Under the Northern Lights

by S. C. Stephens

  Only three of the bear’s claws had pierced his skin, but the ragged marks it had left were deep. Michael would have scars from the encounter. Like most men I’d ever met, he didn’t seem too worried about that. It was the whole “chicks dig scars” mentality. While he recovered, I worried. I worried about infection, worried about the injury not healing properly, and worried about the bear returning. That last one was the only one Michael was worried about too. Just a few short hours after I’d cleaned him up, he’d gone out to the shed to remove the blood and fortify the door. I’d helped him as much as I could, and by the time we were finished, I doubted we could have gotten through the door, let alone a bear.

  Michael relaxed after the shed was protected and spent a lot of time resting in the cabin. When I wasn’t doing chores for the two of us, I was with him. Resting. And kissing. And wishing things were different.

  “So, how are you feeling today, Mr. Bradley?” I playfully asked him, checking his bandages.

  “Like I was mauled by a bear,” he answered, a smile on his lips. As he examined my handiwork with me, his smile grew. “Not bad, Mallory. I think you might have a future in health care.”

  Not ever wanting to cause someone that much pain again, I shook my head. “No thanks. I’ll leave that to you.” Michael’s expression slipped, and I quickly altered my sentence to, “I’ll leave that to people like you.”

  He gave me a half-hearted grin, like he appreciated my attempt to fix my blunder. Then he smiled widely as though all was forgiven. “In all seriousness, you do have talent. Those stitches are excellent . . . and I think it’s time they came out.”

  My blood felt frozen again. I wasn’t ready to hurt him again. “What? Already? Wouldn’t it be better to wait another week or so?”

  Still smiling, Michael shook his head. “That would actually make them harder to remove. Best to do it now, before things get too . . . sticky.”

  My stomach roiled, but resignation swept over me. “Okay . . .”

  Michael reached down to caress my hand. “It will be fine. I’ll talk you through it.”

  “Whiskey,” I stated, standing to retrieve the emergency bottle of pain relief.

  Michael shook his head. “No, I can take this sober. I’ll be fine.”

  I tossed him a wry smile. “It’s not for you.” He laughed but said nothing when I grabbed the bottle and took a swig. Or two.

  When I felt steady enough, I grabbed a pair of scissors and headed back to where he was waiting on my bed. In his underwear. If there was one thing that I could possibly thank the bear for, it was for giving me an excuse to get Michael half-dressed on numerous occasions. But no . . . that wasn’t enough to make up for what he’d gone through. What he was going through.

  Once I had the scissors and a couple of fresh gauze pads, I squatted down in front of him. “Okay . . . what do I do?”

  With a smooth, calm, professional voice, he instructed me on just how I should cut the thread and pull out the pieces. I was very relieved when it didn’t seem to bother him as much as I’d feared; he only flinched a few times and let out a pained exhale once, when a stubborn thread near the edge refused to move and I had to yank especially hard. I apologized profusely every time I appeared to cause him the slightest pain, and he told me over and over that it was fine, that he was okay. I truly wished I believed that.

  After he was cleaned up and dressed, I headed outside to get us some meat from the shed for lunch. I always took my gun with me now, double- and triple-checking that it was strapped across my back before I headed out.

  It was a quiet morning, but even so, I scanned the forest, searching for signs of trouble. All I saw was white snow specked with brown earth, and all I heard was the occasional splish-splashing of water droplets hitting the branches. When I got to the shed, faint remnants of the attack were still visible—places where the snow had been cleaned away, deep gouges in the door. It scared me to the bone to think about what could have happened here.

  I was just about to unlatch the shed when I heard something besides the drip-dropping of melting snow. It was an odd, unnatural sound, but a familiar one too. It took me only a couple of moments to figure out what it was, and when I did, my heart started surging in my chest. A plane.

  Stepping away from the shed, I started searching the sky for the source of the noise. When the plane appeared, I was surprised by how low it was flying, just above the treetops. If I hadn’t been frozen in shock, I could have waved to the pilot, and he easily would have seen me.

  The plane flew right over the top of me, heading for the clearing where Michael stored his airplane. I thought it might land, thought we might have a visitor—and an instant way home—but as I watched, a door in the side opened, and a small box was pushed out. The plane continued on while a parachute on the box carried it gently to the ground. Michael’s spare parts, what he’d been waiting all winter for.

  Sharp pain crashed through me as I thought of what that box meant for us. Separation, finality, the end. I’d go home, and Michael would be left alone. As I watched the box drift below the tree line into the clearing near Michael’s plane, I debated not telling him it was here. I could pretend I hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, pretend nothing had been dropped. But no . . . I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t do that to Michael. Fixing his plane wasn’t only about flying me home. It was also how Michael was going to get the supplies he needed to make it here another lonely year. Avoiding this wasn’t a possibility—I had to face it head-on. As hard as that was.

  Forgetting about the shed, I headed back to the cabin. When I opened the door, Michael was still resting on my bed. He looked my way when I entered. “Did I hear a plane?” he asked.

  Closing the door behind me, I nodded. “Yeah, they air-dropped the part you’ve been waiting for . . .”

  As my voice trailed off, a heavy, ominous feeling settled over the room. Michael stared at me just as unflinchingly as I stared back at him. We both knew what that meant. “Oh,” he finally said. “I guess we should go get it before something tries to run off with it.”

  A part of me wanted that to happen, but again, I couldn’t condemn him to complete isolation. I helped him stand, even though I knew he could handle it on his own; I just wanted to be as close to him as I could be, for as long as I could be.

  Michael leaned into my side once he was standing, and our eyes locked. There was so much I wanted to tell him, but most of it was along the lines of Leave with me—and I already knew his answer. No, no, and hell no. His mind was made up; my mind was made up. We were both impenetrable, unmovable pieces on this game board, and I think we both hated that we were. In another life, we might have worked.

  Clearing my throat, I pointed to the door. “Are you sure you can make it? I can go alone.”

  Soft words met my ear. “I’ll be fine, Mallory. I’m stronger than you think.”

  When I looked back at him, his eyes were filled with meaning, and I knew without a doubt he was asking me to let him go, to let him stay here and live his life, and to not worry about him once I was gone. Fat chance. He would be on my mind every day. I was sure of it.

  We trudged toward his plane in silence. Every step felt heavier than the last. I should have been happy, ecstatic, elated. I’d been waiting for this day for so long, waiting for a chance to leave for so long. Who knew that a warm smile and a set of pale-blue eyes—and a heart cleaved in two—could have so fully and completely changed my outlook? If only I could stay, stay and live out the remainder of my years in social solitude with him. But I already knew I couldn’t. When it came down to it, I needed people. I needed my family, my friends, my pets, the security of easily obtainable health care, medicine, and yes, even the convenience of modern technology . . . like running water. And also, I wanted to feel 100 percent certain that I wouldn’t be mauled by a wild animal when I opened my front door. Well, 80 percent at least.

  There was just so much about my life that I couldn’t leave behind for the woods. But in
an ironic twist of fate, I couldn’t leave the woods behind either. Or at least I couldn’t leave Michael behind. He was now one of my life essentials. And that meant that no matter what choice I made going forward, I was going to lose something invaluable. It killed me.

  When we got to the brown package lying in the snow, I had to wipe away the stray tears that I couldn’t keep contained anymore. I didn’t want Michael to see them, but of course, his eagle eyes noticed. Holding the much-needed airplane part in the crook of his arm, he removed a glove and cupped my glistening cheek. The tenderness in the gesture made the tears emerge faster. “Mallory,” he whispered. “This is a good thing. You need to go home, and I need to . . .” He sighed, his breath frosty in the air. “This entire experience with you has been . . . so good. Better than good, but I don’t want it to end with tears. I don’t want to cause you pain. I was trying to avoid hurting you.”

  He sighed again, and I knew what he was thinking: This is exactly why I wanted to keep my distance. I wanted to throw on a smile, tell him I was fine, but staring at the box that would eventually rip us apart made it too difficult to be cheery. “You made me happy. So incredibly happy . . . and that’s why it hurts. But I’m glad for the tears because they mean it was worth it. They mean my time here mattered. They mean you . . . matter.” You’re not alone. Even when I leave, you won’t be alone.

  Sadness clouded his face, moistened his eyes. He started shaking his head, but then he dropped the box and wrapped me in his arms. “I wish there was a way . . . I wish things could be different. Maybe if I’d met you right after . . .” He paused, and I could feel him shaking his head. “You matter to me, too, Mallory . . . and I’m so sorry.” After holding me for a moment, he pulled back to look me in the eye. “On the bright side, we have a little more time together.”

  I frowned in confusion. “What do you mean? The part is here—how long will it take you to fix the plane?” It was such a small part; surely he could replace it in an hour.

  Michael glanced over at the fully winterized plane. Covered in snow, heavy tarps, and thick canvas, it looked like a mechanical sleeping giant, not yet ready to wake. Looking back at me, Michael gave me my favorite boyish grin. “Well, just a few hours, really, but I won’t be able to start on it until I’m fully healed. Doctor’s orders,” he added with a wink.

  My eyes snapped to the injury hidden under his pants. Did he mean 100 percent healed? Because that could take weeks . . . was he seriously giving me weeks? I was momentarily torn. There were people back home who were hurting because of me, people who were terrified I was dead. Leaving them in limbo for even longer felt cruel. But Michael . . . once I left him, there was a really good chance I might not see him again—that was torturous. Michael was too important to me to pass on his generous gift of time. Beaming, I pulled him in for another hug. “We better get you back to the cabin then so you can rest up.” And so I could hold him, kiss him . . . and pretend that he was mine forever.

  Anything to extend the joy and forestall the agony.

  I made a big show of making him take it easy when we got back to the cabin, but really, the longer it took him to heal, the happier I would be. Although as I looked around at Michael’s dwindling supplies, the items he couldn’t make or forage for himself, I saw need. Michael needed to go into town. Him delaying for me—for us—was sweet, but he could only hold off for so long. Everything I looked at in his cabin, from the pancake mix to the antibacterial ointment, was suddenly a ticking clock, counting down our time together in a steady, unrelenting rhythm. What I wouldn’t give to be able to freeze time.

  As I fluffed the pillow Michael was lying against as he sat on my bench bed with his legs extended, I suddenly remembered what I’d been doing before the plane changed . . . everything. “I forgot lunch—you must be starving. I’m sorry; I’ll go get some meat.”

  I stood up to leave, and he grabbed my arm. “Mallory . . . I’m not hungry.” He patted the space on the bed beside him. “Stay with me.”

  For a second, I could only stare into his captivating eyes, entranced. Was he asking me to sit . . . or were his words literal? He patted the bed again, and I blinked out of my trance. Michael had never officially asked me to stay because he knew that wasn’t what I wanted. And he thought his heart was frozen, incapable of moving forward. I knew the truth there—it wasn’t—but Michael hadn’t reached that conclusion yet, and I couldn’t make him. Like any revelation, he needed to come to it on his own.

  But just him asking for my comfort was a step in the right direction. Or maybe it was the wrong direction. I really wasn’t sure anymore. I just knew I needed him. My heart was thudding in my chest when I sat in the scant amount of space beside him. I was so nervous, which was ridiculous since we’d done several intimate things before—that night in the tub still haunted my dreams. Sitting next to him now shouldn’t make my heart race, but it did.

  Smiling at me, Michael tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

  I felt my cheeks heating. He was usually the one who got embarrassed after saying something sweet, but now I was the one blushing like a schoolgirl. The tables had turned, and I wasn’t sure why. Because we had a definable expiration date now? Was that making him bolder? God, I hoped that wasn’t the reason.

  “No . . . I don’t think so,” I told him. “But you probably only think that because I’m the only human female you’ve seen in months. When squirrels are your only company, anything looks good.”

  He laughed but shook his head. “No. I have a good memory. I remember what attractiveness looks like . . . and it looks like you.”

  My breath hitched as I stared at him, and the content feeling of rightness expanded inside me to a nearly painful level. He was so . . . everything. God . . . why can’t I keep him? Nothing and no one answered me, and I knew there wouldn’t be an answer on this. We were destined to find each other, to save each other—and we had—but that didn’t necessarily mean we were destined to be together. Happily ever after was never guaranteed.

  Needing him, I leaned forward, searching for his mouth. Right before our lips touched, I whispered, “I love you.” The sound got lost in our connection, and I was grateful. Proclaiming the growing feeling inside me wouldn’t alter our future. It would only increase the pain. And I didn’t want to hurt Michael. I wanted to love him. Forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I wanted time to move slowly. I wanted it to drip by like a barely leaking faucet. But it didn’t. It surged like a river, with each day moving quicker than the last. Every time I saw Michael’s leg, I calculated how much longer it would be until he was completely healed, until the searing gashes were merely fading red streaks. I knew his leg was an arbitrary guideline, though, one he’d stated for my benefit only. Survival was the real timeline, and that was something that couldn’t be put on the back burner for much longer.

  “Michael . . . we’re running out of salt.”

  As the words trickled out of me, dread and sadness filled me. Salt wasn’t just a frivolous condiment out here. It was preservation—it was life. And while Michael might not need it right away, since his shed still held a few pounds of stored cured meat, he would need it soon.

  Michael sighed as he looked into his large salt container, filled mostly with air now. There was maybe a half cup of salt left. Maybe. “It . . . will be fine. Hunting should be picking up, and then we’ll have fresh meat. Plenty of it.”

  Closing the lid on the salt, I shook my head. “Hunting . . . and that requires bullets. How is your stock of ammunition? Last I saw, there was only one box remaining, and it wasn’t entirely full.”

  He smiled that disarming, untroubled smile. “I guess I better be a good shot then.”

  A cheerless grin curled my lips. “I know what you’re doing, and I appreciate it . . . so much, but it’s been weeks. You can’t keep avoiding the plane. You need to fix it,” I whispered.

  Michael swallowed. “I know. I just d
on’t want to.”

  Warmth filled me, sadness too. “And the fact that you don’t want to means a lot to me. But as much as we both don’t want you to do this . . . we can’t keep putting it off.” I reached up to touch his face, and he swallowed again. Then his mouth lowered to mine.

  I reveled in the softness of his lips, in the rugged tickle of his beard, in the woodsy scent that constantly surrounded him. This man would have my heart for all eternity . . . I hoped he somehow knew that.

  When our tender moment ended, Michael pulled away from me, reluctance on his face. “I guess I better get started. The plane won’t fix itself.”

  “I’ll help you,” I said, swallowing a thick lump in my throat.

  Michael shook his head. “You don’t have to. I know . . . how difficult this is.”

  Did he? Did he truly understand how much I was going to miss him, how much this forced separation was killing me? Did he feel the same? “If this is . . . if the next couple of days is all we have, then I want to spend them with you.”

  His eyes glazed as he stared at me; then he slowly nodded. “Okay, Mallory.”

  We dressed for the harsh weather in silence, our hearts heavy with unspoken words. I followed Michael to his shed, where he stored his tools as well as his meat supply. As I glanced over the shelves of meat, I reconsidered my earlier opinion that he had enough to last awhile. Even though he’d hunted more to compensate for having company, his supplies were lower than they should have been for this time of year. Or at least, they seemed that way to me. Maybe that was just because I was scared to leave him out here all alone, with threats and predators around every corner. Sure, he’d survived five years without me, but all it would take was one bad instance . . . one bear attacking his shed, one wolf lurking in his cabin. One wrong move, and I truly would lose him forever.