Under the Northern Lights(60)

Michael relaxed after the shed was protected and spent a lot of time resting in the cabin. When I wasn’t doing chores for the two of us, I was with him. Resting. And kissing. And wishing things were different.

“So, how are you feeling today, Mr. Bradley?” I playfully asked him, checking his bandages.

“Like I was mauled by a bear,” he answered, a smile on his lips. As he examined my handiwork with me, his smile grew. “Not bad, Mallory. I think you might have a future in health care.”

Not ever wanting to cause someone that much pain again, I shook my head. “No thanks. I’ll leave that to you.” Michael’s expression slipped, and I quickly altered my sentence to, “I’ll leave that to people like you.”

He gave me a half-hearted grin, like he appreciated my attempt to fix my blunder. Then he smiled widely as though all was forgiven. “In all seriousness, you do have talent. Those stitches are excellent . . . and I think it’s time they came out.”

My blood felt frozen again. I wasn’t ready to hurt him again. “What? Already? Wouldn’t it be better to wait another week or so?”

Still smiling, Michael shook his head. “That would actually make them harder to remove. Best to do it now, before things get too . . . sticky.”

My stomach roiled, but resignation swept over me. “Okay . . .”

Michael reached down to caress my hand. “It will be fine. I’ll talk you through it.”

“Whiskey,” I stated, standing to retrieve the emergency bottle of pain relief.

Michael shook his head. “No, I can take this sober. I’ll be fine.”

I tossed him a wry smile. “It’s not for you.” He laughed but said nothing when I grabbed the bottle and took a swig. Or two.

When I felt steady enough, I grabbed a pair of scissors and headed back to where he was waiting on my bed. In his underwear. If there was one thing that I could possibly thank the bear for, it was for giving me an excuse to get Michael half-dressed on numerous occasions. But no . . . that wasn’t enough to make up for what he’d gone through. What he was going through.

Once I had the scissors and a couple of fresh gauze pads, I squatted down in front of him. “Okay . . . what do I do?”

With a smooth, calm, professional voice, he instructed me on just how I should cut the thread and pull out the pieces. I was very relieved when it didn’t seem to bother him as much as I’d feared; he only flinched a few times and let out a pained exhale once, when a stubborn thread near the edge refused to move and I had to yank especially hard. I apologized profusely every time I appeared to cause him the slightest pain, and he told me over and over that it was fine, that he was okay. I truly wished I believed that.

After he was cleaned up and dressed, I headed outside to get us some meat from the shed for lunch. I always took my gun with me now, double-and triple-checking that it was strapped across my back before I headed out.

It was a quiet morning, but even so, I scanned the forest, searching for signs of trouble. All I saw was white snow specked with brown earth, and all I heard was the occasional splish-splashing of water droplets hitting the branches. When I got to the shed, faint remnants of the attack were still visible—places where the snow had been cleaned away, deep gouges in the door. It scared me to the bone to think about what could have happened here.

I was just about to unlatch the shed when I heard something besides the drip-dropping of melting snow. It was an odd, unnatural sound, but a familiar one too. It took me only a couple of moments to figure out what it was, and when I did, my heart started surging in my chest. A plane.

Stepping away from the shed, I started searching the sky for the source of the noise. When the plane appeared, I was surprised by how low it was flying, just above the treetops. If I hadn’t been frozen in shock, I could have waved to the pilot, and he easily would have seen me.

The plane flew right over the top of me, heading for the clearing where Michael stored his airplane. I thought it might land, thought we might have a visitor—and an instant way home—but as I watched, a door in the side opened, and a small box was pushed out. The plane continued on while a parachute on the box carried it gently to the ground. Michael’s spare parts, what he’d been waiting all winter for.

Sharp pain crashed through me as I thought of what that box meant for us. Separation, finality, the end. I’d go home, and Michael would be left alone. As I watched the box drift below the tree line into the clearing near Michael’s plane, I debated not telling him it was here. I could pretend I hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, pretend nothing had been dropped. But no . . . I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t do that to Michael. Fixing his plane wasn’t only about flying me home. It was also how Michael was going to get the supplies he needed to make it here another lonely year. Avoiding this wasn’t a possibility—I had to face it head-on. As hard as that was.

Forgetting about the shed, I headed back to the cabin. When I opened the door, Michael was still resting on my bed. He looked my way when I entered. “Did I hear a plane?” he asked.

Closing the door behind me, I nodded. “Yeah, they air-dropped the part you’ve been waiting for . . .”

As my voice trailed off, a heavy, ominous feeling settled over the room. Michael stared at me just as unflinchingly as I stared back at him. We both knew what that meant. “Oh,” he finally said. “I guess we should go get it before something tries to run off with it.”