What’s that taste like?”

“I’m no expert.” He shrugged. “Tastes like beer to me.”

She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “I probably shouldn’t say this too loudly, but I hate the taste of beer!”

Again, that smile as he leaned toward her and whispered, “You’re in a brewery. Definitely not a good idea to say that out loud.”

He smelled like sunshine and the fresh outdoors. His long lashes created a shadow on his high cheeks as he returned to using his thumb to scroll the cell-phone screen. A part of her wanted to nuzzle her nose into his neck and feel that thumb lightly rubbing her shoulder. Even though he was obviously more interested in his electronic device than in human conversation, she couldn’t leave him alone.

“Are you a local?”

A tick or two passed before he answered. “Pretty much.”

She got the message. “Sorry to bother you.”

He set the phone on the bar top. “You’re not a bother. I’m just not good at small talk.”

“And I’m exactly the opposite. Being a writer by choice and curious by nature makes questions come easy.”

Handsome nodded, took a swig of beer. The bartender returned with two shot glasses. He explained the two choices he’d brought her—one light and citrusy, the other flavored with cloves.

She took a teeny sip of the first one, twisting her mouth in displeasure. “Would you toss me out if I stuck with water?”

The bartender laughed. “No way, pretty lady. There are other drinks on the menu.”

“I’ll have a look, thanks.” He moved on to another customer. She turned to Handsome and held out her hand. “My name’s Teresa.”

“Atka,” he responded, taking her hand and shaking it.

His grip was firm but brief. Too brief, she decided.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

“At. Ka. It’s from my native language.”

“Which is?”

“Yupik. My family are native Alaskans.”

Her eyes brightened. “Really? Tell me more.”

He frowned slightly, then reached for his phone and began scrolling. “Is that why you’re here, to write about the native Alaskan people?”

“I’m here to cover the state from a variety of angles and, yes, the people who live here is one of them.”

“It’s good that you will include those native to this land, but I am probably not the best person for that information. There are many languages and dozens of tribes. There’s a center on our culture that I could recommend.”

“Please do.” She reached for her phone and recorded the name of the center he gave her. Then, sensing his private nature, she changed the subject.

“Any menu recommendations?”

He visibly relaxed. “You can’t go wrong with any of the seafood entrées. Though I usually get the land and sea Oscar. Gives you a little bit of everything.”

Teresa read the dish’s description. “Wow...salmon, crab prawns and a filet? Sounds like a hearty meal.”

“You won’t leave hungry.”

Conversation centered around the menu until they’d made their choices. The bartender returned, took their orders, poured a fresh beer for Atka and was gone again.

“So, how was it growing up here?” Putting up her hands against any objections, she hurriedly continued, “Off the record, if you’d like. I’m not on the clock right now.”

He took a swig of beer. “It’s not the same experience as that of kids in the lower 48.” He eyed her and smiled warmly. “And probably much different than yours.”

She nodded as the bartender brought her lemonade, took a sip and asked, “In what way?”

“It’s a simpler life, calmer life. Lots of outdoor activities—hunting, fishing, skiing, boating, the dream life for any kid. My family would take road trips to Portage, Twentymile or any number of other glaciers, or go bear and deer hunting in Prince William Sound.” At her slight grimace, he continued, “I know. For most it’s not politically correct, but in Alaska, killing animals is not only a way of life but for some a necessity to survive. The native people wouldn’t have made it had it not been for the food the animal provided and the trade its fur maintained.”

She nodded. “I understand. My great-great-grandfather was part of the gold rush, and passed down adventurous stories of killing bears and catching fish with his hands. My grandfather still lives in Louisiana, my family’s home state, and loves to fish and hunt, as do some of my brothers.” His expression was mysterious. “What?”

“I would have never guessed we’d have something in common.”

“See, books can’t always be judged by their covers.”

“Obviously.” She detected a slight lowering of his privacy wall. “It’s not only the hunting and fishing background our families share. Gold is what brought my ancestors to Alaska.”

Over the next hour, Teresa learned about the Athabascan, Yupik and Inupiat peoples, as well as some cultural places she might find interesting. By the time they’d finished dinner, Teresa thought Atka had more than earned it and insisted on buying their meals.

“You saved me from a boring dinner with my smartphone,” she joked, casting the smile that had melted a thousand hearts. “I enjoyed your stories and appreciate all you shared.” She also appreciated that because of his eventual comfort with sharing his culture, very little had to be shared about herself.

“I enjoyed the conversation, as well, and while I appreciate your generosity, paying for my meal is unnecessary. I eat here often and have a running tab.” He stood. “It was nice to meet you, Teresa. Good luck on your assignment.”

“Thank you, Atka. It was great meeting you, too.”

She watched him walk out and noticed more than a few pairs of female eyes watching him, too. A tall, tanned, sexy Alaskan? Call her stupid, but really, who knew?

She flagged over the bartender. “Everything was delicious. Can I get my bill?”

“Already taken care of, pretty lady.”

“By whom?”

“Atka.” He winked. “I’m glad you enjoyed.”

Atka. For the rest of the night that name and the face attached to it weren’t far from her thoughts. He was interesting, mysterious and seemingly not at all interested. She’d tossed out a few hints during the evening, and even though she’d learned he was in the fishing business, he’d not bitten once. Not even a nibble. Paid for her meal, and hadn’t wanted anything in return. She’d not met anyone quite like him, and wished she’d thought to give him her card. It probably wouldn’t have mattered. Crazy, but the thought of never seeing him again caused her a twinge of sadness.

The next morning, however, duty called. During the ninety-minute flight from Anchorage to Dillingham, Teresa tweaked her article on Paul Campbell, juggling how to portray him as an Alaskan political mover and shaker within the confines of a human-interest story. Dicey journalistic terrain, but Teresa found a way to traverse it.

By the time they landed, she felt the piece was nearly perfect. She decided to get settled in at the bed-and-breakfast— which, after discovering there were no hotels there, the newspaper had located and secured—then finish and send the article and then, if time allowed, do a little sightseeing and picture-taking. Photos always enhanced a story, and Teresa had to admit that some of the scenery was breathtaking.

It took her longer than anticipated to finish the article, but thanks to the long Alaska days this time of year, there was still plenty of sunlight. Teresa ate a light meal, layered her clothing, grabbed her camera and set out for the Dillingham attractions that Atka had suggested. Ten minutes into the boat ride to the State Game Sanctuary on Walrus Island erased all of Teresa’s preconceived notions about disliking Alaska and not looking forward to arriving at the last frontier. She’d even jokingly called it “my first and last time there,” when Jennifer had referred to Alaska by its nickname. But the scene before her—crystal-blue water, fluffy white clouds and varied shades of terrestrial greenery—was postcard perfect. She took picture after picture, totally captivated by the uncorrupted beauty. Her transportation resembled less the yacht on which she last hit the water and more the fishing boat her grandpa used when catching crawdads in Louisiana, yet the sights were so magnificent that she truly didn’t mind. She was as surprised as anyone would have been. She didn’t like fishing boats or crawfish.

After one of the most peaceful afternoons she’d had in a very long time, the adventuresome child who’d run barefoot across her grandfather’s lawn had reemerged from an obscure place in Teresa’s past. She returned to town and continued her explorations. The town itself failed to hold her interest. In terms of population, Paradise Cove wasn’t that much larger, although the B and B manager said fishermen and tourists swelled the numbers during the summer months. He also told her of a few sites she could check before visiting the fisheries tomorrow, so she rented a scooter and, per the B and B manager, went traipsing to a spot he said offered spectacular landside views.

He was right. She scooted and snapped, and for the first time since meeting him forgot about Atka, forgot about not having had a serious relationship in almost a year and, more importantly, she forgot George, the reason why she’d taken a break from dating. So absorbed was she in doing her job, at first she didn’t realize the temp had dropped and it had started to snow, a fact that made the landscape appear even more magical.

She looked beyond her and saw a small crest that would afford her a perfect image of the town for her corresponding story. Just one more shot.

The terrain became too rough for the scooter, so she placed it by a tree and continued on foot. Reaching her destination, she climbed the low precipice and quickly snapped several shots. Stepping back and crouching down, she maneuvered the camera so that the main buildings, surrounding terrain and water could all get in the shot. One more step back and she’d have it.

That one step back sent her careening down a trench that had gone unnoticed, twisting her foot in a way that caused so much pain she temporarily blacked out.

Chapter 3

Atka stopped and breathed in the crisp evening air. Here, on the outskirts of this small town amid lightly falling snow, he almost felt at peace again. As if the call from his mother that had him miss spending the day hunting with his grandfather and instead backtracking to Anchorage barely a day into his minivacation wasn’t enough, the woman he’d met last night—after being assured that his mother’s chest pains were just a bad case of gas—had caused a special kind of torture. On one hand, he hated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. On the other, hers was the kind of face he hoped never to forget.

Forget it, Atka, he told himself. A city girl like her would never want a frontier guy like you.

A thud. He knew he’d heard one, or something, just ahead of him. But he was here now, at the precipice that had been his destination, a quiet area on the outskirts of Dillingham—or Curyung, as it was called in Yupik— where he could almost always count on spotting some of the more than two hundred species of birds that inhabited the state. Sure enough, he’d seen both a brown-winged sparrow and a black-backed woodpecker and had heard the sounds of songbirds resting in nearby trees. Earlier, he’d spotted a starling and a brown-headed cowbird. It had taken him a while to recall its moniker. But his apaaq would be proud.

A moan. His breath stopped. Nothing, not even a hair on his head, seemed to move. He became one with nature—the ground, the trees, the wind. And something else. Something warm and breathing and...oh-h-h-h-h!...in pain.

The sound spurred Atka into action. His long, lean legs quickly ate up the distance between him and where he’d heard the moaning. The snow had increased, going from tiny specks to giant flakes blanketing the ground. Dry grass crunched under his booted footsteps. His eyes scanned from left to right, searching for a sign of life on the deserted streets.

“Help!”

It was soft, almost inaudible. But his ears, strained and alert, had heard it. To his right, and a bit behind him. He doubled back, moving closer to the precipice he’d walked farther down.

“Where are you?” His voice was loud yet calming, authoritative yet filled with concern. And then he saw her.

He shook his head as if to clear it from what was surely a vision, a mirage brought on by the snow and the cold. There’s no way it could be her. Except it was. Teresa. She lay there, raven hair splayed against the snow, her foot at an awkward angle. The cold and snow had painted her bronze cheeks rosy. The grimace on her face did not mar her beauty. She looked like an angel, though a broken one.

Through the haze of disbelief came a disturbing thought. Had she wrangled information about who he was from Joe the bartender and followed him here? Was she determined to make him a part of her newspaper story? Or even worse, was she one of those materialistic women who, after finding out about his wealth, determined to add money from his bank account to her own? A barking dog snapped him back to the present and the urgent issue at hand. She was in trouble. He could rescue her. His questions and suspicions would have to wait.

“Stay still. I’ll help you.”

The cavern was fairly steep, but Atka, who not only often worked alongside his fishermen but worked out regularly, navigated it with no problem. He reached the wounded stranger, quickly assessed her legs and ankle, and believed the ankle badly sprained but not broken.

Her eyes fluttered, opened and widened in surprise. His heart melted a little more.

“Moving you is going to hurt, but you’ve got to get out of the elements to someplace warm and dry.”

“I’m...it’s...”

“Shh. Save your energy, Teresa. Don’t try to talk. I’ll make a splint and secure your ankle as much as possible.”

He found a sturdy limb, pulled out his knife and smoothed its surface. Then he reached beneath his leather jacket and sweatshirt to his undershirt and ripped off the bottom. Returning to her, he gingerly yet quickly stabilized her leg as much as possible.

“Put your arms around my neck. I’m going to lift you.”

She did as he’d asked. Picking her up was effortless. Though she was covered from head to toe in denim and sheepskin, he sensed her curves, imagined soft skin.

“Ah-h-h-h!” She wrapped her arms tighter, burying her head in his neck against the pain.

Atka mentally kicked himself for daydreaming. Now was not the time. Yet something in his heart shifted in that moment. I will ask the spirit guides to help you. Children soon come. Ridiculous. Improbable. Highly unlikely. He dismissed the thought of his grandmother’s words proving prophetic. Pure silliness. Her being here was coincidence. Wasn’t it? Or was it something more treacherous? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had used business as a way to try to get close to him. He’d ignored them, but was well aware of last night’s subtle flirtations. Maybe their conversation hadn’t been as off the record as she claimed. Or maybe she was going to try to use what he’d shared to a more personal advantage.

He searched the area for signs of life. Any other time, someone he knew would be passing by, on their way home or to the grocer. Tonight, there was not a moving car or another person in sight. She shivered. He glanced down as she covered her ears with the end of her scarf, noted her delicate finger and painted nail visible through a hole in her woolen gloves. Snagged on something during the fall, he imagined, even as he wondered how she got here alone. This woman didn’t look like someone who worked. She looked well kept. Maybe not even a writer at all, but here with her millionaire boyfriend on business, out to have a little fun. The immediate surge of jealousy surprised him. The scent she wore assailed him. Without thinking or asking, he headed away from town and to his cabin, less than a mile away.

* * *

Even through her haze of agony, she’d noticed. Strong jawline, covered by the shadow of a two-day-old beard. Full lips. Shocking dark blue, almost black eyes. The face of the man she thought she’d never see again. Atka. Like a guardian angel he’d rescued her from a literal depth of despair. Here she was, in the wilderness, being carried by a near stranger to God knew where. Yet inexplicably she felt safe, almost peaceful. Even though her ankle throbbed. Relentlessly. She doubted her rescuer and thought it broken.