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A Soldier's Pledge
Nadia Nichols
She's never lost a client, but this could be a first!Cameron Johnson thought she'd found the perfect life as a guide and bush pilot in Canada's Northwest Territories until one of her clients disappeared in the wilderness. Jack Parker had been searching for the dog that saved his life when he was deployed in Afghanistan—a dog his sister had helped bring stateside only to lose him along the Wolf River.Jack's traveling on a prosthetic leg, and after just one day Cameron’s sure he'll be ready to give up and climb into her canoe. Once she finds him. Well, she's about to get a thorough lesson in stubbornness from a veteran who won’t give up…
She’s never lost a client, but this could be a first!
Cameron Johnson thought she’d found the perfect life as a guide and bush pilot in Canada’s Northwest Territories until one of her clients disappeared in the wilderness. Jack Parker had been searching for the dog that saved his life when he was deployed in Afghanistan—a dog his sister had helped bring stateside only to lose him along the Wolf River.
Jack’s traveling on a prosthetic leg, and after just one day, Cameron’s sure he’ll be ready to quit and climb into her canoe. Once she finds him. Well, she’s about to get a thorough lesson in stubbornness from a veteran who won’t give up...
“This smells like real cowboy coffee.”
“It’ll float a spoon,” he said.
“Just how I like it.” She took a sip. “Perfect.”
Her eyes were as dark as her hair, fringed with thick lashes. Her face was slender, cheekbones high, lips curved in a smile. In the dim confines of the tent, after that plunge in the icy river and the mighty struggle with the canoe, she should have looked like a scrawny wet rat, not a sexy fashion model.
“Why are you here?” he said, blunt and to the point.
She shook her head, took another swallow of coffee. “My boss dropped me off up at the lake so I could canoe downriver and deliver a message from your sister.” She ran the fingers of one hand through her wet, shoulder-length hair, sweeping it back from her face, and gazed at him frankly. “She’s very worried about you. I spoke with her on the phone yesterday. She told me what happened to your dog, and she feels bad about it.”
He made no comment. He had nothing to say to this girl about his dog or his sister.
His life was none of her business.
Dear Reader (#ulink_6ed4e520-9508-54e2-8eb5-c90db66cc9cf),
Like many fictional stories, A Soldier’s Pledge found its origins in real life. One segment of a documentary was being filmed at my workplace. The documentary was called Searching for Home: Coming Back from War, and one of the soldiers being filmed for the documentary had lost his leg while serving a tour of duty in Iraq.
I am deeply indebted to Sergeant Brandon Deaton for his personal insight into a wounded warrior’s difficult journey back from war. Any inaccuracies are my own. This story is about a fictional character, but is dedicated to all soldiers, past and present, who served and sacrificed to protect our nation, and to those who served and didn’t come home.
Nadia Nichols
A Soldier’s Pledge
Nadia Nichols
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
NADIA NICHOLS went to the dogs at the age of twenty-nine and currently operates a kennel of twenty-eight Alaskan huskies. She has raced her sled dogs in northern New England and Canada, works at the family-owned Harraseeket Inn in Freeport, Maine, and is also a registered Maine Master Guide.
She began her writing career at the age of five, when she made her first sale, a short story called “The Bear,” to her mother for 25 cents. This story was such a blockbuster that her mother bought every other story she wrote, and kept her in ice-cream money throughout much of her childhood.
Now all her royalties go toward buying dog food. She lives on a remote solar-powered northern Maine homestead with her sled dogs, a Belgian draft horse named Dan, several cats, two goats and a flock of chickens. She can be reached at nadianichols@aol.com.
Contents
Cover (#u2951cbbf-1e0b-5f7a-b2c3-75884538e870)
Back Cover Text (#u53470e81-0910-5a60-b5e5-3c8d044cdf50)
Introduction (#ufca2cf86-1528-5185-8e33-f366e6069912)
Dear Reader (#ulink_08d598ad-3983-5d76-a06f-c767a3f7e14a)
Title Page (#u127b0822-1200-5663-858d-818ed89eb782)
About the Author (#uadcaac08-0212-5a45-ab7c-4027f348a7b9)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e8e44739-3f83-5b4f-ae04-b44c6bc376f6)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_5384c2cc-0f5c-5440-b436-6f8c85e65d00)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_40b683c9-5848-5b0d-9248-9e42a5f32938)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_4c104e54-4b70-5dcd-92cb-4be87fe4ee35)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_af9a6599-2f0b-5791-9dae-e337aeec88cc)
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_b814a55f-5e5e-5d84-b72b-27a90a87d038)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_229d121c-7c96-54e4-bb3a-61aa1e56eb2a)
SHE FIRST SAW him through the smoke of a forest fire. He was standing on the end of the dock where the smoke jumpers waited for the planes, backpack and rifle case resting at his feet, staring off across the river. Normally the ferry landing could be seen on the opposite shore, but with the wind out of the west, smoke roiled over the water like thick fog that glowed a dark molten red in the sunrise. Cameron took a second sip from her first cup of coffee and squinted out the window of Walt’s cluttered office.
“That him?” she asked, leaning forward until her nose almost touched the grimy, flyspecked pane. Stupid question. Who else would be standing there at dawn? Her brain was muddled from lack of sleep and three beers at the pool hall the night before.
“That’s him,” Walt said, his voice as rough as hers from breathing smoke for days on end. “Said he drove all night to get here and there’s a big storm front right behind him. Been waiting there pretty near two hours.”
“Well, he’ll have to wait a little longer, smoke’s too thick to fly. Jeez, Walt, I can’t believe you called me at oh-dark-thirty to get me down here. This was supposed to be my first day off in over two weeks.”
“Wind’s going to shift pretty quick. I listened to the forecast. You’ll be able to get him where he wants to go.”
“Where’s that?”
“Kawaydin Lake, headwaters of the Wolf River.”
“He’s taking a fishing trip in the middle of a forest fire?”
“Didn’t see a fly rod or a kick float. He’s traveling light. His total kit weighed under fifty pounds.”
“When’s he want to be picked up?”
“Doesn’t. Says he’s going to walk down the Wolf to the Mackenzie.”
Cameron laughed aloud. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Says it’ll take him eight days, and he’ll send us a signal on his GPS transmitter when it’s time to pick him up.”
“He might be standing on that dock for eight days if the wind doesn’t shift. By the way, this coffee’s terrible. When and if Jeri ever comes back, give her a raise. A big one. Then tell her if she leaves again you’ll fire her, and if she stays you’ll marry her.”
Walt looked like he hadn’t bathed, shaved or slept in two weeks, which was just about how long the fire east of the park had been burning out of control and just about how long Jeri had been gone. The first two weeks of August had been fourteen miserable days of nonstop work and bad coffee.
“Plane’s all gassed up, ready to go,” Walt said.
“I thought the park service closed the area down to nonessential personnel.”
“They’ve okayed this because it’s way outside the fire area and it’s not inside the park. Don’t complain. This works out good for us. He’s paying a lot of money to get flown out to that lake.”
“Speaking of flying, the plane was running rough enough to spit rivets yesterday, Walt. She’s overdue for a checkup.”
“He’s paying a lot of money,” Walt repeated. “That plane’s not up for inspection for another month. She’ll get you there and back, and you know it. It’s three hours’ flying time, round-trip. You’ll be napping in your rusty old trailer by noon. Look, see that? The wind’s already shifting out of the south, just like they said it would.”
Cameron glanced at her wristwatch and thought about how dog tired she was. If she’d known about this job in advance, she wouldn’t have played pool until 2:00 a.m. “What about Mitch? Can’t he do it?”
“He ferried a big crew of smoke jumpers out to Frazier Lake yesterday to fight the fire, then he was going to drop another crew back in Yellowknife. He won’t be back till late this afternoon. C’mon, Cam, it’s an easy hop. I’ll throw a bonus at you for flying him out there.”
“How much?”
“Hundred bucks.”
She took another sip of stale, bitter coffee. It was no better than the first. “Walt, that’s your second joke of the morning. You’re on a real roll.”
“Hundred fifty.”
“Two hundred fifty and a week off, paid, or I’m going back to bed and you can fly him out there yourself.”
Walt hesitated. “Hundred fifty and two days off if we get the heavy rains they’re predicting tonight. If not, you’ll have to keep flying the jumpers. I don’t have any other pilots right now, you know that, and you also know we need the money.”
Cameron tugged on the brim of her Gore-Tex ball cap and sighed in defeat. Walt’s expression instantly brightened. “Good. I’ve already loaded supplies that you can drop over to Frazier Lake after you get the Lone Ranger situated.”
“That’s wasn’t part of the bargain.”
“Mitch’s plane was overloaded with smoke jumpers. He didn’t have room for any provisions. Those jumpers have to eat, and you can swing over there easy as pie on the way home.”
“Easy as pie. Right.” She attempted another swallow of coffee and looked out the grimy window. The sky was brightening as the wind shifted and pushed the smoke to the west. The old red-and-white de Havilland Beaver tied to the dock rocked gently on small river swells. Cameron thought about the past four months, moving up here after an ugly divorce, living in a battered old house trailer two miles from the airstrip, flying as much as she could because when she was flying she could outrun her past, and if she flew fast enough and far enough, who knew? She might catch a glimpse of the future, and maybe it would look good.
“What’s the Lone Ranger’s name?” she asked.
* * *
THE WONDERFUL THING about the red-and-white Beaver, tail number DHC279, was the tremendous amount of noise it generated in midflight, that great big Wasp engine roaring away, metal rattling, wind whistling through all the cracks. The noise made conversation impossible, which suited Cameron right down to the ground. She had no desire to make small talk with clients when flying them to their destinations. She hid behind her sunglasses and liked to be alone with her thoughts. She never tired of studying the landscape, the rivers and lakes, the mountains and valleys, the wilderness that appeared so pristine, so untouched by human hands. This wild landscape was a balm to her spirit. She liked to daydream about building a cabin in this valley, or maybe that one, down where those two small rivers converged...or that next valley wasn’t bad, either; it had a natural meadow that would make a good garden spot.
And hey, was that a wolf down there? No, two wolves, trotting along the riverbank. The spotting of wildlife from the air never ceased to thrill her.
Her passenger made no attempt at conversation but seemed equally content to watch the world slip beneath the plane’s wings. The forest fire’s destruction was visible west toward the park. Thick plumes of smoke nearly obliterated the dark bank of clouds advancing from the south. If this front brought the promised rain, two intense weeks of flying smoke jumpers in and out of the park would come to a welcome end.
The plane touched down on the lake just past nine thirty after a one-and-a-half-hour flight. Cameron taxied toward the shore, cut the engine, popped her door open and climbed down onto the pontoon. When the bottom shallowed up, she lowered herself carefully into the water, well aware of how slippery the smooth stones could be underfoot. Bracing her heels, she caught hold of the wing rope to pivot the plane. A second rope hitched to the pontoon acted as a tether, and she hauled the back of the floats toward shore.
Her passenger opened the side door and climbed onto the pontoon, hauled his pack out of the door behind him, slung his rifle case over his shoulder and closed the door. He waded ashore with his pack and rifle case, and leaned both against a big round rock near the shore’s edge. She hadn’t noticed his limp when he was getting into the plane back at the village. She’d been too busy prepping the plane. He straightened, turned to look at her and took off his sunglasses. Good-looking man. Well built. Short military-style haircut. Squint lines at the corners of clear hazel eyes that had seen too much, maybe. Strong features. Early to mid-thirties. But there was something about him that made her uneasy. Not many chose to be dropped off alone in such a remote spot, with so little gear.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Cameron replied, hiding behind her shades. “My boss says you’re planning to follow this river out to the Mackenzie?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s rough going through there. Wild country. Going solo’s pretty risky, and what you’re carrying for gear isn’t much.”
