Stevie Lee (17 page)

“But all you’ve got is socks!”

“Didn’t I put in a pair of pants and four shirts?”

Stevie looked down into the flight bag in her lap. “Well, yes.”

“See if you can fit these in.” He lobbed another pair of socks over his shoulder, followed by underwear and a couple of bandanas.

She diligently stuffed everything into the bag and mused out loud, “I guess you’ll take another pack or something to carry the rest of your clothes.”

“Nope,”—he dropped to his knees, reached under the bed, and pulled out a huge backpack covered with zippers, pockets, and straps—“but I will need this for the granola bars and my medical kit.”

The sight of the serious looking pack and his mention of a medical kit eased her doubts a notch.

He knew what he was doing. In truth, he’d done it a hundred times, taken off for the great unknown on a moment’s notice. Who was she to question his gear?

She was the woman who loved him, came her answer. Then she saw what she supposed was his medical kit, a taped-together metal box with a much faded red cross painted on top that was no bigger than a paperback novel. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. The thing was ancient, scarred, dented—and she couldn’t begin to imagine what lifesaving items might be stored in such a small tin.

Resigned to her curiosity, she peeled back the tape, dreading what she might or might not find. The box opened, and three Band-Aids floated to the floor.

Forcing her words to remain calm, she said, “Hal, I think you need to rethink your supply kit. I mean, going off to New Guinea with a clean pair of socks, a jar of cheese spread, and three Band Aids seems . . . it seems a little half-cocked.”

Half-cocked?
He silently mouthed the words, his head and shoulders still under the bed. “Did you know you’re talking to the man who single-handedly organized four tons of gear for the Kioga brothers’ only successful assault on Mount Everest?”

“No, I didn’t.” She paused for a moment, picking up the Band-Aids and giving them a doubtful look. “But I bet you took some aspirin.”

“Ah hah.” She saw him scoot farther under the bed. “Here, put these in the medical kit.” One by one he handed her three brown plastic bottles, naming them as he went. “Anti-infection, anti-diarrhea, and anti–pain. That last one’s the aspirin. Feel better?”

“Barely. What else have you got under there?” If he was going—and he was—she planned on making darn sure he had more than granola bars to keep him alive.

“Two water bottles.” He put them behind him.

“How about a knife?”

“It’s in my pocket.”

If it was small enough to fit in his pocket, it wasn’t big enough to ease her mind, but she kept silent on the point.

“Do you have a hat and some sunglasses?”

“Hat.” He produced a beat-up stockman’s hat. “My shades went down with the
Freedom
.”

“Water purifying stuff?”

“Iodine’s in the bathroom.”

Stevie shot him a wry glance which was completely wasted on his rear end. “If you keep the iodine in the bathroom, why do you keep your other medicines under the bed?”

“I usually don’t get intestinal bugs or headaches at home, but I’ve been known to cut a finger or two under the hood of my truck.”

She had to ask, she thought, shaking her head in resignation.

“Any other requests while I’m under here?”

“A sleeping bag?”

“I’ll get more use out of a mosquito net and a poncho.” He rolled out. “Anything else?” he asked, sweeping a hand back through his hair.

Stevie looked around her at the things piled on the floor, knowing something was missing and yet unable to put her finger on it. “Money?” she voiced the obvious.

“We’ll stop at the bank.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a gun.”

“Never carry one, except in Alaska. But I know for a fact that I won’t need to scare off many grizzlies in Papua New Guinea,” he said with a quick grin.

Everything else she requested he supplied, and all of it fit in either his flight bag or the backpack, leaving plenty of room for his junk food, but no matter how she arranged it, it didn’t look like enough. Something was still missing . . .

“I’ll be right back,” she said abruptly, rising to her feet. Once outside the cabin she raced up the meadow to her house and up the stairs to her room. Nighties, teddies, and undies floated to the floor as she tossed them out of her dresser—until she found the object of her search. Sliding her fingers over the long, silver chain, she lifted the stone into her other hand. Nevada turquoise wasn’t a South African diamond, and she’d never tested the luck of the piece, but it was all she had. Halsey Morgan was taking her heart into the middle of nowhere—he might as well take everything else.

When she returned to his cabin, he was back to rummaging around under the bed, but he’d added precious little to his pile of luggage.

“Found it!” he exclaimed, handing a small leather pouch up to her.

“What’s this?”

“My compass.”

“Thank God,” she said, despite her best intentions not to let all of her doubts show.

Under the bed Hal winced. The woman’s faith in him was downright demoralizing. “You do realize, don’t you, Stevie, that I’ve managed to get around the world a couple of times on my own?”

“Yes. Yes, I know that, but I’m still worried.” He heard the hesitation in her voice, and a grin spread across his face. This was a new feeling, a good feeling.  But he didn’t want her to worry herself sick after he’d gone.

“And do you know”—he pushed out from under the bed and rolled to a sitting position, his knees spread, his hands resting in his lap—“do you know that nothing will keep me from coming back to you?” he asked, his rough voice adding depth and gentleness to the words.

Finally he’d told her what she really wanted to know. “I do now,” she said softly. He was so beautiful, his hair slicked back from his shower, his shoulders broad and strong beneath his khaki shirt—and he was coming back to her. Kneeling down beside him, she leaned forward and slipped the necklace around his neck. “I don’t know how lucky turquoise is, but my dad gave me this for my sixteenth birthday, and I’ve never been lost.”

“It couldn’t be because you’ve never been anywhere?” He winked, even as he pulled her into his arms.

“Don’t tease me, Hal,” she whispered. “I miss you already.”

Holding her close with his arm draped around her shoulders, he studied the stone in his hand. “Thanks, Stevie. Looks like a pretty good piece of luck. I promise to take care of it.”

“Just take care of yourself.”

Cuddled up with her on the floor, he stroked her back and whispered his words of love and reassurance until all too soon it was time to go.

* * *

At the airport, they were sucked into a whirlwind of activity, picking up his ticket, checking his pack, and racing down the concourse.

“Lord, I’m sorry, Stevie,” he said between long strides. “I thought she’d book me on the red-eye. I thought we’d have time to catch a bite to eat.” Near the security checkpoint he stopped and wasted no time pulling her into his arms. Burying his head into the crook of her neck, he lowered his voice to a raspy drawl. “I thought we’d have time for a long, painfully sweet good-bye.” With his hand cupping her chin, he gave her a slow, burning kiss, his tongue sweeping her mouth in lazy tracks.

Stevie clung to his neck, her hands tangling through the long, blond hair lying across his collar. Her body pressed against his in a vain attempt to hold him forever, to sear the feel of him irrevocably into her memory.

“Stay out of trouble.” He laid a trail of kisses along her jaw.

“Be careful, Hal,” she whispered. “Please be careful.”

“Careful is my middle name.” His mouth lingered on the curve of her ear, teasing the sensitive skin and setting off small explosions of desire. “I love you, Stevie Lee. Never doubt it, and never forget it.”

“Oh, Hal—” her voice broke with sadness.

He covered Stevie’s mouth with one more hard kiss, then he released her and started through security. She watched him, her heart heavy, her arms empty.

Suddenly he came back to the barrier. “Stevie, catch!” He stopped and tossed a weighted envelope into the air. With a slight bend in her knees, she caught it on the downfall. “My cabin and truck keys. In case you need them. I love you!”

Before she had time to reply, he was gone. Standing with her mouth half-open and her breath caught in her throat, she stared after him, hoping, yet knowing he wouldn’t surprise her again. Slowly she looked down at the envelope holding the keys to all his worldly goods. Great, she thought, fighting back a tear. Now she had two houses and two cars to use and still no one to share them with. She wished just once the men in her life would stay put, instead of running off and leaving her a bunch of dubious assets.

Dubious assets?
The thought startled her into looking up. Then, just as quickly, she looked down again and ripped open the envelope. Two smooth, worn keys slid into her hands along with one shiny new one—a safe deposit box key, she guessed. A feeling of dread and disbelief caused her hands to shake as she pulled out the single piece of folded paper inside.

Sweet Stevie Lee,

I guess you’ll be able to figure out which one of these opens the cabin and which one is supposed to, but probably won’t, start the truck. My advice is—if I’m not back in a month, sell it and buy a new tire for Dynamite, maybe two if you get lucky.

The other key is a bit trickier, and, yes, I can hear your mind working away even as this jet engine revs up. You taught me a lot this summer. How to love. How to tend bar. And the dangers of leaving unfinished business. I got lucky this time—I found you, and you were already taking care of my business pretty well. So I’m giving you another shot at it.

If, and trust me, Stevie, this is a huge ‘if’—no one has ever won by taking the odds against me and Mother Nature—if I’m not back in time to redeem my property, take the tricky key to Granby National Bank. In box number twelve you’ll find enough cash to pay all the back taxes, but I don’t recommend that course of action. You see, I learned a little bit about business from you too. If you redeem the property for me, and I don’t come back, then it’ll just sit there until the state claims it, and you’ll end up looking down on a fast-food restaurant or something.

So I suggest you take enough of the cash to finish paying the taxes as you’ve done all along in your name. Then the property will be yours—the way it would have been if I’d never gotten off my piece of South Pacific paradise. Sell it, and go see all the places I’ve seen, all the places I want to take you. There’s no one else I want to inherit the property, and there’s never been anyone like you, Stevie. I suppose if we’d gotten married, we could have saved you a lot of paperwork—think about it.

All my love, Hal

Think about it? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Receiving a marriage proposal on the tail end of a last will and testament was as contrary to reason as—well, as surviving a shipwreck on a deserted island. Only Halsey Morgan could have pulled it off.

Clutching the letter to her breast, she bowed her head and started praying for his safekeeping right there in front of the security barrier. Partway through her fourth petition, her head snapped up. She needed the big guns. Ignoring the sidelong glances of a very confused airline employee, she dashed down the concourse to the first phone she saw.

Her foot tapped impatiently while she shovelled in the coins and waited for an answer on the other end. When the melodic, feminine voice answered, she felt a tremendous weight lift from her shoulders. “Mom, we’ve lost him to those pagan tropical lands again. Will you start praying now? I’ll help when I get home.”

Eleven

The first postcard came from Honolulu, Hawaii, the second from Sydney, Australia, and the third from the end of the earth—Kundiawa, Papua New Guinea. Stevie kept them all tucked into the shirt pocket next to her heart.

He’d been gone for a month, and despite her efforts, Stevie’s memories were taking on a dreamlike quality: Hal smiling at her from the end of the bar, his golden mane of hair swept back from his face; Hal coming up behind her and softly kissing the top of her head, his hands automatically wrapping around her waist and drawing her close; and Hal loving her in the night, making her feel warm and sweet.

Autumn was coming early this year. Last week she’d seen elk in the lower pastures, and the aspens were turning copper, yellow, and orange.

“Stephanie?” The elderly lawyer’s voice drew her attention back from the window to his desk. “One more signature and we’re done,” he assured her with a smile.

She looked down at the last contract and stared freedom in the face. One more flourish of the pen would unshackle her bonds. One more scribble would set her adrift. Was this what she really wanted? she asked herself for the thousandth time. No ties? No responsibilities? No job?

Six thousand dollars, a single payment, would be Stevie’s with one more signature.

What was the old saying? Be careful what you wish for, because you might get it? Well, she’d spent half of her life wishing for the world, and each in their own way Kip and Hal were giving it to her. Kip by buying back his half of the bar with Brenda’s money, and Hal with his vision, love, and spirit of adventure.

How much are you willing to risk? he’d asked her on a bright spring morning, and the reckoning time was now. She picked up the pen and signed her name in neat script. For Halsey Morgan she’d risk it all.

He’d been gone too long. He was too far away. And if—the
only
if she dared to entertain—he’d gotten himself lost again, she was going to find him.  She missed him with a dull ache that never left her.