by David Horne
“Hearts in Alaska”
M/M Gay Romance
David Horne
© 2018
David Horne
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is intended for Adults (ages 18+) only. The contents may be offensive to some readers. It may contain graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations. May contain scenes of unprotected sex. Please do not read this book if you are offended by content as mentioned above or if you are under the age of 18.
Please educate yourself on safe sex practices before making potentially life-changing decisions about sex in real life. If you’re not sure where to start, see here: http://www.jerrycoleauthor.com/safe-sex-resources/ (courtesy of Jerry Cole).
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. The cover uses licensed images and are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are simply models.
Edition v1.00 (2018.03.05)
http://www.DavidHorneauthor.com
Special thanks to the following volunteer readers who helped with proofreading: Jacy, Elryc, Judy M. and those who assisted but wished to be anonymous. Thank you so much for your support.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
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Chapter One
A single hawk screeched high in the air above. Tall evergreens towered toward the sky, their needles green in defiance of the still frigid temperatures. The sun was out, twinkling off of a fresh batch of pristine snow. Carter Robinson smiled as he took in the scene, ignoring the cold biting at his lungs. The day was so bright he almost needed sunglasses. He glanced up at the mountains of Alaska’s Denali National Park and slowly brought his camera up to capture them.
After snapping a few pictures of the distant peaks, he moved into the forest to find some good shots of moss covered trees and, hopefully, some of the local wildlife. His boots crunched through the untouched, frozen snow and he felt a momentary chill despite his multiple layers of clothing. Winter was definitely trying to fight back the spring, but Carter hoped he'd be able to catch the changing seasons soon.
The forest was sparser here than some of its rainforest counterparts further south, but what it lacked in trees, it made up for in wildflower covered glens that turned yellow and red in autumn and bloomed in rainbow colored blankets in the spring. He’d barely believed it when a friend had told him about the plants of the tundra. He’d looked it up on the internet and had immediately made plans to go see it for himself. He was a nature photographer and Alaska had become his dream. He'd already planned two trips; one for the break of spring and one to see the plants change colors in autumn, just like the trees in his own hometown in New England.
Everyone he knew thought he’d been crazy to suggest going alone, but he’d been in plenty of wilderness situations before. He’d studied the terrain, the weather, everything about the place, and had trained for months to make sure he was in the best shape he could be in. At thirty-five, he was in the prime of his life and the lean muscles on his lithe frame gave him plenty of strength and stamina. Besides, photography was a sacred act for him; a moment between him and whatever divine presence there might be in the universe. He’d always taken his pictures alone.
Sky blue eyes gazed through the camera lens at a small, shrew-like creature. He knew it was unusual to see them out and about during the day, so he was determined to grab a photograph. He crouched low and hid behind a fallen tree. As he waited for the shrew to get closer, he got a better look at the tree. The old wood itself was a treasure trove of picture opportunities and he wondered why he hadn’t come to this magical place sooner.
The shrew disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and Michael shook his head. “Damn,” he whispered, but he couldn’t be truly disappointed. Instead of worrying about his missed shot, he simply stayed where he was. An idea was already forming in his mind. He adjusted his camera and then crouched even lower. There was so much going on in this one tree that he could make a whole series out of macro shots. Flakes of dying lichen, in shades of green and white, dotted the fallen tree. Cracks in the bark gave way to various mushrooms and colonies of insects. Melting snow created drops of water, falling into puddles on the ground below. It was cold, tedious work, but he was happy with the photographs he took.
After a while, he began to rub at his cheeks and jaw. The whiskers there were doing little to warm his face and he chuckled as he pictured himself with one of those long, mountain man beards. His hands were beginning to shake too, and he knew it was time to call it a day. It was none too soon either, as a new round of snowflakes began to fall, lazily, from the sky. He hiked back out to the meadow and then down a trail to one of the park entrances, where he’d left his car. It was a couple of miles out, but the hike was worth it for the photos he’d taken and the chance to get warmed up.
He’d rented a cabin in nearby Talkeetna, for the privacy and the long-term option. He had no idea how long he’d be there. He’d always felt that art was something that couldn’t be rushed. On top of that, he’d started to worry that, the longer he was there, the more he’d want to stay. The people were open and welcoming, not to mention different from anyone he’d ever known. Something about the ruggedness of the surroundings, the fresh air and freedom, had made for its own brand of personality.
Carter decided not to go straight to the cabin and, instead, parked in front of the office. It was about a mile outside of town, with a small grocery store and cafe in the back. He’d worked up an appetite on his trek and decided a late lunch was in order.
“Hello, Mister Robinson,” a short, graying woman, welcomed as he walked into the store. She was rugged looking, with tanned, leathery skin and long salt and pepper hair.
“Afternoon, Wynona,” Carter said with a bright grin. “I don’t suppose the kitchen’s still open?” he hinted.
She returned his smile and gave him a curt nod. “All afternoon, as you well know.” Then she waved him through.
Though the small cafe was open, there was only one other person; a regular who sat at the short bar at the front of the long, narrow room. Carter chose a booth by the window and took off his knit hat as he sat down, revealing a shock of prematurely silver hair. It was thick and sweat from the hike had caused it to stand out at all angles. A glance at himself in the napkin dispenser made him snort and he tried, unsuccessfully, to smooth down his unruly locks.
He ordered the healthiest dish on the menu, which wasn’t saying much, and as he ate, he glanced around. He hadn’t really had the chance to take the place in before, usually ordering things to go or simply buying some groceries to cook for himself. There wasn’t much in the way of décor, just sturdy, hardwood furniture and
a nicely made bar, but the one luxury the owners had splurged on was the artwork. It captivated Carter to the point he almost forgot about his meal. He got up to get a better look at some of the paintings and realized that the intricate landscapes must have been done by the same artist. The details were so precise that they could have been photographs.
“Hey, Wynona?” he called out since the waitress and barkeep, who also acted as cook, both seemed to have disappeared. When the small woman stepped into the adjoining doorway, he asked, “Who did these paintings?”
An enthusiastic but somewhat wistful smile crossed her face, and she said, “His name is Sterling Decker. Magnificent, aren’t they?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t come up with the words to describe the feeling so he simply asked, “Local boy?”
“Sort of. He was from up in Fairbanks.”
“Was? Did he…die?”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” Wynona said, but didn’t elaborate further. A jingling bell announced a customer and she turned back to the store.
Carter spent the rest of the day looking over the shots he’d taken and thinking about the paintings in the cafe. He’d rarely seen art that impressive outside of a gallery or a museum and wondered why he’d never heard of the artist. When he went out to get more shots the next morning, he stopped at the store first to buy some snacks. The truth was, he had plenty at the cabin, but he wanted to talk to Wynona.
“Well, hello, stranger,” she greeted. “In for breakfast?”
“No, just need a few supplies.” He looked around for a moment, and then turned back to her. “Wynona, what did you mean about Sterling Decker? What happened to him?”
She eyed him curiously, and then shrugged. “No one knows, really. He just disappeared one day…oh, about ten years ago or so, and no one’s heard from him since.”
Carter's eyes widened in disbelief. “People don’t just disappear off the face of the planet,” he insisted.
“Well, this one did. It’s a shame. He was getting really popular. Poor soul, I don’t think he could handle the pressure. Can’t say I blame him, though I was a big fan of his work.”
A frown crept across Carter’s face, and then he absently gathered up some bottled water and protein bars. The idea of the wayward artist plagued his thoughts as he drove back out to the park. Once there, he made for an even more remote area, where he could set up some shots of the tundra with the mountain peaks in the background. It was a rugged, windswept landscape. His only company would be moose and bears. He knew it was a risk, especially without anything to protect him from the wildlife, but he’d been inspired by the landscapes of Sterling Decker’s paintings.
The air was colder that far up, and it took him hours just to reach the base of the mountains. He’d left early, but it still meant he’d only have a few hours to take photos. The days were still short, and he knew better than to be caught out in the dark. He managed some beautiful photos of the tundra and then turned his attention back to the mountain. As he made his way into the foothills, the new foliage was replaced by ever deepening snow. Though it was dangerous, there was something here he recognized. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. It felt like something was calling him, though, so he kept on. He wasn’t even snapping photos at this point, simply walking on.
As he got closer, a forest of trees finally appeared, covering the sides of the low-lying hills. He knew he was still miles from the mountain, and he began to worry that he’d come too far. Snow swirled around him, making it hard to see where he was going or to pay attention to his footing. As the sun began its slow sinking toward the horizon, Carter knew it was time to turn back. He’d lost track of how long he’d been trekking toward the mountain and panicked as he began to realize how far he’d come. As he turned on the top of the hill, to retrace his steps, he slipped in the fresh snow. He was right next to the edge of something, and as he hit the ground, he slid off with a shout.
He didn’t know how far he slid, but it felt much further than he’d climbed. He must have been on the top of some kind of ravine. He tried to control his descent, but to no avail and, about halfway down, his leg slammed into the side of a tree. He cried out in pain and then blacked out.
When Carter woke, it was sunset and he was freezing. It took a moment to remember what had happened, and then he cautiously sat up. He reached for his leg and could see blood soaking through the pants. He tried to move it but cried out again as the pain overwhelmed him. It was then that he noticed a patch of dried blood matting his hair as well. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Then he swore under his breath and tried getting to his feet. The pain was more than he could stand, and he fell back, hard.
Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes. “I refuse to die like this,” he growled into the ethers. He looked up at the side of the ravine, knowing he’d never get out the way he came. There was no slope on the other side though and, to his surprise, he spotted what looked like a trail through the woods. He couldn’t walk, but his upper body was fine, so he began to drag himself toward it. It turned out to be more tiring than he realized, though, and soon his head began to swim.
His movements slowed, and the sweat he’d built up began to cool. As he reached the edge of the forest, he knew that hypothermia would be setting in soon. There was less snow, but the temperatures were quickly falling none the less. As hard as he tried, though, he couldn’t push himself any further. The forest floor was a cushion of needles, like a soft bed he couldn’t bring himself to resist. He pulled himself closer to one of the trees, hoping that it would at least provide some shelter from the wind and snow, and then put his head down to rest. As he felt himself drifting off to sleep, he heard something moving nearby. His heart pumped a little faster, but he knew there was nothing he could do to fend off a would-be predator. He turned his face away from the pine needles and, as he finally lost consciousness, he swore he saw a face looking down at him.
Chapter Two
It started out as a spectacular spring day in Alaska. The snow from the night before had lightened up and Sterling Decker was up at the crack of dawn. He’d let the firewood get a little too low for his liking so he piled on a sweater over his thermals and then a fluffy, insulated jacket over that. It made it a little difficult to work in, but he knew he’d be taking off the jacket as soon as he warmed up anyway. No point in risking hypothermia when he was out in the wilderness, alone. He put on an extra layer of pants, calf length snow boots he’d made himself, thick gloves, and an oversized cap over his shoulder length, mahogany colored hair. Nothing was left to see except a long, straight nose and big, brown eyes.
Luckily, the wood pile outside his small cabin was still well stocked. All he needed to do was spend a good deal of the day chopping it up and he’d be set. He picked up the ax from the porch and stomped out to the wood pile in quiet contemplation. He could tell it was going to be a late spring, but he’d be all right.
After a couple of hours of chopping, he was exhausted and decided to go in for some breakfast. He stomped his boots off at the door, picked up a log for the fire and headed inside. “Morning, Larry,” he murmured as a small, curious nose poked out from underneath a cushioned bench in the corner. As a brown head popped further out, he smiled and shook his head, before going back to the freezer on his porch and retrieving a bag of fish.
"Guess you have dinner all planned out for us, don't you?" he teased and tossed a filet to the mink. Larry caught it in his little hands and then scurried back under the bench while Sterling laughed.
Unlike the vast majority of cabins built in Alaska, Sterling's was stone with a bit of cob thrown in. Some of the interior was wood with some insulating material in between. He'd built it himself, living in a makeshift camp trailer until he finished it. It had taken him the better part of a year and it had been the longest, hardest year of his life. Now and then, he'd questioned his decision to disappear into the wilderness, but for the most part, he'd loved every moment of it.
His kitc
hen was built into a cubby hole at the front of the cabin and was part cooking area, part still room. A large window at the front overlooked the forest and mountains beyond and a short counter and wood stove sat behind it. Eggs he'd gathered from his chickens, the evening before, sat under the counter and he grabbed a couple along with a few slices of smoked salmon from a jar on one of the shelves. The wooden shelves were covered with jars of salmon, canned fruits and vegetables, jams, loaves of freshly baked bread, and even homemade cheeses he'd made with fresh milk he'd traded for with some far-off neighbors with cows. He made quick work of scrambling the eggs and then piled them, along with the salmon, onto some bread.
The rest of his cabin was small; just one room with a loft above it. He sat his plate down on the table only big enough for two and then added the log to the fire before getting down to the business of breakfast. Larry had long since finished his and he sat by the bench, sniffing in Sterling's direction.
"You've had your fish," the man scolded, but Larry paid no mind. "You should try doing the hunting now and then," Sterling added. Not that he did much hunting either. Most of his meat came from fish. He kept a rifle for safety reasons, mostly in case of bears, but he still had a hard time with the idea of killing anything, especially with a gun. The few neighbors that he had dealt with always got a good laugh at that.
When he was through eating, he washed up before going back out to do more chopping. His cabin was, technically, dry, with no running water, but he had a catchment system for rain and snow, with a small, indoor storage tank. It was just about to run dry so he made a note to light a fire under the barrel outside to melt some more snow. From there, gravity would pull it down the pipe and into the storage tank, and he could have hot water if he needed. Otherwise, he had to wait through the tediousness of heating it on the stove.
