The practicality of his sentence made me swallow a thick knot of tension. We weren’t out of the woods yet, figuratively speaking. Feeling useless and moronic, I sat down on the slim sled. Michael handed me my pack, and I clutched it to my chest. He frowned as he looked me over. “I’m sorry, but this is going to be really bumpy for you.”
Right. The Alaska Range wasn’t exactly flat and easy to traverse. There were going to be a lot of rocks, trees, brush, hidden dips, and abundant snowdrifts. All that jarring was going to do a number on my body. “It’s all right. I can take it.” I had to.
Michael had attached a sort of harness to the front of the travois so he could keep his hands free while pulling me. His rifle was loosely hanging around his neck so he could grab it easily if he needed to. Mine was attached to my pack, secured but still available at a moment’s notice. With the rope holding my sled firmly around his chest, Michael started pulling. The sled jerked forward, and a sharp pain ripped through my ankle, my thigh, my chest . . . my entire body. A small cry escaped me, and Michael instantly stopped.
“You okay?” he asked, looking back at me.
Gritting my teeth, I nodded. “Just keep going.” If he stopped every time I was in pain, we’d never get to his cabin.
Preparing myself for a day and a half of incessant discomfort, I kept my jaw as tight as possible. Please help me get through this.
I said that small prayer at least every five minutes until we finally stopped for the night. Hauling a bulky sled over this rough terrain was slow going, and there had been several small breaks along the way. It wasn’t until Michael set about making a fire that I finally let myself truly relax. It was over. For now.
“Are we close?” I asked, hoping against hope that he would tell me his place was right around the next corner.
He was breathing heavier when he answered me; the journey had been hard on him, too, for entirely different reasons. “No. We didn’t even make it halfway.”
I felt tears prick my eyes but didn’t let them fall. Crying about our situation wouldn’t make it any easier. Tossing the pack off of me, I began shifting myself so I could stand up. Michael suddenly looked concerned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m helping,” I answered.
“You should be resting.” He pointed at the sled almost like someone would point at the ground to get their dog to sit.
Lifting an eyebrow, I gave him as wry an expression as I could. “I managed to wrap my leg, collect firewood, and put up my shelter before you came along. I’m not completely incapacitated.”
“You also almost got eaten by wolves,” he countered.
I looked around for my crutch before realizing that we hadn’t packed it. “I think I did pretty well, considering. And besides, you worked hard today—you were sweating. You should let me help build the fire so you can start drying your clothes. They’re probably semifrozen, and they definitely will be when the sun goes down.”
He frowned but didn’t argue with me, and I reveled in my momentary victory. Balancing on one leg, I bent over and started collecting twigs and small branches that hopefully would be dry enough to burn. When I’d recovered all I could, I started hopping toward a tree; there might be some gems hiding beneath the lowest branches.
Michael sighed, and when I looked back at him, he was shaking his head at my stubbornness, but he remained silent. Smart man.
It was exhausting to collect firewood while only putting weight on one leg. I refused to give up, though. Not even when Michael sighed for the millionth time and muttered under his breath that I was being ridiculous. After the shelters were up and the fire was roaring, Michael found us some logs to sit on. I collapsed onto mine with a groan, and he cocked an eyebrow at me.
Ignoring the pointed look on his face—a look that clearly said, Maybe you should have listened to me, huh?—I took off my thick protective gloves and held my hands up to the fire. The heat was heaven. Michael sat beside me again, his eyes glued to the flames like they contained all of life’s mysteries.
“Drying off?” I asked, indicating his zipped-open jacket.
He gave me a stiff nod, his eyes still on the flames. I really wanted to know what had him so entranced, but it felt wrong to ask. Intrusive. And he was the reason I was still alive. The last thing I wanted to do was be a prying nuisance.
As questions blazed through my mind about this mysterious mountain man, the sharp crack of a branch breaking disrupted the stillness of the crackling fire. Michael was on his feet in an instant, picking up his gun from the ground where he’d set it and pointing it toward the sound. My heart raced as I started envisioning the wolf encounter that had almost ended my life. Was the pack following us? Hell bent on exacting revenge for the lives we’d taken? I knew animals didn’t think that way, but even so, it seemed probable to me.
The sun was still low in the sky, but it was pretty dark deeper in the woods, hard to see what might be lurking. Just as I was about to ask Michael to fire a warning shot into the air, a dark-brown shape stepped into view between a couple of nearby trees. My throat tightened in fear and anticipation before I could stop it; the creature was massive, but it wasn’t a wolf or a bear. No, it was a moose. An animal that was typically friendly, as long as we didn’t provoke it or it wasn’t mating season; a male during the rut could be extremely aggressive.
A long, relieved exhale escaped me as Michael lowered his gun. “Damn,” he muttered. “I wish we’d run into him closer to home. Moose meat is tasty, and there’s a lot of it.” He looked back at me with a small grin on his face.
As he sat back down, I watched the majestic mountain of a mammal as it lumbered past before turning to head deeper into the woods. “I wish I had my camera,” I said, my voice wistful.
Michael looked over at me with a strange expression on his face like I’d just said the oddest thing ever. And I supposed it was odd to someone who saw these creatures all the time. “I’m a photographer. It’s what I do for a living, the reason I’m out here.”
His face turned speculative; then his gaze drifted over to my tent, where my pack and my gun were resting. “You didn’t strike me as the . . . photographing type.”
Feeling defensive, I told him, “Just because I prefer animals to be alive and well in their natural environments doesn’t mean I won’t do whatever I have to, to survive.”
His lips curved into a bigger smile. “Maybe we’re not so different then.”
Looking around the quickly darkening expanse of wilderness around us, I asked him, “How long have you been out here? In the middle of nowhere?”
He scratched his beard, thinking. “Four . . . no, five years. I don’t know. I’m not really keeping track.”
Five years in isolation . . . what would that do to a person? “And . . . besides me . . . do you ever see people?”
There was amusement in his eyes as he studied me. “Are you asking me if you’re the first woman I’ve seen in five years?”
His pale eyes drifted down my body then, and an unexpected flash of interest washed through me. Whoa . . . no. It might have been a while, but I wasn’t so hard up that an attractive face would undo me. Was he that hard up, though? I might be walking out of the frying pan and into the fire. “That wasn’t precisely what I was asking . . . but yeah, am I?”
He studied me a moment longer, then laughed. “There are some things I need that the forest can’t provide. I go into town once or twice a year, and on occasion, I do run into women.”
That got my attention. “You go to town? How? Do you have a plane?”
With a small laugh, he nodded and said, “I sure as hell don’t want to walk to Fairbanks every year.”
No, walking that far for supplies would be dangerous and impractical. Of course he’d fly, just like a lot of the people in Alaska who lived far from cities did. Just like I had done. Oh my God . . . if Michael had a plane at his cabin, that meant . . . I could go home.
Chapter Five
It took two more days t
o finally reach Michael’s cabin. Good thing, because I was beginning to believe it didn’t exist and we were going to wander the woods forever. When it came into view, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen; it looked like heaven, like salvation.
There were three buildings on the homestead, all of them made from logs cut from the surrounding forest. There was the main cabin, where Michael obviously lived; a shedlike shack that was probably some sort of workshop; and an outhouse, complete with a cutout half moon on the door. Everything had been made by hand—had to be, way out here—but it was all well made with tight, level seams and perfectly symmetrical windows. Even though I just wanted to be inside, out of the cold, I took a moment to appreciate Michael’s craftsmanship.
With a grunt, Michael dropped the sled in front of the cabin. His breath was heavier as he rubbed his chest, and a flash of guilt went through me. He’d carried me so far, and without a word of complaint. “Thank you so much for getting me here,” I said, struggling to stand without putting too much pressure on my ankle; it still ached.
Michael looked over at me with a small frown on his face. “We should get you inside, check out your stitches, wrap your ribs.”
He’d been cleaning the wound on my thigh, changing the gauze pad each night, but he had told me more than once that he wanted to thoroughly examine the injury. I wanted that, too, and heat, but first, I really wanted to see what I’d been hoping to see—my way home. “Where’s your plane?” I asked.
Walking over to me, eyes on my bloody pants, Michael motioned in the direction of the outhouse. “About a half mile away, in a clearing where I like to land.”
Excitement and relief flooded through me. A plane. He could take me to Fairbanks. I could have my leg checked out at a hospital, and then I could hop on a jet and get back to Idaho. “Can we leave tomorrow?” Can I go home?
Dashing my spirits, Michael shook his head. “Plane’s broken. I ordered a part, and they’re supposed to deliver it when it comes in, but that won’t be until spring, at the earliest.” He paused to frown. “I’d been hoping to find the part I needed on your plane, just in case my supplier doesn’t pull through, but no luck—everything was too damaged.” He gave me an odd look, one full of both sympathy and trepidation. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re going to be here awhile.”
Like a tin can being compressed by a steamroller, I felt all my hope slowly being crushed. “Spring? I can’t stay here until spring. I have people waiting for me. They’ll think I’m dead.”
His face was firm but sympathetic. “I’m sorry there isn’t another way. But your family thinking you’re dead is better than you actually being dead. They’ll get over it once they see you again.”
I knew he was right, but still, my eyes watered at hearing the news. Spring. It sounded like an eternity from now. What would my family do when they knew for a fact I was missing? Mourn me or search for me? As much as I wanted to be found, I didn’t want them to start a search and rescue party. With the weather turning soon, it could lead to another crash and more lost souls, and I didn’t want the weight of that possibility on my shoulders.
As my mood sank, I grew weary. I accidentally put too much weight on my injured ankle and started to stumble as a burst of pain hit me. Michael’s arms were around me an instant later, holding me up. I flung my arms around his neck, and our eyes locked. His were the palest shade of blue I’d ever seen. It gave them such depth, like I could see all the way into his soul. His grip was firm, solid, and steady, and a sense of peace and protection swept over me. I wanted to go home, wanted to see my family and my dogs, but if I had to stay here for months, at least I felt safe with him.
Michael made a hard swallow as he studied my face. I couldn’t imagine that I looked all that great right now, with healing cuts all over my face and my long brown hair in a snarled tangle, but he seemed affected as he stared, and that made an odd warmth go through me. But then, like he’d been stung, he flinched, relaxed his grip, and averted his eyes. “We should get you inside, off your ankle.”
The moment between us passed, and I eagerly nodded. Even though I’d been lying down for a couple of days, getting off my feet sounded wonderful.
Michael helped me inside the cabin, and I was struck by how comfortable it was. It was clear he’d built every piece of furniture, and even though the cabin wasn’t huge, every item inside it was useful and practical. Everything belonged. A slab of wood attached to a wall formed a bed; bear-proof containers below it held supplies. A couple of chunky chairs surrounded a square table, and a huge bookcase filled one wall. There was even a hard, benchlike couch that looked long enough to lie down on. Michael directed me that way, and I sat on the unforgiving surface. He had me shift sideways so I could put my legs up, and then he started undoing the straps around my thigh.
Once all the straps were free, Michael examined my pants, then looked up at my face. “You should take these off now so I can get a good look. I’ll make a fire . . . so you won’t be cold.”
As I thought of being half-naked in front of a stranger, a flush of embarrassment went through me. I quickly pushed it back, though. Modesty was a luxury I couldn’t afford at the moment. “I’ll need help . . . at the bottom.”
He glanced at my leg again, where my pants narrowed at the ankle, then nodded. Before getting up to make a fire, he took off my boots and set them beside the couch. I started wriggling my toes, then stopped when a shooting pain went up my ankle. God, I hoped it was just a sprain.
As flames began to slowly come to life in the airtight stove nestled in a corner, I unzipped my pants and carefully started sliding them down my body. The chill of the not-yet-heated room hit me instantly, pebbling my skin. Every movement hurt a little, but shifting my body so I could slide my pants down my hips and over my injured thigh was the worst. Once I pushed them as far as I could go, I called for help.
“Michael, a hand?”
He looked my way and froze. His eyes were glued to my hips, and I was again reminded that he lived most of his life in isolation. I pulled my jacket down as far as I could, and his eyes snapped to my face. “Of course,” he murmured, seemingly embarrassed. At least we were both uncomfortable with this.
Removing his hat, he ran his fingers back through his hair—it was long and scraggly and just as dark as his beard. “The fire’s going . . . it will warm up soon.”
A shiver ran through me, a physical reminder of the chill I’d momentarily forgotten. Michael walked over to the couch. Tenderly, he placed his hands on my shins. Even though I knew I was about to be in pain, his touch was surprisingly comforting. “This might hurt a little,” he said.
I gritted my teeth in anticipation. “I know.” Lying down flat, I pressed all my weight into my good leg and lifted the bad one.
Michael waited a moment, then gently pulled off my pant leg. In my head, it was going to hurt as badly as when I’d sprained it, but much to my relief, it wasn’t as horrible as I’d imagined it would be. Once the pant leg was off, I let out a low, even breath.
“Good,” Michael murmured. “One more, and we’re done with this part.” My other one required me to put more weight on my bad leg, but I found that if I moved onto my hip—while being careful to avoid the wound in my thigh—it was tolerable.
Once my pants were off, I sighed a prayer of thanks. Michael heard and gave me a quizzical look, but he didn’t say anything about it. “I’m going to heat some water, clean this up so I can see how it’s healing. Then we’ll take a look at your ribs. In the meantime, I’ve got a little something for the pain.”
I raised an eyebrow in question, and he smiled as he moved over to a long counter with deep shelves beneath it. Bending over, he started gathering supplies he’d need—a first aid kit he kept in a Rubbermaid tub, a thick gray blanket, and a bottle of whiskey. I had to assume that was what he’d meant for the pain.
A small laugh escaped me, but I snatched up the bottle when he lowered it to me. I’d been in pain for far too
long; a small reprieve was just what I needed. Sitting up, I pulled the cork out of the bottle. Michael draped the blanket over my good leg, giving me some warmth while keeping my injured leg exposed. I was hesitant to look at my injury again and took a swig of the golden liquid instead. It burned, but I knew that burn meant eventual numbness, so I embraced it and took another one.
“Easy,” Michael told me, heading over to the stove. “You don’t want to make yourself sick.” Grabbing a pot, he filled it with water from a five-gallon bucket in the corner and set it on the stove to warm.
Once the water was started, Michael opened the first aid kit. The amount of supplies he had in the tub was impressive. Living out here full time, he had to be prepared for everything.
“So how do you know how to do all this? Stitch people up, wrap ribs? Did you train as a survivalist before coming out here?” I asked, pointing at the bin. He had things in there that definitely weren’t standard issue in a kit, including what looked like a scalpel and a small hand saw; I did not want to know what he might use those for.
Michael searched through the tub until he found a bag full of elastic bandages. “No, I’m a doctor. Or I was, before I came out here.”
Surprise washed through me. “A doctor? Why . . . ?” Why would a doctor be out here alone in the woods?
He smiled as he stood to go check on the water. “Why did I become a doctor? I liked helping people.” His voice grew quiet, and his eyes grew sad. Turning his back to me, he grabbed the pot of warm water, removing it from the stove.
Why he’d become a doctor hadn’t really been my question, but his expression evaporated my original curiosity. Why would the thought of helping people make him look so full of . . . despair? And if he liked helping people, why was he living in isolation? All of those questions felt too rude to ask right now, so I stayed quiet.
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