transparently eager to get rid of her. At least as eager as she was to see the last of him and his dreary little hovel.
She’d apparently worn out her welcome with the corporal, who had spoken to her in nothing but monosyllables for the last two days—since the incident with the damned book. Before that, in her first twenty-four hours at the post, he’d been polite to the point of being a pain in the ass. Of course, that was before they learned that the plane would be delayed, and before the stupid incident with the telephone and that gigantic book— the incident that had left the luckless corporal with two black eyes and a possibly broken nose. It had also left her in what might be some verydeep shit with whoever was aboard that airplane.
The corporal flung open the door and hurried outside, while Anne waited at the window, watching sullenly as the plane touched down on the ragged length of patched macadam that served as the isolated police post’s landing strip. As the plane rolled to a stop a few yards from the shack, she noticed a faded image of a red maple leaf, and the initials “R.C.M.P.” painted along the length of the fuselage, indicating the aircraft’s official police status. Her heart sank. The plane wasn’t private, and it wasn’t commercial. She was about to be deported—officially.
A tall man stepped from the cockpit onto the macadam, and paused for a minute or two to speak with the corporal. She had expected—in a worst-case scenario—to be handed over to a governmental nobody. Some low-level, bureaucratic hireling in a pinstriped suit. An unimportant twerp who would deliver a practiced, sanctimonious reprimand about being a good neighbor, and about respecting international borders, and then send her on her way. But the new man on the scene was not a bureaucrat. Another cop, and also RCMP, but outfitted differently than O’Brien. He was dressed almost casually, in a long-sleeved white shirt, dark blue pants with a yellow stripe down each leg, and a pair of high brown boots with laces. As she continued watching, though, the cop reached inside the plane and pulled out a bright red jacket, a holstered revolver wrapped in a brown belt, and a broad-brimmed beige Stetson. Like Smokey the Bear. Not a good sign. Even Anne knew that Canada’s renowned mounted police didn’t wear the full uniform unless there was something going on. Like a parade. Or maybe an official arrest?
Despite her apprehension, though, she couldn’t help noticing that the new arrival on the scene fit the romantic image from her daydreams far better than Corporal Pudgy O’Brien. Even at this distance, it was obvious that this Mountie was extremely good-looking. Sandy brown hair, cut short, of course. Tall, maybe six-foot four or five, and well built without that “I work out every day at a gym” look that usually turned her off. He took a few moments to slip on the high-necked red tunic and button it, and then started toward the shack, still carrying the pistol and belt. The corporal scurried alongside, doing his best to keep up with the taller man’s long stride. By the time the two men came in the door, the officer in the crimson tunic had strapped on a broad, brown duty belt with a large brass buckle, what appeared to be a case for handcuffs, and a pistol, still in its flapped holster. To Anne, who had never seen a traditionally outfitted Canadian “Mountie” in complete regalia and at close range, the effect was both glamorous, and titillating— and mildly intimidating. To someone with her somewhat-checkered history, uniformed, fully armed policemen often meant trouble.
She hadn’t expected handcuffs, and certainly not to be taken away at gunpoint. In fact, the only weapon she’d seen so far was a sheathed rifle that hung on the wall behind the corporal’s desk in the shabby little room the corporal insisted upon calling the “guardroom.” Still, according to the corporal, she had broken several Canadian laws,
She’d apparently worn out her welcome with the corporal, who had spoken to her in nothing but monosyllables for the last two days—since the incident with the damned book. Before that, in her first twenty-four hours at the post, he’d been polite to the point of being a pain in the ass. Of course, that was before they learned that the plane would be delayed, and before the stupid incident with the telephone and that gigantic book— the incident that had left the luckless corporal with two black eyes and a possibly broken nose. It had also left her in what might be some verydeep shit with whoever was aboard that airplane.
The corporal flung open the door and hurried outside, while Anne waited at the window, watching sullenly as the plane touched down on the ragged length of patched macadam that served as the isolated police post’s landing strip. As the plane rolled to a stop a few yards from the shack, she noticed a faded image of a red maple leaf, and the initials “R.C.M.P.” painted along the length of the fuselage, indicating the aircraft’s official police status. Her heart sank. The plane wasn’t private, and it wasn’t commercial. She was about to be deported—officially.
A tall man stepped from the cockpit onto the macadam, and paused for a minute or two to speak with the corporal. She had expected—in a worst-case scenario—to be handed over to a governmental nobody. Some low-level, bureaucratic hireling in a pinstriped suit. An unimportant twerp who would deliver a practiced, sanctimonious reprimand about being a good neighbor, and about respecting international borders, and then send her on her way. But the new man on the scene was not a bureaucrat. Another cop, and also RCMP, but outfitted differently than O’Brien. He was dressed almost casually, in a long-sleeved white shirt, dark blue pants with a yellow stripe down each leg, and a pair of high brown boots with laces. As she continued watching, though, the cop reached inside the plane and pulled out a bright red jacket, a holstered revolver wrapped in a brown belt, and a broad-brimmed beige Stetson. Like Smokey the Bear. Not a good sign. Even Anne knew that Canada’s renowned mounted police didn’t wear the full uniform unless there was something going on. Like a parade. Or maybe an official arrest?
Despite her apprehension, though, she couldn’t help noticing that the new arrival on the scene fit the romantic image from her daydreams far better than Corporal Pudgy O’Brien. Even at this distance, it was obvious that this Mountie was extremely good-looking. Sandy brown hair, cut short, of course. Tall, maybe six-foot four or five, and well built without that “I work out every day at a gym” look that usually turned her off. He took a few moments to slip on the high-necked red tunic and button it, and then started toward the shack, still carrying the pistol and belt. The corporal scurried alongside, doing his best to keep up with the taller man’s long stride. By the time the two men came in the door, the officer in the crimson tunic had strapped on a broad, brown duty belt with a large brass buckle, what appeared to be a case for handcuffs, and a pistol, still in its flapped holster. To Anne, who had never seen a traditionally outfitted Canadian “Mountie” in complete regalia and at close range, the effect was both glamorous, and titillating— and mildly intimidating. To someone with her somewhat-checkered history, uniformed, fully armed policemen often meant trouble.
She hadn’t expected handcuffs, and certainly not to be taken away at gunpoint. In fact, the only weapon she’d seen so far was a sheathed rifle that hung on the wall behind the corporal’s desk in the shabby little room the corporal insisted upon calling the “guardroom.” Still, according to the corporal, she had broken several Canadian laws,
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