That's Our Baby!. Pamela Browning

it, camping out.”

      “In snow?” Kerry said, heavy on the sarcasm. She bent to pick up the pillow. Its case was wet, and feathers were still falling out.

      “It wasn’t snowing when I started,” Sam said. He wiped his face with the towel and tossed it into a basket under the sink before peering into the cloudy mirror beside the back door and brushing feathers from his hair. In obvious distaste, he poked at a pot of red beans she’d left on the stove after lunch and dropped the spoon before looking her over again from head to toe.

      It was a thorough inspection, his gaze lingering on her face before sweeping the rest of her slight frame. It unnerved her, that look. She felt as if she were standing in front of him buck naked. For something to do, she walked over to the wood box and shoved the sadly deflated pillow in between the logs. She didn’t know what else to do with it.

      “Whatever brings you to this neck of the woods?” she blurted. She held her injured finger in the palm of her other hand; it was throbbing painfully. Through her pain and astonishment, she had the idea that maybe Sam was checking on her out of a feeling of obligation to Doug. At that thought she felt a kind of absurd gratitude, but it evaporated as soon as Sam opened his mouth.

      “Your friend Emma told me you’d written and said you were staying on here after the last boat of the summer came through. I couldn’t believe you could be so dumb. Why are you staying here in the cabin instead of the lodge?”

      “It costs too much to run the electrical generator there, and the lodge is too big to heat. Anyway, the cabin is cozy. It suits me.”

      “What ever possessed you to hang on at Silverthorne with winter coming on? With winter already here,” he amended, with a meaningful look at the storm flailing outside the windows.

      “I had lots of work to do. I was in the middle of painting the dining room because I was running behind schedule when the River Rover made its last run. Captain Crocker is sending his son-in-law Bert to pick me up in his plane in a couple of weeks when he flies to the Indian village on government business.” She narrowed her eyes. “The captain didn’t send you instead, did he?”

      Sam’s hair was coal-black and unruly, and now he furrowed a hand through it, which only made it wilder. “Hell, no. If anyone had asked me to fly all the way over here to pick up a cheechako woman who was enough of a nitwit not to head for civilization in the face of an Alaskan winter, I would have refused.” Like Captain Crocker, he’d pronounced it “cheechaker.” “Nope, it was my own fool decision to stop here. You should have left weeks ago. And if Bert’s planning to fly to an Indian village, which one?”

      “To Athinopa. Captain Crocker said Bert wouldn’t mind stopping here.”

      “He wouldn’t. If he heard about you, that is.”

      “Why wouldn’t he?”

      “Josiah Crocker habitually tosses his captain’s hat onto his bedpost on the last day of August every year and goes on a six-month drunk, that’s why. I wouldn’t count on Joe to tell anyone anything.”

      “How was I to know?” Kerry said, feeling deflated.

      Sam evidently took this for a rhetorical question because he picked a few feathers from his shirt and changed the subject. “You’re too thin. Don’t you eat properly?”

      “I try,” she said evenly. For the first time she noticed that Sam Harbeck looked like a cross between Harrison Ford and George Clooney, heavy on the Harrison. He seemed to take up too much space in this small room; he filled it up. Kerry tried to inhale, but found that she couldn’t breathe. She grabbed the back of a chair with her uninjured hand and closed her eyes against the bevy of black dots swarming behind her eyelids. Meanwhile her visitor was pacing like a caged animal. An agitated caged animal, who was incongruously wearing the ubiquitous Alaskan bush boots. Feathers fluttered lazily in the air like snowflakes.

      “Worse September snowstorm I’ve seen in many years. I was halfway here when it hit. I ditched the plane at the bend in the river where it meets Chickaback Creek. Do you have anything to eat? Anything good?” He cast a disparaging look at the pot of beans.

      “I—um, well, I made goulash yesterday out of the last of the beef and was going to heat it for dinner. Anyway, beans are very nutritious. I cooked them with wild onions and chili powder. What plane?”

      “It’s an aging Cessna 185 that I agreed to ferry back to Anchorage for a friend. Against my better judgment, by the way. Last week I had one of my pilots drop me off at Vic’s camp, it’s out Tolneeka way, and indulged in a few days of fishing. Where’s the goulash?”

      She ignored his question. “What happened to the Cessna?” she asked. She was still trying to figure out what Sam was doing here.

      “It was an emergency landing, and the plane’s not flyable. I guess the damage could have been worse considering the conditions. Actually I didn’t land far from here, but I had to walk most of the way against the wind. Is something wrong? You look like hell.” He tucked his hands into his belt loops and scowled at her. His brows were still damp and stood out from his face; a small scar cut through the left one. His mouth turned down at the corners; it was too generous to be considered handsome. Even as she noted these irrelevant details, Kerry couldn’t help thinking that there was something overwhelmingly, reassuringly masculine about him. She told herself that under the circumstances, she should be relieved to see another human being, any human being. Even Sam Harbeck. Even when he was saying uncomplimentary things.

      “I thought rule number one was never to leave the plane if you go down.”

      “Yeah, well, I’ve never been much for rules. I asked you if something was wrong.”

      “I think I broke my finger,” Kerry said with reluctance.

      “Let’s see.” It wasn’t a request, it was a command.

      Reluctantly Kerry presented her hand, and Sam enveloped it in his larger ones as he studied it. He whistled. “That’s a lovely shade of violent.”

      “Violent?”

      “Violet. It’s a joke, Kerry.”

      “It hurts too much to laugh.”

      She could tell he didn’t like the looks of her injury. “What have you been doing for it?” he asked.

      “Cold packs. I’ve been hoping it’s only sprained.”

      “It looks like more than a sprain, all right. What were you doing, smashing your fingers with a hammer? You have no business trying to renovate that big old lodge by yourself. You should have waited until next year when you could bring in a crew of workmen.”

      “There’s no money for workmen, and by next summer I’ll need paying guests. Doug didn’t leave me in great financial shape, you know.” She pulled her hand away from him, but he grabbed her wrist. His fingers were surprisingly gentle.

      “Not so fast. Where does it hurt most?” His voice had lost its challenge and its banter now. Also he had ignored the reference to her finances, which Kerry thought was probably just as well. She didn’t want Sam Harbeck to pity her for her financial difficulties; everyone knew that he had built the small bush-flying service that he’d inherited from his father into Harbeck Air, Alaska’s biggest charter airline. Sam was worth millions of dollars. His remarkable success only underscored her late husband’s recklessness with money.

      “I think my finger’s broken in the end segment. That’s where it hurts most. Hey, careful! Your hands are cold.”

      “I’ll spare you the usual comeback.” His eyes now were surprisingly mischievous, a pale sparkling blue.

      “‘Cold hands, warm heart?’ It’s not necessarily true.”

      Sam ordinarily seemed to enjoy sparring with her, but now he was all business. “What’s true is that we’d better do something about this finger. Usually doctors don’t treat fractures in the end segment of the finger unless