Page 101 of Confessions

“At least Fitzpatrick has the guts to stick around Gold Creek,” Ben said as he shifted down and turned onto an abandoned logging road that curved away from the lake and switchbacked through the forested hills.

“I thought we were going swimming at the lake.”

“We are.”

“Unless my sense of direction is way off, we should be driving toward the setting sun instead of away from it.”

He laughed then and the anger that had been radiating from him since they passed the sawmill faded. He touched her lightly on the back of her hand with strong, callused fingers. “Trust me.”

Her heart flipped over and she knew she’d trust him with her very life.

They drove slowly, past fir and maple trees that allowed only a little of the fading sunlight through a thick canopy of branches overhead. Dry weeds brushed the belly of the truck as it labored up the steep grade. The radio began to fade and Ben snapped it off as the forest gave way to bare hills that had been stripped of old-growth timber. The scarred land looked as if it had been shaved by a godlike barber who took huge cuts at the remaining stands of old growth. Where the land had been logged, nature was taking over. A fine layer of grass and brush, dotted with a few scrub trees, began to reclaim the rocks and soil between the rotting stumps. Farther on there was evidence of reforestation, small fir and pine trees planted by man and machines to replenish the forest and provide the next crop of timber for another generation of loggers and sawmill men.

“The lifeblood of Gold Creek,” Ben observed wryly.

It was the truth, whether he meant to be sarcastic or not. For generations, Gold Creek had depended upon its rich stands of timber. Though the town had been optimistically named during the gold rush when a few miners had discovered glittering bits of the precious metal in the streambed of the brook that flowed into Whitefire Lake, timber was the real gold in the area. The fortunes of men like the Monroes and the Fitzpatricks had been founded and grown on the wealth of the forest.

Ben drove until the road gave out and he parked in a rutted, overgrown lot that had once been used as a base for the machinery that winched the trees up the hillside and a parking lot for logging trucks that had hauled the precious timber back to Monroe’s mill.

He grabbed a backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “Come on,” he said and she climbed out of his pickup. They left the truck and followed a path that was flanked by berry vines and brush. Eventually the forest resumed and Carlie struggled against the sharp incline. She was breathing hard as they passed through shaded stands of trees that had never been touched by a chain saw. Birds flitted through the trees, while squirrels scolded from hidden branches. The earth smelled cool, and far in the distance she heard the sound of water tumbling over rocks.

“Where’s the river?” she asked.

“No river. Gold Creek.”

“Clear up here?”

“Has to start somewhere.” They continued to climb and Carlie’s legs began to ache. “You know, I’m not really dressed for mountain climbing,” she said as the back of her heels began to rub in her tennis shoes.

“It’s just a little farther.” He grabbed her hand and helped her through the woods. She tried not to concentrate on the feel of his fingers twining with hers.

“What is?”

“A place I heard about at the store.”

“You’re not taking me fishing, are you?” she teased, but he didn’t answer, and the warmth of his hand over hers was as secure as a promise. They hiked for another twenty minutes before the forest began to thin. The trees eventually gave way to an alpine meadow, complete with a profusion of wildflowers blooming between thin blades of sun-bleached grass. Butterflies fluttered in the dying sunlight and bees droned lazily.

Still holding her hand, Ben led her through the knee-high grass to the head of a spring where clear water spilled into a small ravine and washed along the rocks as it tumbled downhill.

“Gold Creek,” he said.

“I thought the creek started at Whitefire Lake.”

“Technically it does,” he agreed, “and if you look on a map there’s probably another name for this particular brook, but since all this water rushes down to the lake and runs out to feed Gold Creek, I’d say this is where it all starts.” Leaning down, he ran his fingers through the water.

“Why’d you bring me up here?”

His hand stopped beneath the clear, shimmering surface. Straightening, he let the water drip from his hands and touched the line of her jaw. His fingers were cool and wet, his eyes dark with the coming dusk. “I wanted to be alone with you,” he admitted with the hint of a smile. “No Brenda. No Kevin. No parents. Just you and me.”

“Why?” She hardly dared breathe. Her chest was so tight, she thought it might burst.

“I thought we got started on the wrong foot the other night.”

She swallowed against a knot in her throat. “I was starting to believe that we didn’t really get started.”

“Silly girl,” he whispered. He shifted and the fingers that had traced her jaw moved around her neck, pulling her gently to him as his lips found hers in a kiss that was filled with wonder and youth and the promise of tomorrow.

Carlie’s knees felt weak and she didn’t protest when the weight of his body pushed them both to the soft bed of dry grass near the water.