by K Larsen
“Well, hello there!” she said. Her voice like a shock wave penetrating the dark muffled silence. “I hope you stay safe in the storm. If you see anyone, tell them I went that way.” She pointed to the path ahead of her that was all but gone, shrouded over in freshly fallen powder. She peered into the black night and noticed that instead of the lazy descent of the fat snowflakes from earlier, the snow had become jagged like hail, tiny daggers zigzagging every which way in front of her in the gusting wind. Her face hurt and the weather seemed hell-bent on taking it right off.
“That doesn’t bode well for hiking.” Meghan laughed into the night because she’d been reduced to speaking to owls and mumbling to herself like a mad woman. She stumbled forward and noted that the drift had accumulated to almost mid-thigh. She laughed again and realized that the deep snow was nothing compared to her frozen feet and drenched-in-sweat torso from the waist up. She labored off her framed pack and set it in the snowbank where it promptly sank a foot and nearly disappeared. Like I will, if I don’t come up with a quick plan.
She remembered the flares and how they were her last resort, a backup to the backup. There was irony in the fact that they would be the very first equipment used from the meticulously packed pack.
Meghan wasn’t much for prayers or any faith in the supernatural, but she made an exception and pleaded with any higher power to grant her a dry match and a fuse that wasn’t a dud. She smiled at her foresight to buy projectiles instead of road flares, because the trees were dense and visibility would be a sad joke, even if the small firecracker managed to clear the tree line.
Her hands felt like giant paws as she rummaged through the sack. It didn’t take her long to find the flare, but separating one out with stiff and numb fingers was a task worthy of heroism—lighting the damn thing would be a noble feat if ever there was one.
What felt like an hour later, the fuse finally took the match, cradled in her hands like a precious jewel to block out the determined wind. She shouted for joy when it took and would have jumped too if not for her heavy boots, dead feet, and snow that now cleared her navel. She held the flare high in one arm toward the rumbling sky, head held high too, as if victory was already won. The accomplishment flooded her mind and body with the warmth of cortisol. Meghan felt like the Statue of Liberty, Lady Justice, someone regal and important.
The little red rocket shot up fast like a shooting star and burst in the sky above her, the trails of fireworks falling like the boughs of a weeping willow. Then as gloriously as it had lived, the distress call burnt out and was gone. All was silent and she was still alone.
How anti-climatic. How pathetic. Someone would have to have not only the correct vantage point, but also have been watching the sky in the exact moment it occurred. The chances were so slim that a sighting would be nothing short of miraculous.
Maybe that was the grand finale and her life was now ending. She was going out with a bang—just not one loud enough for anyone else to hear. That was okay. She didn’t need a regal send-off and this one had been more peaceful than any other she could imagine.
Meghan laid down on her pack and stared up at the sky. She watched the storm rush in and blow violently about above her with the roar of a combustible engine. It filled her ears as it consumed the silence. Snow drifted over her legs and built up against her shoulder. It was at once horrifying and cozy, drifting snow seemed so innocent and pristine, but had a hidden agenda that might just be to kill her. Before she fell into a deep slumber, she felt remorse that she hadn’t seen the Northern Lights and maybe now, would never get another chance to.
Seven
Tristan
He swore he heard an echo. A gunshot far off, maybe. But who would be out in this weather? He was restless. As he often got in the middle of a severe storm. He kept the stove stoked, a pot of water boiling atop it. You never knew when you’d need sanitized water, or hot water for that matter in these conditions. He was bundled up in layers and could still feel the chill of the wind cutting through the logs of the cabin as the storm raged outside.
Drawing a deep breath, he moved around the cabin, checking to make sure the plastic was still sealed over the windows. Two years ago, a particularly bad storm had shattered one of his windows and he’d thought, at the time, that he wouldn’t survive as the snow piled up inside his bedroom. Not this time. Worrying his bottom lip, he suited up in snow gear. He’d attempt to step out on the front stoop and listen for another sound, if he could get out the door.
The door swung open with ease, aided by the gusting wind. Lucky, he thought. The wind was drifting the snow left of the door, allowing him little room to squeeze out. Straining, he stopped breathing and closed his eyes to try and hear...anything. A Great Horned owl let out a rich baritone hoot in the direction of the trees beyond the wood shed. Tristan’s hackles rose. It was too cold. Too snowy. Too severe for the owl to be out and about. It should be nesting somewhere safe. Stepping off the porch, he sunk, thigh deep into the snow and squinted but saw nothing.
Again, the owl let out another bellow. He swung around, pushed through the front door and grabbed his lantern before returning to the porch. He carefully made his way down the three steps, navigating the deepening snow. The owl sounded again and Tristan’s pulse began pounding. Something was amiss. He wouldn’t be able to reach it on foot. He peered into the whiteout, lantern stretched out before him. Turning, he climbed inside the cabin again. This time he grabbed his snow shoes from the wall, strapped in and picked up the lantern.
Breaking trail was never easy. He exerted more energy. Had to wait for the toe of his snowshoe to clear the snow before sliding it forward with his momentum, but he managed to clear the firewood shed without losing too much time. The owl hooted again, this time, he could at least determine the sound was coming from a copse of trees behind the shed. A favorite spot of his because the trees obscured the view of the cabin—not that you could see it in this blizzard anyhow. He was worried the owl had a broken wing or worse was stuck. It’d never survive the night and if he could help it, he would. It gave him something to pass the time. Owls were sacred animals and he’d be damned if one was lost on his watch.
With the lantern held out in front of him, he entered the copse of pines and began looking up into the branches. The hoot came again and Tristan swung around, too quick for the depth of the snow and his snowshoes and toppled left into the powdery quicksand. A rush of air—an exhaled groan really—had him scrambling to his feet. Pulling the lantern from its snow-hole Tristan sucked in a shocked breath.
He’d tripped over a body.
A woman.
Alone.
He wrinkled his brow. What was she doing out here by herself? Only her face was visible—hood pulled tight around her head, gear bag keeping her head propped upward. Delicate, slender nose, eyelashes resting on the apples of her cheeks. Tip of her nose bright red.
Shit.
The owl hooted, drawing Tristan’s gaze upward. The majestic creature spread its wings and took flight off into the night. He watched it disappear and felt the animal had summoned him here.
Working quickly, Tristan hauled the woman to a sitting position and checked her vitals. She had a pulse, but it was weak. He hoisted her up by her armpits, found his balance, then lugged her up and over his shoulder. She was heavy, but small. Not an impossible load, but still unfathomable in this deep, unstable fresh snow. His slow and steady steps toward the cabin were agonizing. It was taking too long. He was no fool, he knew every second counted in these moments. And without any idea how long she’d been unconscious or out there in the elements, time was critical.
Grunting with each labored step, he did his best to pick up his pace as the snow and wind whipped his face. His beard was frozen stiff and every time he moved his facial muscles it felt like little daggers stabbing his face.
When he finally reached the cabin, he plowed through the door, worrying about how to fix it later. He had to get them both inside, they’d been exposed t
o long and her life was on the line. Laying the woman down, he didn’t bother removing his snowshoes, he kneeled beside her and used one foot to keep the cabin door shut for the moment. He knew if her lungs could get oxygen and the heart pumped blood, she stood a chance. Her chest rose—barely—and he let out a sigh of relief.
On his hands and knees, Tristan went to work immediately. He stripped her of her layers being careful not to let his gaze wander. She was fit—there was no denying that, and possibly his age, give or take a few years. Her face, though, wasn’t weathered as a seasoned winter hiker’s would be. He blew out a breath and shook his head. What was she thinking? Using the blanket by the woodstove he made sure she was dry before beginning to warm her torso. You couldn’t warm a person up too quickly. Best to start with the trunk of the body before moving to extremities. Cradling her head, he maneuvered the blanket under one of her hips and rolled her until she was covered—wrapped like a burrito in it. A soft billow of breath left her lips parted slightly. Tristan found himself fighting the urge to lower his lips nearer to hers. He shook away the notion and reminded himself that this was a woman in need of care, not a damsel in distress waiting on her knight in rugged mountain man form. However, there was no doubt that the frozen hiker was a sleeping beauty.
Her skin was milky and soft, despite its frigid temperature. Tristan chastised himself again for such thoughts while he stripped his snow shoes off and barricaded the door closed with the stack of firewood. He stripped off his outdoor gear and grabbed the rest of the blankets he had in the cabin. One by one he wrapped her up in all of them and placed a pillow under her head. She was breathing on her own and the color of her skin was returning to a more normal shade. He held her hand, still too cold, and told her she would be okay. He placed a washcloth, dipped in the water on the woodstove, over the blanket on her feet to help warm them slowly. It’d be a shame if she lost any of those perfect fingers or toes.
After a few minutes, her chest seemed to rise and fall steadily. The adrenaline rushed out of Tristan nearly as fast as it had swooped in. He was bone tired and chilled to the core. Carrying her back to the cabin had been the ultimate test of both will and physical strength. He ladled hot water from the pot on the woodstove into two mugs, dropped tea bags into them and placed them on the hearth. For a moment, towering over her sleeping form, knowing she wouldn’t die and that it was just a matter of time—allowing her to wake on her own—he breathed a sigh of relief. The realization allowed him to relax and finally, really take her in.
She was pretty. Not drop dead gorgeous, but pretty in the kind of way you wanted a woman to be. Soft, not sharp angles. Petite. Milky skin. Long lashes. Long, shiny hair. She was a sandy blonde for the most part, but he noticed a single lock of her hair was dyed a soft blue. A rebel streak. He wondered what it meant to her.
The woman was certainly in shape, had a figure that begged to be touched. A peaceful expression on her face as she lay there, bundled in a cabin’s worth of blankets. He massaged his chin through his beard. Took a swig of his tea and wondered what her voice sounded like and what her eye color was.
He stoked the fire after adding another two logs. The woman was still asleep on the floor near the woodstove. The bedroom would be too cold for her. It was too cold for him during a storm and he didn’t have hypothermia. The door banged against the stack of firewood every so often whenever the wind blew hard enough, letting the icy air and snowflakes in. Using the last of that roll of plastic from the windows, he stapled it around the door—it would have to be good enough until the morning. It was weird having someone else in his cabin with him, even if they were unconscious. He felt as if he had to tiptoe around her. Make sure that she was okay. Maybe it was just foreign to him to be responsible for someone else, to share his space. He was so used to being alone.
Tristan pulled the only spare covering left in the cabin—a flannel sheet—and wrapped it around him as he collapsed on the couch with his book.
Eight
Meghan
The first realization to invade her consciousness was the presence of pain. It shot down her legs and accumulated in her feet—like she was standing on a bed of hot coals. The burn was agony, intense as labor contractions and nearly as visceral. Her hands ached yet she couldn’t feel her fingertips at all. Did she actually fall asleep in the snow? It must have been a nightmare, a manifestation of her fear—her inadequacy as a hiker. She wasn’t an outdoor adventurer for-crying-out-loud, she was a housewife. Maybe she shouldn’t even go. She’d meet Rob downstairs and tell him she’d changed her mine. He wouldn’t be angry with her, it was he who planted the seed of doubt in the first place and gave her an easy out in case she needed it.
Her eyelids began to flutter as the terrible pain increased. It felt like her legs had been mangled in a bear trap before she’d even left the hotel. A wave of nausea swam through her and she tried to turn on her side in case she vomited. To her great surprise, she couldn’t roll, her limbs felt bound to her body and she was encumbered by something heavy and tight.
“What the—?” She tried to free her arms from the binding that had her cocooned on the floor.
Floor?
She certainly was staring into a rather crude hardwood floor and not the bed she’d fallen asleep in. Perhaps the afterlife smelled of dense wood-smoke and the floors of heaven could use refinishing and a coat or two of varnish.
“What the hell?” she spoke out loud and her voice sounded all right, maybe a little sluggish. She heard heavy footsteps—felt how they vibrated the floor and her heart began to pound in fear. Now what had she gotten herself into? Kidnapped and bound? Pulled into the underground lair of mountain goblins and elves.
“Help,” she yelped feebly.
“Hold on just a second, I’ve got you wrapped pretty tight in some heated blankets,” a voice assured her. It didn’t sound particularly threatening or menacing, just honest, but it still terrified her because she didn’t know who it was coming from.
Boots were the first part of him she saw. Thick, rugged, durable. Sturdy. When he kneeled down, the fascia in his knees popped and crackled nicely. Although his face wasn’t familiar, it had a kind quality to it, like that of a church-going man or perhaps a caring doctor, or fireman, or woodsy outdoorsman. He smelled of wood smoke, wore a thickly-lined flannel, and sported a beard that could surely compete with those that landed on the cover of fashion and fly-fishing magazines.
“I’m Tristan,” he said, peering at her with autumn-toned eyes. “I found you unconscious on the trail. Not sure how long you were out, but we’ve got to get your temperature up slowly.”
She nodded gravely at him and wondered if he was speaking like that because he believed the cold had impaired her in some way. But she was perfectly fine. She wasn’t a child. If he’d just get her robe then she’d be happy to sit in the hot tub or sauna for however long it took her to warm up. Where had Rob gotten off to? He could certainly pay this man for his time.
Meghan was slightly horrified when she angled her head to get a better look at the room and discovered what looked like all of her clothing in a pile next to the braided floor rug.
She opened her mouth to speak, but it was as if all her words were contained in some inaccessible recess of her mind, like an itch on the inside that was impossible to scratch. She didn’t understand where she was or why she was wrapped up so tightly, and if she’d gotten too cold, then why did her limbs feel like they’d been stuck in a raging fire?
“Is this a television program where I have to pass a test?” she asked him, unsure herself where she was going with the question. But some superimposed reality seemed the only way to explain her current predicament.
“Tell me your name. We should maybe start with the easy stuff. I’m Tristan,” he said again. Did he think she was an imbecile? “I found you unconscious on the path. Your pack saved your life, thanks to it, your core didn’t come in contact with the ice or cold ground. We can go back for it another day. I’m afraid it w
as either you or the pack.”
She didn’t know what he was talking about. She hadn’t come with a pack and only needed a robe and she’d get right out of his way. She blinked and the sensation was as pleasurable as hot fudge being drizzled onto hard vanilla ice cream. She licked her lips that were dry and tasted of snow.
“Tristan,” he said earnestly, touching his hand to his chest. Hands that were large and sprinkled with manly hair that crept down from his strong forearms.
“Meghan,” she managed. She exhaled in a gush from the effort it took to call forth her own name and pronounce it aloud. “Meghan Taylor,” she told him, determined to get it all out. She felt just as stuck mentally as she did physically, wrapped tightly in blankets like a swaddled child. Undressed like one too, she might add if she didn’t feel somewhat indebted to this stranger who’d dragged her underground to his lair, leaving her pack so she couldn’t retrieve any of her belongings that might jog her memory and help her understand what the hell had happened to her.
“Nice to meet you, Meghan. It’s normal for all body functions to slow when your temperature drops too far. So, if you’re feeling strange, lightheaded or confused—scared or out of sorts—any of that is perfectly normal. I won’t make any moves without telling you exactly what I’m doing. Right now, these blankets and being near the fire are what’s going to help you out the most. Permanent damage can result from warming up too quickly, so this is going to be a long process. But I’m right here with you and I won’t let anything happen to you.”
He smiled at her then, revealing a row of surprisingly perfect teeth. She thought a woodcutter would have rotted teeth, a few missing even from drinking ale and gnawing on bones or whatever it was they did. It was such a nice declaration for him to say he was there to protect her, but she wasn’t quite convinced that he himself wasn’t the misfortune that was happening to her in this instant.
