by Teri Wilson
The race was only five blocks or so, which was plenty considering the abundance of snow. At times Brock felt as though he were trudging through Jell-O rather than running. So it came as a genuine surprise when he realized he was the first human participant in the Reindeer Run to cross the finish line.
“Congratulations!” the announcer said, slapping him on the back. Brock recognized him from the Yukon Reporter as the mayor of Aurora. “You’re the winner of the fifth annual Reindeer Run.”
“Thank you, sir.” Brock took the trophy the mayor offered him. It featured a small gold runner on a wooden base, like any other track-and-field trophy. Unlike any other trophy, however, antlers sprouted from its sides.
It was one of the goofiest things Brock had ever seen. Ridiculous looking, really.
Brock loved it.
He was surrounded at once by what felt like half the town of Aurora, offering words of praise and congratulations. As Brock took it all in, a feeling came over him that he couldn’t recall experiencing in a very long time, if ever. He was disconcerted to realize the pleasant sensation was one of belonging. Like he was part of something...or some place.
A stab of worry pricked his consciousness.
Was he becoming socialized? Like one of his dogs? Surely not.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what Anya would have to say about the matter.
And then there she was, as if he’d conjured her simply by thinking of her. And Brock was struck with the thought that there were more dangerous things than feeling like he belonged in Aurora.
“It looks like congratulations are in order,” she said, smiling up at him with Sherlock leaning against her legs. Snow flurries danced around her face, and her skin glowed in the winter wind, as pink as a rosebud.
A rosebud, Brock? Really? Get a grip on yourself. You wouldn’t compare Cole’s skin to a rosebud, would you?
“Thank you.” He held his trophy aloft. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Very.” She nodded. “I hope you don’t have designs on keeping that thing on your mantel, though. Cole has always wanted someone from the ski patrol to win so they can have one of those for the patrol cabin.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, here he comes now.”
“Brock, my man!” As Anya predicted, Cole looked as happy as if Brock had single-handedly held back an avalanche with his bare hands. “You did it. We won!”
His use of the word we settled in Brock’s gut with all the buoyancy of a lead weight. Not that he cared a whit about handing over his trophy to the ski patrol. What would he have done with it after he left Aurora anyway? It wasn’t the sort of thing he could imagine dragging from place to place in his modest collection of cardboard boxes.
The term we was loaded with implications, though. Implications Brock had always been careful to avoid. He’d never been part of a we before.
Was he part of one now?
No, of course not.
“Yes, we did it,” Brock managed to force out. “Do you think there’s a place for the trophy somewhere in the ski patrol cabin?”
“Are you kidding? Of course there is. I have the perfect spot in mind.” Cole flashed him a thumbs up.
“I’m sure you do,” Anya said with an amused roll of her eyes. “How long have you wanted that trophy?”
“Five long years.” Cole shook his head. “I guess it took Brock coming here from halfway around the world to win it for us.”
One by one, the other members of the ski patrol crossed the finish line. A few other locals trailed behind them but most notably a couple who were clearly friends with Anya.
She grinned as they jogged to a halt and wrapped them both in tight hugs. “Clementine, Ben! You two made good time out there.”
The woman—Clementine—cast a curious glance in Brock’s direction before turning her attention back to Anya. “We did. I think Ben was trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. Who’s your friend?”
Anya flushed. Or perhaps it was the wind that brought out the pink in her cheeks. “Clementine, Ben, this is Brock Parker.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Ben nodded and pointed at Brock’s trophy. “Nice work.”
“Thank you,” Brock said.
“Yes, congratulations, Brock.” Clementine gave Sherlock a pat and greeted him with a smile that told Brock she’d already heard a thing or two about him.
Brock was still wondering how to feel about this unexpected familiarity when Cole and Jackson returned to flank him on either side.
“A celebration is in order, don’t you think?” Jackson asked. “Maybe we should all head over to the Northern Lights Inn. Rumor has it they have killer coffee over there.” He winked in Anya’s direction.
She laughed. “Nice try. I’m off today. But no worries—the coffee bar’s covered. Zoey is on the schedule this afternoon, assuming she survives this mayhem.”
Cole shrugged. “I can’t speak for everyone else, but I’ll take my chances. Jackson’s right. We do need to celebrate, and maybe if we all gang up on him we can talk Brock here into staying on.”
“Staying on?” Anya’s face, so recently pink and colorful as if kissed by the wind, paled.
“You don’t think I’m going to give up that easily, do you?” Cole nudged Brock and gestured to the trophy, which suddenly seemed immensely heavy in Brock’s hands, as though it carried the weight of the entire town of Aurora’s expectations. “Not after you showed those reindeer who’s in charge.”
Brock was vaguely aware of every pair of eyes in the winner’s circle turning toward him, watching, waiting. But only Anya’s eyes seemed to really see him, threatening to penetrate the armor around his inner self he’d so carefully crafted over the years.
She blinked, and he could see a world of hurt inside those eyes. “Staying on? I don’t understand.”
Before he could say a word in response, a flash of light erupted in his face.
“Say cheese,” a camera-wielding stranger said.
He blinked a second or two late, and he was blinded by another flash.
“Brock Parker, winner of this year’s Reindeer Run,” said the reporter. “Tell us, do you think you’ll be able to repeat your victory next year?”
Brock shook his head and frowned. Spots, after-effects of the camera’s bright flashes, swam in his vision. “No, I won’t be here next year.”
“I don’t understand.” The reporter leaned closer. “You don’t plan on defending your title?”
“No.” Brock had no other choice but to spell things out. “I’m not planning on staying in Alaska more than a month or two. I’m only here temporarily.”
Just in case that wasn’t clear enough, he added, “I’ll be long gone by this time next year.”
* * *
Anya’s hand went limp, and Sherlock’s leash slipped from her fingers. She stared down at the strip of leather making a dark streak through the snow and knew she should pick it up. But she couldn’t bring herself to form a coherent thought, much less move.
I’ll be long gone by this time next year...
What in the world did that mean? Anya couldn’t begin to wrap her mind around the answer, as obvious as it was.
She couldn’t even bring herself to breathe until the reporter had left. This little scene—so cheerful only moments before—had grown way too familiar. Heartbreakingly so.
As if sensing her distress, Sherlock pressed into her legs, nearly toppling her. The dog clearly wasn’t going anywhere, leash or no leash. Even so, Brock bent down to pick it up.
“You’ll be long gone? What does that mean, Brock?” Anya searched out his gaze as he straightened. The fact that he no longer looked her in the eye wasn’t lost on her.
“You know,” he said quietly.
; “No. No, I don’t know.” Anya’s voice rose an octave.
The other members of the group appeared at a loss for what to do or say. As they looked back and forth between Brock and Anya, the air grew thick with tension. Anya knew it could only be her imagination, but the snow flurries even seemed to swirl in slow motion.
Brock glanced up for the slightest moment, his gaze landing square in the center of her forehead. Just like old times, she thought without a trace of sentimentality. “I’m here to set up the avalanche search team. Remember?”
“Of course I remember,” she huffed. “I’m helping you do just that.”
“Anya.” Clementine lay a hand on her arm.
Anya looked at it, thinking its presence should be at least somewhat comforting. But it wasn’t.
“I’m here to do a job,” Brock said. “A very specific one.”
He sounded business-like. Different from how Anya had ever heard him before.
A collection of memories flooded her mind. Impressions, really, rather than memories—Brock answering his front door in his bear suit, the way she’d come to associate him with the smell of sawdust and puppies, his remarkable talent for transforming an ordinary piece of wood into something beautiful. And last but certainly not least, the feel of Brock’s hand—so big, so strong—as it cradled hers.
She swallowed.
“There’s more. Go ahead. Say it,” she whispered, her voice coming out hoarse, as if she’d been screaming on the outside in addition to the inside.
Cole cleared his throat. “Anya, Brock signed on for...”
Brock cut him off with a sharp look before turning gentler eyes toward Anya. So gentle that she knew for certain she didn’t want to hear whatever he was about to say. “I’m here to set up the program, and then I’m moving on. This was always the plan from the very beginning.”
“From the very beginning,” Anya repeated, wishing she could turn back time to that first day so when Brock answered his door in that crazy bear suit she could skip all the nonsense and get straight to the point: Can you help my dog...oh, and by the way, are you here to stay or not? “But...”
But what?
But sometimes when I look at you I feel dizzy.
But you held my hand.
But I want you to stay.
“But you never told me,” Anya whispered.
She knew it was unfair to put him on the spot like that in front of everyone. Cole and Jackson were his coworkers, and he’d only just met Ben and Clementine. What must they be thinking? She was fully aware she was acting like a spoiled child. But she was powerless to stop herself, humiliating as it was.
What was wrong with her? Brock had held her hand. It wasn’t as though he’d made her any promises. Or kissed her.
But she’d wanted him to. And she hadn’t wanted anything of the sort in a long, long time.
“I thought you knew.” Finally, Brock leveled his gaze at her. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re leaving,” she said flatly.
Brock didn’t utter a word. He remained as silent and still as a statue. It was as though Michelangelo’s David had come to life on the streets of Alaska. With the addition of a good parka, naturally.
“Now let’s not put the cart before the horse,” Cole said calmly. Too calmly. The sound of his voice made Anya want to jump out of her skin. “Our good buddy will be here for a while. There’s still a lot of work to do before the program is put into place. And I’m still holding out hope that Brock will change his mind. He’ll always have a job here. All he has to do is say yes. Right?”
Cole raised his eyebrows at Brock and rested a hand on his shoulder.
And in that moment Anya saw what she’d been unable to see before—the tension in Brock’s sculpted jaw, the guarded look in his ice-blue eyes and the resistance in his posture.
A shadow had crossed over Brock’s face the instant Cole suggested he might stay. Brock might be here now, standing directly in front of her. He might have stood in her little apartment with his wide, heroic shoulders filling the doorframe of her kitchen. He might have sat on her bedroom floor and held her hand. But he had no intention of staying in Aurora.
Anya could see it now, plain as day. How had she not known? Brock might still be in Alaska, but he already had one foot out the door.
Clementine slipped her arm through Anya’s. “Why don’t you come home with Ben and me? I’m sure you don’t want to hang out at the coffee bar on your day off.”
“I love the coffee bar, even on my day off. You all go on ahead, though.” Anya took a deep inhale of frosty air and gulped it down, wishing it would make her numb so she would no longer care about anything. Least of all Brock Parker. “I don’t feel much like celebrating. And I need to head home and check on Dolce.”
“Anya,” Brock said, her name sounding like a plea on his lips.
He wanted her to come along. At least Anya thought he did. She’d stopped listening to anything he had to say. She just couldn’t. Not anymore.
“I’m fine. Really. This was fun, but I’m beat. Bye, all.” She waved and backed away before she caved and succumbed to the protests of the others. Their words swirled around her like snowflakes, a verbal blizzard.
And all she really wanted was shelter from the storm.
Chapter Ten
Anya couldn’t bring herself to go home. She simply couldn’t face the emptiness of her cottage. Not after what had just happened at the Reindeer Run.
If she could have burrowed in the sofa cushions with Dolce curled in her lap, it would have been tolerable. Pleasant even. But the thought of sitting on the floor next to the bed, waiting for her dog to acknowledge her was too pathetic to even contemplate at the moment. She was tired of being patient. She was tired of working so hard to earn someone’s affection. She was just plain tired.
The only thing worse would have been putting on a brave face and showing up at the post-Reindeer Run activities. No, thank you.
She couldn’t face Brock right now. What must he think of her? She’d acted as if he owed her an explanation. She had no claim on him. She never had. She was nobody to Brock.
No one special.
Her eyes welled up with tears. And for ten seconds, Anya allowed herself to cry. Only ten seconds. No more. Because what was ten seconds, really? No time at all. So crying over Brock for ten seconds didn’t make her weak, or pathetic or any of the other things she’d vowed not to become. It just made her...sad. Sad to her very core.
She kept track of the time in her head. After a few shoulder-wracking sobs, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and soldiered on. Where she was going was a mystery. She walked and walked, trudging through the snow until she could no longer feel her fingers or toes. She walked until her face grew numb from the biting Arctic wind. But the sadness was still there, clinging to her like frost on a windowpane. It was the only thing she couldn’t manage to freeze into submission.
At last she gave up and headed for her mother’s house. She figured it was the one place she could go where no one had heard about the spectacle she’d made of herself at the Reindeer Run. And that was no small thing.
“Anya?” Her mother frowned as Anya slipped in the front door. “You look frozen solid. Where have you been?”
“The Reindeer Run was this morning.” Anya’s teeth chattered with every word.
Her mother glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall—the same one that she’d used to teach Anya how to tell time. “That was hours ago. Are you trying to catch frostbite?”
“Nnnnnno,” she answered, her teeth still chattering away.
She’d had a mild case of frostbite once when she was a kid, the result of an overly ambitious after-school snowball fight. Her pediatrician had called it frostnip. She could remember the doctor holding her white, tingling hand
s, rubbing them back and forth, back and forth, for what seemed like forever. She hadn’t been able to feel a thing.
So in a way, the idea that she might have frostbite wasn’t without merit. If only the areas farthest from the heart weren’t the ones most prone to frostbite and not the other way around. What a cruel twist of fate.
“Sit down. I made some chicken soup last night. I’ll heat some up for you.” Anya’s mother pushed gently on Anya’s shoulders.
She crumpled in a heap on the sofa. Her mom tugged on the sleeves of her parka, removed it and wrapped Anya in a fleece blanket. It had kittens on it. Kittens sitting in baskets with balls of yarn.
Cute.
Cute, but profoundly odd. Anya had never thought of her mom as the kitten-loving type. But as she sat there, wrapped like a kitten-clad mummy while her mother bustled about in the kitchen, she wondered if perhaps there was a side of her mother she’d never seen before. A softer side. She liked to think there was.
“Here we go.” Her mother returned to the living room carrying a TV tray piled with twin steaming bowls of soup, Goldfish crackers and hot tea.
Anya picked up her bowl and took a tentative sip as her mother turned on the television. “Mom, this is delicious. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her mom paused for a second, remote control in hand, and studied Anya.
Maybe she should say something. Surely her mother was wondering how she’d ended up wandering the frozen sidewalks of Aurora for the better part of the day.
“Brock is going away. He’s leaving town,” she said, staring into her soup bowl as if the wide egg noodles contained the secret to the meaning of life. If only.
Anya braced herself for the inevitable I-told-you-so that was surely coming her way.
“I see,” said her mother. She kept her eyes glued to the television, and for that, Anya would forever be grateful.
One glance of sympathy, one kind word, and she might have fallen apart again. And she didn’t want to fall apart. Not now. Not ever.