Under the Northern Lights(12)
While Michael disposed of the wolves, I scooted as close to the fire as I could. There was a deep frown on his face when he returned to the fire and sat a little way from me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. And who the hell are you? What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere? How did you manage to save me, right in the nick of time? How did you know exactly how to patch me up? Politeness stopped me from bombarding him with those questions, but they were at the forefront of my mind. Feeling like I was right smack in the middle of a miracle, I fingered my necklace.
His thick, frozen beard began to melt as he sat within range of the heat, and fat drops trickled down the strands to land on his heavy jacket. “I’d normally skin the wolves, take the meat and the pelts. I hate being wasteful, but just getting you back to my cabin is going to be a challenge. I hadn’t expected to find . . . survivors.” His frown deepened after he said that, and he looked guilty, like he’d done something wrong.
“You knew about the plane?” I asked, wondering why he looked that way. What could he have done about a plane crashing?
Nodding, he started pulling apart a thin twig. “I wasn’t entirely sure it was a plane, but I heard the crash, saw the smoke, and made an assumption. It was either a plane or a UFO. Either way, I thought I might find some supplies I could use,” he added with a shrug.
A small laugh escaped me at his UFO comment, but it instantly faded. “It was my plane . . . the engine stalled on me. Couldn’t get it restarted.”
“Oh,” he said quietly. “That must have been terrifying.” His eyes drifted up to the sky to where the stars were so bright they were like LEDs stuck in the darkness. I studied him while he was distracted with his inner thoughts. Dressed for warmth, his head was covered by a hearty hat with Sherpa earmuffs that hung down off the sides. Even though I couldn’t see it, I had to assume his hair was the same dark color as his beard. He was a little shaggy and unkempt, but even still, he was quite attractive. If I had to guess his age, I’d say he was in his mid-to late thirties, too young to be living in seclusion. What was he doing out here?
“Yeah, it was . . . all of this has been,” I answered. His gaze drifted back to mine; his eyes were laced with pain. Why did he look that way? Not comfortable enough to ask him that, I instead asked, “How far is your cabin?” No matter how far it was, with how battered my body felt, it would be too far for me to walk there. Unless he wanted to carry me. Not that I’d let him.
Sticking the twig into his mouth, he looked off to my right and pointed. “It’s about a day’s walk from here.” Looking back at me, his eyes shifted to my leg. “I set off this morning, stopping once to eat. I was moving pretty briskly, though. Getting you back there is going to take longer than that.”
“Yeah . . . ,” I said, glancing down at my leg.
Michael was studying me when I looked back at him. “We’ll make it there, Mallory. The hard part is over with.”
His words settled inside me, as warm as the fire, and I truly believed he was right. While I was sure it wouldn’t be smooth sailing from here on out, the worst of the storm had passed us by.
Michael had his own one-person tent, so we weren’t going to have to share my ridiculously small space. He set his up next to mine, the drab olive green a stark contrast to the brilliant-white ground. Settling into our makeshift beds, we attempted to get some sleep. The events of today kept running through my mind, making relaxing difficult. I loved animals, did everything in my power to show people how beautiful and fascinating they were, and today, I’d almost been killed by one. I knew it wasn’t the wolves’ fault—instinct was instinct—but I couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed. That unreasonable emotion would pass with time, though, I was sure.
I heard Michael beside me start to snore, and I momentarily cursed the ease with which he’d shut off the day. Of course, his hadn’t been quite as traumatic as mine. Putting a hand on my necklace, I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for the image of yellow teeth and frosty breath to be eradicated from my memory. You made it. Let it go . . . let it go.
The sound of a zipper opening woke me up. I felt like I’d just fallen asleep, but by the grayness in my tent, I could tell the sun was beginning to rise. Gingerly, I started sitting up. Everything was even more sore than yesterday; I’d really been hoping that I’d already climbed that crest so I could begin a speedy downhill trek to recovery. No such luck.
My ankle hurt so badly I had to bite my lip to stop from crying out. A groan escaped me anyway.
“Mallory? You all right?” Michael’s voice was just outside my tent; he sounded genuinely concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” It was more of a stretch than an outright lie, but admitting I was in bad shape wouldn’t help either of us.
Several minutes later, when I could hear the snapping crackle of a hungry fire, I unzipped my tent. The shocking cold once again slapped me in the face, but the true challenge was trying to get out of the microscopic tent. Michael was frowning as he watched me emerge from my cocoon into the frigid outdoors, and I could almost see his mental gears turning, trying to solve the problem of my limited mobility. As I hobbled to get my crutch, he finally said, “I’m going to check out the plane, see if there isn’t anything that can be salvaged. You should rest. Relax in front of the fire. It’s going to be a long day.”