Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts)

by Annabeth Albert

  “Yeah.” Owen was breathing hard, both from the pace and the increase in altitude. He wasn’t looking forward to going back down, but first they had to reach the hikers.

  “Over here,” a woman shouted, and Owen’s heart sped up along with his feet. An older woman in thick hiking clothes with a knit hat atop gray hair waved them over to where another woman of similar age lay off the trail, down a short hill. She had a backpack under her head and a space blanket covering her.

  “Found you! We’re here to help. Tell us about the injuries.” Owen scrambled down next to the women, realizing a moment too late that he should probably be letting Quill take the lead since he was the one with far more experience. “Sorry,” he murmured to Quill, stepping back so Quill could approach the victim and assess the situation.

  “Well, Helen here started to feel dizzy, and then next thing I knew, she was tumbling down. It was all so sudden.” Speaking in cultured East Coast tones, the uninjured woman gestured at her companion.

  “She was dizzy before she fell?” Quill’s eyes narrowed, and he gave Owen a quick, pointed look that confirmed Owen’s initial fear that that wasn’t a good sign.

  “How are you feeling now? Any chest pain? Weakness? History of diabetes or other condition?” Owen’s brain raced ahead, considering several awful possibilities.

  “In pain.” Helen’s forehead creased, eyes glassy. “I’m not diabetic. I’m healthy as a horse usually. Norma can vouch for that. I don’t know what happened. My head’s still swimming.”

  “I think a medical evacuation is the right call here. I’m going to try to get a signal to let the helicopter personnel know that we’ve reached you and that we’ll rendezvous with them ASAP.” Still frowning, Quill stepped away as he pulled out his sat phone.

  “I agree.” Owen pitched his voice as soothing as he could. “The sooner we can get you looked at, the better. Now tell me about your other injuries.”

  With Norma’s help, Helen pointed out her wrenched knee and rapidly swelling wrist. “I feel so foolish.”

  “Don’t. These things happen.” Crouching again, Owen gently squeezed her shoulder. “And I’m no doctor, but it could be worse. I don’t think you broke the leg. I’ve had a knee sprain from a skiing accident before, and it swelled up exactly like that.”

  “Oh, I don’t want knee surgery.” Helen’s voice was thready and distraught.

  “Sure some knee injuries need surgery, but not all. Mine healed with only some rest. And talk about foolish—at least you had the excuse of being dizzy. Mine was that I was talking with a friend, not watching the hill, and before I realized it, I was picking up speed and ended up tangoing with a tree.” He kept his tone light, trying to earn a laugh from the women before Quill returned.

  “Okay, the helicopter’s going to try to meet us at a clearing right beyond where we left the ATVs,” Quill reported, coming to kneel next to Owen. “Because of the dizziness, I don’t want you attempting much movement, even with our help. We’ll carry you down.”

  “My pack...” Helen fretted as Quill unrolled the field stretcher next to her.

  “Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got it.” Norma gently removed the backpack from under Helen’s head and attempted to shoulder both packs. “We won’t leave your camera behind, promise.”

  Owen didn’t like how Norma wobbled under the weight of both bags. “Wait. I’ll wear her pack.”

  He quickly put the backpack on, buckling the chest and waist clips. Helen was apparently a hardy trooper as the pack was a considerable weight, but no way was he letting on that he had growing doubts about their ability to get Helen down. The women needed him confident and upbeat, especially with Quill so dour and task-focused. Forcing an easy smile, he got in position to help Quill transfer her to the stretcher.

  “This part may hurt,” Quill warned. “On three?”

  Owen followed his directions as they positioned Helen on the stretcher, wincing right along with Helen as she groaned. Cool wind whipping around them, they wrapped her in the blankets they’d brought as best they could.

  “Tell me about your camera,” he said, wanting to distract Helen from her pain.

  “It’s a Nikon...” She trailed off to breathe deeply, eyes squishing shut.

  “Hey, stay with us.” Owen worked to keep any panic from his voice. “What kind of Nikon? D-SLR?”

  As they started back down the trail, he kept up a steady stream of questions, mainly yes/no ones, but needing the assurance that Helen wasn’t drifting into unconsciousness, either from a concussion or from whatever made her dizzy in the first place. Please don’t let it be a stroke. He wasn’t the praying type, but he’d lost two grandparents to stroke, and he took a moment to ask the universe to help Helen get to medical attention as soon as possible. If it was a stroke, time was absolutely of the essence.

  “Doing okay, Owen?” Quill called, voice tight as they navigated a switchback. He was taking the lead, undoubtedly shouldering more of the weight, but Owen’s shoulders still strained from the stretcher and backpack both. But the greater concern was his feet—every step mattered, and the descent was hell on the calves as he worked to avoid skidding.

  “Yeah.”

  “Owen?” Behind him, Norma said his name carefully, the way a lot of people did when they tried to match Owen’s name to his heritage.

  “Yeah. I’m Owen and this is Quill. Guess we should have introduced ourselves better.” As Owen finished, Helen let out a soft moan, and he resumed his efforts to keep her distracted. “I’ve got a great story about my name too. Last name is from some Chinese ancestor several generations back in Vietnam. But my first name is where it gets fun. Both sets of my grandparents immigrated to East San Jose in the sixties, and my parents lived in the same general neighborhood but weren’t friends. Then their tenth-grade social studies teacher Mr. Owens made them work together on a group project, and by the time they made their presentation, they were already crushing on each other. They got married between high school and college. Everyone thought they were nuts, but they’ve been together forty-some years now.”

  “And, Quill?” Helen’s voice was decidedly weaker now, and Owen’s back prickled, worries over her condition mounting.

  “My parents were young too. Too young. Someone gave my mom a baby book, but not the sense to use it.” Quill expanded on the answer he’d given Owen when they’d met, and his relative talkativeness told Owen that he too was concerned.

  “Why not just use your middle name?” Owen asked. “If you dislike it so much, I mean.”

  “Not happening. It’s even worse. Like I said. My mom’s...a bit different.”

  “Now I want to know,” Owen teased even as he had to watch his step on a rocky section.

  “Nope. Careful now. Trail’s about to narrow.” Right as Quill gave the warning, Owen had to dig in with his heels and adjust his stance. His arms and legs burned, but sore muscles were the least of his anxieties. Helen’s pale skin and shallow breathing had him on edge.

  “Head still swimming?” he asked her.

  “Yeah,” she managed a weak reply. “Maybe I did hit it on the way down. Not sure. Sleepy.”

  “Stay awake. You’re about to get the sort of scenic helicopter ride most tourists pay good money for.” Somehow, Owen managed to keep his voice light. “Now, who back home are you going to tell about your adventure? Kids? Grandkids? I need details.”

  He kept Helen and Norma both talking, learning that they were lifelong friends from Maine, with widespread extended families, and a penchant for shared adventure travel now that both were retired widows.

  “Okay, next section’s going to be the trickiest.” Quill sounded mildly frustrated, like maybe Owen’s chatter was too much for him. He’d simply have to deal. Owen could tell the women needed the distraction even if Quill didn’t. The trail went up before swiftly descending again, rocky outcroppings
making each step a challenge.

  But when the path leveled out again, Owen recognized the view and some tension left his body. “Not much longer now, Helen.”

  “Good.” Her voice was a bare whisper. “Dizzy again... Funny, not even walking.”

  “We’re going to get you help,” he promised, even as his stomach churned with fresh worries about a possible stroke. “You’ll have a great story for the kids while you rest up. And then you’ll be ready for the next adventure.”

  “That’s right,” Norma chimed in. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Mercifully, he heard the distant drone of a helicopter.

  “Can you go faster?” Quill asked. “With these winds not sure how many chances they’ll get to land.”

  “Yup.” Adrenaline surging, he followed Quill’s lead, quickening the pace, as they worked to make it to the clearing where the ATVs awaited. His jaw tightened with the memory of what Quill had said at training—that sometimes efforts to save someone failed. Owen refused to have that happen here. His shoulders burned and his legs ached, but he wasn’t going to give in to his exhaustion until Helen was safe.

  Chapter Eight

  Urgency thrummed through Quill. He needed this rescue to be a success in the worst way. No longer a simple leg injury to manage, he was increasingly concerned about a possible head injury or stroke. But even as his worries grew, he had to juggle other concerns—they only had so much daylight left, the wind was continuing to pick up, and a shift in the weather seemed imminent, and he could hear the strain in Owen’s and Norma’s voices—the pace had taken a toll on their stamina. He was more than a little in awe of how Owen kept his optimistic attitude going for the women, chatting and joking even though his muscles had to be burning as much as Quill’s. Hell, Quill was lucky to manage a few well-timed warnings while Owen had conducted a full conversation.

  The elusive human skills Quill had always relied on Hattie for seemed to come so naturally to Owen, but even more than his ability to calm the women, Quill was impressed at Owen’s overall handling of the situation—not freaking out, watching his step even as he talked, working with Quill to get things done. And sure, he still had that take-charge streak, but Quill couldn’t deny they made a good team.

  And as they reached the ATVs, Owen did a great job following Quill’s instructions on how to prepare for the helicopter’s arrival while Quill handled talking to the dispatcher on his sat phone. Waiting until Owen and the women were situated, he stepped away, relaying his concerns about Helen’s dizziness. Because many times in the past the helicopter had been unable to land, Quill was prepared to have to transport via the ATVs and try a second rendezvous point, but he honestly wasn’t sure Helen had that kind of time.

  “They’re going to let a medic down, get her ready for a fast loading for transport,” he explained as the helicopter circled closer, noise requiring to him raise his voice.

  “Is she going to have to ride in one of those basket things? I’ve seen that in ski accidents,” Norma fretted.

  “That’s an option. But they’re going to try to actually land.” He wished he had Owen’s gift for soothing tones and was relieved when Owen leaned in, squeezed Helen’s shoulder.

  “You’ll do great,” Owen assured her. “Another adventure, right?”

  “Exactly. And I’ll meet you at the hospital in Anchorage.” Norma’s friendly face creased with concern, and she too bent over Helen to offer support.

  The helicopter dipped low, medic rappelling down with all the speed and grace of a special forces operator. She rushed over, and Quill and the other two moved back so she could assess Helen.

  “We’re hoping for a lull in the winds,” she yelled. “But we’re going to need to move fast.”

  Following her directions, Quill helped her get Helen strapped up, not liking how the medic shook her head after examining Helen’s pupils. Please let the rescue work. He’d had enough stuff go sideways out here to not truly believe in the power of prayer, not the way Granddad had, but he sent one up nonetheless.

  “Okay, we’re go for a landing,” the medic yelled, and then with the same lightning efficiency that always amazed Quill when he worked with the helicopter crews, the bird touched down and Helen was loaded up in a matter of swift minutes.

  “Wow.” Owen’s eyes were wide as he watched them take off. “That was something.”

  “Yeah.” Quill’s throat was scratchy with the force of his desire for Helen to be okay. Forcing himself to stay focused, he turned to Norma. “Let’s get you back to your vehicle so you can keep that promise to meet her at the hospital. You going to be okay to drive?”

  “Of course. I’ve driven in fifty years of Maine winters. We’re hardy stock, Helen and I.” Her tone was confident even as her eyes were weary.

  Since Owen had the cart, Quill had Norma ride behind him on his machine, producing a spare helmet as he stowed their other supplies. Even with the wind whipping up and fading light, they made good time back to the trailhead, getting Norma situated in her rental car amid Owen beseeching her to let him know an update on Helen before they drove on to the equipment shed for the ATVs.

  “Man, it’s almost like the sky waited on us.” Owen gestured to the rapidly darkening sky as he pulled his helmet off.

  “Yup. Like I said, weather’s on the way. It’ll probably start as wintery mix but turn to snow overnight. You ready for that?”

  “Absolutely.” Owen gave him a broad grin that mirrored some of Quill’s own exhaustion. “I’ve got my skis ready and can’t wait to try snowshoes again—that’s been a few years. In fact, while I wait to hear an update from Norma, I’m going to welcome the snow with some soup, maybe some cocoa afterward. I don’t suppose you want some?”

  “Soup?” Quill blinked. A refusal gathered in his mouth, same one he always had for Owen’s overtures of food and company, but this time he couldn’t quite get it out. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was more worried about Helen than he wanted to let on, even to himself. Maybe he was simply hungry. But whatever the cause, he found himself asking, “What kind?”

  “Really?” Owen’s eyes went wide, and his pace back to the center quickened, almost as if he wanted to get cooking before Quill changed his mind. It would have been cute had Quill allowed himself to find anything about Owen cute. “I was thinking this quick chicken and ginger one that my mom does. Not traditional pho—that broth takes all day—but this has noodles in it too, so it’s filling. Which we need after all that.” He reached the center doors first and unlocked, holding the door for Quill. “That sound good? Or do you want something like a minestrone? I’ve got a recipe for that one too, if you like more traditional.”

  Quill had never been a particularly adventurous eater, but he also didn’t want to put Owen out. “The one you were planning sounds fine. I liked what you did with noodles the other night.”

  “You did?” Beaming like Quill had given him a gift, Owen hurried up the stairs.

  “Yeah.” Quill had left a thank-you note along with his to-do list, but as much as he didn’t want to encourage Owen, he wasn’t going to lie. “It was tasty. But I’m not as picky as you might think. It’s just habit—I tend to stick to routine, and I’ve never been one for a lot of complicated cooking. A lot of the time I settle for a sandwich or big bowl of oatmeal, things like that. Having something hot and homemade was a nice treat.”

  “Well, good.” Owen’s megawatt smile continued as he started riffling in the kitchen area’s cabinets.

  “That doesn’t mean you need to do it more,” Quill was quick to add as he hung up his coat. “Just that it was nice.”

  “Well, unfortunately for you, I like doing cooking experiments, and I know how precious ingredients are with the store far away and the possibility of being snowed in, so I’m going to keep offering. I brought a lot of my own staples from Anchorage—rice noodles, fish sauce, spices, broth, st
uff like that, and I like sharing.” Owen’s jaw took on a defiant tilt, and Quill foresaw many more plastic containers in his future. Old enough to know when he was beat, Quill let out a sigh and stretched his shoulders.

  “Okay, put me to work. What has to be done?”

  “You’re helping?” Owen’s eyes went wide.

  “Of course. Not going to sit here and watch you work while I tap my fingers.” He had way too many memories of his father doing just that at their small kitchen table, inevitably the start of an argument between his parents, starting with snipping while his mom cooked, progressing to a full-blown shouting match over dinner.

  “Hmm...” Head tilting, Owen worked his jaw as if he were trying to decide on the easiest task to give Quill that wouldn’t insult him.

  “I’m perfectly capable of chopping.” Quill bristled at Owen’s skepticism.

  “Awesome.” Smile too bright, Owen handed him a hunk of ginger and an onion. “Usually I’d char the onion and ginger, but that doesn’t work the best with this stove. Just dice the onion small and either grate about two inches of ginger or mince it fine, your choice.”

  No way was Quill going to admit now that he’d never dealt with raw ginger and wasn’t entirely sure of the difference between mince and dice. Grabbing a cutting board, he took it to the table and started with the onion, struggling with the peel. This was why he didn’t often bother with cooking—too many fiddly bits.

  “Here. It peels way easier if you take off the ends first.” Owen reached around him, grabbing the knife to demonstrate. And Quill supposed that he was imparting more cooking wisdom, but he couldn’t focus on Owen’s tips with him this close, smelling good—like hard work and that expensive scent of his mingling together in a way that made Quill’s brain go straight to sex. Their hands brushed and forget the coming storm outdoors, the air right here in the kitchen positively crackled like the charged sky right before the heavens opened up with a deluge or blizzard.