Gone Too Deep (18 page)

Piggyback rides had been a lot more fun when she was a kid. To be fair, though, she'd never had an hour-long piggyback ride before. Ellie shifted slightly, searching for a more comfortable position but not wanting to throw off George's balance.

George slowed to a walk. He'd been switching off between jogging and walking, running until his breath was heavy and ragged, and then slowing to rest. She tried to help as much as she could by holding on with her arms and legs, but her own body was working against her, exhaustion pulling at her until she caught her chin drifting toward George's shoulder several times.

“Let me walk,” she pleaded, but he ignored her as he had the past ten times she'd asked. “Please, George. I think it would keep me warmer.” The only reason she said that was for manipulation purposes. With George at her front and the afternoon sun on her back, she wasn't cold in the least. She did feel guilty, though, hating the feeling of literally not pulling her own weight.

Under her arms, his shoulders dipped in a sigh. “Just for a little while.” He stopped and let her slide off his back. When her feet hit the ground, her knees threatened to buckle, and Ellie grabbed the back of his coat to keep herself upright. Throwing a worried look at her over his shoulder, he started to crouch, as if to pick her up again, but she took a step back, shaking her head.

“No, I'm okay. My legs were just asleep, that's all.” To prove she was ambulatory, she started walking. The snow was looser there, without the frozen top crust, and her boots sank almost a foot with each step.

“Wait.” Bending to loosen the bindings, he stepped out of the snowshoes and motioned her toward him. “Wear these.”

She reluctantly agreed, mainly because she knew they were only as fast as the slowest person, which was most definitely her. If snowshoes would give her a little more speed, they would arrive at the cabin that much sooner.

George adjusted the bindings to grip her boots and then stood, rubbing at his head under his lavender cap.

“Head hurt?” she asked, reminded that a bullet had creased his scalp just a day earlier.

“No.” When she looked at him skeptically, he gave her a smile. “Itches. Headache's gone, though.”

“Uh-huh.” Despite his innocent expression, she didn't believe him. For him to be unconscious like he had been, it had to have been a pretty serious concussion. She was no doctor, but it made sense that his head would hurt for a while after something like that. Ellie let it go, though. “Ready?”

He shook his head and reached for the buckles on the backpack.

“I can carry it,” she protested, knowing it almost certainly wouldn't change his mind. Sure enough, he didn't even answer her as he removed the pack from her shoulders and swung it onto his own back.

“Tell me if you get tired,” he ordered with a stern look.

She didn't mention that she was already tired—almost unbearably tired. Instead, she just followed him as he plowed through the snow. As she suspected, George without snowshoes was just as fast as she was
with
snowshoes, so they continued at a steady pace.

“Where's the cabin?” she asked, puffing slightly. They were crossing a wide, mostly treeless valley, so they were able to walk side by side. Everything looked a little dreamlike and off-kilter, as if she'd had a couple of cocktails. She hoped it was just exhaustion and not brain damage caused by the avalanche. Her head didn't hurt, at least. Every muscle in her body did, but her brain seemed to have escaped damage.

He pointed in front of them and slightly to the right. “We'll circle around the base of that slope. It's in a clearing just beyond that.”

The spot he indicated looked really far away to Ellie, but she caught herself before she whined. Since he'd just
carried
her butt for over an hour, the least she could do was keep her complaining to herself. Talking helped, though. Silence just made her concentrate on how hard it was to take each step.

“Why don't you do this more?”

“What?”

She flung out a hand to indicate the surrounding scenery. The movement made the ground tilt in an odd way, so she dropped her arm to her side. “The guide thing. I bet people would pay a lot of money for you to take them camping.”
Especially if he let the women sleep in his mummy bag with him.
Even though she didn't say it out loud, the thought of those hypothetical women made her innards squirm with annoyance.

George looked like he'd just tasted something gross. “Not my thing.”

“Why not? You're really good at it. I mean, I'm clueless, and you've kept me alive so far.” When he turned to look at her with a worried frown, she wished she hadn't added the “so far.”

“You're easy,” he finally said after finishing his glowering inspection.

That made her laugh. She could tell the second he realized what he'd implied, because he actually blushed. Ellie loved that, judging by the frequency of George's blushes, she could make him just as flustered as she was around him.

“Not like that.” His cheeks burned even more brightly above his beard. “Most tourists want…things. Like talking.”

With a mock gasp, she rounded her eyes and stared at him. His form went blurry, her eyes not wanting to focus correctly. She didn't want to mention her vision issues and end up being carried again, so she joked instead. “Not
talking
! The horror!”

His frown didn't lighten. “It is for me. I'd rather not be a guide and just skip buying the extras. I don't really need another rifle. The money isn't worth it.”

“
Another
rifle?” she repeated. “How many do you have?”

He was quiet for a while, possibly doing a mental count, and then answered, “Twelve.”

That made her choke a little. When she could speak again, she said, “Yeah, that's probably enough rifles.”

His grin was back.

“What about hunting groups?” The mention of guns made her remember Joseph's side job. As she waited for George to answer, she carefully placed each snowshoe-clad step. The horizon was rocking again, tilting her like a canoe on an ocean.

Although his frown wasn't as severe as when he'd been talking about demanding tourists, it was still present. “They don't listen.” He shook his head and amended, “Most of them do. Usually, there's just one or two in each group.”

“The know-it-alls?” she asked sympathetically. “Yeah, I imagine that could be tough, especially when they're all armed.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Ellie started counting her painful, rocking steps again, so she racked her brain for another conversational topic.

“Have you ever been married?” she blurted, and then wanted to suck back the words when he gave her a startled glance. “None of my business, sorry.” A horrible thought occurred to her. What if he
was
married, like, currently? An image of an outdoorsy, tall woman, with a blond ponytail and the ability to gut a deer and start a fire without matches, filled her head. Jealousy sent a sharp pain through her stomach at this imaginary woman who'd probably still been tucked up in her and George's oversized bed when Ellie had been at his house.

“No.”

Ripped out of her homicidal thoughts about a made-up woman, she stared at him blankly. “What?”

He focused straight ahead, but his cheeks were red again. “I haven't been married.”

“Good.” Slapping a gloved hand over her mouth, she sent him a sideways glance and saw he was grinning. “I mean, that's nice. Oh, fudge, I mean…never mind.”

His smile grew at her mumbled babbling.

“Can I just start over again so we can forget the question and everything that followed?” By his amused expression, she knew he wouldn't be forgetting.

After another few minutes of silence, during which Ellie couldn't stop replaying her embarrassing moment in her head, George asked, “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Been married.”

“Oh God, no.” She shook her head and then stopped quickly when the motion made her dizzy. “I haven't even come close.”

After he grunted an acknowledgment, he went quiet again. His grin had returned, though, and Ellie wasn't sure why. She opened her mouth to ask another question, and the ground tilted again but didn't correct itself that time. Blinking, she looked at George's concerned face. It was at a strange angle, and it took her a few moments to realize she was lying on her back in the snow.

“That was weird,” she said.

After stripping off the snowshoes, he helped her to her feet, brushing the snow from her coat. His face grim, George didn't answer, but just switched the backpack to her shoulders and strapped the snowshoes onto his own feet. Turning away from her, he crouched, waiting.

Resigning herself to being a literal burden once again, she climbed onto his back.

* * *

Time went a little strange after that.

“El!”

She jerked, her arms and legs tightening around George convulsively.

“Stay awake.”

She was trying, but the blackness kept falling over her, despite her best efforts. “Sorry.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded slurred. Her body bounced with George's running strides. It was hard to tell when she kept going unconscious, but she was pretty sure he was jogging more than he was walking. His breathing was jagged, and his arms shook where they supported the backs of her thighs.

“We close?” She needed to talk to keep herself awake, but each word was a huge effort.

“Yeah,” he panted. “There…soon.”

Her head sagged forward until it rested on George's shoulder. The motion jarred her forehead, but her neck didn't feel strong enough to support it. “I can walk.”

His snort came out more like a gasp. “You…can't…walk. You…can hardly…talk.”

“Look who's talking!” she said, although her garbled words kind of proved his point. Forcing her head to lift, she cracked open her eyes. The sun was mostly gone, and everything looked gray in the twilight. There was a shape, though, crouching in the snow some distance in front of them. “That it?”

“That's…it.” Despite his heaving breaths, George increased his speed.

“Made it.” Dropping her head back onto his shoulder, she fell back into the darkness.

When Ellie went limp, George bent forward, clutched her legs, and added another burst of speed as he ran for the cabin. Air sawed in and out of his lungs, but he couldn't get enough oxygen. Cramps ripped across his diaphragm, and his legs wobbled. His body had had just about enough of the rough treatment, but panic allowed him to finish his sprint to the cabin's porch.

The edge of the first porch step caught on the snowshoe, and he crouched to rip open the bindings. Standing proved difficult, but he managed, even with the deadweight on his back. He stepped out of the snowshoes and climbed the last five steps.

The cabin door swung inward, and George took a stumbling step toward the welcoming glow of light. He froze halfway into his forward lurch when he saw the business end of a shotgun pointed directly at his head.

A renewed burst of panic flooded him at the knowledge that Ellie's head was resting right next to his, directly in the line of fire.

“It's Ellie!” George yelled, scrambling to put space between her and the gun's barrels. He teetered on the edge of the top step, barely stopping himself from falling back and landing on El. “It's your daughter. It's Ellie.”

His breath rasped in and out of his lungs, his throat tight from exertion and shock. The silhouetted man in the doorway didn't say anything, but he didn't fire either, so that was a positive.

“She came to find you.” He forced out the words despite the way talking ground against his throat like a power sander. “You called her, said you were going to her grandpa's cabin, so she asked me to bring her here. She was caught in an avalanche.” That was almost impossible to say, but for different reasons. Hearing the words out loud made sheer terror flood back into his muscles, making his whole body shake. “I dug…I dug her out, but something's wrong. She seemed fine, was talking, but then she went down. I carried her here, but she keeps passing out. Something's wrong. She needs medical care from someone who knows more than me.”

Out of words, George just stood and gasped for air. After what felt like an infinite amount of time, the man in the doorway slowly lowered his gun. George had to resist the overpowering urge to leap forward and disarm the man. This was El's dad, and he was the most likely source of help, hopefully in the form of a radio.

“I was…I was a medic in the army,” Baxter said, his eyes on where Ellie's head rested on George's shoulder. “It was a long time ago, a long time ago, but I used to know a lot about fixing broken bodies.”

“Then you need to fix our girl.” George shoved his way past the older man into the cabin.

Ellie frowned without opening her eyes, trying to figure out what had woken her. She finally realized that she was too hot. After spending the past three nights fighting to stay warm, it was an alien feeling, and she reluctantly pried open her eyelids.

The unfamiliar surroundings made her eyes pop wide as she sat up abruptly, then gave a belated groan. Every muscle in her body hurt. She was in a small cabin, similar to Willard Gray's former home. Except for a tiny wooden table and two chairs, it was empty of furniture. There was a woodstove in the corner. Judging by the red glow of the stovepipe, it was responsible for her overheating.

Her bedding was familiar. She was tucked into the sleeping bag she'd been using, and the inflated pad provided cushioning from the rough-planked floor. Morning light struggled through many years' worth of dirt on the single window opposite the door, showing that she was alone in the cabin.

Before the thought could make her nervous, the door opened, and an older man entered with his arms full of firewood, followed by George with a similar load. It took her a second before she recognized the first man, which sent a flush of shame through her. What kind of person forgot what her own father looked like? “Dad?”

His head whipped around, and he dropped the armload into a wooden box a few feet from the stove while keeping his gaze fixed on her. “Hey, baby girl.” His voice was tentative. After taking two steps toward her, he faltered and stopped. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.” Shrugging, she held back a wince. Even that small movement hurt. “A little sore. What happened last night?” She shifted to her knees. Since she still had her fleece layer on over her long underwear, she was decently covered. Pausing a moment, she let her screeching muscles adjust to the new position before starting to stand.

George was next to her in a second, offering a hand, which she accepted gratefully. Even after that first day of hiking, she'd never been so sore. Neither George nor Baxter volunteered an answer to her question, which made her extra-curious.

“I just remember bits and pieces, and I might have been dreaming some of it.” As she thought about those flashes of memory, she grimaced and looked at George. “Did you have to carry me here?”

He shrugged.

“Sorry.” Wrinkling her nose, she said, “I don't know what was wrong with me. I felt kind of strange, but okay, and then the world went sideways.”

“No, that was you.” It was always a surprise when George made a joke—a good surprise.

She couldn't help but smile as she swatted his arm. “Yeah, I figured that.”

“The shock,” Baxter blurted, bringing her attention back to him. “That's why…at least I think… You'll be okay. I hope… I hope you'll be okay.” He was eyeing her with such intensity, such…
longing
that it made her uncomfortable. Dropping her gaze, she leaned against George's arm, not sure how to handle this father-daughter reunion.

“Still want to get you checked out by a doctor.” The bass rumble of George's voice vibrated through her. It was comforting, and she leaned on him a little harder.

“Is there a radio here?” She glanced around at the bare-bones cabin, doubting that there was anything except a mouse or two in the ancient structure.

“No.” George sounded grim. “I'll need to hike to the road.”

Narrowing her eyes at him, she used her sternest voice. “
We'll
need to hike, you mean.”

He was shaking his head before she finished the sentence. Apparently, her commanding tone needed some work.

“George—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.” His mouth flattened into an inflexible line.

“But I—”

“You need to stay here with your father.” He gave her a meaningful look. Torn, she glanced at Baxter and back at George. He'd make better time without having to babysit her, and she really should keep an eye on her dad. Despite the logical reasons she should stay at the cabin while George went for help, she felt an ache in her chest at the thought of being away from him. It was crazy, since she'd known him such a short time, but he'd become important to her. If something happened to him—like getting shot in the head—she wanted to be there. It would be so hard to be left behind, to wonder and worry and fret until George made it back to her. She looked between the two men and knew she didn't have a choice. Her shoulders drooped.

“Fine.” Lowering her voice, she let her hand brush against his. “You'll be careful?”

Tipping his head down, he gave her a sweet smile. “Yes.”

“No getting shot again. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“How long do you think it'll take for you to reach the road?”

Lifting one shoulder in a half shrug, he estimated, “Tomorrow morning, if I don't stop and the weather holds.”

She blinked. “I really held you back, didn't I?”

Leaning so close his lips almost touched her temple, he said quietly, “You did fine.”

As always, a tiny bit of praise from George made her beam. She quickly sobered, though. “When are you leaving?”

“Now.” Reaching into both coat pockets, he pulled out the gun she'd taken off the robber, as well as its magazine. He held them out to her, but she took a step back, holding her hands behind her in a gesture she knew was childish but she couldn't help. Instead of pushing the issue, he walked over to the table and laid them down before focusing on Baxter. “Show her how to use it.”

Despite Ellie's protesting sound, her father nodded. Grabbing a compression sack from the backpack leaning against the wall, George headed for the sleeping bag she'd recently vacated. While he shoved it into the bag, she deflated the pad, wondering if it was the last time they'd break camp—well, sort of camp—together.

They worked silently, melting snow in a pan on top of the woodstove and then pouring the hot water through a coffee filter into the insulated bottles. Ellie thought about how nice it would be just to turn on a faucet to get clean, unfrozen water. Baxter pulled out a half dozen foil packets from his own pack and tucked them into George's. Ellie eyed them curiously as George gave him a nod of thanks.

“What are those?”

“MREs.”

She wasn't any more enlightened after George's short reply, so she kept looking at him expectantly.

“Meals Ready to Eat.”

“Like what we ate?” Although she tried to keep a poker face, she could feel her nose wrinkling. “Yum.”

Her voice was flat, and George shot her an amused look. “Yes, but no hot water required.”

“So extra-tasty, then.”

“They're not too bad.”

Ellie decided that he must have very forgiving taste buds. She tucked the last water bottle upside down in its holder on the outside of George's pack. “Is that it?”

After a quick inventory, he hoisted the backpack onto his shoulders. Her stomach heavy, she grabbed her coat and shoved her arms into the sleeves. When George gave her a look, she held her hands up defensively.

“I'm just going to see you out,” she told him, pulling on her boots. “I won't cling to your leg or anything.”

His severe expression lightened as the corner of his mouth twitched into a half smile. After exchanging nods with Baxter, he walked out the door, Ellie close behind him.

The cold air shocked her after the toasty interior of the cabin, and she tugged her coat sleeves down until her hands disappeared. It was still very early, and the sun had just crested the mountain peaks to the east. George descended the stairs and stepped into the snowshoes. Ellie tested the rickety, waist-high railing that surrounded the porch. Finding it fairly sturdy, she leaned against it and watched as George secured the bindings.

To her surprise, he walked over to her. Even with his excessive height and the boost of a couple of feet of snow beneath him, their eyes were on the same level as they faced each other with the railing between them.

“Be safe,” she said quietly.

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They stared at each other for another long moment, and then his lips were on hers. The kiss was sweet and simple and the most incredible thing she'd ever felt. A rush of sensations—heat and longing, affection and need—roared through her, warming her from the inside out. Ellie leaned against the railing, wanting to get closer to him, needing more than the gentle contact but, at the same time, perfectly content to stay where they were forever. Too soon, he retreated, his burning gaze holding hers for several backward steps until he turned and walked into the open expanse of white. She watched him until he disappeared, her hand pressed to her tingling lips.

“Eleanor.” Baxter's voice from the doorway made her jump and quickly whip her hand to her side. “Come inside. It's cold. You'll get cold, baby girl.”

She sighed and moved past him into the warmth of the cabin. “Why do you call me Eleanor? You're the only one who does.”

“I remember… I remember holding you.” He smiled, his gaze far away. “You were brand-new, so tiny. So tiny.” When he paused, she cocked her head, wondering if he was answering her question in a roundabout way or just lost in his memories. “I looked down at you, and you were…your face was so red. I said, ‘Hello, Eleanor. Hello, baby girl.'” Ellie smiled back at him. “You've always…always been Eleanor, my baby girl.”

After taking off her coat and boots, she sat down in one of the chairs. It creaked ominously underneath her, and she frowned, making a mental note to hold very still so she didn't end up on the floor in a pile of splintered wood. “I was named after your grandma, right?”

He nodded. Although he'd taken a couple of steps closer to the table when she'd sat, he stayed standing. His right hand rubbed his left forearm, sparking a memory. She remembered him doing that a lot when she was little. Wondering if he was nervous, she kept her voice light. “What would I have been called if I had been a boy? Baxter Junior?”

“No.” Shaking his head, he kept his serious expression despite her teasing smile. “No. I wouldn't want to have given you that, to have put that on you. It's my curse, and I'll keep it. My problem, not my baby girl's. Not hers. Not, not, not.”

Her smile faded as he began to pace. “Dad, it's okay.” He ignored her, walking the length of the cabin while rubbing his arm with almost violent friction. “Dad. You never answered my question.”

Although she thought he was too caught up in his mental world to hear her, he looked at her. “What?”

“If I'd been a boy, what would you have named me?” It was an effort, but she kept her words slow and calm. Inside, though, her heart was pounding. She'd been a kid the last time she'd spent any amount of time with her father, and she didn't know the best way to interact with him. What if something she said sent him over the edge?

For now, at least, he stopped pacing. “Micah.” His voice was quiet. “Micah James.”

“I like that.” Resting her chin in her cupped hands, she smiled tentatively. “I wouldn't have minded being a Micah James.”

Watching her warily, he eased himself toward the other chair. “You've…you've grown up pretty. No, beautiful. I meant beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Ducking her head a little, she smoothed her hair below the edge of her hat. Strands were coming loose from the braid she'd twisted it into the morning before. “I'm a mess right now. I'd kill for a shower.”

“No shower here, but there's… I can heat water. For washing.”

“That would be wonderful,” she said, her words heartfelt as she started to stand. “Want me to get some snow to melt?”

Shaking his head, he headed for the door. “No…no. I'll get it. I'll take care of you, baby girl. For once, I'll…I'll take care of you.”

Ellie sank back into her chair with a nod, giving him a smile that shook around the edges. He pulled on his coat and boots and grabbed the pan before heading out the door. Her smile fading, she rested her head in her folded arms, careful to avoid touching the gun and magazine sitting on the table next to her elbow.

Being with Baxter was harder than she'd thought it would be. Actually, she mentally corrected herself; that wasn't true. She just hadn't thought about anything past the point of finding him and taking him to get help. Now, though, seeing him in person, she wasn't sure how to accomplish that. When George brought back help, would her father bolt? Was her search and rescue mission just going to drive him out of the semi-safety of the cabin?

With a groan, she rolled her forehead across her arm, feeling the twinge of sore muscles in both her neck and her arm as she did so. In the interest of not driving herself crazy, she decided to just deal with the situation as it came. She didn't know Baxter well enough to form any sort of plan.

“You okay, baby girl?” he asked, making her jump and sit up straight. She hadn't heard him come back into the cabin.

“Yeah, Dad. I'm okay.” Ellie resisted rubbing the back of her neck where the muscles had protested her abrupt movement.

Baxter set the snow-filled pan on top of the woodstove and dumped in some water from one of the remaining bottles. The action made her think of George.

“I'm just a little worried about George,” she admitted.

Giving her a surprisingly lucid look, her dad said, “That boy knows what he's doing. He'll be fine.”

“I know.” In her brain she did know, but her twisting gut was another matter.

* * *

After washing as best she could with a couple of cups of water, no soap, and her father in the room, Ellie finger-combed her hair and rebraided it. It was amazing how much better she felt after such basic ablutions. Although the toothpaste had been in George's stolen pack, she'd grabbed her toothbrush while helping George get ready to leave that morning, so she cleaned her teeth with water and bristles.