Battle of Wills Read online

  She liked Ralph, really liked him. They could talk about almost everything, and often did. He was pleasant, easy company, with none of the emotional ups and downs she seemed to have experienced in Ryan. But she couldn't love him, and were it not for her loneliness, would have told him so long before.

  There was one subject—apart from Ryan—that Seana also never mentioned to Ralph, or even to Mrs Jorgensen, who also managed the occasional visit. The white moose, she decided, would be her secret, despite the fact she couldn't ignore the fact of sharing it with Ryan.

  And two days after Ralph's latest visit, she wished that she had mentioned the animal, now shed of its antler velvet and carrying an enormous rack of ebony antlers. A helicopter fire patrol, flying between her tower and Mike's lookout to the west, broke suddenly into the radio chatter with a startled report of spotting the big white moose, and it seemed that the word spread instantly throughout the whole of Alberta.

  It wasn't yet hunting season, but Seana's tower road swarmed with intending hunters, all greedily hoping for a sight of the rare animal.

  Demands for use of her tower became a thrice-daily occurrence, and she was occasionally subjected to streams of verbal abuse for her continuing refusal. She thought of reporting the worst instance, when a hulking youth climbed halfway up the tower making definite threats, but there was nobody to spare in the incessant fire alert to help her anyway.

  'Besides,' she told herself that evening, after carefully locking herself inside the cabin, 'the last thing I want is Frank Hutton to start having second thoughts about letting me have the job. He'd fire me as soon as look at me, and with the greatest of personal pleasure.'

  Another problem laid at Ryan Stranger's door; of course the forestry superintendent had heard about the incident at the dance, so Ryan's protests about Seana no longer had any inverse effect on Hutton's opinions.

  Where the would-be hunters were concerned, Seana took the course of least resistance. She lied, blatantly and without a qualm. She denied ever having seen the moose and even invented long-winded stories to make her conviction seem more solid.

  She almost came a cropper when the moose walked right across the tower road, not a quarter of a mile in front of an approaching vehicle. Fortunately it was hidden by a fold in the track, but Seana had difficulty holding back a giggle when she denied for the thousandth time having ever seen it.

  In addition to lying, she started praying for rain. Rain, she knew, would not only reduce the growing fire danger, a danger that would increase tenfold with a forest full of hunters, but which she hoped would make her road sufficiently treacherous that nobody could reach her anyway. If the moose understood her prayers, she couldn't know, but she started seeing it almost daily, often uncomfortably close to either tower clearing or road.

  And sooner or later, she realised, some hunter or another pilot would spot the beast, not only confirming her deceit but bringing increased throngs of hunters to the area. There was only one chance of salvation—the ominous, steel-grey thunderheads that had begun building on the western horizon each evening.

  Yet her prayers seemed in vain. The storm clouds would swim over the Rocky Mountains far to the west, hover menacingly through the vivid sunsets created by the dust and smoke of the fires which burned in virtually every forest district, then withdraw in a drumroll of thunder and flashing sheets of heat lightning, fire from the sky which luckily stayed far enough above the parched forests to avoid starting even more fires.

  And then, one night when even the shaded cabin squatted for shelter beneath the spreading pines, her prayers were answered with a vengeance. She watched the dark, glowering clouds build up through the day, looming closer and closer and visibly dumping rain as they moved across from British Columbia. The forestry radio operator, jubilation in her voice, reported inches of rain on the B.C. side, and at four o'clock Mike howled his delight that the rain had started over his Saddle Hills tower.

  'But there's a lot of lightning,' he shouted over the drumming of the rain on his cabin roof. 'Seana, you make sure you…' His voice was drowned in a sudden crackle of static, then the thunder began at White Mountain Tower, and Seana's radio packed up completely as the lightning marched across.

  From her viewpoint on the tower, she watched the cloud bank roll towards her from the west like a huge, living grey tidal wave. The top of the cloud, at first, was below her line of sight; she could actually see the setting sun above the violence of the storm. But as the cloud drew closer, the rising contours of the land forced it upwards again, and suddenly Seana realised the cloud was spitting lightning all around her. Afraid, she turned to open the trapdoor to her ladder, but was immediately thrust back as the winds arrived to shake the tower and slam through the trapdoor in vicious gusts.

  Afraid to risk the wet, now slippery ladder, she turned once again to her radio, but the shattering lightning caused such static she could get no response. Looking out, she could see only the angry sea of cloud, now moving like something from a horror movie. The spurts of lightning which had appeared so dramatically lovely when she was above them now turned to malevolent serpents as they struck at the ground, narrowly missing the natural lightning rod of the tower.

  She was almost sick with fear, mostly because she had no options. It was useless to suddenly remember the standing orders to abandon the tower in any electrical storm; she'd forgotten, and now it was far too late to change her mind.

  A sudden, flashing twang drew her eyes as a chain of lightning snaked down one of the tower's stabilising cables, and the air was immediately rank with cordite, the smell of death too close for comfort.

  To try and descend the ladder now would be foolhardy in the extreme, but dared she stay, perched as she was on the highest point for twenty miles around? On a perfect lightning rod? Once again she struggled with the trapdoor, peering through the rain-slicked web of steel that led to the ground and possible safety. Her mind was numb, empty of conscious thought as she stared dizzily downward to where the thirsty clay sucked up the rain almost as fast as it fell.

  She was about to chance it, had one foot through the trapdoor, when another bolt of lightning slithered down the guy-wire, crackling sparks against the circular cage around the ladder. Seana withdrew, suddenly sobered by the utter absurdity of her actions. Outside there was only the unending sea of cloud, shot with deadly bolts of lightning and the occasional wash of sheet lightning that lit up the entire sky like flashes of Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights.

  A sudden gust of intense wind flung the tiny cupola about, and Seana noticed her binoculars as they skittered towards the edge of the sighting table. She reached for them, and as her fingers closed on the strap there was a mighty crash of thunder right in the cupola with her and the sky was on fire. She lost her balance and fell to the wooden floor, where she lay shivering in a foetal curve, her every nerve straining with stark, primaeval fear and her eyes shut tightly. Around her, the sky writhed with lightning fires, with occasional sizzling serpents that slithered across the roof and down the steel structure. But she saw none of it.

  Mercifully, she sank into an oblivion of unconsciousness that lasted until the storm centre passed. She came out of it confused, still afraid, and with the vaguest awareness of someone calling her name from far, far away. The binoculars lay beside her on the floor, miraculously unbroken, and on the sighting table the radio continued to combine short bursts of clarity with long intervals of static. As she struggled to her feet, Seana realised the storm centre now was to the east of her, and the lightning was no longer striking near her tower.

  'Seana! Seanaaa…'

  She heard the call, and in her confusion hurried to peer through the rainwashed windows, but she could see nothing through the darkness.

  'Seana!' And this time she realised the source, but even as she moved towards the trapdoor it was thrust open to reveal a mop of carroty hair, streaming with water, and the brilliant green eyes of Ryan Stranger.

  He surged through, slamming t
he door behind him and standing on it against the pressures of the wind. His eyes, just for an instant, she thought, seemed soft with concern. But only for an instant; then they underwent a subtle colour change to regain the mocking brilliance she was more accustomed to.

  'Well, you're all right after all.' It wasn't a question; it was an accusation, almost. At best some form of frank condemnation.

  'I… yes,' she finally stammered without much conviction—and became aware of how weak were her legs, how tremulous her stomach. Moving to the observer's chair, she sank into it, turning her eyes away from his accusing gaze and staring abstractedly out to the darkness of the clouds.

  'Are you strong enough to climb down from here, or do I have to carry you? There'll be more lightning soon; we have to get out of it quickly.'

  His abrasive voice stirred something within her, some final shred of dignity untouched by her fears. 'Of course I'm strong enough!' she snapped.

  'Good. Then let's go,' he replied, and without another word he flung open the trap and stepped through, moving with infinite caution on the slippery, soaking ladder. Seana followed, all too aware that his attention was divided between herself and his climbing, a dangerous risk.

  It seemed to take forever to reach the ground, and she was shivering with a combination of fear, cold and wet long before she slumped from the final step into Ryan's waiting arms.

  He didn't ask permission, but lifted her unprotestingly and slithered through the greasy mud to the cabin porch, where he had to set her down long enough to take her key and fumble open the door. The darkness inside was absolute, but in a flicker of distant lightning he found his way to the nearest chair and gently deposited her into it.

  'Stay there,' he muttered, and she could do nothing but obey. Her trembling legs wouldn't have supported her.

  Reaching for her matches on the kitchen table, he first lit the pressure lamp, then threw small wood and large into the airtight heater, added a drop of kerosene and threw in a lighted match. The fire took hold in a muffled whoof that startled Seana with its suddenness.

  'Now, let's get you into something dry,' he said, taking her gently by one hand and drawing her to her feet. Seana's first reaction was to resist, but her strength had deserted her in her terror; she stood meekly as he stripped her to the skin and began briskly rubbing her body with a towel he had found.

  He picked up her sleeping bag, looked at it for a moment, then discarded it in favour of a blanket she had begun using as the nights became warmer. Wrapping her in the blanket so tightly she could hardly breathe, he plumped her into a chair near the now-glowing heater and began drying her hair, not being especially gentle about it.

  When she winced, he muttered something that might have been an apology, then stopped long enough to search the cupboards for two glasses. Jerking a bottle of brandy from his jacket pocket, he half-filled each glass and held one to her lips.

  'Slowly,' he cautioned, 'but drink it all; it'll warm you up quicker.'

  Easier said than done, she found, and finally had to wriggle one arm free so she held the glass herself. Ryan merely shook his head and reached down to tuck the blanket more securely over her bared shoulder.

  Then, rather to her surprise, he padded over to her dressing table and picked up her hairbrush. She sat there as if in a dream, slowly sipping the brandy while Ryan worked the brush through her hair with a gentleness equal to what she herself might have managed. As he did so, he seemed to be crooning softly, as if he were grooming a horse, but instead of finding the comparison offensive, Seana found it strangely relaxing.

  When her hair was brushed into a smooth tide that crackled with the electricity in the damp air, Ryan noticed the glass was finally empty, so he filled it again and handed it back to her.

  'Are you hungry? Or could you at least eat something?'

  She nodded, not ready to trust her now warm but still trembling body.

  'Right. Stay there and work on that; I'll find something.'

  And she obeyed, without thinking to object, only half aware of his movements as he paced through the cabin, turning on the stove, opening cans and stirring things.

  It wasn't until he had placed a bowl of steaming broth in her hands that the smell of food combined with the growing warmth inside to create hunger. She worked at it slowly, tasting each morsel and savouring the flavour, feeling herself come to life again.

  Ryan picked up a bowl of his own and paced catlike, almost nervously, as he ate it, and Seana realised for the first time that he was leaving puddles behind him with every step.

  'You… you're all wet,' she protested, half rising from the chair, only to meet a firm hand that thrust her back down.

  'I've been wet before,' he replied, voice heavy with sarcasm. 'I'm not made of sugar; it won't kill me.' Then he grinned. 'Besides, I doubt if there are any dry clothes here that would fit me.'

  'Well, you could wrap up in this,' she snapped, almost flinging away the blanket before she remembered she was naked beneath it. For some inexplicable reason that angered her, and she continued in a tone of voice that might only have been described as shrewish, 'or would you rather be all macho and strong and wind up with pneumonia?'

  Ryan laughed at her, his teeth white in the glow of the pressure lamp as he threw back his head. 'Yep… you're better,' he said sarcastically. 'Right back to normal and bossy as always.'

  Padding lithely over to where he'd dumped her towel on a nail in the cabin wall, he whipped it over his soaking hair, then shrugged out of the denim jacket and the waterlogged shirt beneath it. Towelling himself briskly, he shifted over closer to the heater, finally sprawling into a chair and propping up his feet so that the warmth drew clouds of steam from his wet moccasins and filled the room with their pungent, smoky odour.

  Seana finished off the broth, whereupon he fetched her a third tot of brandy and insisted she sip at it. Then he began once again to prowl about the room. She couldn't help but be aware of his lean, half-naked body, especially after he turned out the pressure lamp to leave them with only the glow of the fire for light. The flames cast an entrancing shadow pattern across the rippling muscles as he moved.

  'I do suppose you're aware you could have been killed today,' he said finally. 'What in hell ever possessed you to stay up there with an electrical storm coming? Have you got a death wish or something?'

  There was a curious harshness in his voice, but it was nonetheless softly quiet against the snapping and crackling of the fire and the rumble of thunder outside.

  'I… I didn't think of it in time,' she replied. 'Mike tried to warn me, I think, but then the radio…'

  Ryan cut her off with a brief, curt gesture.

  'Never mind the excuses. Didn't you ever hear of just plain common sense?' Damn it, it's one of the first things they teach you. When there's an electrical storm you get out of the tower—the bloody thing's a natural lightning rod, for God's sake! The fact that you're still alive proves you really must have more luck than brains.'

  His tone angered her, but even worse was the fact that he was so obviously right. But so damnably condescending about it…

  'Well, nobody asked you to worry about me, did they?' she snapped petulantly.

  'Somebody's got to. You aren't safe to live alone for five minutes. God! I'm surprised you survived long enough to grow up.'

  'I've managed well enough without your interference so far,' she cried angrily. 'Like I said: more luck than brains,' Ryan replied grimly.

  It was too much—far too much, on top of her ordeal of terror on top of the tower. Seana felt the tears coming and hated herself, but she couldn't stop them.

  'Oh, get out of here, then!' she stormed. 'Get out, and don't ever… ever come back! All you ever do is shout at me and… and…' The rest was lost in the rush of choking sobs that racked her slim body.

  'Typical bloody woman! Start losing the argument and you have to cry,' he replied, only now his voice was gentle, strangely comforting as he gathered her into his arms, bla
nket and all, and carried her to her bed.

  The blanket was whipped from her unresisting body, but before she could even think to object, he had slipped her into the warm, down-filled cocoon of her sleeping bag and zipped it round her.

  'Now stop your blubbering and go to sleep,' he muttered, bending to plant a soft, passionless kiss on her forehead and then returning to his chair by the fire.

  It was done so… so paternalistically that Seana found her tears giving way to something that was closer to indignation than true anger, and as the warmth of the sleeping bag melted around her, a comfortable lassitude set in as well.

  'You're not… not very sympathetic at all,' she muttered, half to herself but not caring if he heard her or not.

  'Shut up and go to sleep,' he retorted softly, still without any real anger in his voice. 'The last thing you need right now is sympathy.'

  Seana didn't reply, but obediently closed her eyes and tried to obey his command. Now that she was warm and comfortable, the terrors of her ordeal seemed to diminish, despite the renewed assault of thunder and lightning outside the snugness of the cabin.

  It was some time later, how long she didn't know, that she peeped through half-open eyes to see him standing naked before the slow-banked fire, scrubbing his body into a glowing warmth that complemented the strong muscles now only too evident. She stared unashamedly, but when he turned in her direction she closed her eyes and pretended to be still asleep.

  When next she looked, he was wrapped in her blanket, his clothing strung on a makeshift line above the heater and his strong body relaxed in the cabin's only decent chair.

  'You can't sleep there,' she murmured sleepily, only half aware that she was speaking. 'You'll get a stiff neck.'

  'Is that some kind of invitation, ladybug?' he asked softly. 'And be careful how you answer; I just might accept and you'd end up with more than you bargained for.'