Under the Northern Lights(21)

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!