Under the Northern Lights(62)

As I fluffed the pillow Michael was lying against as he sat on my bench bed with his legs extended, I suddenly remembered what I’d been doing before the plane changed . . . everything. “I forgot lunch—you must be starving. I’m sorry; I’ll go get some meat.”

I stood up to leave, and he grabbed my arm. “Mallory . . . I’m not hungry.” He patted the space on the bed beside him. “Stay with me.”

For a second, I could only stare into his captivating eyes, entranced. Was he asking me to sit . . . or were his words literal? He patted the bed again, and I blinked out of my trance. Michael had never officially asked me to stay because he knew that wasn’t what I wanted. And he thought his heart was frozen, incapable of moving forward. I knew the truth there—it wasn’t—but Michael hadn’t reached that conclusion yet, and I couldn’t make him. Like any revelation, he needed to come to it on his own.

But just him asking for my comfort was a step in the right direction. Or maybe it was the wrong direction. I really wasn’t sure anymore. I just knew I needed him. My heart was thudding in my chest when I sat in the scant amount of space beside him. I was so nervous, which was ridiculous since we’d done several intimate things before—that night in the tub still haunted my dreams. Sitting next to him now shouldn’t make my heart race, but it did.

Smiling at me, Michael tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

I felt my cheeks heating. He was usually the one who got embarrassed after saying something sweet, but now I was the one blushing like a schoolgirl. The tables had turned, and I wasn’t sure why. Because we had a definable expiration date now? Was that making him bolder? God, I hoped that wasn’t the reason.

“No . . . I don’t think so,” I told him. “But you probably only think that because I’m the only human female you’ve seen in months. When squirrels are your only company, anything looks good.”

He laughed but shook his head. “No. I have a good memory. I remember what attractiveness looks like . . . and it looks like you.”

My breath hitched as I stared at him, and the content feeling of rightness expanded inside me to a nearly painful level. He was so . . . everything. God . . . why can’t I keep him? Nothing and no one answered me, and I knew there wouldn’t be an answer on this. We were destined to find each other, to save each other—and we had—but that didn’t necessarily mean we were destined to be together. Happily ever after was never guaranteed.

Needing him, I leaned forward, searching for his mouth. Right before our lips touched, I whispered, “I love you.” The sound got lost in our connection, and I was grateful. Proclaiming the growing feeling inside me wouldn’t alter our future. It would only increase the pain. And I didn’t want to hurt Michael. I wanted to love him. Forever.





Chapter Twenty-Two

I wanted time to move slowly. I wanted it to drip by like a barely leaking faucet. But it didn’t. It surged like a river, with each day moving quicker than the last. Every time I saw Michael’s leg, I calculated how much longer it would be until he was completely healed, until the searing gashes were merely fading red streaks. I knew his leg was an arbitrary guideline, though, one he’d stated for my benefit only. Survival was the real timeline, and that was something that couldn’t be put on the back burner for much longer.

“Michael . . . we’re running out of salt.”

As the words trickled out of me, dread and sadness filled me. Salt wasn’t just a frivolous condiment out here. It was preservation—it was life. And while Michael might not need it right away, since his shed still held a few pounds of stored cured meat, he would need it soon.

Michael sighed as he looked into his large salt container, filled mostly with air now. There was maybe a half cup of salt left. Maybe. “It . . . will be fine. Hunting should be picking up, and then we’ll have fresh meat. Plenty of it.”

Closing the lid on the salt, I shook my head. “Hunting . . . and that requires bullets. How is your stock of ammunition? Last I saw, there was only one box remaining, and it wasn’t entirely full.”

He smiled that disarming, untroubled smile. “I guess I better be a good shot then.”

A cheerless grin curled my lips. “I know what you’re doing, and I appreciate it . . . so much, but it’s been weeks. You can’t keep avoiding the plane. You need to fix it,” I whispered.

Michael swallowed. “I know. I just don’t want to.”

Warmth filled me, sadness too. “And the fact that you don’t want to means a lot to me. But as much as we both don’t want you to do this . . . we can’t keep putting it off.” I reached up to touch his face, and he swallowed again. Then his mouth lowered to mine.

I reveled in the softness of his lips, in the rugged tickle of his beard, in the woodsy scent that constantly surrounded him. This man would have my heart for all eternity . . . I hoped he somehow knew that.

When our tender moment ended, Michael pulled away from me, reluctance on his face. “I guess I better get started. The plane won’t fix itself.”

“I’ll help you,” I said, swallowing a thick lump in my throat.

Michael shook his head. “You don’t have to. I know . . . how difficult this is.”

Did he? Did he truly understand how much I was going to miss him, how much this forced separation was killing me? Did he feel the same? “If this is . . . if the next couple of days is all we have, then I want to spend them with you.”