Face flaming, I returned to my eggs.
Moments later, Beck pushed back his plate. “Ready?”
Nodding, I averted my gaze as I stood. “I’ll grab the rest of my gear.”
We entered the forest just as the sun broke over the horizon, its fat orange beams warming my skin. Beck had insisted on taking my backpack, and it looked half its usual size strapped to his wide shoulders.
He moved with surprising grace for such a large man, his strides light and sure as he led me down a faint trail that cut through the trees.
Twenty minutes later, my breath puffed in little clouds, and pinecones crunched under my boots. As we rounded a bend, Beck held a sturdy evergreen branch out of the way so I could pass.
“You said you’ve never left Alaska?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Never wanted to.”
“But you’ve been to other cities, right?” The path widened, and I walked beside him. “Anchorage?”
He kept his gaze straight ahead, his eyes scanning the path. “Plenty of times.”
Curiosity nipped at me. “Haven’t you wanted to see other places?” Alaska was beautiful, but it was so isolated.
Beck was quiet for so long, an apology hovered on my tongue. I’d pried, and now he probably regretted offering to guide me. “I’m afraid to fly,” he said finally, his silver eyes darting to me and then back to the path.
Something in my chest loosened. He was such a big, powerful man. The admission must have cost him.
“What about driving?” I asked softly.
He gave me another look, his expression inscrutable. “Never felt the need to go anywhere else.”
I bit my tongue against more questions. How could he be content to stay put? The world was such a big place. Growing up, I never thought I’d get an opportunity to travel. Then I met Dr. Henry and moved to CSU, where field work meant hopping on planes and meeting new people. I’d attended conferences all over the country. The university paid for it, and I never turned down the privilege.
Beck kept his attention on the trail, and something in his profile made me hold my tongue.
We hiked for an hour, climbing steadily into the mountains. Snow covered the trail, which narrowed so much we were forced to go single file. Beck pointed out various plants and landmarks. A waterfall roared in the distance, great vapor clouds shimmering at its base.
Pausing, I pulled off my glasses and used the hem of my shirt to wipe fog from the lenses. The combination of exertion and cold air had steamed them up more than once, and keeping themclear was a constant battle. As I slid them back on, Beck’s silver gaze snagged mine. He’d stopped, too, and he observed me now, something intense and watchful in his eyes.
Heat crept up my neck.
He looked away, starting up the trail once more. A moment later, he stopped and stroked a stalk of greenery bristling with pink flowers.
“This is fireweed,” he said in a deep, almost reverent voice. “Good for treating small injuries. It’s rare to see it this late in the year.” A smile touched his lips. “Hardy fella, this one.”
I dug my journal from my pack and scribbled down notes, my heart thumping at the way his smile softened his features.
We continued climbing, and I pulled out my laptop and magnetic field sensor. With Beck carrying my backpack, the laptop was a lot more manageable. Readings filtered onto the screen, and I stopped every few minutes to transfer them to the log. Beck paused with me, his face patient as I worked. He led us up and down trails, slowing every now and then to help me over a boulder or snow drift.
But as we kept climbing, a pattern emerged. Every time my sensor showed a strong magnetic reading, Beck steered us in the opposite direction. When I started toward a branch in the trail, he suggested a different route. At first, it was subtle. Two hours later, his redirections were unmistakable.
“Why are we avoiding that area?” I asked finally, pointing to a dense cluster of trees at the bottom of a slope in the distance. I flipped my laptop around so Beck could see the screen. The bars on the graph soared into the red zone.
He barely glanced at it as he adjusted the straps of the backpack over his shoulders. “The terrain down there is rougher than it looks. It’s not safe this time of year.”
Flipping the screen back to me, I scanned the readings. “The magnetic variance is off the charts in that area.”
“Old timers tell stories of mining corporations dumping runoff in these parts decades ago. There’s still a lot of metal in the ground. It’s probably throwing off your equipment.”
It was possible. Mining operations were notorious for breaking the rules, especially before environmental laws started fining them. But something about the way he said it, his tone sure and smooth, made doubt stir at the edges of my mind.
