Alexei pressed his lips together. If only he had taken Secretary Gray more seriously when the man asked him about being governor. If only he had tried making some kind of deal with Gray that would have protected his family and also appeased the bureaucrat. But instead, he’d stormed out of the room.
Had he realized what was at stake, he could be governor, not Simon Caldwell.
Given what Secretary Gray had asked of him in exchange for the governorship, walking away had seemed like the right thing to do.
Now he was afraid that decision would cost him more than he could afford to pay.
26
He never should have kissed Bryony. The kiss haunted Mikhail that night and into the next morning, when he sent Bryony back into the canoe with her brother, even though every part of him wanted to insist she ride with him.
But he couldn’t have everyone in his canoe, and it still made the most sense to put Bryony—who was better at handling a canoe than Dr. Ottingford—in the canoe with Heath.
The river was calmer today, the current helping to pull them along as they paddled. But it wasn’t enough to distract him from the sound of Heath snapping at Bryony over her paddling technique, nor was it enough to distract him from the way Bryony’s shoulders stiffened each time.
But the Wetherbys’ family issues weren’t any of his business, so he clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep his attention on his own canoe, where Dr. Wetherby tried to follow his lead.
By late afternoon, the trees lining the banks had grown dense, but he still spotted a suitable place to camp—a small stretch of gravel beach with just enough space for their tents and a line of evergreens that would help shield them from the wind. He guided his canoe to shore and leaped out, gripping the bow and dragging it up the bank before turning to help Dr. Wetherby.
He avoided looking at Bryony as she and Heath hauled their canoe to the riverbank, though he could feel the weight of her gaze on him.
The chatter around the fire was quieter than usual too. Bryony didn’t seem to be talking to much of anyone. Not him, not her father, and certainly not her brother. She fixed biscuits and washed dishes in silence, and once dinner was finally cleaned up, she took her journal and headed to a spot farther down the beach for the last few minutes of daylight.
Fortunately, when Mikhail woke that night, pulling himself out of a dream where he searched and searched the river for Bryony but never found her, she didn’t wake.
Or if she did wake, she didn’t come to try waking him from his nightmare.
It was just as well. They might not have discussed their kiss, but they both seemed to have the same opinion about it. It shouldn’t have happened. Not when they’d be going their separate ways soon.
The next day of travel was much the same as the previous one. The river remained calm, and there were no rapids to contend with, nor were there any encounters with Tlingit or Tahltan Indians. The forested banks grew denser, the air sharper and cooler, carrying the scent of pine and snow. The only difference in travel was they reached the fork where the Iskut River met the Stikine. It was a beautiful stretch of river, with the banks curving and bending in multiple places, their waters blending in shades of blue and green. But the best part about reaching the confluence was that the Stikine shifted its course, bending westward toward the ocean, which was now less than forty miles away.
The faster, stronger current of the Stikine carried them forward with less effort, and the wide banks made it easy to navigate the occasional boulder or swirling eddy.
Eventually he signaled for the group to stop at a sandy inlet. He rowed his own canoe toward the shore, then stepped into the shallow water and heaved it the rest of the way onto the sand. “We’ll eat whatever food we have left for dinner. Tomorrow we’ll be in Wrangell, so there’s no need to hunt or prepare a big meal.”
“Tomorrow?” Bryony looked up at him from where she was unrolling her tent. “I didn’t realize we were that close.”
Four more hours of daylight, and they could have reached Wrangell that evening, but the winter days were too short to allow them to travel into the evening. “Yes, tomorrow. And if we can catch a ship in Wrangell, we’ll be in Sitka the following day. If we need to take canoes to Sitka, it will take an additional four days of travel, maybe five.”
“By Jove, we’ve nearly done it.” Dr. Wetherby came up and slapped him on the back, a wide smile spread across his face. “I have to say, I owe you my thanks, Amos. We were in more of a pickle than I realized back in that valley, but you got us out, and all without losing any research.”
“He didn’t get everyone out,” Heath muttered as he stalked past with his tent, then busied himself setting it up.
The others followed suit, each setting up their tents, then moving on to check the specimens or start a fire or do whatever task they’d made a habit of performing each night as they traveled.
Mikhail set up his own tent, ate a few leftover biscuits and some pemmican, then started sorting through his pack. As the trip progressed, he’d thrown more and more things into it in case they found themselves needing certain items later.
Only when he checked the pocket on the side did he come away with a stretch of rough, handmade rope and a handful of broken twigs.
Bryony’s snare. He’d promised to show her how to set it up properly, but he’d killed a deer for dinner that first night, and they had so much venison, they hadn’t needed to set a snare. The day after that, they’d battled the snowstorm and spent the night in a cave. The next night they’d huddled under the outcropping of rock in the pouring rain, and after that...
Well, at some point he’d just plain forgotten he’d promised to teach her how to set one up, and it seemed like a skill she should know.
She was sitting on a log she’d rolled beside the fire, her journal open on her lap when he approached. A brief glance at the pages told him she was working on her map of the river, a rather detailed one that marked boulders and rock faces and smaller streams.
He could think of a half-dozen guides and cartographers who would find it useful.
“I’m afraid the twigs broke, but I still have your rope.” He held his hand open. “Do you want me to show you how to set up a snare? We can find more twigs.”
