by Kim Baldwin
“We haven’t met.” Her client’s breathing was so loud and fast Bryson was afraid she might hyperventilate. “I came here to see them. Kind of on impulse. And I know it probably sounds crazy, but I’m just not ready to face them yet.”
Lars’s voice came over her headset. “Hey, Bryson, what’s going on? Problems?”
“Give me a couple minutes, Lars,” she replied. “Nothing wrong, just checking something.” She switched off her mic. “We have to set down,” she told Karla. “I don’t have enough fuel to get back to Fairbanks, and there’s a whole lotta people down there camped out waiting for me. If it matters, I don’t think Maggie’s there. Only Lars.”
Karla was silent for a minute or two. “I have to ask you a favor. Can you…can we…not tell Lars who I am?”
“You’re not giving me a lot to work with here. Lars and Maggie are good friends,” she said. “I won’t lie to him, especially if this is about something that’ll upset them. Frankly, lady, you’re acting a bit unhinged.”
“I don’t know how they’ll react to what I have to tell them,” Karla volunteered. “I’m hoping they’ll think it’s good news. Mostly, anyway. But I need some time to think about what I’m going to say. I can’t explain any better than that. I’m just asking you to respect my privacy and not say anything to anyone.”
“All right. But you better not make me regret giving you a lift here.” Bryson hit her mic button. “Coming in, Lars. See you in a few.”
“Roger that, Bryson.”
She lined up the Cub for another approach and descended toward the runway. The crowd gathered at the end had increased significantly during their circling.
“Where can I stay?” Karla asked as the wheels touched down.
“Only one place in town, the Den. Right there.” She had both hands busy with the controls, so she tilted her head in the direction of the roadhouse. “Should warn you, gonna be some curiosity about you. Especially since a lot of people won’t be getting the supplies they’re expecting.” The Cub rolled to a stop twenty feet from the gathered crowd. Immediately the townspeople began to converge on the plane.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not your concern now,” Karla said.
The declaration was welcome news, but Bryson refrained from saying so.
Lars and Geneva were at the head of the pack. They reached her door just as she opened it.
“Aha. Now I see why you got held up.” Lars grinned as he looked past her approvingly to Karla, who was unbuckling herself.
“Who’s she?” Geneva asked with much less enthusiasm.
“Missed her flight, so I let her hitch along.” Bryson climbed out of the Cub and started around to the other side, but a burly six-three pipeline worker named Hank stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He reeked of whiskey.
“Lars says you didn’t get evythin’.” He slurred his words. “Better have that damn ax I been waitin’ for all day.”
“And my ointment,” said the hulk’s shadow, a twitchy ferret of a man named Jerry who’d obviously consumed nearly as much alcohol as his chum. The two shared a cabin several miles outside the village. “Fucking rash is driving me nuts.” He scratched a greasy hand across his chest as if to illustrate the extent of his misery.
“Got everything on the list, just had to leave a few things behind till I can make it back there. Maybe in the morning.” Bryson stepped deftly around both of them as they started to protest and reached the passenger door just as Karla emerged.
“You got my cigarettes?” a woman shouted, and Bryson winced. The cigarettes, she knew, had been in the bag that had been on the passenger seat. Those had definitely been left behind.
“Sammy’s waiting up for his soccer ball,” another voice hollered.
“She the reason you didn’t get evythin’?” Hank had trailed her, and he and his drunken ferret-shadow were now staring at Karla, Hank with disgust and Jerry with a leer.
And more trouble was brewing. Bryson caught a glimpse of Dirty Dan, pushing angrily through the crowd toward them.
“Hold on, everybody. Chill.” She held up her hands. “I promise, what I don’t have with me, I’ll pick up tomorrow if the weather holds. Now, if I can get some hands to help haul this stuff into the Den, we’ll sort out what’s here and what’s not, yet.”
Karla looked a bit shell-shocked to be the center of attention. She shrank against the door of the Cub. Bryson glanced around for Lars as she opened the cargo hatch and was relieved to find him positioned directly behind Dirty Dan, who had pulled up short to study Karla with narrowed eyes and an annoyed frown.
She took out the nearest box and thrust it toward Hank. “Make yourself useful.” He shouldered it without further complaint, and his companion accepted the sack of groceries that was next out of the plane. Others stepped forward to help unload, and soon most of the crowd had dispersed, all headed back to the Den. Geneva stood off to one side, and Dirty Dan also remained, still eyeing Karla suspiciously, with Lars behind him.
Karla, withering under the glare of attention, had inched ever closer to Bryson’s back during the unloading, so that by the time it was done, she was standing so near that Bryson almost knocked her down when she turned around.
Her elbow impacted Karla’s side, and Karla, startled, jumped back, off balance. But Bryson’s fatigue had faded entirely under the threat of trouble and her curiosity about Karla Edwards, and her senses were on hyperalert. She grabbed for Karla as she fell back and managed to wrap one arm around her waist. She caught her, though the momentum carried her forward and she landed hard on one knee.
Bryson grimaced in pain and muttered a curse under her breath. The woman in her arms scrambled to regain her feet as Lars shot forward. “Hey! You okay?” he asked, putting an arm around Bryson’s shoulder.
“Fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
“That sounded painful.” Karla stooped next to her. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Said I’m fine.” Would this nightmare of an evening never end? Bryson struggled to her feet, wincing as new pain shot through her knee. That would leave a bruise. Forcing a smile, she gave Lars a subtle indication with her eyes to keep alert to Dirty Dan and got a small nod of acknowledgment in return. She reached into the hold for her daypack and slung it over one shoulder, then extricated Karla’s duffel.
“I’ll take that,” Lars offered, stepping forward.
“I can—” Karla started to reach for it herself but Lars waved her off.
“No. Let me. I’m happy to.” Lars took the duffel in his left hand and offered his right to Karla. “I’m Lars. Welcome to Bettles. You staying with us long?”
Karla’s heart was thundering as she reached for her brother-in-law’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Lars. Thank you. I’ll be around a while.” She hoped so, anyway, but that all depended on Maggie.
Her first impression of him couldn’t have been better, a stark contrast to Bryson’s aloof demeanor. His welcoming kindness was genuine; she could see it in his sweet smile and feel it in the firm grasp of their hands. And Lars was a strapping, handsome man. Six feet tall. Blond. With a square jaw, high cheekbones, and clear blue eyes.
They all headed into the roadhouse, where a chaos of activity greeted them. Only a few patrons were seated at the bar and scattered tables. Most of the sizeable crowd was gathered anxiously around the boxes and bags from the plane, which were now piled in the corner on a small raised platform stage. A stocky man with a bushy red beard and black wool cap was doing his best to dissuade anyone from rummaging through the contents, but the irate voices of the drunks in the crowd indicated a few tempers were beginning to boil.
Bryson headed purposefully toward the melee, and Lars followed suit, pausing just long enough to deposit Karla’s duffel at her feet.
Karla grabbed the bag and took a seat at the end of the bar, grateful to have the attention of the town shifted elsewhere so she could take a moment to breathe and think about what she was going to do.
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br /> “Settle down, folks.” Bryson’s voice rang out over the crowd as she pushed her way through to the stage. “Got my list right here.” She doled out the supplies, with Lars flanking her on one side and the red-bearded man on the other.
“Hey, there. Welcome to the Den. What can I get ya??? The bartender smiling at Karla epitomized her image of the typical Alaskan roughneck. Big and broad-shouldered, with a silver-tipped beard and hair that hadn’t seen clippers in a decade or more.
“Mmm. White wine?”
“You got it.” He set a well-polished wineglass in front of her and filled it to the rim with Chardonnay. “If you’re hungry,” he added, tapping one of the menus tucked between the salt-and-pepper shakers and napkin holder to her left, “kitchen’s open until midnight.”
“Thanks.” As the bartender retreated to his other customers, she downed a long sip of her wine. The place reminded her of the Brick in Northern Exposure, with its taxidermy décor and quirky Arctic accents. A broken dogsled hung from the ceiling, along with ancient gold-mining paraphernalia: pans and picks and broken shovels. The neon beer signs behind the bar advertised local brews she’d never heard of, with colorful names like Forty-Niner Amber, Solstice Gold, and Caribou Kilt.
The bartender delivered a large bowl of stew to a patron two stools down, and the savory aroma reminded her it’d been hours since she’d eaten anything. She reached for the menu, which was as eclectic as the bar. Reindeer stew. Caribou steaks. King crab. Smoked salmon tacos. And for dessert, wild berry crisp with home-churned vanilla-bean ice cream.
“Go for the stew,” Bryson suggested as she claimed the seat to her right. “Specialty of the house.”
Karla looked past her and saw that the mob of townspeople had dispersed back to their tables and booths, some smiling over their purchases, a few glaring unhappily at Bryson’s back.
“I didn’t realize what a problem it’d create for you to have to leave so much behind to get me here,” she said. “Looks like a lot of your friends are pretty upset.”
“They’ll get over it. Hopefully I can make a quick run down at first light and be back with the rest before they sleep off their hangovers.” Bryson hailed the bartender, and he hurried toward them with a smile.
“Handled that like a pro,” he told Bryson as he popped the top off a bottle of Black Fang beer and set it in front of her. “How’d you defuse ol’ Dan?”
Karla followed Bryson’s eyes to the other end of the bar, where the man who’d been staring at them out by the plane was buttoning up his filthy overcoat and preparing to leave.
“Told him I’d do his next delivery freebie.”
“Pretty hefty price tag.”
“Not so much.” Bryson glanced her way. “Take it you two’ve met. You get a room?”
“No, not yet,” she replied, looking uncertainly toward the bartender. “You’re the proprietor?”
“Grizz.” He folded both large hands around hers in a warm, extended greeting. “Sorry to say, though, we’re full up tonight.” He looked to Bryson. “Lars snagged the last couple of rooms for you two when he realized you wouldn’t be able to make it home before dark.”
Oh crap. “I should’ve called ahead. Any suggestions?” She glanced from one to the other.
“I’ve got a solution.” One of the waitresses materialized on the other side of Bryson, the curvaceous brunette who’d lingered by the Cub and followed them inside. “Bryson can bunk with me. That frees up a room.”
Bryson took a long swig from her beer and seemed to consider the suggestion. She turned away from Karla to face the waitress. “No ulterior motives, right, Gen?”
“That’s entirely up to you,” the woman answered. She was smiling at the pilot with a look full of mischief and promise. For some reason Karla didn’t expect to find lesbians so far out in the boonies, and she was so absorbed with other matters that it hadn’t crossed her mind that her hunky pilot and she might have that in common. Though perhaps it should have. That gate clerk back in Fairbanks had given Bryson a similar come-on smile.
On the surface, anyway, she could understand their interest in Bryson Faulkner. She was easy on the eyes, with her natural beauty and athletic build. And Karla imagined some women might be attracted to her adventurous lifestyle as a pilot. But give Karla kind and sweet over daring and detached any day.
However, this revelation might be a positive development in terms of the reception she might get from the Rasmussens. If they were close to Bryson, they obviously had no issue with her being gay. At least Karla apparently didn’t have to worry about that.
“All right, then,” Bryson told the bartender. “She can have my room.”
“I don’t want to put you out…” Karla began, but in truth she was grateful for the opportunity to crash for a while. And she didn’t imagine Bryson would feel too inconvenienced, considering the enticing alternative.
“Oh, she’ll be comfortable, don’t you worry,” the waitress interjected. “Not like we haven’t done it plenty of times before, right, Bryson?”
Bryson turned to meet Karla’s eyes. “We’re old friends. It’s fine.”
“Thanks.” Addressing the bartender, she said, “I’m pretty beat. If someone can show me to my room now, I’d be very grateful. And maybe I can get a bottled water and a bowl of your reindeer stew sent up?”
“Done.” Grizz wiped his hands on a bar towel and snagged a key from a rack behind the cash register. “Right this way,” he said, rounding the bar and stooping to retrieve her duffel bag.
She followed him toward the door that led upstairs, then paused to glance around the bar. Lars had disappeared somewhere. It was just as well, because the time had come for her to figure out what the heck she was going to say to them.
The room was comfortable, if modestly furnished. A queen-sized bed, small dresser, and twin nightstands with matching lamps. Two padded chairs flanking a small round table faced the one large window. The truly eye-catching feature was the array of photographs on the walls—spectacular blowups of the northern lights. “Bathroom’s down the hall at the end. You’ll find fresh towels in the cabinet there. You here just the one night?” Grizz asked as he set her duffel bag on the bed.
Good question. “Um. Not sure. I’ll probably be here at least a couple of nights, maybe more. Are you booked up?”
He laughed. “Naw. Tonight’s an exception, because so many backcountry folks came in to meet the plane. This time of year, we almost always have a fair amount of rooms free.”
“Great. Can I kind of play it by ear, then? Let you know?”
“Sure. Come find me tomorrow, and we’ll get your credit-card info and all that done.” He started toward the door, but stopped with his hand on the knob. “Anything else I can get you?”
“Just the food, thanks.”
“Coming right up. Enjoy your stay with us.”
He left her alone, and she unpacked her bag. At the bottom was a copy of the letter her mother had written, along with a small photo album. She sat on the edge of the bed and studied the pictures of her mother, arranged chronologically from when she was just a girl in pigtails to the last one taken just before her death.
She paused when she came to an Easter snapshot that could have been a Norman Rockwell painting of the idealized American family. She and her parents were about to dig in to a feast of ham and all the trimmings, the table set with their finest china and linens. Her father sat at the head of the table, still in his navy suit from church. Her mother wore a pale yellow dress, and Karla sat opposite, in pink, her basket of candy eggs and chocolate rabbits on the floor beside her chair. Her father had bought a tripod so they could capture every holiday together, and there were dozens of similar photos in a box at home.
But though she’d looked at this picture countless times, Karla only now noticed that the smile on her mother’s face seemed forced, and the look in her eyes was melancholic. Had she been thinking about the child she’d given away, wondering what her daughter’s li
fe was like, imagining how she might be spending the holiday? Surely on occasions like this, her mother must have had some regrets about her decision. Karla was eleven in the picture, so Maggie would have been fifteen or so, already in high school.
The photo allowed Karla a glimpse of the anguish her mother endured. She’d never fully realized how difficult it must have been to keep that terrible secret. I miss you so damn much, Mom. I wish you could have told me.
She felt ashamed that she’d focused entirely on her own feelings of betrayal when she learned about Maggie. She had to respect her mother’s decision; she’d done what she thought best for her firstborn child and had suffered the consequences of her actions. Maybe her sister would somehow remind her of the woman that gave birth to them both. Do you look like her, Maggie? Will I see her in your eyes?
Two sharp raps brought her out of her reverie. When she opened the door, Bryson stood on the other side, holding a tray with her stew, water, and a basket of fresh rolls.
“Didn’t expect to see you again,” she said, stepping aside.
“I was headed up here anyway, and Grizz asked.” Bryson set the tray on the table by the window and turned to go.
“Hey, you mind hanging around for a couple of minutes?”
Bryson’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What for?”
“You said you were friends with Lars and Maggie, right? Would you mind answering a few questions for me?”
“I guess not.”
Karla took one of the chairs, and Bryson the other. “Would it bother you if I eat while we talk? I’m starving.” Not waiting for anything more communicative than Bryson’s shrug, she reached for one of the rolls and dipped it into the thick gravy. The rich, savory stew, filled with chunks of lean meat, quelled the ache in her stomach. “What’s Maggie like?” she asked between bites.
“Maggie? Independent. Strong-willed. Bright. Funny.” Bryson smiled at some memory, but didn’t offer details. “Protective of people she cares about. Just about fearless—she’s had a couple of pretty close encounters with wolves and grizzlies and always kept her cool.”
