Under the Northern Lights(34)
Winter romances weren’t my style, and I had a feeling they weren’t Michael’s either. We needed to be extremely cautious with each other, because despite everything out there that might hurt us—being mauled by a bear, frozen in a river, impaled by a felled tree, or lost for all eternity in the woods—losing our hearts to each other might be the deadliest of all.
Chapter Twelve
The whiteout conditions eventually eased into gentler snowfalls and even a few sunny days, not that the sunlight helped the temperature much. It was cold, damn cold, and Michael and I spent a lot of time warming up by the fire when we weren’t working our butts off to keep surviving. It made me instantly realize just how much I’d taken for granted all of the modern conveniences that took the hardship out of everyday life. Electricity. Running water. Thermostats controlling the heat. Showers. Washing machines. Refrigerators. I made a vow to kiss every appliance I owned when I returned to my quaint little home in a few months.
I was having a really weird dream about marrying a microwave when I was aroused into awareness by the tantalizing smell of the most amazing meat on earth: bacon. My eyes popped open, and I was greeted by the underside of the logs forming the ceiling. Stretching out the kinks in my back, I looked over to the stove, where Michael was standing, tending to the frying pan.
He looked over when he heard me stir. “Good morning,” he said, a warm smile on his face.
“Morning,” I yawned in response. Tossing off my blankets, I gingerly stood from my hard couch bed and walked over to Michael. “Bacon?” I said, glancing into the pan. “I didn’t know you had bacon in the shed.”
Flipping a couple of perfectly browned pieces over, Michael’s grin grew as he said, “I was saving it for a special occasion.”
Intrigued, I asked, “Oh? And what’s the occasion?”
Michael gave me an odd, amused look before returning his attention to the bacon. “It’s Christmas, Mallory.”
“Oh . . . right.” I’d known it was quickly approaching, but without a calendar to help pinpoint the days, the passing of time became a blur. Especially up here, when it was dark more often than it was light.
A thick knot of sadness threatened to take control of my stomach as I thought of my family waking up without me nearby, hoping I was alive but fearing I was dead. I firmly pushed the grief aside. Michael was trying to make today special for me. I wanted to focus on him, on how sweet he was being, and not dwell on the people who were missing me.
“What can I do to help?” I said, throwing on a smile.
“How about some Christmas pancakes to go with our Christmas bacon?” he said, his entire expression loose and easy. It was like for this one day, all his walls were down. I loved seeing the freedom in his eyes.
“I can do pancakes,” I said, practically skipping as I got to work.
After our breakfast, I thanked Michael by offering to do the dishes. “That would be great. It will give me time to finish up your present.”
My jaw nearly dropped at his statement. “Present? I didn’t know we were doing presents. I didn’t get you anything . . . and what could you possibly have gotten for me around here?” There wasn’t exactly a mall close to us.
Michael smirked at me as he finished putting on his boots. “You’ll see.” His face grew more serious as he stood up. “And don’t worry about getting me something. Just having you here has been . . .” He cleared his throat after his voice trailed off, and warmth blossomed in my chest. Having me here was his gift? His loneliness was practically radiating around the room. He shouldn’t keep staying out here by himself. He should go back home . . . once I left.
Like he knew where my mind had taken me, Michael pointed at the door. “I should get going.”
I nodded and watched him leave, but my mind was spinning with questions. And concerns. Would Michael be all right once he was alone again? Granted, he’d been living this way for years, but somehow, things felt different, like it would be harder for him this go-round. While I was so grateful that I’d met him, I felt horrible that I’d caused him to be at all discontented with this solitary life he’d chosen. And I really wanted to know why he’d chosen it, because I still didn’t understand.
When he returned a couple of hours later, I was slowly winning the battle with the always-dirty floor. Not by much, but there were places now that looked like they might be clean, and I was claiming it as a victory.
Michael poked his head in the door, clearly keeping something from view. “Close your eyes,” he told me.
With a sigh, I did what he asked. “This really isn’t fair. I didn’t know we were exchanging gifts. And me being here doesn’t count . . . I hadn’t planned on that.” Michael didn’t say anything about my comment, just continued hauling something into the house. It sounded big and cumbersome, and I was dying to crack my eyes open and steal a glance. I refrained, but it was difficult.
Finally, I heard the door shut, and Michael said, “Okay, you can look now.”
When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. “Ummm . . . thanks?” It looked like a couple of heavy sheets sewn together with something shoved between them. It kind of reminded me of a cloth beanbag chair, only longer, more rectangular.
Michael laughed, then moved the contraption over to the hard bench I was using as a bed. He started spreading it out over the wooden slab, and I instantly understood. “You made a mattress? For me?”