The Alaska Brides Collection Part 45

"Penny for your thoughts."

She looked up at the object of her thoughts. "Not on your life, Tucker. I'm never telling."

"Oh? Is that right? Well, I have my ways and..."

Fiona stopped midway across the bridge and looked down into the clear river. Several decent-sized frying fish teased her from their watery home. How long had it been since she'd gone fis.h.i.+ng? Too long.

"Fiona, are you listening to me?"

"Hmm? I'm sorry. What did you say? I was thinking about fis.h.i.+ng."

Tucker gave her an incredulous look.

She held her hands up in a defensive pose. "I'm sorry. I know it was rude. It's just that all my life I've been my father's fis.h.i.+ng buddy. Neither of my brothers cared for it, and Da said I was a quick study. As long as I can remember I've had a fis.h.i.+ng pole in my hand." She paused. "At least I did until I came here. I didn't realize until just now how very much I miss it."

Silence.

"Tucker?" Fiona said. "Do you realize you're staring at me?"

He nodded.

"Well, stop it." She turned her back and headed toward the cabin, stopping only when she realized Tucker hadn't kept up. "Tucker Smith, get off the bridge and go home. I don't know what's gotten into you, but you are acting silly."

He caught up with her a moment later. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"About what, Tucker?" Fiona stopped to peer up at him. "Is something wrong with you? I don't think I've ever seen you acting so odd. Well, other than on the trip back from town."

"I'm sorry." He scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands. "Did you just say you like to fish?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"Wrong?" Tucker's laugh echoed against the nearby hills. "No," he said as he grabbed her by the waist and began to swing her around. "That's wonderful." He set her down then had to steady her when she wobbled a bit.

"Tucker Smith, what's gotten into you?" She primped her hair until she'd smoothed it back into place.

He had to tame his smile to get a word out. "Fiona, I've been living here for nigh on three years, and not once during that time did I ever have anyone to go fis.h.i.+ng with. Your brothers are good men, but neither of them has the patience it takes to wait out a decent-sized fish."

She nodded. "That's true."

"Now, mind you, a man likes to fish alone most of the time, but on occasion, it's a fine thing to have someone else to compare your catch with. Outside of the good Lord and a hot cup of black coffee, that's about my favorite thing." He paused to give her a sideways look. "Now you're looking at me funny. Did I say something wrong?"

Fiona took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Nothing, really. It's just that, well, I feel the same way."

Tucker eyed the redhead and waited for her to say the punch line. Surely someone as pretty and smart as this one had other things to do than fish.

Then came the absurd question of whether she wore that silly hat and those impractical shoes to fish in. Well, it couldn't be possible.

Maybe he ought to call her bluff. Yes, that idea definitely had appeal.

He affected a casual pose. "So, Fiona," he said as he studied the distance, "what say you and I go fis.h.i.+ng after Sunday dinner?" Tucker paused for effect. "Of course, if you're busy, I'll understand."

"Too busy to fish?" She shook her head. "Anyone too busy to fish is just plain too busy. You bring the bait, and I'll fix the coffee."

On the appointed day, Tucker had the bait packed and ready in the bucket when he arrived at the Rafferty place for their weekly Sunday services. Fiona looked as pretty as ever. Evidently, she had more than one pair of those ridiculous shoes, because the ones she wore with her flowered dress looked just like the ones he'd sent downriver.

He felt a little bad about doing that, but only a little. Still, he shouldn't have tossed the shoes.

"I'll just be a minute," she said as she headed for the kitchen once the services were over. "Do you have a spot in mind?"

Ian looked up from his reading while Meredith watched Tucker from the corner where she held the sleeping baby. Neither spoke, but then they didn't need words to show their curiosity.

"Fis.h.i.+ng," Tucker felt compelled to say. "Fiona loves to fish. I just found this out."

"I see," Ian responded curtly, although Tucker thought he might have detected the slightest hint of a grin.

Never had Tucker felt so out of place in his sister's home. "I'll just wait outside," he said as he backed out, running into the door frame in the process.

Sitting on a tree stump and waiting for Fiona, Tucker frowned. "What's wrong with me? It's just fis.h.i.+ng. Why, those two act like I've come courting."

"What did you say?"

He looked up. Fiona headed his way with a basket. She wore a pretty flowered dress, a fairly sensible hat with a straw brim encircled by a black ribbon, and the sealskin boots he'd bought for her. To his surprise, she carried her own pole along with the basket.

"Did you bring worms, too?" He gestured to the basket. "I thought I told you I would take care of that."

Her laughter made him smile. "No, it's not worms. Fis.h.i.+ng's not fis.h.i.+ng without coffee and snacks," she said. "I don't know if I mentioned it, but when I start fis.h.i.+ng, I generally stay all day." She stopped short and gave him an appraising look.

"What?" he asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Not yet," she said, "but I wonder if you're one of those fellows who likes to talk while he fishes. If you are, I should warn you that we won't be sitting near one another. I like to do my fis.h.i.+ng in silence. It's the best time to talk to the Lord, you know. And besides," she said with a wink, "talking scares the fish away." Her expression turned serious. "Unless you like to talk while you fish. I surely don't mean to suggest that-"

"No, it's quite all right. I believe I can abide by the no-talking rule. One question, though."

She set the basket down to adjust her hat. "What's that?"

"Does the no-talking rule apply to snack times? I mean, a fellow might find himself in trouble if he asks someone to pa.s.s the salt, so I feel we should spell out the rules beforehand."

Fiona pretended to think hard. "No, I believe talking is allowed during snack times."

Tucker reached for the basket's handle. "All right, then. Let's go fis.h.i.+ng."

"Yes, let's. Where are the big ones biting?"

He answered by pointing south. As she walked ahead in that direction, Tucker suppressed a groan, and he turned to a prayer of his own to save him.

Over the course of the afternoon, his fears grew. Not only did Fiona Rafferty know her way around a fis.h.i.+ng pole, but she also caught more fish than he had and even offered to bait his hook. It was a side of the redhead that both intrigued and terrified him.

And Tucker Smith didn't scare easily.

For the first time since he had left Texas, he was enjoying himself with a woman who was not his relative. Tucker set his pole into the soft dirt and leaned back on his elbows. Some twenty yards downriver, Fiona was reeling in a good-sized Dolly Varden.

He watched her drop the fish into a bucket that was nearly br.i.m.m.i.n.g already. Without missing a beat, she reached over and jabbed the hook into an unsuspecting worm, then cast the freshly baited hook out in a perfect arc toward midstream.

Lord, I'm in trouble. I think I could actually fall in love with this one.

Two hours into their fis.h.i.+ng trip, Tucker called a time-out for coffee. To his surprise, Fiona willingly obliged, and soon they were sitting side by side, swapping fish tales about the ones that got away.

When the conversation slowed, Tucker sipped at his coffee and watched his companion as she lay back to look up at the clouds.

"Look, it's a rabbit." She pointed straight up, and when Tucker tried to follow her gaze, he nearly fell over.

"Looks more like a dog to me," he said. "See the tail?"

"That's not the tail, Tucker." She giggled. "That's the ears."

They lapsed into companionable silence, only speaking when the look of a particular cloud needed to be debated. When the silence went on too long, Tucker closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face while his breathing slowed.

"I could get used to this." Tucker opened his eyes and looked over at Fiona, who was no longer at his side. To his surprise, she'd just cast her hook into the river near the bank. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

To her credit, Fiona shrugged. "I'm fis.h.i.+ng. There's no talking in fis.h.i.+ng, remember?"

With a chuckle, Tucker closed his eyes and resumed his contemplation of the backs of his eyelids until he reached a state where he could still hear the sounds of the river but he no longer noticed anything else. His sleep was light, barely below wakefulness lest Fiona should need him.

Fiona. He thought of her as he lay there, of his own reasons for escaping this corner of Alaska, and then let his thoughts drift to why he was there in the first place. He'd been running when he got here, and if he headed out with the Harriman folks, he'd still be running.

He'd already lost his past and a good woman to his running. Did he really want to keep it up?

Somewhere during that nap, Tucker gave up all pretense of wanting to leave Alaska, even for a brief time. The Harriman Expedition would do just fine without him. Experienced guides were a dime a dozen in this part of the country.

Women like Fiona Rafferty, however, were not. That realization almost caused him to sit up and smile.

Almost, but not quite. He did feel quite comfortable lying here.

"What did you want to be when you grew up, Tucker?"

The sound of her voice startled him, and he had to gather his wits. He also had to force his eyes to open, but what he saw was worth the effort.

Fiona sat beside him again, a cup of coffee in her hand and the bucket full of wriggling fish. She'd set aside her proper straw hat and captured that fiery hair of hers into a knot.

She scooted closer to lean her back against the tree, ankles crossed, then sat in silence, never pus.h.i.+ng him for an answer. She seemed confident she would have one eventually.

Tucker rolled over on his side and supported himself on one elbow. "I don't think I've ever told anyone this, not even Merry." He paused. "You have to promise two things before I will tell you."

"Sounds serious."

"It's very serious. I'm not a man who shares his secrets with just anyone."

Fiona gave him a look of mock horror as she pressed her palms to her cheeks. "Oh, I don't know, Tucker. I'm not sure I'm fit to take on this responsibility."

"Very funny. How old are you?"

"Nineteen." She tucked a loose tendril behind her ear and reached for the hat, setting it on just so. "Why?"

He shrugged. "No reason, I suppose. I just wondered."

"I could ask how old you are, but I'm more interested in this deep, dark secret of yours."

"Twenty-three," he said. "And as for the deep, dark secret, well, I always wanted to follow in my father's footsteps. He was a railroad man. I've dreamed of it since childhood. Do you find that odd?"

Tucker waited for Fiona to laugh. When she didn't, his estimation of her soared.

She seemed to be cogitating on his statement, so he left her to it. Picking up his pole, he urged the line back onto sh.o.r.e and stabbed another worm onto the hook.

"Some fisherman you are," she said with a grin. "You slept through a good-sized trout."

He pretended disgust. "Some fisherman you are. You allowed a good-sized trout to help itself to a feast without getting caught."

"I am a fisherwoman, thank you very much." Fiona stuck her nose in the air, and her hat tumbled back off her head. She ignored it to give the line her attention.

"Fisherwoman it is." He cast his line out into midstream and watched the hook sink with a satisfying plop. "But what excuse do you offer for letting a perfectly decent fish get away?"

Fiona yanked at the line then glanced over at Tucker. "I a.s.sumed that since you had no intention of catching him, the least I could do was let the fish eat something so he could get a little bigger before I landed him."

And so they bantered, he about her inconsiderate nature and she about his casual att.i.tude toward fis.h.i.+ng. By the time hunger pangs. .h.i.t, the second bucket was full, and their catch was enough for twice the number of diners at the supper table.

"I suppose we should take these back and clean them," Fiona said. "It'll be supper soon enough."

"Grab the poles and the basket, and I'll take these." Tucker reached for both buckets and turned toward the cabin. "Oh. I should have told you before we left that the rule around here is whoever catches them cleans them."

Fiona looked him in the eye and nodded before hoisting the poles onto her shoulder. "Of course."

They were almost in sight of the cabin when Tucker stopped short. "Fiona," he said, "I had a great time."

For the first time that afternoon, the redhead looked shy. "So did I."

"We should do this again next Sunday."

She agreed quickly. Then her cheeks blazed. "That is," she added as she looked away, "if Merry doesn't have need of me."

Setting the buckets down, Tucker stared down into eyes he only now realized were the deep green of fresh clover. "Of course," he somehow managed to say.

"And if the weather's nice."

He moved an inch closer. Close enough to count every freckle on her nose. "Definitely," he said.

"Next Sunday, it is," she said as she pressed past him to snag the buckets and march toward the cabin.

Tucker couldn't decide whether he'd just missed out on something wonderful or had just missed landing in a boatload of trouble. As he watched the redhead sharpening the knife that would clean the fish, he decided the answer was a little of both.