Northern Exposure Read Free

hank of wet, tawny hair spilled into his eyes, and she had to physically stop herself from her first reaction, which was to reach up and brush it away.
    He read her intent.
    She saw it in his eyes and felt suddenly uncomfortable. He was uncomfortable, too. She could tell by the way he stepped around her and pretended to look for something in the trees.
    It wasn’t the first time he’d done that. He’d stopped about an hour ago and had motioned for her to be quiet. He’d stood there, listening hard, eyes narrowed, darting at every shadow, as if he expected someone to pop out of the bushes and surprise them.
    On impulse she said, “Thank you.”
    He turned to her and frowned. “For what?”
    â€œSaving my life.”
    â€œIf I hadn’t stumbled, you wouldn’t have gotten spooked and slipped.”
    â€œIf you hadn’t pointed that gun in my face,” she corrected, “maybe the whole thing wouldn’t have happened.”
    His eyes turned cold. “Come on. The station’s over there.”
    Anger rippled up inside her, but she worked to keep it in check. That wasn’t going to help her now. Besides, most of her irritation stemmed from the fact that Warden Rambo was exactly like Blake—domineering, pushy, directive.
    In short, overbearing. She could think of a hundred synonyms to describe that kind of behavior. All of them got her fur up, as her dad would say.
    As she followed him across the clearing, she made a minor correction to her initial judgment. He and Blake had one distinct difference. Blake’s bad qualities were hidden, wrapped up in a package that was all charm. Blake was a manipulator, a snake. This guy was up front about who he was.
    Which reminded her of something she’d meant to ask him. “What’s your name?”
    He held a broken branch aside, ushering her through a thicket choked with gooseberries, then pointed to the white lettering engraved on the black plastic name tag hanging limply from his wet shirt. “Peterson.”
    His arched brow told her he thought she was an idiot if she’d spent the past two hours within ten feet of him, and hadn’t noticed it. She had.
    â€œSo, what should I call you? Mr. Peterson? Warden Peterson? Just plain old Peterson?”
    â€œJoe,” he said. “Or whatever.” He moved quickly through the small stand of trees, and she followed, thinking it was a nice, simple name. Joe Peterson, game warden.
    â€œHere it is.”
    She stopped in front of what he’d described to her as a station. It was really just a big cabin, one that looked as if it was built a long time ago. Constructed of rough-hewn logs, it was painted over a dull brown, like so many Forest Service or National Park buildings were these days. A big deck ran all the way around it. There was a drop-off on the far side where the deck hung out over the forest, reminding her of a tree house she’d once had when she was a girl.
    Joe fished a set of keys out of his pocket, opened the door and waved her inside. The front room had a huge picture window looking out over the deck. A snowcapped mountain range loomed in the distance. A set of French doors led outside. The room was half office, half living quarters, and the contrast between the two halves was almost weird.
    A computer, a multiline phone, a fax machine, and what looked to her like a shortwave radio all sat perfectly aligned on a clean desktop. Files were piled in neatly spaced stacks, sharpened pencils stood in a clean glass jar, points up, like a bouquet of flawlessly arranged flowers.
    In contrast, the other side of the room looked like somebody’s grandfather’s mountain cabin. She liked it. Big comfortable furniture sat crowded together in front of a stone fireplace that looked as if it was used every day.
    Stuffed fish and a pair of deer antlers hung on the walls. A pair of snowshoes stood in a corner jammed with skis, a rifle and a