Under the Northern Lights(15)
There were three buildings on the homestead, all of them made from logs cut from the surrounding forest. There was the main cabin, where Michael obviously lived; a shedlike shack that was probably some sort of workshop; and an outhouse, complete with a cutout half moon on the door. Everything had been made by hand—had to be, way out here—but it was all well made with tight, level seams and perfectly symmetrical windows. Even though I just wanted to be inside, out of the cold, I took a moment to appreciate Michael’s craftsmanship.
With a grunt, Michael dropped the sled in front of the cabin. His breath was heavier as he rubbed his chest, and a flash of guilt went through me. He’d carried me so far, and without a word of complaint. “Thank you so much for getting me here,” I said, struggling to stand without putting too much pressure on my ankle; it still ached.
Michael looked over at me with a small frown on his face. “We should get you inside, check out your stitches, wrap your ribs.”
He’d been cleaning the wound on my thigh, changing the gauze pad each night, but he had told me more than once that he wanted to thoroughly examine the injury. I wanted that, too, and heat, but first, I really wanted to see what I’d been hoping to see—my way home. “Where’s your plane?” I asked.
Walking over to me, eyes on my bloody pants, Michael motioned in the direction of the outhouse. “About a half mile away, in a clearing where I like to land.”
Excitement and relief flooded through me. A plane. He could take me to Fairbanks. I could have my leg checked out at a hospital, and then I could hop on a jet and get back to Idaho. “Can we leave tomorrow?” Can I go home?
Dashing my spirits, Michael shook his head. “Plane’s broken. I ordered a part, and they’re supposed to deliver it when it comes in, but that won’t be until spring, at the earliest.” He paused to frown. “I’d been hoping to find the part I needed on your plane, just in case my supplier doesn’t pull through, but no luck—everything was too damaged.” He gave me an odd look, one full of both sympathy and trepidation. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re going to be here awhile.”
Like a tin can being compressed by a steamroller, I felt all my hope slowly being crushed. “Spring? I can’t stay here until spring. I have people waiting for me. They’ll think I’m dead.”
His face was firm but sympathetic. “I’m sorry there isn’t another way. But your family thinking you’re dead is better than you actually being dead. They’ll get over it once they see you again.”
I knew he was right, but still, my eyes watered at hearing the news. Spring. It sounded like an eternity from now. What would my family do when they knew for a fact I was missing? Mourn me or search for me? As much as I wanted to be found, I didn’t want them to start a search and rescue party. With the weather turning soon, it could lead to another crash and more lost souls, and I didn’t want the weight of that possibility on my shoulders.
As my mood sank, I grew weary. I accidentally put too much weight on my injured ankle and started to stumble as a burst of pain hit me. Michael’s arms were around me an instant later, holding me up. I flung my arms around his neck, and our eyes locked. His were the palest shade of blue I’d ever seen. It gave them such depth, like I could see all the way into his soul. His grip was firm, solid, and steady, and a sense of peace and protection swept over me. I wanted to go home, wanted to see my family and my dogs, but if I had to stay here for months, at least I felt safe with him.
Michael made a hard swallow as he studied my face. I couldn’t imagine that I looked all that great right now, with healing cuts all over my face and my long brown hair in a snarled tangle, but he seemed affected as he stared, and that made an odd warmth go through me. But then, like he’d been stung, he flinched, relaxed his grip, and averted his eyes. “We should get you inside, off your ankle.”
The moment between us passed, and I eagerly nodded. Even though I’d been lying down for a couple of days, getting off my feet sounded wonderful.
Michael helped me inside the cabin, and I was struck by how comfortable it was. It was clear he’d built every piece of furniture, and even though the cabin wasn’t huge, every item inside it was useful and practical. Everything belonged. A slab of wood attached to a wall formed a bed; bear-proof containers below it held supplies. A couple of chunky chairs surrounded a square table, and a huge bookcase filled one wall. There was even a hard, benchlike couch that looked long enough to lie down on. Michael directed me that way, and I sat on the unforgiving surface. He had me shift sideways so I could put my legs up, and then he started undoing the straps around my thigh.
Once all the straps were free, Michael examined my pants, then looked up at my face. “You should take these off now so I can get a good look. I’ll make a fire . . . so you won’t be cold.”
As I thought of being half-naked in front of a stranger, a flush of embarrassment went through me. I quickly pushed it back, though. Modesty was a luxury I couldn’t afford at the moment. “I’ll need help . . . at the bottom.”
He glanced at my leg again, where my pants narrowed at the ankle, then nodded. Before getting up to make a fire, he took off my boots and set them beside the couch. I started wriggling my toes, then stopped when a shooting pain went up my ankle. God, I hoped it was just a sprain.
As flames began to slowly come to life in the airtight stove nestled in a corner, I unzipped my pants and carefully started sliding them down my body. The chill of the not-yet-heated room hit me instantly, pebbling my skin. Every movement hurt a little, but shifting my body so I could slide my pants down my hips and over my injured thigh was the worst. Once I pushed them as far as I could go, I called for help.