Northern Exposure by Debra Lee Brown

glimpse of Camo Man, Joe scanned the shadowed crevices of the canyon, then picked up the pace, fixing his gaze on the petite woman ahead of him, trudging steadily upward toward the pass, dwarfed by the bright-blue pack on her back.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Wendy said, when he finally caught up with her.
    â€œThat’s my line.” He grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him.
    â€œHey!”
    He eyed her up and down, inspecting her for signs of injury or fatigue. He saw neither. In fact, he noticed she’d barely broken a sweat, which was nothing short of amazing, given the steep climb. She was breathing hard, but he suspected it was because she was angry, not winded.
    Her cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes ice-blue darts that, because they reminded him a little of Cat’s, pierced him right through the heart.
    â€œCome on,” he said, crushing the impression, replacing it with memorized snippets from the tabloid article he’d read describing the police investigation into Willa Walters’s drug habits. “You’re outta here.”
    â€œThe hell I am.” She wrestled out of his grasp. “This is state land, open to hikers and overnight backpackers.”
    â€œYeah, backpackers with a permit. Got one?” He smirked at her, feeling good all of a sudden, strong, in control of the situation, professional all the way. He knew it would be dark by the time they got backto their vehicles, but that was fine with him, he had a flashlight and—
    â€œRight here.” She whipped a folded yellow receipt out of the breast pocket of her long-sleeved shirt. “See for yourself. I’m every bit as entitled to be here as you are.”
    For a long second he just stood there, mute, looking at the folded yellow paper flapping in the wind. He snatched it out of her hand. Only local DF&G or Fish and Wildlife officials could issue permits for the reserve, and he sure as hell hadn’t issued her one. The only other officer in the vicinity was—
    â€œBarb wrote it up for me.”
    He swore under his breath, mentally counting to ten. The next time he saw Barb Maguire he was going to drag her by that kinky black hair of hers down to the creek behind the station and drown her. He checked the dates and the signature on the receipt, confirming the worst, then slapped it back into Wendy’s waiting hand.
    â€œYou can’t stop me, you know. I’m going to find those caribou, and when I do find them, I’m going to photograph them. And then I’m going to get out of here.” She glared up at him, her lips pressed seductively into a tight little rose.
    He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. He couldn’t stop her. This was state land, and she had a valid access permit. The only way to stop her now would be to judge her incompetent or unprepared. He had the authority to do it, against her will, if it came to that.
    â€œWhy did you come after me?”
    The question caught him off guard. He ignored it.He’d been thinking about just how competent and prepared she actually seemed to be.
    An old but expensive compass hung from her neck by a nylon cord. Her topographic map was expertly folded into the kind of configuration a seasoned hiker would use and was protected by a plastic cover, peeking out from an easily reachable overhead pocket on her pack.
    Though the backpack itself was a blinding electric blue—that’s how he’d spotted her so easily—and was ridiculously big for her petite frame, it was high quality, as was her down sleeping bag, her tent and the short ice ax hanging from a loop near her liter-size water bottle.
    â€œYou’re probably not going to need that,” he said, nodding toward the ax.
    â€œIt’s August,” she shot back. “And this is Alaska. You have to be prepared for everything.”
    He shrugged but had to hand it to her. She was in good shape, was well equipped and had