by Kim Baldwin
Anything he said would only result in more broken crockery, and she’d already busted half of what they owned, so he kept his mouth shut and began to clean up, careful to stay well away from the bed.
Every chore completed seemed to lessen her rage. Once the dishes were done she put down the mug, and she relaxed back against the pillows when he returned the floor to its usual spotless perfection. By the time he finished the laundry, she was sound asleep and snoring lightly. The tasks took three hours, and Bryson and Karla would be wondering what had happened to him and whether he’d be coming back in the skiff. But he didn’t dare leave until Maggie gave him clearance. It wouldn’t do for her to fling the rest of their dishes at her sister before they were properly introduced.
He approached the bed on tiptoes, like a bomb-disposal expert venturing unprotected toward a case of unstable TNT.
She looked so serene in sleep that at least for the moment she resembled the woman he’d married, and he tenderly stroked her hair away from her face. The thought that within a few years she might lose her memories of their life together made his chest ache. It couldn’t be true. He’d always been optimistic, facing any challenge that came his way with hope, resolve, and a deep faith in the power of prayer. He sank to his knees beside the bed and bowed his head, asking God to spare his wife and child this awful future. Tears formed when he imagined looking at Maggie and finding no hint of recognition in her eyes, and a steady stream poured down his cheeks when he pictured himself raising their daughter alone.
When he lifted his head, Maggie was awake and watching him. His obvious distress was so rare that her anger vanished.
“Lars, please don’t let my mood swings upset you so. You know I love you. I can’t help flying off the handle like that, and you always take the brunt of it. I wouldn’t blame you if you’re getting fed up with me.” She began to cry, which was another frequent side effect of her body’s raging hormones. Normally he simply held her when it happened, murmuring reassurances that she’d be back to her old self in no time.
On this occasion, though, he moved into Maggie’s arms and rested his cheek against her swollen belly, letting the tears come. Time might not be their friend after all. “I’m just worried about you, Mags.” His voice broke.
Maggie’s hand caressed his back. “Aw, honey, if it means that much to you, you can bring that nurse here to stay with us.”
*
The groaning of the engine’s battle to turn the icy prop worsened every minute, and the controls grew increasingly sluggish with the added weight on the fuselage. Bryson’s biceps strained with her effort to keep the plane steady, as she mentally ticked off the familiar landmarks passing beneath the Cub. When they emerged from the canyons and into the final stretch of river leading to her cabin, she breathed only a little easier. Setting down on the short gravel bar with the plane responding so poorly would be a challenge.
Karla either hadn’t uttered a word in the last several minutes, or the noisy engine had kept Bryson from hearing. And she’d been concentrating so intensely on getting them down in one piece that she hadn’t made any further effort to talk.
“We’re here,” she hollered back over her shoulder as they descended the final fifty feet. “Fasten yourself in tight. Gonna be bumpy.”
That turned out to be an understatement, for in the days she was away, the river had risen, depositing a variety of branches and a medium-sized spruce on a smaller-than-usual landing strip. Steering over the obstacles that the plane’s turbo tires could handle, and around the ones they could not, was like trying to drive a cement truck full speed through a short and narrow, twisting hallway.
One of the bumps was so bone-jarring only their seatbelts kept their heads from hitting the roof. Karla cried out, and Bryson cursed. But they came to a stop finally, with the front tires inches from the water’s edge.
Neither of them moved for several seconds. When Bryson cut the engine, she could hear Karla’s loud, erratic breathing behind her. She loosened her belt and turned to face her. Karla’s face was white and her eyes were glassy, as if she was in shock. “You okay?”
“You…you…” Karla licked her lips. “You can’t tell me that was a normal landing.”
“Well, no. But we’re fine. Sit tight for a minute and I’ll get you inside.”
She retrieved Karla’s duffel bag, towed her Cub away from the water’s edge, and secured its tie-downs with some hefty rocks. By the time she went to help Karla out, her color had returned to normal. But she still looked so unsteady on her feet that Bryson kept an arm around her waist as they waded the shallows and headed up the trail to the cabin.
As they neared the front door, Bandit appeared out of the mist and dive-bombed them with a loud croak. Karla screamed and buried her face against Bryson’s chest.
“Don’t mind him. He’s a pest, but not dangerous, just hungry.”
She settled Karla on the couch and went out to start up the generator and gather a load of wood. Once she got the lights on and a fire blazing in the woodstove, she helped Karla out of her coat and boots and wrapped her in a thick quilt. “Some tea?”
“Yes, thanks.” Karla rubbed her hands together beneath the quilt to warm them, grateful to be out of the Cub and on safe ground again. She’d never been more afraid, and her heartbeat had only just returned to normal.
She studied the cabin and its owner. While Bryson looked every bit a modern-day woman, albeit the outdoorsy type, her home resembled something out of Little House on the Prairie. The entire living space was not much larger than the living room of her Atlanta apartment, and most of the furniture and cabinetry was of the primitive, hand-hewn variety, though a skilled woodworker had crafted it. The couch on which she sat was rough pine, padded by a futon mattress. Simple pine end tables flanked it, and a matching low coffee table in front held a small stack of books and copies of National Geographic and Alaska Magazine. A pine chair with a smaller futon sat perpendicular to the couch, opposite a rocker.
A small square table and three chairs created an intimate eating area in one corner of the room, in front of an L-shaped counter with a sink and several cabinets. As she expected, there was no refrigerator, microwave, or conventional oven, only the woodstove at the end of one of the counters. But something else was missing in the tiny kitchen—a faucet above the sink. No running water, either? Unimaginable. How did Bryson do her dishes, wash her face, take a bath?
Bryson lifted a stout iron teakettle from the woodstove and filled it with a dipper from a large oak barrel by the door. When they arrived, Karla saw a massive galvanized tub leaning against the porch, which evidently explained the bathing aspect, and the laundry one too.
Bryson had told her she liked to read, which was certainly evident. In lieu of a television, the wall opposite the couch was filled with built-in bookshelves. Pine again, and jammed with several hundred books and a few animal figurines.
There were other primitive touches. Though an electric floor lamp behind the couch and a ceiling lamp in the center of the room provided the current light, Karla also spotted a trio of old-fashioned kerosene lamps, their blackened chimneys indicating they were well-used. The quilt Bryson had covered her with looked Amish-made, and the cookware hanging from pegs in the kitchen was cast-iron, like the stuff carried on covered wagons in old Westerns.
Bryson either slept on the futon or somewhere in the loft, which took up half the cabin and was accessed by a plain wooden ladder.
The home was unlike any she’d ever been in, but it was cozy. The fire in the woodstove was cheery and efficient, and colorful rugs adorned the wood floor. One wall featured a grouping of photographs, nearly all of them aerial views of the Alaskan landscape, and another held ornate masks presumably carved by local natives.
“What you expected?” Bryson sat beside her holding two steaming mugs of tea and a small jar of honey.
“Kind of. It’s pretty much fits the lifestyle you described. But I didn’t imagine it would feel so…I don’
t know…snug.”
Bryson smiled. “Glad you think so. Have to say, you get a special satisfaction from living in a place you built yourself.”
“You built this cabin?” She glanced about again, viewing the structure in a new light, critically assessing the tight construction of the walls and roof and the smooth perfection of the floor. Bryson must have done a lot of backbreaking work and have considerable skill in carpentry.
“Lars helped move some of the big logs. But, yeah, I did most everything alone. Took most of a year.”
“I’m impressed. I can hardly drive a nail in straight.”
“My pop taught me.” Bryson sipped her tea. “He was a hell of a craftsman. Built the cabin I grew up in, which was a good bit bigger than this one. And during breakup and in bad weather, he made furniture. Almost everything in here is his, ’cept the rocker. That’s an heirloom handed down to my mother.”
“You’re lucky.” Karla well understood what a comfort such treasures could be in dealing with the loss of a parent. She kept her mother’s tigereye necklace with her always, in her pocket, and pulled it out often to caress its smooth surface. Doing so gave her strength and a sense of calm, as though her mother had somehow endowed the stone with her energy and love. “Must be nice to have all this to remember your father by.”
Bryson ran her hand lovingly along the polished armrest of the couch. “Sure is. I can remember him making every single piece. One of my favorite things used to be watching him take a rough log and turn it into something.”
“So you’re a pilot and a carpenter. Any other hidden talents?”
Bryson’s cheeks colored slightly. “If you mean what else occupies my time, mostly music. I play drums now and then with a little group at the Den and also dabble in photography, but I’m still learning.”
“Did you take those?” She indicated the grouping of aerial photos. “They’re quite good.”
The blush deepened. “Well, it’s hard not to get a few keepers when you have these awesome views. What do you do, besides your work as a nurse?”
“Nothing worth mentioning. My friend Stella and I play tennis and golf, though neither of us is very good at either. It’s just an excuse to get outside and exercise.”
“Lots of good places to hike around here. You should see some of the scenery.”
“I may do that if I stick around a while. Which all depends on whether Maggie will want me to.” The room had warmed enough for her to comfortably shed the quilt. She rose and walked to the front window. It was growing dark, but the storm was still intense. “Do you think Lars will make it back to get me?”
“Sleet won’t stop him. The skiff has lights and a covered cockpit, and he’s seen a lot worse, believe me.”
“Shouldn’t he be here by now?”
“Give him time. He’s gotta smooth things with Maggie, and I bet he has to pick up the place. She’s kind of a neat freak, and it’s been tough for her to keep up with everything the last month or so.”
“The cleanliness bug must be hereditary.” Karla chuckled. “Mom was, too, and I tend to be that way myself.”
“I’m curious to see what else you two have in common.”
“You and me both. You can’t imagine how weird it is to suddenly find out you have a sister you never knew about.”
“Couldn’t have a better one than Maggie. She’s one of the sweetest women I know.” Bryson smiled. “At least when she’s not pregnant.”
Karla returned to the couch. “That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just say Lars has learned to tread very lightly around her these days. She’s become fond of throwing dishes and food at him.”
“I hope she’s okay with the idea of my coming to stay with them.”
Bryson leaned her head against the back of the futon and stretched out her legs. “Lars’ll make it all right.”
Maybe Karla had judged Bryson a little too harshly. Her home and interests reflected an artistic, sensitive soul, one who cared deeply about animals and the environment. She was evidently very loyal to her friends, and now here she was, putting up a stranger and helping pave the way for her meeting Maggie, without asking anything in return. Looking back on her own behavior the night before, Karla realized she’d practically bullied Bryson into taking her along. And what right did I have to discount the importance of her supplies? Maybe fresh orange juice and Oreos don’t seem like much to me, but I bet I’d feel differently if I couldn’t run down to the corner store and get them whenever I wanted. She’d give her the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to a bad first impression, heightened by fatigue and preoccupation.
Why, then, didn’t such an attractive woman have a partner? Sure, she lived primitively, and out in the middle of nowhere, but the cabin was warm and welcoming. Why hadn’t someone snapped her up long before now?
The waitress at the Den and the gate attendant in Fairbanks both had shown a definite interest in Bryson, but neither seemed to have captured her attention. Had she had an Abby in her life too, someone who’d broken her heart and left her unable to trust again?
Chapter Ten
“Looks like he’s been held up,” Bryson said, when an hour had passed with no sign of Lars. “I’m starving. You?”
“No, thanks. I had a sandwich back at the Den, and my stomach is in knots from the thought of meeting Maggie.”
“Understandable.” Bryson went to the kitchen and pulled down a deep iron skillet hanging from a peg over the sink. She poured some oil into it and set it on the woodstove. “Think you’ll change your mind, though, when you get a whiff of this. Nothing like moose stew to warm you up on a chilly night.”
“Moose?”
Bryson knelt by a trapdoor in a corner of the cabin and pulled out a square plastic food container. Bits of hay were stuck to it. “Made a batch the other night that’ll warm up quick. Moose tastes kinda like beef, only more tender, and it’s better for you than any steak you’d buy. Not much fat. No additives.”
“If you say so. But I still think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself. Don’t know what you’re missing.” Bryson dumped the contents of the container into the skillet and stirred it with a big wooden spoon. “Up here we eat a lot of it, along with salmon and caribou. Regular groceries have to be trucked or flown in, so they’re about double what you probably pay.”
“Well, if you get a craving for something you can’t find here, let me know. When I get home, I’ll ship it to you. To say thanks for what you’ve done for me.”
Bryson looked up from her cooking with a surprised smile. “Might take you up on that. How long you staying, by the way? Any chance you’ll be here until the baby’s born?”
“Probably not that long. But my job would be okay with it. I’m on a leave of absence right now, and I’ve accrued a lot of vacation time. It all depends on whether Lars and Maggie want me to.”
“Bet they will. Not much in the way of trained medical help around. Lars would feel better having a nurse close by right now.”
The moose stew smelled better than it sounded. Karla’s stomach rumbled when Bryson returned to the couch with a large bowl of the stuff.
“Hungrier than you thought, huh?” Bryson grinned. “Come on, live dangerously. Least take a taste and see how you like it.” She held out the bowl.
“Just to satisfy my curiosity.” Karla scooped out a small spoonful. Then a larger one, just to make certain it was as fabulous as her taste buds said it was. “Okay, I’m sold. Do you have enough for me?”
“Plenty. Keep that. I’ll get another.” Bryson ladled herself a portion and they sat side by side on the couch, eating in easy silence until both bowls were empty.
While Bryson did the dishes, Karla perused the titles in her bookshelves. The wide assortment of nonfiction included books on flying, Alaska, wildlife, and the environment, but most were novels, sorted according to type. Four shelves of mysteries, five of suspense and intrigue, five more that appeared to be romances, and…what do we have here
? Eight shelves of lesbian literature. The representation was impressive, especially considering where she lived. Most of Karla’s personal favorites were included.
Bryson’s extensive library indicated she was a bright, inquisitive woman with a definite fondness for old-fashioned romanticism, and once again Karla wondered why she didn’t have a partner. She turned to study Bryson, who was stowing their bowls back in a cabinet.
It’d been years since she’d really looked at another woman with that kind of assessment, but it didn’t take long to judge Bryson as prime material. She was easy to talk to, had a good sense of humor, and she exuded an open honesty that was refreshing, especially after Abby’s duplicity. And it certainly didn’t hurt that Bryson looked as though she’d just stepped off a recruiting poster for sexy hot pilots who can take you places you’ve never been before.
Yes, Bryson was quite a catch. Karla could see that now. And though her current scrutiny had been born out of a general curiosity about why Bryson was single, it was igniting something very personal. With everything else she had to deal with, Karla would not have thought herself capable of sexual fantasies about anyone right now. But there was something raw and intensely alive about Bryson that jerked her from the numb fog of her grief. She felt guilty enjoying a long, lingering look at Bryson’s exquisitely toned physique, but she also felt a ripple of happiness. Something had stirred inside her, if only briefly, reminding her that it was possible to heal. She wasn’t broken, just bruised.
“You said Lars told you pretty much everything. Did he include the fact that you and I have something in common?”
Bryson paused and looked at her, forehead furrowed. “We do?”
A sharp rap on the door precluded any further discussion. Bryson went to admit Lars, who shook a heavy coating of sleet from his clothes before he stepped inside.