Across a Thousand Miles (4 page)

“He's not mine,” Rebecca said stonily. “How long does he have to stay in bed?”

“If I were you,” Hedda advised, “I'd keep him there as long as possible.”

“Sadie! I'm serious. My first clients of the season are coming to stay in this cabin very soon, and I need to do a lot of work on it before they arrive. I can't have it tied up as a hospital! Shouldn't we transport him into Dawson?”

“He'd be better off not moving. He'll need a week of bed rest, followed by another three weeks of recuperation.”

Rebecca stared over Sadie's shoulder at the man who lay on the lower bunk on the cabin wall opposite the woodstove. He apparently felt her gaze and turned his head to meet her eyes. In the soft glow of lamplight his eyes were unreadable. She felt a twinge of guilt, but after all, she had a business to run.

“Look, Sadie, I'll have to take him into Dawson. He'll get a lot more attention at the clinic. I have too much work to do here.”

“Well,” Sadie said, “it's up to you, of course. I understand how things are. Can you possibly keep him here for two days? Yes? Good!” She pulled on her mitts and reached for her bag. “Becky, I wish you all the best, but I have to go. Roady Dan's woman is expecting any moment now, and I promised I'd stay near my radio phone.” She looked over her shoulder. “I'll check on you tomorrow, Bill MacKenzie, and no getting out of that bed to fix your truck!” she said. Then, with Rebecca on her heels, she exited the guest cabin and walked to her pickup truck.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, Sadie,” Rebecca said. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Keep an eye on him, Becky. He's just the sort to try and crawl out of here under his own power. He really shouldn't be moving around at all for a while.” With a cheerful wave, the nurse practitioner
and EMT, who covered an area of some five hundred square miles, drove off.

Rebecca walked back to the main cabin where Sam and Ellin were waiting for Sadie's prognosis. She delivered it glumly, slumping into a chair and dropping her head into her hands. “I rue the day that man ever drove his truck into my yard.”

“Now, Rebecca,” Ellin said, “let's just be grateful that he wasn't more seriously hurt.”

“I can't be grateful for that right now, because right now I've got to drive clear to Flat Creek, find his cabin, and feed his hungry dogs, who incidentally, probably haven't eaten for several days. Fred Turner was in charge of feeding them.”

Sam cleared his throat. “I know where that cabin is. Been over that way a time or two to visit Fred. I expect I could show you the way.”

“I didn't know you ever visited Fred Turner,” Ellin said, her voice radiating surprised disapproval. “I can't imagine what the two of you have in common. Why, that man is nothing more than an alcoholic reprobate!”

“Well, now, Ellin—”

“Would you drive over with me, Sam?” Rebecca asked. “I'll feed my dogs before we go just in case we get back late. We can throw ten bags of food into the back of my truck and ferry it over.”

“And what about tomorrow?” Ellin asked pointedly. “Who's going to feed those dogs tomorrow?”

Rebecca stared at her and then nodded slowly. “You're right.” She slumped again, reconsidering. “Okay. Sam, here's what we'll do. We'll drive over with one bag of food. We'll feed the dogs, load them into my dog truck and bring them back here. Tomorrow I'll sort out the rest. At least the dogs will be safe and cared
for.” She pushed wearily to her feet. “I'll get started with my chores.”

“And I'll run Ellin home on the snowmobile,” Sam said, “and be back directly.”

“You will not,” Ellin retorted. “What about that poor young man? Who's going to watch him? No, I'd better stay right here and keep an eye on Mac while you two do what you have to do.”

“Thanks, Ellin,” Rebecca said gratefully. “I guess we'll be back when we get here.”

As she lugged the heavy buckets around the dog yard, scooping out the evening feed a good two hours early to her surprised huskies, she reflected on how much more complicated life had become in the past two days. She finished her chores in record time while Sam filled the wood box and hauled a couple of buckets of water from the spring. They climbed into her dog truck and she gave the cold engine a good prime before turning it on. It caught instantly and roared to life. “There's nothing like a Ford,” she said to Sam, who returned with his usual, “unless it's a Chevy.”

She was driving past the guest cabin when its door opened and that damn nuisance of a man emerged, pulling on his parka and weakly waving for her to stop. She did, nearly throwing Sam into the dashboard. She jumped out of the truck and charged toward him. “Where do you think you're going! Get back inside!” She raised her arm and pointed behind him. “If you puncture a lung, don't expect any sympathy from me!”

MacKenzie finished pulling on his parka. “If you're going up to my place, I figured I'd ride along. I can take care of my dogs better than anyone. All I ask is that you throw a few bags of food in the back of your truck.”

“I mean it,” Rebecca warned. “Get back into bed!”

“I feel fine. I can certainly ride in a truck for a couple of hours, and I can take care of my own dogs. You'll have your cabin back, too.”

“I won't say it again,” Rebecca warned.

“You won't have to,” Ellin said, walking up behind MacKenzie. “Go on, Rebecca. You and Sam get going.” She reached out and closed one hand firmly around MacKenzie's upper arm. “You may think you're big and tough, young man, but believe me, you don't have anything on little old Ellin Dodge.”

Rebecca turned on her heel, stormed back to the truck and hoisted herself behind the wheel. Without looking back, she gunned the truck down the rutted, snow-covered track, causing Sam to clutch the dash with both hands.

“I'm so sick of arrogant, egotistical men!” Rebecca blurted.

“Well, I can surely understand that,” Sam said, casting her a wry glance. “You see so darn many of 'em on a day-to-day basis!”

It took nearly two hours to drive to the MacKenzie cabin on the banks of Flat Creek, the last few miles of unplowed road a white-knuckled adventure. “There it is,” Sam said, as the truck's headlights picked out a wall of gray weathered logs. No lights shone from the windows, no smoke curled from the chimney, but to Rebecca's relief the dogs appeared to be all right. She put on her headlamp and carried a bucket of kibble around the dog lot, giving each hungry animal a generous scoop. “This dog's name is Merlin,” she said to Sam. “He's Brian's best leader and one of the smartest dogs I've ever known.” She gave Merlin a friendly pat. “I'll water them when we get them home,” she said. “They aren't
dying of thirst, not with a foot and a half of snow on the ground.”

She went to the cabin door, noting that there were no tracks in the snow, and pulled the latch string. The door swung open. The cabin's interior was as cold as ice, and in the light cast from her headlamp she panned the small, low-eaved room. It was an unbelievable mess. Dirty dishes and cooking pans filled the dry sink. A frying pan with something still in it was atop the stove. Clothing was heaped and thrown everywhere and trash covered the floor. Three empty whiskey bottles stood upon the cluttered table. Fred Turner had obviously stayed long enough to drink all of MacKenzie's liquor before moving to greener pastures.

She slammed the door shut behind her and began the arduous process of loading fourteen dogs into her truck, gambling on which dogs could share a dog box without fighting. At length she and Sam had accomplished the task and the nervous growls and whines had faded into silence. It had begun to snow again. “Well,” she said to Sam, “let's head for home.”

They left the MacKenzie cabin and crept slowly homeward in steadily worsening conditions. By the time her familiar turnoff came into view, three more hours had passed, and it was nearly midnight when they pulled into the kennel yard. Ellin had kept the lamps burning in the cabin, and the yellow glow shining through the frosted windowpanes warmed Rebecca's heart. “Sam, take Ellin home in my plow truck,” she said as they climbed wearily out of the cab. “I'll start it and get it warming up for you. And thanks a million for helping out.”

“Anytime, Rebecca. You know that.”

Ellin was waiting at the door when she entered. “He's still alive,” she said.

“What a relief,” Rebecca said, scowling.

“It hasn't been easy for him. He's in quite a bit of pain, but he tries not to let on. His dog is in the cabin with him. She really wanted to be near him.”

“Ellin, have you been holding his hand the whole time we've been gone?”

“No, but I looked in on him from time to time and kept the woodstove going. I brought him some supper, some of your stew. I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course not,” Rebecca said.

“He ate a little bit, but he doesn't look very good to me. I think you should check on him. Maybe we should call Sadie back.”

“Certainly not. She has to drive nearly an hour to get here. If he's dying, I'll drive him into Dawson. If he isn't, he'll just have to suffer out the night. But first I'll need to let his dogs out of the boxes and water them. You two get on home. It's way past Sam's bedtime. And, Ellin?” She gave her friend a grateful hug. “Thanks. I owe you.”

Rebecca spent the next hour tethering Mac's dogs on two picket lines she'd strung between the spruce trees in her yard. She gave them pans of water flavored with meat scraps and kibble, and they drank the offering eagerly. She left them outside in the gentle snowfall while she spooned down a plate of the moose-meat stew herself, and then she loaded the dogs back into the truck for the night. This was an arduous chore. Lifting a sixty-pound dog up over her head was no easy task, especially when she was so tired. When Mac's dogs were all bedded down, she checked on her own, and then on her way back to her cabin, she paused beside the guest cabin,
debating whether to see how the patient was doing.

Finally she opened the cabin door quietly. Ellin had left a lamp burning on the table, which she'd moved closer to the bunk. Mac was asleep, and Callie was curled at his feet. His head was turned away from the table so that the lamplight shone on the back of his neck and his left shoulder. His breathing was shallow and rapid, but given the nature of his injuries, Rebecca thought that was probably to be expected.

Almost against her will, she moved closer to the bunk and gazed down at him as he slept. She felt a twinge of guilt at how she had treated him earlier. Aside from owing her a chunk of money, which he'd earnestly promised to repay, she had no real reason to dislike him so. Except…except that he was undeniably handsome, and she resented the fact that she was attracted to him. She was the widow of Bruce Reed, a man she had loved deeply and would for all time. She had no right to feel attracted to another man.

She turned away abruptly and fed three more good-size chunks of wood into the stove. With the dampers closed, the fire should hold through the night, especially since morning wasn't too far off.

She was walking toward the cabin door when Mac shifted, moved his head from side to side and moaned. His breathing became more rapid. Rebecca froze. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and one arm knocked the covers down to his waist. Callie sat up, alarmed.

“No!” he gasped harshly. “I can't reach it! It's no good, I'm pinned! Mouse, get out! Get out! Can't breathe!” His arms thrashed and his breathing became even more labored. Rebecca found herself at his side,
reaching down to stop his struggles, to wake him from the clutches of some awful nightmare, but the minute she closed her hand on his arm, he shot upright, smacking his head hard against the upper bunk. “Oh, God!” he gasped, grabbing her arm with a strength that both hurt and frightened her.

“Mac! It's me, Rebecca! It's all right, you were just dreaming. It was just a dream!” She put her hand over his, trying to reassure him.

“Mouse!” he said, his shoulders heaving as he gasped for breath.

“No, it's Rebecca! Wake up!”

He turned his head slowly and his eyes focused. “Oh, God!” he said again.

“It's all right, Mac! Everything's okay.”

He released her slowly, raised a hand to his head and then slumped back onto the bunk, flat on his back, and moaned again. His skin was cold and clammy, and his face was pale.

“It was just a dream,” Rebecca repeated. “A dream about a mouse.”

“Not a mouse,” he said, struggling for breath, remembering. “Mouse! Mouse is dead. His plane crashed.”

“It was a bad dream,” she reiterated. “Do you want another pain pill? Sadie left some for you.” She rubbed her arm where he had gripped it.

He moved his head slowly back and forth. “I'm okay,” he said.

“Try to relax. You have a bunch of broken ribs. Breathing's going to be tough for a while. I'm going to get you something to drink.”

“I don't need—”

“I don't care what you think you need or don't need,”
Rebecca said. “I'm going to get you something, anyway, and you're going to drink it!”

She stood up, trying not to show how shaken she was, and quickly left the cabin. The cold darkness of the Yukon night braced her, and she welcomed the dry, clean sting of it. What if he died here in her guest cabin, especially after the miserable way she'd treated him? She rushed to her cabin and rummaged in the cupboards until she found a bottle of rum that Bruce had bought years ago. She tried to remember how to make a hot buttered rum, but for the life of her she couldn't. She melted a good chunk of butter in a small pan, added a cup of milk and finally a generous slug of the rum. She heated a mug with hot water and poured the mixture into it, wrapped a clean towel around it to keep it warm and carried it quickly to the guest cabin. His breathing had improved, she thought, and he was still awake. These were both good signs. He smiled faintly at her, but his face was still pale.