them on. She lifted one moccasin-clad foot with a casual air. "Perfect!" she said to Wilf with a smile. "And just in time to go and make dinner. Don't hurry, I'll do it!"
A few minutes later she was at the house, breathless and panting, having run all the way this time. Almost sobbing with exertion, she ran up through the house to Johnny Winterhawk's study, slammed the door behind her and ran to pick up the radio-telephone.
It took an age to raise the operator, but at last her number was ringing. Smith glanced at her wrist out of habit: her watch was on her dressing table at home. She bounced impatiently. Was Rolly still at the office? Surely he must be, today of all days? He must be wondering what to do?
At last the switchboard operator at St. John Forest Products connected her to Rolly's office. His voice answered the phone and she closed her eyes in relief.
"Rolly!" she said in a high urgent tone that wasn't at all like her normal voice. "Rolly, is that you? It's—"
And then, as though she were in a recurring nightmare, she saw a strong bronzed hand reach from behind her and cut the connection.
Smith gasped and whirled to face a hard angry stare from Johnny Winterhawk. Without a word, he took the receiver from her hand and replaced it on the hook, his powerful body uncomfortably and threateningly near. Then he grasped her arm above the elbow.
"Come on," he said shortly. "You're going home."
Never in her life had she sensed such tightly controlled haste in another person. Johnny Winterhawk strode beside her down through the house, down the rock staircase and the path, his hand on her wrist, restricting his pace to hers. But there was a boiling urgency just under the surface, an awful tension that made her feel like a walking wounded being led away from disaster by a healthy person.
He wanted to run. He wanted to be exerting the utmost effort, as though in the face of terrible danger. His urgency filled Smith, and turned to fear and then to nameless dread inside her.
She broke into a half run, and beside her, without comment, Johnny Winterhawk lengthened his stride to match.
"What is it?" she asked breathlessly. "Johnny, what's wrong?" The feeling of being united in danger let her use his name for the first time without either of them noticing.
"Not now," he returned briefly.
They were both running by the time they reached the dock, where the sleek black speedboat, engines idling, was tied to the dock only by the painter.
"Get aboard!" Johnny shouted, running to untie the rope, and Smith leaned out to grasp the stanchion, pulled the boat closer to the dock and jumped aboard.
Johnny Winterhawk followed her immediately and went to the wheel. He reversed till they cleared the dock, then rammed the engines into forward and swung the big boat around to the east.
Smith sank onto a seat and looked at him, her heart beating more with terror than exertion.
"It's my father, isn't it? My father is dying."
"No," he said.
"Or dead," she prompted, feeling the tears press up in her throat and the back of her eyes.
"No," he repeated shortly, then turned his dark gaze onto her stricken face. "As far as I know," he added, "your father is fine."
"Then why are you taking me home? What's changed?" she asked, not sure whether to believe him or not.
Johnny looked at her with a speculative look, then looked to the dark water ahead. He bent to peer at the speedometer, then pushed the throttle, wanting more speed, but it was already as far forward as it could go.
Fear crept from its hiding place in her mind and settled in her stomach, a horrid dead weight that made her ill.
"You...you are taking me home, aren't you?" she stammered. The water here in Georgia Strait was cold and deep. She looked down at the golden deerskin moccasin on one foot, soft and bright in its newness, and pictured it washed up on a pebbly beach somewhere, sodden and grey.
If she had read about it in the safety of her bed at night it would
A few minutes later she was at the house, breathless and panting, having run all the way this time. Almost sobbing with exertion, she ran up through the house to Johnny Winterhawk's study, slammed the door behind her and ran to pick up the radio-telephone.
It took an age to raise the operator, but at last her number was ringing. Smith glanced at her wrist out of habit: her watch was on her dressing table at home. She bounced impatiently. Was Rolly still at the office? Surely he must be, today of all days? He must be wondering what to do?
At last the switchboard operator at St. John Forest Products connected her to Rolly's office. His voice answered the phone and she closed her eyes in relief.
"Rolly!" she said in a high urgent tone that wasn't at all like her normal voice. "Rolly, is that you? It's—"
And then, as though she were in a recurring nightmare, she saw a strong bronzed hand reach from behind her and cut the connection.
Smith gasped and whirled to face a hard angry stare from Johnny Winterhawk. Without a word, he took the receiver from her hand and replaced it on the hook, his powerful body uncomfortably and threateningly near. Then he grasped her arm above the elbow.
"Come on," he said shortly. "You're going home."
Never in her life had she sensed such tightly controlled haste in another person. Johnny Winterhawk strode beside her down through the house, down the rock staircase and the path, his hand on her wrist, restricting his pace to hers. But there was a boiling urgency just under the surface, an awful tension that made her feel like a walking wounded being led away from disaster by a healthy person.
He wanted to run. He wanted to be exerting the utmost effort, as though in the face of terrible danger. His urgency filled Smith, and turned to fear and then to nameless dread inside her.
She broke into a half run, and beside her, without comment, Johnny Winterhawk lengthened his stride to match.
"What is it?" she asked breathlessly. "Johnny, what's wrong?" The feeling of being united in danger let her use his name for the first time without either of them noticing.
"Not now," he returned briefly.
They were both running by the time they reached the dock, where the sleek black speedboat, engines idling, was tied to the dock only by the painter.
"Get aboard!" Johnny shouted, running to untie the rope, and Smith leaned out to grasp the stanchion, pulled the boat closer to the dock and jumped aboard.
Johnny Winterhawk followed her immediately and went to the wheel. He reversed till they cleared the dock, then rammed the engines into forward and swung the big boat around to the east.
Smith sank onto a seat and looked at him, her heart beating more with terror than exertion.
"It's my father, isn't it? My father is dying."
"No," he said.
"Or dead," she prompted, feeling the tears press up in her throat and the back of her eyes.
"No," he repeated shortly, then turned his dark gaze onto her stricken face. "As far as I know," he added, "your father is fine."
"Then why are you taking me home? What's changed?" she asked, not sure whether to believe him or not.
Johnny looked at her with a speculative look, then looked to the dark water ahead. He bent to peer at the speedometer, then pushed the throttle, wanting more speed, but it was already as far forward as it could go.
Fear crept from its hiding place in her mind and settled in her stomach, a horrid dead weight that made her ill.
"You...you are taking me home, aren't you?" she stammered. The water here in Georgia Strait was cold and deep. She looked down at the golden deerskin moccasin on one foot, soft and bright in its newness, and pictured it washed up on a pebbly beach somewhere, sodden and grey.
If she had read about it in the safety of her bed at night it would
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