Under the Northern Lights(22)

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 . . .