Page 30 of Lost With You
But is it enough?
“Do you think your grandfather was ever here?”
“Maybe not at this exact place.” His heart squeezed as he thought of Pops, wishing he could teleport him right here, right now. “But he was sure here in spirit.’
“How am I going to describe it?” She was already composing the description in her mind, he could tell by the knot between her brows. “Even a picture wouldn’t capture the depth.”
“You work on the words,” he said, shrugging his pack off his shoulders to unzip the main section. “I’ll look for Owl’s Head Rock.”
He rifled for his binoculars as Casey sank down on the stone. The tip of her ponytail trailed over one damp shoulder. Through the gap in her neckline, he could see the swells of her breasts rising above a black sports bra. Maybe he’d have found Owl’s Head Rock already if he didn’t spend all his time gazing at Casey’s slim back as they canoed. Now he uncapped the lenses of the binoculars and raised them to his eyes, acutely aware that time was running out.
She said, “Where’s the map?”
With a foot, he nudged his pack toward her as he scanned the opposite shore. The few stony outcroppings he glimpsed didn’t bear any resemblance to an owl. A careful look upstream revealed the same unbroken stretch of old forest.
“Hmmm,” she said into the silence.
He lowered the binoculars to look at her bowed head. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing, I think.” She paused from her perusal of the map to examine at the view. “I’m just wondering about the guy who made this map.”
“A French fur trader by the name of André Lefebvre. That’s all I know.”
She tilted her head up at him, squinting against the gray, misty sky. “You said he traced this map as a guide to others to smuggle furs to the English?”
“That’s the most likely reason. The French government in Quebec didn’t allow trade with Albany, but fur traders were a rebellious bunch.”
“So André was showing other fur traders how to travel southoutof Canada.”
“It wasn’t called Canada then, but yes.”
“But we’re traveling north. The opposite way.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” He’d considered this when he first compared the old map to Pops’ stories. “It is possible the route south and the route north are different. Especially in the portages between the river networks. But both my grandfatherandthe map acknowledge the existence of Owl’s Head Rock, so the paths are the same, at least in this area.”
“Did your grandfather specify whether he saw Owl’s Head on the triptoCanada, or on the trip back?”
“Both.” A thousand of Pops’ stories flooded his mind as he checked his assumptions. Pops hadn’t always been specific about whether he’d been coming or going to Canada. His grandfather had been more focused on the moose sightings and the whitewater, the trail markings, and the bears. “You’re wondering if it’s more visible from one direction than the other.”
“That’s an option, right?”
“Yes. And we haven’t been good about checking behind us.” His heart buoyed. The expedition wasnotover, not yet. He glanced up from the map. “You’re a freakin’ genius, Casey Michaels.”
She grinned. He was close enough to see a little ring of gold around her pupils and the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled.
“My best ideas always come at the end of a five-mile run,” she said. “And apparently, after ten days of canoeing.”
“I told you I needed you here.”
Her lips parted at the words—he shouldn’t have said them—but then she closed her mouth and shifted her gaze to her knees.
“You know what this means?” He rolled up the map between them. “We have to backtrack to the fork in the river to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
“I can manage.” She shrugged a slim, tanned shoulder. “Just keep giving me chocolate, big boy.”
He squelched an irrepressible urge to cup her cheeks and lay a kiss on the pale, cinnamon-colored freckle right by the corner of her lip. As if she sensed his intensity, she rocked back a fraction, putting a little distance between him.
Then thunder rumbled above, a low, purring roll that sounded like,Easy, boy.
