Under the Northern Lights(17)

“Good,” Michael said. He carefully removed my sock; I bit my lip the entire time. Once my foot was free, he grabbed a wrap and began working it around my ankle. “This will help with support,” he said, and I had to admit that when he was finished, it did feel better.

Once he was satisfied with my ankle, he smiled up at me. “Let’s patch up your ribs, and then you should be good to go.” His eyes stopped on my chest, and he awkwardly said, “I’ll need you to . . . take that . . . off.”

I crossed an arm over my chest. “Why do I have to be naked?”

A nervous laugh escaped him. “Just . . . your jacket.”

Embarrassment washed through me. Of course he’d need my heavy jacket off to wrap my ribs. God, I was an idiot. Carefully unzipping the jacket, I slipped it off my shoulders and dropped it to the ground. I had multiple layers on underneath the jacket—a thin tank top and a long-sleeved Henley. I left both of them on as I lay down on the board beneath me, and then I slowly pulled them up as high as they would go. That would have to be good enough. Attractive doctor or not, I wasn’t about to strip any further in front of a man who’d only had sporadic access to the opposite sex for years.

Michael was still staring at my chest. I was almost offended, until I realized he wasn’t looking at my body—he was enraptured with the cross hanging around my neck. Again, he looked grieved. I wrapped my fingers around the necklace, and his eyes snapped to mine. He gave me a brief smile like he hadn’t been staring. Then he reached into his bag for another roll of bandages.

Curious, I asked him, “Do you go to church? Or . . . did you, before you came out here?”

He frowned and studiously began unwrapping the tan, clingy fabric. “Once upon a time. I don’t buy into all that anymore, though.”

Sadness swelled in me. I knew a lot of people who had either never believed or who had stopped believing, and most of the time, it was grief that had caused the break. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes flashed to mine; they were guarded now. “For what?”

“For whatever made you turn away.” He averted his eyes, and unmistakable pain flashed over his face. It made me want to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay, like he had with me earlier. “It’s never too late to change your mind,” I offered. “God loves finding lost sheep.”

The pain was instantly replaced with anger. “I’m not lost. I don’t want to be found—by him or anyone.”

Anger was also a common response from people. And it, too, usually masked pain. “That’s too bad,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

The airiness in my tone seemed to do the trick, and his anger faded. “That’s debatable,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Most things are,” I said with a smile. He rolled his eyes again and reached over to begin wrapping the bandage around me. I grabbed his hand, stopping him. “Even still, I’m sorry you lost your faith, Michael.”

He opened his mouth, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to start arguing again. But then the spark in his eyes faded, and he sighed. “Let’s just get you patched up, okay?”

I nodded, then relaxed on the hard bench and let him get back to work. It was none of my business anyway.





Chapter Six

I was stiff and sore when I woke up the next morning. Michael had politely offered me his bed when we’d turned in for the night, but I hadn’t felt right taking it, so I’d declined and slept on the hard bench-couch instead. It hadn’t taken me long to realize it wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, even using some of Michael’s extra blankets for padding. But being in the cabin felt like a four-star hotel after my one-man tent, so I wasn’t about to complain. As I carefully stretched, it was a relief to feel that my injuries were somewhat less painful than yesterday; my body was starting to repair itself.

The cabin was gray with the soft light filtering in through the front windows, and I could see Michael sitting on a kitchen chair, pulling on a boot. There was a fire crackling behind him, filling the room with a pleasant warmth. A cast-iron pan was resting on top of the stove, and something inside it was sizzling and crackling; the smell wafting from it made my stomach growl. It had been a while since I’d had more than dried meat and protein bars.

Noticing that I was awake, Michael walked over to me once his boots were on. “How are you feeling?”

I tried flexing my wrapped ankle but stopped when a slight spasm of pain went through me. “Better . . . but still not great.”

He nodded, not too surprised. “Keep your leg up—try to stay off it.”

His advice was good, and I knew that, but I hated the idea of just lying there while he did all the work. I’d gone on enough extended camping trips to know how much there was to do every day. The look he was giving me broached no objections, though. Sitting up, I smiled and told him, “Okay, Doc.”

He immediately frowned. “Don’t call me that. It’s not who I am anymore.” Like he knew he was being a bit rude, his expression softened, and he added, “Please, just call me Michael.”

“Okay . . . Michael,” I amended.

His smile was swift but appreciative. Nodding back at the fire, he said, “Breakfast is just about done. You almost slept through it.”