Down River by Karen Harper Page B

if he’d knocked it over, but she’d looked at it several times. An eight-by-ten in color of his surgeon brother, Brad, his pretty wife—another blonde, so maybe both Braxton boys liked blondes—and their two kids, a boy about ten and a girl about six. No doubt, Mitch, too, longed for a family. Well, Christine was never going to have that and maybe Mitch wouldn’t either.
    She tiptoed into his bedroom, moving like a leaf on the forest floor. His bed was covered by a quilt in browns, muted blues and greens. The bed was carefully made, though she’d volunteered when she first came to make it every day. He’d told her she wasn’t a hotel maid but the lodge manager and chef, and that had given her an early glimpse into the heart of the man.
    She scanned the top of his bureau, his bookshelves, the compartments built into the headboard of his bed. Why he slept in a king-size bed, she hadn’t asked, but maybe it was because he was restless at night, thrashed around a lot. Maybe like her, he had bad dreams.
    The folklore of her people taught that each human being had a joncha, a secret identity linked to an animal the person could contact through dreams. When you discovered which joncha was yours, the old belief was that you could change into that animal at will, but were also plagued by its weaknesses.
    Her joncha was the silent, stoic and observant wolverine. Though Spike and Mitch weren’t Yup’ik, she pictured Spike as the powerful but sometimes bumbling bear. Mitch Braxton was an eagle, wise and daring, but one who could be snared by wanting too much. She’d seen an eagle try to snatch a too-big salmon from the river and get pulled under, his talons caught in the flesh of the fish, the river pulling him down to destruction, just like Lisa Vaughn might have ruined his life—again.
    She collapsed on the edge of the bed, put her face in her hands and sobbed. But did she hear footsteps? Could Mitch be back?
    She bolted off the bed, nearly slamming into Spike as he came around the corner and looked in.
    “What the hell are you doing in here!” he demanded, striding in and grabbing her hard by her shoulders, then pressing her between the wall and hisbig body. She hit hard at his hands and kicked at his shin, though he barely budged. Memories of brutality, of beatings, roared at her.
    “Don’t grab me like that!” she cried.
    He released her immediately, but shouted, “You told me you weren’t sleeping with him!”
    “Don’t shout. I’m the lodge manager, and I came in to see if he’d left any clues behind, that’s all.”
    “You haven’t answered my question.”
    “It wasn’t a question but an accusation. You think that of us, you ask him when he gets back! Iah! ”
    At first he seemed angry, but she saw realization dawn on his frowning face. “I—I didn’t mean to hurt you—or remind you of…him, your husband. It’s just—I lost my head. My temper. I won’t grab you like that again, I promise.”
    Linking his fingers and putting both hands on top of his head, he leaned back against the door frame and stared up at the ceiling. “Sorry. I blurt things out. And I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
    “It’s all right—this time. We’re all on edge.”
    “Truth is, I just checked Lisa Vaughn’s room.”
    “Anything there?” she said, glad for the shift of subjects as she subtly smoothed the sleeves of her blouse he’d wrinkled.
    “Her room’s a lot messier than here. Christine, I really am sorry,” he said, finally looking at her and folding his arms over his chest.
    “I’m flattered you were upset and happy you can humble yourself to apologize.”
    “It wasn’t personal—just…I gotta go. I’m taking the plane up again.”
    “With Mrs. Bonner?”
    “She’s like that bunny in the battery ads. Yeah, she insists on going, and they’re paying for the fuel again. They’re probably used to buying anything they want, but I still like both of them.” He lifted one hand and started for