Chapter One
If you ever come back into my life…
Sitting astride her Indian Motorcycle at the top of the
ridge, Tara read the creased and crumbling note once again, though she’d long
ago memorized its contents.
After all this time, Corbett’s unequivocal words, in his
unmistakable, unforgettable handwriting, still had the power to chill her soul
and heat her blood.
She crammed the scrap of paper back into the breast pocket
of her leather jacket and zipped it shut, then looked ahead along the valley
where the late afternoon sun glowed rich on the eastern slope.
The endless vista of river and forest and sky spread before
her as the warm September breeze wafted over the British Columbia interior
through a million pine branches.
This was the last moment to turn back. Turn the bike 180 and
head the hell back to Victoria, without running the risk of succumbing to
whatever dangers Corbett might hold for her.
Right. And let her father down. Throw away everything he’d
worked for, everything he believed in.
“ Joe Corbett’s the one man I’d trust with this. Do
whatever it takes to persuade him to come back. ”
Yeah. Whatever it takes. Of course, Leo hadn’t a clue
what had passed between her and Corbett six years ago.
She pulled her helmet back on and studied the road below. It
turned and twisted back on itself, down into the river valley toward the King
Camp, a good three kilometers farther on.
Tara shifted into gear, and began her switchback descent
toward Corbett and whatever reception might await her. Such as his carrying out
the agenda outlined in his brutally explicit note.
If you ever come back into my life…
Had he meant it? All of it? Any of it?
Hell, what did it matter? She could handle this. After all,
by now he should have forgotten all about her; he no doubt had a woman in his
life. And despite her fantasies over the years, this encounter was going to be
strictly business. She would reasonably and calmly introduce the proposition
that had brought her five hundred kilometers across the Strait of Georgia, up
the Fraser Canyon and over relentless logging roads.
Tara and the bike leveled off as they curved into the flat
valley floor and built up speed, roaring straight down the road for the last
lap of her journey.
She careered into the yard of the old camp and pulled to a
halt outside the main building.
Impressive. The camp appeared to be modernized only enough
to provide safety and cleanliness without sacrificing the rustic northern feel
of the famous institution that had provided summer fun and fresh air and
challenges for generations of underprivileged kids.
Lots of scope for the hard-working carpenter, she
remembered.
As Tara removed her helmet, a woman appeared from around the
corner of one building, carrying a carton of old shingles. Slim and fit and
perhaps forty, she bore the look of a career camp counselor.
“Hi,” the woman said with a look of appreciation at Tara’s
wheels. She shifted the load onto the bed of her dusty Tacoma. “Nice machine.”
“Thanks. I’m looking for Joe Corbett. I hear he’s working
here these days?”
“He’s up back working on the old cabins by the lake.” She
indicated a narrow roadway through the woods at the far end of the yard.
“Post-summer repairs, so we’ll be all set for next season. I’m Jeannie King, by
the way.”
Tara gripped the woman’s outstretched hand. “Tara Calloway.”
“Nice to meet you. You can go on back, if you like.”
“You’d let a stranger just wander around your camp?”
The woman gave a half shrug, as though offering nothing more
serious than the loan of a pencil. “You’re a friend of Corbett’s. You ride a
classic Indian 101 Scout—what year is that, by the way? ‘31?”
“1930. My grandfather’s. When I was a kid we used to roar
along the back roads at death-defying speeds with me in the sidecar. Probably
completely illegal, of course.”
“Sounds perfect. Mind saving me a walk back
If you ever come back into my life…
Sitting astride her Indian Motorcycle at the top of the
ridge, Tara read the creased and crumbling note once again, though she’d long
ago memorized its contents.
After all this time, Corbett’s unequivocal words, in his
unmistakable, unforgettable handwriting, still had the power to chill her soul
and heat her blood.
She crammed the scrap of paper back into the breast pocket
of her leather jacket and zipped it shut, then looked ahead along the valley
where the late afternoon sun glowed rich on the eastern slope.
The endless vista of river and forest and sky spread before
her as the warm September breeze wafted over the British Columbia interior
through a million pine branches.
This was the last moment to turn back. Turn the bike 180 and
head the hell back to Victoria, without running the risk of succumbing to
whatever dangers Corbett might hold for her.
Right. And let her father down. Throw away everything he’d
worked for, everything he believed in.
“ Joe Corbett’s the one man I’d trust with this. Do
whatever it takes to persuade him to come back. ”
Yeah. Whatever it takes. Of course, Leo hadn’t a clue
what had passed between her and Corbett six years ago.
She pulled her helmet back on and studied the road below. It
turned and twisted back on itself, down into the river valley toward the King
Camp, a good three kilometers farther on.
Tara shifted into gear, and began her switchback descent
toward Corbett and whatever reception might await her. Such as his carrying out
the agenda outlined in his brutally explicit note.
If you ever come back into my life…
Had he meant it? All of it? Any of it?
Hell, what did it matter? She could handle this. After all,
by now he should have forgotten all about her; he no doubt had a woman in his
life. And despite her fantasies over the years, this encounter was going to be
strictly business. She would reasonably and calmly introduce the proposition
that had brought her five hundred kilometers across the Strait of Georgia, up
the Fraser Canyon and over relentless logging roads.
Tara and the bike leveled off as they curved into the flat
valley floor and built up speed, roaring straight down the road for the last
lap of her journey.
She careered into the yard of the old camp and pulled to a
halt outside the main building.
Impressive. The camp appeared to be modernized only enough
to provide safety and cleanliness without sacrificing the rustic northern feel
of the famous institution that had provided summer fun and fresh air and
challenges for generations of underprivileged kids.
Lots of scope for the hard-working carpenter, she
remembered.
As Tara removed her helmet, a woman appeared from around the
corner of one building, carrying a carton of old shingles. Slim and fit and
perhaps forty, she bore the look of a career camp counselor.
“Hi,” the woman said with a look of appreciation at Tara’s
wheels. She shifted the load onto the bed of her dusty Tacoma. “Nice machine.”
“Thanks. I’m looking for Joe Corbett. I hear he’s working
here these days?”
“He’s up back working on the old cabins by the lake.” She
indicated a narrow roadway through the woods at the far end of the yard.
“Post-summer repairs, so we’ll be all set for next season. I’m Jeannie King, by
the way.”
Tara gripped the woman’s outstretched hand. “Tara Calloway.”
“Nice to meet you. You can go on back, if you like.”
“You’d let a stranger just wander around your camp?”
The woman gave a half shrug, as though offering nothing more
serious than the loan of a pencil. “You’re a friend of Corbett’s. You ride a
classic Indian 101 Scout—what year is that, by the way? ‘31?”
“1930. My grandfather’s. When I was a kid we used to roar
along the back roads at death-defying speeds with me in the sidecar. Probably
completely illegal, of course.”
“Sounds perfect. Mind saving me a walk back
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