Reckless Fortune, page 10
She had scarfed it down, in fact, because she’d been ravenous after a day of foraging, which no one had adequately explained to her was really just hiking and weeding thrown together, except with none of the views that made hiking tolerable and none of the flowers that made weeding more than a thankless chore.
That, too, was not something she planned on sharing with her fake husband, mostly because he’d acted as if it was funny that she’d been out in the bush looking for edible plants. As if she was that same overachieving goody-goody she’d always been accused of being growing up.
“I don’t think it would kill you to at least pretend to be interested in the thing we’re supposed to be doing here.” And Autumn realized that that came out a little less than friendly only when she heard her own voice in the air between them.
Oops.
“I’m here, Autumn. We’re doing it,” Bowie said, very calmly. Matter-of-factly, even, and he didn’t look away while he said it. “But I didn’t sign up for a Little House on the Prairie reenactment.”
“I don’t think anyone will confuse you for Laura Ingalls Wilder,” Autumn said gaily. As if she hadn’t gotten a little snippy. Because one thing she knew was that no one ever bent an inch if they thought someone was mad at them. It was all about honey and persuasion, and she’d learned how to be good at that. She didn’t know why being around this man made her forget herself. “And no one’s asking you to take part in any reenactments. But you could also not get in the way of my attempts to win this contest we both signed up for, whatever our reasons.”
She thought he would argue. But he didn’t. He only looked at her for a moment or two, then nodded slightly, as if he’d come to a decision.
“Fair enough,” was all he said.
Then he jumped down from his platform, landing on the concrete floor without hardly making a sound. Something else that made her feel a little giddy on the inside.
“Are you going somewhere?” she asked, because he had that sort of look about him then, as he wiped off his hands with a rag.
“We’re both going somewhere,” he told her. “It’s market day.” Autumn must not have looked sufficiently delighted by the news, because he jerked his chin toward the door that led out to the little breezeway that connected them to the house. “The boat’s leaving in twenty minutes, darlin’.”
And then he sauntered off into the house without a backward look.
Autumn trailed after him. At a distance. He disappeared up the spiral stairway into his bedroom upstairs and she drained her coffee in a few big gulps, washed her mug and set it to dry, then headed for her room to change into her usual Alaska uniform. It was a cool morning, drizzling again, but when she’d gone down to the lake to check her gill net earlier, she’d seen blue skies off in the distance.
By the time she made it down to the dock, Bowie was already waiting—but not with the canoe she’d been expecting.
She frowned at it. “We’re not canoeing?”
“Do you want to canoe all the way down the length of the lake? Let me rephrase that before you answer. It’s a long way to paddle. Ten miles. And then there’s the paddling back in a fully loaded canoe. If you feel like six hours of paddling, minimum, by all means, let’s do it.”
His brows rose in a clear and obvious challenge.
And Autumn wanted nothing more than to call his bluff and demand that they start paddling this instant, but six hours, minimum, gave her pause. Because she loved a challenge, sure, but she also knew that six hours of anything—even something as pleasant as canoeing—was inevitably going to hurt.
“The motorboat will be just fine,” she said. And then, after a moment’s consideration, added, “Thank you.”
Bowie rocked back on his heels and regarded her for a moment that made her feel almost as humid as yesterday’s foraging expedition. “Are you sure?” His voice was all drawl. It seemed to catch on every edge she hadn’t known she possessed inside. “Will I have to hear all about the desecration of your pioneer values?”
“If you’re lucky.”
She watched as he bit back a smile at that, and found she was smiling herself. Then she climbed into the boat in the place he indicated, and that was better than thinking about drawls and edges.
But then they were speeding along the water, chasing that blue sky. She almost thought the sound of the motor was a shame, that it somehow shattered the quiet serenity all around them. Not that she planned to mention that, in case it was too Little House for him. And anyway, it wasn’t as if the Alaskan grandeur all around them disappeared just because there was a sound.
Especially when the sun came out.
A great deal of the land in the valley where she’d been raised was unspoiled, or near enough. But the Bitterroot was built up in comparison to this. Autumn was no stranger to wilderness, but Bowie had actually had a point back when he’d picked her up. There were roads where she came from.
Out here, there was only Alaska.
There was no pretending that humans belonged here.
And Autumn liked the way the knowledge of that felt inside. Humans might not belong here in all this untamed wildness, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t eke out a life here. If they wanted. It made her want to sing songs about human ingenuity and determination—but she refrained.
Though she did amuse herself with imagining what Bowie would do if she just . . . broke into song.
The whole length of the lake, once they left Bowie’s house behind, she counted only two other dwellings. And it was only when they reached the other end that she saw more signs of life. There were a bunch of cabins in the trees as Bowie began to slow down. They spread out along the side of the lake, but Autumn quickly returned her attention to the old mining town that sprawled there, up the hill from the lake and almost all of it bright red.
She’d seen abandoned mines before, but this one wasn’t abandoned. The smokestacks had been painted a variety of colors, like little rainbows rising up from the cluster of red structures—houses, she thought—that fanned out from the biggest building at the bottom.
“Old Gold,” she said when Bowie cut the engine and let them glide the rest of the way to shore.
“The one and only.” He sounded affectionate. “It hasn’t been an active mine since early last century. And even when it was active, it wasn’t much good. If it was, the usual corporate types would still own it.”
“Nobody likes corporate types,” Autumn said, with deep feeling. Though her corporate ire was usually focused on the loggers who wanted access to Montana’s forests, supposedly to reduce wildfires. Or the enduring western skirmishes over water rights.
“Not up here,” Bowie was saying in agreement. “You can be sure if you see a fat cat, he’s coming for your land. Luckily, your average fat cat mining boss isn’t what you’d call intrepid. They’re unlikely to come this far out into the backcountry.”
“Someone must have been a little bit intrepid.” Autumn jumped out of the boat into about a foot of water, and helped guide the boat toward the pebbly beach. “Looking for gold all the way out here.”
“It was a gold rush,” Bowie said, jumping out on the other side of the boat. “They looked for gold everywhere. When the gold didn’t pan out, most of them beat a hasty retreat back to wherever they came from.”
“But not your family.”
“The Fortunes like an exercise in futility.” His eyes gleamed and she told herself, sternly, that she was not to take anything personal from that statement. “It’s genetic.”
Together they hauled the motorboat up a foot or so, though Autumn doubted he needed her help. She did not allow herself to focus on all of that lean strength, however. She knew better. Surely she ought to know better.
They left the boat behind and crunched their way along rocky shore. Autumn liked the feel of her wet feet in her sturdy water shoes, because that feeling could only mean summer.
She marched along, trying to keep up with Bowie’s long, easy strides without appearing to scurry after him like some kind of mouse. And because she was certainly not scurrying, she took the time to look around. There were other boats along the shore, pulled up the same way theirs was. There was what looked like a swimming area mapped out in front of a big boathouse, and a dock stretching out into the water. There wasn’t a particular path up the side of the hill so much as the beginnings of a summer meadow, and Autumn quit worrying about keeping up with Bowie. She kept stopping to turn back and look at the pristine expanse of the lake stretched out behind her, until it bent around out of view.
They’d caught up to the blue sky, and it was beautiful now, with the sun high above and a faint breeze moving over her face. The land itself seemed to be basking in the prettiness, after all the long months of cold.
They crested the hill and headed toward the biggest red building. As they walked, Autumn could see the doors were wide open, letting the good weather in. Inside, there was what looked like any farmers’ market anywhere, just all indoors. Autumn had a sudden pang of homesickness for her favorite farmers’ market in Hamilton, where she liked to go on summer Saturdays, eat an English-style pasty from her favorite shop, and go home with all kinds of things she didn’t know she needed. The Mine reminded her of home and she picked up her pace a little as they drew close.
There was a group set up outside, playing a collection of fiddles, guitars, and the odd accordion. There were kids dancing around in the dirt in front of them, and more than a few adults, as well.
Autumn felt as if she was looking at the perfect distillation of all the things she loved about western small towns. The people here looked like the sort of rugged individuals she liked best. Capable of hunkering down to do what needed doing, but for today, just folks out on a summer Saturday exulting in the kind of connections she thought people took more seriously when the rest of their time was spent in isolation.
It felt familiar to her here. Almost like home, even though it was so different. It made her feel better about coming here in the first place.
She couldn’t wait to tell her sisters.
Autumn glanced up at Bowie. “Do we have a shopping list?”
He cast her one of those looks she was beginning to think of as particularly Bowie. Dark eyes bright with laughter and maybe a little heat, too. That amused curve to his mouth. “That’s disappointing, Autumn. Taking practicality too far, I’d say.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Not an uncommon reaction to things you say, by the way.”
“It’s appropriate to get at least a little giddy over the Mine.” His voice was chiding. He shook his head, sorrowfully. “You basically just told me that if you stumbled over a unicorn in the woods, the only question you’d ask is where the blacksmith is located.”
“How disappointing for you that my concern would be whether or not the poor mythical creature could walk properly. How dare I.”
Bowie nodded with great solemnity. “I’m glad you see the error of your ways.”
“I like to know the parameters before jumping into something,” she informed him. “What if I get my heart set on dancing only to find out that you think dancing is the devil, have no intention of doing it yourself or allowing anyone else to, and all my wanting it is only going to make not getting it worse?”
“That sounds like a whole lot of living in the future to me,” Bowie drawled. “You know what happens when you do that?”
“I do. You’re appropriately prepared for the matter at hand.”
“You miss out on the present.” His eyes were glimmering then, in a way that made that same old ribbon pull tight inside her, making her heart get good and giddy, despite her attempts to prevent it. “Me? I prefer to stay put. Right here in the thing that’s actually happening.”
Autumn nodded. “You would say that. You’re a man.”
Bowie came to a stop, there at the edge of the small crowd outside the big, red building. “Autumn McCall.” He didn’t clasp at his chest in mock astonishment, but he somehow seemed to suggest the clasping. And possibly even some staggering back. All while treating her to a lazy appraisal that made her think it was a lot hotter here in Alaska than she’d anticipated. “That’s downright chauvinist.”
“Is it chauvinist? Or just my observation of the way people behave?” She shrugged, hoping all the sudden heat didn’t show on her face. “Men are celebrated for living in the moment. Boys will be boys, and all that. Women, not so much. We’re expected to have our acts together. And while we’re at it, everyone else’s act, too.”
“I think that’s something women tell themselves,” Bowie said, and now he even sounded lazy and too hot. It really shouldn’t have been allowed. “Fun fact, Autumn. You could just . . . not. No is a complete sentence.”
And she knew he was just being ornery, shooting off his mouth, entertaining himself. He couldn’t possibly know that he’d more or less driven a knife into her side with that comment.
She’d never thought she could say no. Because most of the time, she couldn’t. She’d been too busy trying to make things okay when they weren’t. When they couldn’t possibly be okay, because her mother was gone and no matter what Autumn did, she couldn’t bring her back.
That same old grief rose inside her, a wave she’d grown all too wary of over these past years. It could strike without warning. It could lay her out flat, if she let it.
Autumn refused to let it.
“I’ll ask again,” she said, and it was more fight than it should have been to keep her voice even. “Is there any sort of parameter here that I should know about? Or can I wander around and enjoy myself, in or out of the moment, as it pleases me?”
“Knock yourself out,” Bowie replied, and everything seemed a little more hard-edged and glittery, suddenly, layered in and around that wave she still fought to keep at bay.
But he didn’t do anything about it. Did she wish he would? What are you even wishing for? she asked herself.
His gaze stayed on her longer than necessary. So long that she felt caught up in all that dark blue until he turned and melted off into the crowd.
Autumn told herself she was perfectly happy to be left on her own. And it was true. If maybe not the only truth, she admitted when her body took a little longer to adjust to the absence of the man who made her feel nothing short of stormy.
She stayed where she was, listening to the band play for a while. Then she wandered inside to check out the Mine, which really was a unicorn of a place. A village inside of one big building, which seemed far-fetched until she remembered where she was.
Maybe this is my happy place, she thought as she soaked in the Lost Lake market. Something seemingly fanciful that was actually practical? That pleased her more than it should have.
The lingering current of grief inside her reminded her that she needed a happy place. That she’d been a little too busy worrying about everyone else’s happiness for a little too long now.
You could just . . . not, Bowie had said, as if that was easy.
Autumn blew out a breath and focused on the Mine instead.
Inside, there were booths filled with interesting crafts, goods, and services, too. One old man, visibly drunk, appeared to be dispensing his two cents. Folks actually gave him two pennies and he barked out a whole lot of terrible advice, all of which made the recipients roar with laughter. There were jewelry stands. Paper goods. Fly-fishing lures displayed like precious gems. Pottery booths filled with gorgeous pieces of ceramic art as well as practical mugs and plates. To her shock, this far out from anywhere, she saw a full-size, gleaming espresso machine being used to make fancy coffee drinks at the counter, making her wish she was like her sisters and could stand all of that frothy stuff.
It was hard to tell what was part of the Saturday market and what was always here. She figured the bar was a mainstay and the little diner area, too. There were seating areas all over, including one arranged around the big fireplace, that she could see being highly coveted in winter given the often subzero temperatures around here. There was a section that looked like an actual store selling all kinds of necessaries, though particularly Alaskan in style, with bear spray next to the single-ply toilet paper. And only one kind of toothpaste, in an unreasonably large tube. Like a convenience store for survivalists, she thought, and made herself laugh.
No one would confuse the crowd here for one of any size, like in Caras Park in Missoula on a summer night. But it was more than the twenty people she remembered Bowie said lived around here. She could hear a Native Alaskan dialect being spoken, and figured it was Dinak’i, the language she’d read the Athabascan tribes spoke in this region. She confirmed that guess at a booth that proclaimed it held all handmade Athabascan crafts. She made a note to look up the culture later, so that maybe she could attempt to incorporate some of the ancient local practices into her small attempts at survival-type projects this summer. Or, more likely, simply be awed at the people who’d managed to live here for centuries.
She bought herself hot popcorn from a young-looking girl with a toddler on her hip, who raised her blonde brows like she expected Autumn to comment on it. Autumn did not. And then, having developed a thirst, she helped herself to a beer, too, scrupulously writing down her name in the honor system log that lay open on the bar surface.
Autumn McCall, summer resident, she wrote. Then, after a moment, she added, care of Bowie Fortune.
It was the beer making her warm, she assured herself as she set off again to wind her way in and out of the booths. Not any unnecessary fantasies about what it would be like to truly be in Bowie’s care. And she was having a raucous little internal debate with herself when she came face-to-face with Piper, who was selling the canned and jarred goods she’d told Autumn about at dinner the other night.
