Under the Northern Lights

by S. C. Stephens

  When I peeked over at Michael, I saw him relaxing back into the basin. A relieved sigh escaped me. Thank you, God. If he’d stepped out of the tub, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from openly staring, and both of us would have been mortified. Possibly me more than him.

  Michael had cut me a new stick to use as a crutch. He’d set it by the couch before leaving for the day so getting up and around—if I’d absolutely needed to—would be easier. Grabbing it from its resting place, I hobbled over to the table to pick up the flashlight.

  I was on my way to get the pistol hanging on a holster attached to the wall when Michael’s voice broke the silence. “Damn it . . .” When I looked back at him, he cringed. “I don’t suppose you could do me a favor before you go?”

  He was still mostly hidden from view, but now that I was in front of him, I could see the defined muscles of his chest. It was distracting, to say the least. “What?” I asked, annoyed at myself that I couldn’t be in the same room with a naked man without having steamy thoughts about him.

  Face still remorseful, he pointed to the long counter with shelves beneath it. “I forgot the soap. It’s in one of those bins.”

  My hand tightened around the flashlight. I’d have to get really close to give it to him. Unless I just tossed it. A resigned sigh escaped me. No, I would be an adult and hand it to him. This was already awkward enough; no need to make it worse. Tossing on a smile that felt tight to me, I said, “Sure,” and set about looking for the soap.

  “And a washcloth,” he added.

  Gritting my teeth, I told him, “No problem,” then shuffled over to the bins. With his help, I found everything quickly enough. Eyes downcast, I hobbled over to him. When I got close enough, I extended my hand in what I thought was his direction; even though resisting the temptation was torture, I still wasn’t looking his way.

  I felt his wet, warm fingers close over mine, and my eyes ignored my instructions and snapped to his. “Thank you,” he quietly said as he pulled the cloth and soap from my grasp. His eyes were so captivating that even though I knew I’d only need to look down a few inches to see . . . everything . . . I couldn’t. I was ensnared.

  “You’re welcome,” I whispered. Then I spun on my heel and quickly limped away before I lost all control. And for once, the frigid air of the outdoors was welcome on my heated skin.

  Chapter Seven

  A couple of days after the bath incident, my ankle was finally strong enough to support my weight. I still had to be careful so I didn’t accidentally reinjure it, but walking around on two legs instead of hobbling around on one was such a blessing.

  It also gave me the opportunity to help out more. Something Michael objected to at first. “I’ve been handling doing everything around here for years. You should keep resting.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I told him, “No, I’ve rested enough. Now I need to start helping. You said it yourself that you hadn’t planned on feeding two people this winter. You have more important things to do than collect water and chop firewood.”

  He looked like he wanted to keep arguing with me, but he knew as well as I did that I was right. I was needed outside helping, not inside slowly going stir crazy. “Okay, fine. I need to start setting traps anyway.”

  “Traps?” I asked, inclining my head.

  He ran a hand through his thick beard as he nodded. “Yeah, I need cash for the supplies I buy a couple times a year. Selling fur and leather is about the only thing I can do to make money around here. I can’t exactly open a pizza place.”

  “Or a doctor’s office,” I said with a smile.

  His grin slipped at the mention of the word doctor, so I quickly changed the subject. “Anything I should know? Any words of wisdom?”

  He walked over to me and handed me my rifle. “Keep this on you at all times. The bears might still be foraging for winter. They can be on you before you know it.”

  That was smart advice, one I followed when I went out to take photographs. Man, I would be almost halfway through my trip right now if my plane hadn’t gone down. But now . . .

  Michael was studying my face as I slung the rifle over my shoulder. “You okay? Your expression changed.”

  Knowing that his expression changed all the time and he rarely explained himself made me feel a little stubborn. I pushed the feeling away, though, and opened up to him. Maybe he would do the same if I set a good example. Or if he felt closer to me—and nothing had a way of binding people together like sharing pain. “I just . . . the thought of being out here for so long . . .” I stopped to sigh. “I just really miss my family.”

  His face grew contemplative. “I understand. This kind of life . . . isn’t for everyone.”

  And why is it for you? I wanted to ask. Before I could, Michael said, “Do you have siblings? A brother or sister?”

  I nodded as I thought of Patricia. “Yeah, one sister. She’s a shrink, so she thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to analyze people without their permission.” Chewing on my lip, I wondered if that was what I was doing with him. It was mainly in my head, though. I hadn’t pried when it was clear he hadn’t wanted me to.

  Michael’s lip curved up in a small smile. “That explains a lot,” he said.

  Knowing I’d been as respectful as possible—even though I was swarming with questions—made me want to smack him. I refrained, but it took a lot of willpower.

  “Are your parents still with you?” he asked as a follow-up.

  Thinking of them made me smile. “Yeah, they run a diner in town. Have since I was a kid. I used to go there after school every day to help my mom. We’d make cookies and pies, and she’d let me pour coffee for the regulars. It was a fun way to grow up.”

  Michael’s smile was warm at hearing my story. “What about you?” I asked. “Fond memories? Brothers? Sisters?”

  His entire demeanor changed, hardened. I thought he’d ignore me or change the subject, but he surprised me by answering. “One parent . . . my father. He’s still back in New York, as far as I know. Haven’t spoken to him since I moved out here.”

  He sniffed and started gathering the supplies he’d need for the day. “Oh . . .” I said, carefully watching him. He seemed like a coil wound too tight. “You weren’t close?”

  Pausing in what he was doing, he quietly said, “We were once . . .” Clearing his throat, he shook his head. “But that was a long time ago. Things changed.”

  “What changed?” I timidly asked. So much for not being as intrusive as my sister.

  Michael looked back at me. “When you get to the river, test the ice before you go on it. If the shelf breaks and you’re swept under, you’re never coming back up.”

  Knowing a dismissal when I heard one, I nodded. “Okay.” I hoped he knew that I wasn’t just telling him I understood his directions by my one-word answer. I also meant I understood his pain and his desire to keep it to himself.

  After he was finished collecting his things, Michael headed to his shop to collect his traps. Since he didn’t have a horse, dogsled, or snowmobile, he had to hold everything he took with him. I really thought that once he fixed his plane, he should invest in some sort of local transportation. It would help him so much with his everyday life. Mine, too, while I was out here.

  Since I didn’t feel overly confident on my feet yet, I took only one five-gallon bucket with me to collect water. I figured we’d need at least two each day, so I’d be making trips. Awesome. Every trudging step I took, I wished for a horse. Anything to help traverse the snow. Since Michael took this path every day, there was a trail cut into the snowbanks, but whenever more snow fell—like now—the trail was partially buried, easily hiding rocks, roots, branches. A hundred things that could trip me up, injuring me again.

  When I finally got to the river, I let out a low whistle. It wasn’t some small stream running through the backwoods. No, this was a massive highway of water, only partially frozen over. The edges, where the river was quieter, were the first to succumb
to the ice. To gather the good stuff, I’d have to walk over that ice until I got to an open area. Then I had to dip the bucket in without also dunking myself. Because Michael was right. If I fell in and the current got me, finding a hole and dragging myself out of it before I ran out of air—or became hypothermic—would be an almost impossible task.

  Collecting water wasn’t new to me, but I’d never done it quite like this before. Usually, I’d just fill my small pot with snow and boil it. But Michael needed water for drinking, washing dishes, cleaning animals . . . bathing. He was here for the long haul, so everything was on a much bigger scale. Melting snow in the quantities he needed just wasn’t feasible. As dangerous as an icy river could be, it was the best option.

  I found a large branch along the bank that I could use to test the ice, and then I started making my way across. Every step caused a strange creaking sound somewhere along the shelf. It made my heart race, but the stick I was jabbing into the slick surface was being met by firm resistance, so I kept going. It was fine. I was safe.

  Getting to the edge of the ice was the truly scary part. The light snowflakes falling through the air floated into the exposed areas and disappeared instantly, swallowed by the swiftly flowing river. That could be me, if I wasn’t careful. I thoroughly tested the area to find where the firm parts stopped and the frail parts began. When I had a clear grasp of the breaking point, I got down on my knees and extended the bucket into the water. The frigid stream of liquid life quickly filled the bucket. Pulling it out, I set it on the ice bank, on a spot that I prayed was firm enough to support the weight. I stared at it for a solid ten seconds before I moved; if the ice cracked, I wanted it to crack around the bucket, and not around me. But the ice was holding, and everything looked good.

  Carefully, I got to my feet, reached down, and picked up the bucket. That was when something small and furry darted across the ice in front of me. Startled, I backed up a step and dropped the bucket. The heavy container struck the ice with the force of a hammer, and I heard distinct cracking noises all the way around me. The bucket began tipping, the momentum of the sloshing water pulling it over. Then the ice broke around it, and it disappeared into the rushing water. Damn it!

  My anger was short lived, though, as fear instantly took its place. The break wasn’t stopping where the bucket had landed—it was racing toward me like a snake zipping along the desert. I backed up so fast I tripped over my own feet and stumbled to the ground. Only it wasn’t ground—it was still ice. I was at least a half dozen feet from the safety of the shoreline. Like a thing possessed, the crack was still coming toward me. I wanted to yell at it, scream at it to leave me alone, but it wasn’t an animal that could be reasoned with or intimidated. Nature was going to do what it wanted to do. You either adapted, or you died.

  That morbid thought in mind, I started scrambling backward on my hands and feet like a crab. The ice disappeared into the water just seconds after I passed a spot. If it caught me, if it broke around me, I’d be swept away. And all because a stupid marten had surprised me. I needed to be more careful than that.

  Finally, I felt something hard against my gloved hand, something stable—actual earth, not frozen water. I hoisted my body onto the bank, right as the last of the ice gave way. My boots dropped into the icy river, but I was able to pull them out with no real damage done. Lying back on the bank, I pulled in painful pants as I tried to calm down. That had been so close. Everything here was so close, like every corner held something even more dangerous than the last. Could I really make it all winter in these conditions? What choice did I have?

  My chest ached, and my thigh burned, but I made myself get up. I still needed to fetch water. Just because I’d failed didn’t mean I could choose not to do the task. That was one unfortunate thing about survival. Giving up wasn’t an option.

  Half the day was eaten up by the time I had two full five-gallon buckets back at camp, luckily with no more near-death instances and no more missing buckets. Sadly, I’d have to tell Michael I’d lost one. There was no resting once the water was collected, though. No, there were still chores that had to be done before the daylight faded completely; firewood didn’t chop itself. After grabbing a quick meal of my final bit of jerky and my last protein bar, I grabbed an ax and got to work on the pile of rounds that Michael hadn’t had a chance to split yet.

  I was only a few swings in when I instantly regretted offering to help today. I’d forgotten how labor intensive splitting wood was. Each swing was torture on my already-tired body—my chest burned, my ribs ached, my thigh throbbed, my ankle felt wobbly, and my arms felt like Jell-O. I couldn’t quit, though. Besides the fact that it needed to be done, I’d told Michael I would do it, and even if my stitches burst, I was going to follow through. At least this was less dangerous than collecting water.

  Once I had enough cut pieces that I felt okay stopping for the day, I started stacking the wood in Michael’s handmade lean-to off the side of his shop. My breaths were fast, and I was dripping with sweat—sweat that was starting to freeze to my skin. The way my body was shivering, I was sure it wasn’t just fatigue that was getting to me. Grabbing as large an armful of wood as I could, I made my way back into the cabin to warm up.

  I put away the wood, then quickly made a fire, stoking it until the cabin was nice and toasty. Once it was warm enough inside, I took off my jacket and my long-sleeved outer shirt so they could dry. I’d have to wash my clothes soon. I’d have to wash me soon. Everything was coated in grime and filth. Disgusting.

  After setting a large pot of water on the stove to boil, I debated what to do next. Even though every part of me ached, I was reluctant to sit down; I might not stand again. I could start dinner—that would be helpful. Although I had no idea when Michael would be back from his hunting and trapping expedition. It could be minutes, could be hours, and I had no reliable way to keep his meal warm. It would be best to just wait for him. So what could I do to pass the time?

  Sighing, I looked around the cabin. I could grab another western. The one I’d finished hadn’t been so bad. Walking over to his bookcase, I started studying the spines for something that looked interesting. While Michael had quite a few titles to choose from, at this pace, I’d blow through them all long before we could leave. Not finding anything I wanted to read at the moment, I started looking through his shelves instead. Most of his bins held supplies, practical items that were essential for survival. Aside from the books, there wasn’t much in the cabin that gave any hints about Michael’s personality. It was frustrating. Feeling rather intrusive, I looked through bin after bin after bin, but still, nothing of interest. No mementos, no journals, no photo albums documenting a previous life. Nothing. It was like he hadn’t existed before he came out here. I wouldn’t even have suspected he’d once been a doctor if he hadn’t told me.

  Just when I was about to give up on my passive-aggressive snooping, I found something in the very bottom of a bin containing warmer-weather clothes. It was a photograph of a woman, stapled to a Ziploc bag holding a pair of rings. Wedding rings. My eyes widened in surprise as I stared at the woman in the photo. She was very beautiful with a warm, welcoming smile; dark hair; and eyes that were the same pale shade as his. I’d almost think she was Michael’s sister if it weren’t for the rings. She was obviously his wife. Why wasn’t she here with him? Messy divorce? I’d gotten lucky with mine; Shawn had been pretty reasonable about everything, but I knew that wasn’t the typical experience. Was that why Michael was hiding out here? Still in love with his ex? The one who got away . . .

  I could hear rustling outside, boots stomping on the ground to loosen the snow on them, and knew Michael had finally returned. Shoving the photograph into the bottom of the bin, I closed the lid and slid it back into place on the shelf. Humiliation and embarrassment rushed through me. I shouldn’t have been searching through his personal belongings; it wasn’t any of my business. Spying on the man who’d saved my life was no way to thank him. But that photo had ignited
my curiosity, and it was killing me now. Was that woman his wife—had she driven him to live out here? Did she know he was out here all alone, isolating himself from everyone? Would she return for him one day?

  I hoped so. Michael seemed like a nice-enough guy; he didn’t deserve to have to spend his entire life alone. Even if that was what he thought he wanted, I was sure it wasn’t. Loneliness was crushing; that was why isolation was used to torture people. And no one wanted to be tortured. No one.

  Chapter Eight

  All through dinner I wanted to ask Michael about the photo and the rings. I had to stop myself from doing it about a hundred times. There was just no good way to explain how I’d found them other than saying, I was totally spying on you while you were gone. All I’d get from him was irritation or anger if I mentioned that. I might even spend a night out in the cold. Well, maybe not, but I was sure he wouldn’t be happy.

  “How did your chores go?” he asked as he cut up his moose steak. “Any problems?” By the way he raised an eyebrow at me, I felt like he had cameras stashed in the woods and he’d somehow witnessed my near debacle.

  Feigning nonchalance, I shrugged and shook my head. “Nope, no troubles. Everything was fine. Easy peasy.”

  He stopped chewing at that, and I knew I’d gone a little too far with my casual answer. I wasn’t about to admit how hard it had been, though; I’d tell him about losing the bucket later. Trying to move along the moment, I grabbed my glass of water and asked him, “Any problems on your end?”

  With a smile that stirred something deep inside me, he shook his head. “Nope. Easy peasy.”

  His remark made me grin. Michael’s humor was elusive at times, but when it seeped out, it lit up the whole room. I again wanted to ask him about the photo, but I was still blocked by the unlawful way I’d obtained it. As I chewed on my dinner, I tried to think of vaguer ways I could ask the same question.