A Woman Without Lies (11 page)
Hawk hesitated, wanting to ask what Angel meant. He waited, but she didn’t look up. With a shrug, he decided that her words had been one more graceful, elusive twist of the prey. He turned his attention back to the fishing rod, lifting it with quick, smooth power, then letting the line go slack again.
Angel watched for a few moments, appreciating Hawk’s deft handling of rod and line. In addition to his obvious male strength, Hawk had superb reflexes.
“You’re a natural,” she said finally.
Fact, not compliment, as the tone of her voice made clear.
Hawk glanced sideways but Angel was bent over the tackle box, selecting a lead-headed jig for herself. Within moments her rod was set up. She let down the lure over the stern.
For a time there was only silence and the occasional high vibration of fishing line stretched taut and then released.
With no warning Hawk’s rod tip dipped deeply, quivered, then dipped sharply again.
“You’ve got one,” Angel said, reeling in quickly and setting her rod aside. “Keep your rod tip up!”
Silently Hawk glanced at the flexible rod. It was impossible to keep the tip up.
As though Angel knew what he was thinking, she stepped to his side.
“Bring your elbows in against your hips,” she ordered.
As soon as Hawk obeyed, the rod butt came nearly parallel to his body, forcing the tip up.
“Good,” she said. “Now keep up the pressure as you reel in. Steady and slow. That cod isn’t going anywhere but into our frying pan.”
“Sure it’s a cod?” asked Hawk, one eyebrow raised in a question or a challenge.
“Sure am,” she said confidently. “It isn’t fighting much.”
Hawk looked at the lashing rod tip and felt the life of the fish quivering through his hands up to the muscles of his arms.
“Not fighting?” he asked dryly.
“Nope. Wait until you get a salmon on that tippy little rod,” said Angel, her voice rich with memories. “Then you’ll know what it’s like to hold sunrise and lightning in your hands.”
Angel didn’t notice Hawk’s quick look or the surprise that showed for an instant on his face. Her excitement and pleasure was as clear as the sunlight bouncing off the calm water. Whatever else might or might not be true about Angel, Hawk believed that she enjoyed fishing as few people enjoyed anything on earth.
And then he wondered if she brought the same passionate honesty to bed that she brought to fishing.
The rod jumped and quivered in Hawk’s hands.
“Keep the tip up!”
Angel leaned over the rail, straining for her first glimpse of Hawk’s fish.
“The fish just gained ten pounds,” Hawk said, startled.
The rod bent in a tight, inverted U, reinforcing the truth of his words.
“That’s a cod for you,” Angel said, laughing. “He caught a glimpse of the boat and spread his fins to make it harder for you to pull him up. Good-bye streamlining. It’s like hauling up a cement slab, isn’t it?”
Hawk grunted and kept reeling in until a long, surprisingly slender shape showed just beneath the surface. The lateral fins were widely flared.
Angel slid past Hawk to reach for the net that was in a rack beside the cockpit door. She leaned over the low railing, net in hand, and deftly scooped the sullen cod out of the sea.
“Hand me the cosh, would you?” she asked.
Hawk glanced just beyond Angel’s reaching fingertips to what looked like a short ax handle. He pulled it out of its holder.
With a single, quick blow, Angel dispatched the fish. Her grimace told Hawk that this was one part of fishing that she didn’t particularly enjoy.
“You could just throw it in the box and let it die,” he pointed out.
“I can’t stand to hear fish flopping around,” she admitted.
“Soft-hearted, Angel?” Hawk asked, his voice sardonic.
“I’m no more cruel than circumstances require.”
She pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers out of her hip pocket, fastened the pliers onto the cod’s lower lip, and extracted the cod from the net.
“Teeth,” Angel said succinctly.
A glance showed Hawk that the cod’s jaws were lined with needlelike teeth. The fish was indeed a predator.
Angel opened the fish box, dropped the cod in, and closed the lid. She tested the sharpness of Hawk’s jig with a careful fingertip, nodded, and gestured for him to go back to fishing.
Silence returned, broken only by the soft nibbling of small waves along the boat’s length. Angel caught the next fish, two pounds of fiercely ugly red rock cod. When Hawk reached for the net, she shook her head.
“No,” Angel said, reeling in smoothly. “This one has spines that can rip apart a net. They’re poisonous, too. Not lethal. Just painful.”
She pulled the pliers out of her hip pocket again. Leaning low over the rail, rod held high in one hand and pliers in the other, she fastened onto the shank of the hook. She gave a quick shake, freeing the fish. It swam languidly back into the green darkness, more disgruntled than frightened.
“Not good to eat?” asked Hawk.
“They’re fine. That one was a bit small. It would fillet out into about two bites per side.”
“More trouble than it’s worth.”
“Unless you’re hungry, yes.”
As Hawk turned to resume fishing, the radio in the cockpit crackled to life.
“—calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Black Moon calling Angie Lange. Can you read me? Over.”
Eagerly Angel spun toward the sound. She reached the cockpit in two steps, snatched the mike off its rack, punched in the button, and spoke quickly. Excitement vibrated in her voice.
“Carlson? This is Angie. Where are you?”
“Heading up the passage for ten days.”
“Oh.” Angel’s disappointment was as clear in her voice as it was in her face. “You’re an elusive man, Carlson.”
“You’re a bit hard to catch yourself. Must be those big white wings growing out of your back.”
Angel smiled.
“
Derry
’s been trying to raise you on the radio for the last hour,” Carlson said. “I figured you must be jigging behind one of the islands, so I offered to relay for him.”
“He’s all right, isn’t he?” Angel asked anxiously.
“He’s doing okay. Grouchy as a spring bear, but otherwise fine. There’s a message for a Mr. Hawkins. Your client?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly Angel was aware that Hawk was leaning against the frame of the open cockpit door, listening.
“
Derry
said that Lord Something-or-other called with a counter-counteroffer.”
Angel grimaced.
Carlson’s amusement was clear in the extraordinary precision of his words.
“Poor Angie,” he said. “You always end up with the stuffiest shirts and the clumsiest white eyes ever to get a yen to go fishing.”
“Not this time.” Angel smiled at the man in the doorway. “This time I’ve got a real live hawk.”
Carlson’s deep laugh seemed too big for the small speaker.
“Have fun, Angie, but watch your fingers. Hawks are the meanest birds ever to fly.”
“Take care of yourself, Carlson. I heard that there was a storm coming down out of the
Aleutians
.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I left without waiting to see you.”
“Call me when you get back.”
“Don’t I always?” There was a pause. “I may still be out on the twelfth.”
“That’s okay,” said Angel.
Her voice was too even, too calm, belying the sudden paleness of her cheeks.
“Are you sure?” Carlson asked.
“
Derry
will be here. I’ll be fine.” Angel’s voice softened, revealing a hint of the emotion beneath. “Thanks, Carlson. It means—a lot.”
“Save your best hug for me, Angel Eyes.”
The faint hiss of static filled the cockpit.
Suddenly Angel felt very much alone. The old nickname had brought back too much of the past with it. She loved Carlson in the same way that she loved
Derry
, but Carlson’s voice inevitably reminded her of love and death and loss. Of Grant.
Yet Angel needed Carlson. His laughter and the memories that they shared created a bridge between the irretrievable past and the often lonely present.
“I take it that was the salmon shaman,” said Hawk.
His voice was smooth and cold. He was irritated by the transparency of Angel’s ploy in dangling her deep-voiced admirer in front of him.
“The salmon shaman? Oh.” Angel smiled slightly. “Yes, that was Carlson. Did you hear the message?”
Hawk’s mouth made a cynical downward curve.
I heard it, all right.
And in case I didn’t, you’re giving me a reply with that lonely, wistful look.
Well, that’s one type of chase I won’t have any part of. If she wants to play one man off against the other, she’ll find herself without a game.
When I hunt, I hunt alone.
Hawk pushed away from the cockpit door, turning his back on Angel.
“Take me back to Eagle Head,” he said curtly. “I have some calls to make.”
That was the first of many times when the demands of Hawk’s business interrupted Angel’s guided tour of
Vancouver Island
and the waters around
Campbell River
. Hawk had flown to
Vancouver
three times, where he had met with lawyers and signed papers.
When he stayed in the Ramsey house, he was often on the phone. In ten days Angel had managed to get Hawk out fishing only twice. Each time phone calls had made them miss the tide.
Not that it really mattered. The run of the silver salmon had not yet begun. Even the commercial fishermen were catching only a handful of fish for each day spent on the water.
In the end, Angel settled for giving Hawk a slow-motion tour of rocky heads and tiny bays as she showed him how to troll for salmon. To her it was the least interesting method of catching salmon. The stiff rods required for trolling masked the energy and vibrancy of the fish.
But trolling was the price of missing the tide changes, when the shifting balance of water and moon coaxed the salmon to feed closer to the surface.
Angel was determined that there would be no more missed tides. Word had come through the fishing grapevine that the first true run of summer salmon was sliding silently down the
Inside Passage
. Yesterday the catch had been up at the north end of the passage.
If the fish followed past patterns, one of Angel’s favorite stretches of coastline should be hosting the salmon for a while on their run south to the countless rivers that drained the mountainous land. By boat, it would take nearly six hours to get to
Other than mealtimes Angel had seen very little of Hawk for three days.
Angel had been busy too. The used kiln she had bought and shipped up from
Seattle
for her summer use had finally arrived. With it had come a surprise, a large crate full of carefully packed cullet—scrap glass—sent by her
Seattle
gallery owner. The note on top of the box said only:
Incredible price. Glass factory collapsed. Larger pieces sent to your
Seattle
studio.
The delivery men had just finished carting everything into the north wing of the Ramsey house. Under
Derry
’s amused eyes, Angel was attacking the crate with a crowbar. He was perfectly content to lounge in an overstuffed chair and watch her handle the brilliant, incredibly sharp pieces of glass.
“Sure you don’t want me to do it?”
Derry
asked lazily.
Angel smiled across the room at him and then went back to work.
“You’d probably break every piece of glass in the crate,” she said.
“You’re just going to make it all into little pieces anyway,”
Derry
pointed out in a reasonable, teasing voice.
“But there’s method in my madness. In yours there’s just muscle.”
The top came off to the accompaniment of high squeals from the nails used to secure the crate. Angel set aside the crowbar and pulled on a pair of thin, supple suede gloves. Scrap glass had edges sharper than any razor she had ever used.
“Careful,” said
Derry
.
Angel gave him a long-suffering look. He smiled and shrugged lightly.
Neither of them noticed that Hawk had come to stand just outside the doorway of the studio, drawn by the sound of nails screaming against green wood.