Making New Memories (3 page)

He continues to hold my hand in his as we
start off toward the landing site. After a few minutes, I ask,
"Scoot, what is your real name?"

"Dylan, Dylan Drake," he answers.

"Dylan, I like that. It's a strong name."

Smiling to himself, Dylan relishes the warmth
her words cause deep down in his soul.

*******

Around noon Dylan stops and hands me a box.
On it I read MRE, Meal Ready to Eat. Looking at the package
questioningly I ask, "Is this suppose to be food?"

Laughing, Dylan says, "That's what the
Marines tell us but we have never known for sure. It is nourishing
and will keep you from starving. Try to eat as much as you
can."

I nibble at the contents of the package,
"Well, it's not too bad. I guess I could live on these for a little
while if I had to."

When we head out again, Dylan says, "Let me
know if you need to rest. I'm sure you aren't use to walking this
far and the snow is making it tougher."

I answer, "I'm fine so far. It's
invigorating. I'm in much better shape now than I was when I first
came to Montana. Chopping wood and hunting for food gives you a
good bit of physical exercise."

Surprised and somewhat impressed by her
words, Dylan asks, "Would you tell me about why you came to
Montana?"

"Sure, that's easy. I was trying to get away
from the Paparazzi. After my Dad committed suicide they were
relentless, like vultures picking at the bones of his carcass. I
couldn't stand it. Every time I ventured outside my house they
would appear out of nowhere stalking me, crowding me, snapping
pictures, yelling questions. It terrifies me.

"Finally I got in my car and drove away. It
took me a long time just to lose them but with Barry's help I
finally did and I made my way to Montana where I have been living
in seclusion for three years. On my last trip into Kalispell for
supplies I ran into one of the reporters that covered my story in
Los Angeles and he recognized me immediately. I fled but he
evidently followed me because he showed up at the cabin two days
later. I knew he would only be the first and soon the others would
follow. I had to leave. I panicked though and I didn't take
anything with me except the sleeping bag and my cell phone. I was
stupid."

"Can you tell me what happened to cause your
Dad to commit suicide?" he asks. He wants to keep her talking so
the miles will pass faster and he really wants to know more about
her.

Thinking back I say, "Well, I'm not really
sure. I know he was putting together a big movie deal based on a
book about the mafia. He had been having a lot of meetings with
what appeared to me to be some shady looking people. Evidently it
all fell through and he couldn't take the financial loss. I know he
lost a lot of money, even the house. About all we had left was my
trust fund.

"I was in my room that day and I heard the
gunshot. When I entered the study, Philip, our butler was leaning
over his body feeling for a pulse. At least that is what he told
me. He said Daddy had shot himself and to call the ambulance, so I
did. Everything is a blur after that. The police ruled it a suicide
and I really didn't have a reason to question their decision."

"Didn't I read something about the insurance
money, didn't they refuse to pay off on his policies because it was
ruled a suicide?" he asks.

"Yes, the insurance company wouldn't pay
because it was a suicide. It really didn't matter because I had my
trust fund. Although I could have paid off the house if I had
gotten the insurance money but I didn't really want to stay in that
big house alone anyway."

"How long had Philip worked for you? Did
anyone else live at the house with you?" he asks.

"No, Philip was our only help. I think he
worked for us for around six months, why do you ask?"

"Oh, just a feeling I guess. It just doesn't
add up to me," replies Dylan.

Late in the afternoon Dylan stops and
indicates we are going to make camp. I am exhausted but I am not
about to complain. Every step takes me further away from the
vultures. Helping Dylan set up camp underneath a shallow overhang
of rock we work silently together preparing a meal of canned chili
and cornbread cooked in the fire.

When he starts to clear the snow away making
a shallow hole near the fire I ask, "What are you doing?"

"I'm making us a nest. I'm going to line it
with pine straw to help keep our sleeping bags dry. It will help us
to stay warm tonight. Haven't you noticed how much colder it is
here than last night?" he answers.

Shivering I admit, "It is a lot colder. Won't
the fire keep us warm though?"

"Not enough. We are going to need to huddle
together and share body heat. I expect the temperatures to drop to
well below zero before morning," says Dylan.

"Huddle together?" I ask shakily.

Dylan hears the fear in my voice and stops
his work approaching me. Looking deeply into my troubled eyes but
not touching me, he says, "Skye, I will never hurt you, I promise.
I only want to protect you, to keep you safe and warm."

Dropping my eyes, I say, "The rational side
of my brain understands and accepts what you are saying, but I have
another totally irrational side of me that is panicking at the
thought of being that close to you."

He strokes a finger down my cheek and lifts
my chin forcing me to look into his eyes, "I understand Skye. We'll
work it out. Don't panic."

At his touch and his warm gaze, my heart
starts pounding at a rapid beat. I'm not sure if it's fear or
something else. I don't feel like fleeing, so maybe it is something
else.

When time comes to try to sleep Dylan says,
"You get in your sleeping bag first and turn your back to mine. We
will lie back to back. We can still share body heat but we won't
really be touching. Will that be all right?"

"I'll try," I say sliding into my sleeping
bag and turning my back to Dylan.

When Dylan slides into his next to her he can
feel the tension in her body through the thick material separating
them.

I am so tired it doesn't take long for my
exhaustion to overcome my fear and I slip into a restless sleep.
Feeling her body relax, Dylan allows himself to sleep.

We arrive at the landing site around noon the
next day. Dylan radios Goose in Kalispell to pick them up. Goose
informs Dylan another, even stronger storm is predicted for later
in the day and he thinks it will be wise to wait until after the
storm passes, maybe as long as two more days. After some
discussion, Dylan agrees waiting until after the storm is the
prudent decision. He looks around the area searching for the safest
place for him and Skye to wait out the storm.

He doesn't find any natural wind breaks so he
decides to create one. Using the folding shovel he carries in his
backpack for just such a need, he begins to dig a deep hole on the
down slope. Once he is satisfied the hole is big enough for both
his and Skye's sleeping bags to lay flat he layers the bottom with
thick pine straw to increase the softness and help keep the
moisture out. He also digs another hole nearby for a fire pit. Then
he zips the two sleeping bags together to form one larger sleeping
compartment.

I see what Dylan is doing, zipping the
sleeping bags together, but I refuse to think about it. I will deal
with it later.

While I am gathering wood for the fire nearby
I hear the roar of a mountain lion. I look in the direction from
where the noise originated and am horrified to see Dylan, arms
loaded with wood, staring up at the animal on a ledge above him. I
grab my 45 caliber pistol from its holster and run to toward them.
I stop taking aim, firing just as the animal leaps off the rock
toward Dylan.

Dylan sidesteps the leap and is relieved to
hear the shot and see the animal fall lifeless at his feet. Turning
and seeing Skye's pistol aimed at the animal he says, "Great shot,
Skye, thank you. Now we will have something besides MRE's to
eat."

I advance toward the dead animal and fire one
more time hitting the animal between the eyes. Laughing I say, "I
always like to make real sure they're dead before I skin them. He
didn't hurt you did he?"

"He got me with a glancing blow on my arm
from his claws. You will probably have to stitch me up. I hope you
aren't squeamish and know how to sew, I don't need any more ugly
scars than I already have," answers Dylan.

"Oh, let me see."Blood is slowly staining his
parka so I say, "Come on and let's get you stitched. Our friend
here can wait a few minutes to get gutted."

Dylan is stunned that a woman raised in the
world of movie stars in the heart of Los Angeles is even talking
about gutting a wild animal. Skye Reynolds is full of
surprises.

I help Dylan back to the campsite and then
help him to remove his tattered parka, flannel shirt, and thermal
top. He is soaked in blood and I dread seeing the injury. As I pull
the thermal undershirt over his shoulder and reveal the cuts my
stomach rolls. It looks like someone had taken a knife and made
three perfect slices down his shoulder and upper arm. Wadding up
the flannel shirt I apply pressure to try to slow the bleeding.

After applying pressure for a few minutes and
seeing the blood flow has slowed I say, "Here hold this tight."

While he continues to apply pressure I dig
through the contents of his backpack searching for his First Aid
supplies. I find gauze dressings, a bottle of antiseptic,
antiseptic wipes, tape, silk suture, and a bottle of whiskey. I
grab a towel out of the backpack and throw in over his uninjured
shoulder to provide him a little protection from the biting
cold.

I hand the whiskey to him saying, "Drink
this."

Then removing the flannel shirt from his hand
I use the antiseptic wipes and begin to clean the blood away from
his injury. Once it is fairly clean I warn, "Get ready, this is
going to hurt."

Dylan takes a big swig of the whiskey and
then nods for her to proceed.

I pour antiseptic directly into the mangled
skin and I hear Dylan inhale sharply. Starting with the deepest of
the three cuts, I sew the edges back together using the silk suture
tying off each stitch before starting another. With each stitch my
heart hurts for Dylan. He has to be in extreme pain since I don't
have anything to deaden the skin I am stabbing with the needle.
Dylan is stoic never uttering a word out loud. He only makes
whistling noises through his teeth.

Once I have completed closing the three
wounds, I clean his arm and shoulder with the remaining antiseptic
wipes and tape clean gauze dressings over the injuries. I help him
into a clean thermal shirt and flannel shirt and then back into
this tattered parka. Dylan has finished off the bottle of whiskey
by this time and has lost a lot of blood so I encourage him to lie
down and rest while I clean the carcass of the mountain lion.

I drag the animal several hundred yards away
from our camp and gut it. I remove the skin then cut off a large
chunk of meat to cook for our dinner. Then I dig a hole and bury
the animal's skin and guts along with Dylan's bloody clothes. I
hang the remaining carcass from a tree limb several feet off the
ground to prevent other wild animals from feasting on it then carry
the chunk to cook back to camp. Dylan is resting in our little nest
sleeping off the alcohol he consumed while I was stitching up his
shoulder.

I make a cooking spit from sturdy green tree
branch and put the meat on to cook then retreat to the sleeping
bags to rest until the meat is ready. It is getting much colder and
the wind has picked up. I expect the storm to be blowing full force
soon. I lie down next to a sleeping Dylan and drift into a light
sleep.

Dylan is awakened by the wind whistling
through the trees overhead. The first thing he is aware of is
Skye's body lying next to his on the sleeping bags. Although they
aren't touching he can feel the warmth emanating from her. He opens
his eyes to see her beautiful face turned toward his with a small
smile on her lips. She is lying so close he literally could pucker
his lips and touch hers and he has the strongest urge to take her
lips with his. It takes every ounce of his self control to resist
the urge to kiss her. Clearing the lump from his throat he says,
"Skye?"

She opens her beautiful blue eyes and sees
her proximity to Dylan. A deep red blush slides across her
features.

"Oh!" I move quickly away climbing from the
nest and moving to the fire to check on the roasting meat turning
the spit to allow the meat to cook evenly.

Turning back to Dylan I ask, "Are you feeling
better?"

Smiling, he sits up slowly and answers, "I'm
still a little weak but I'm not in too much pain. Thank you for
sewing me up. You really did a good job considering that was
probably a first for you."

Blushing again, I admit, "You're welcome and
you're right. That was my first experience sewing human flesh
together. I hope it won't leave too much of a scar. I saw some
ibuprofen in the backpack if you need some."

"I would appreciate the ibuprofen, thanks,"
replies Dylan.

Later as we are eating the meat I prepared,
we are chatting companionably about how I learned to gut and skin a
wild animal. I tell him how Bear made sure I was able to take care
of myself before he left me alone at the cabin. I admit to having
learned a number of skills I never dreamed of learning while
growing up in Hollywood. I tell him about my childhood, about how
my parents protected me from the more public side of the movie
business, how I attended all of the exclusive girl schools and did
not have to deal with the Paparazzi alone until my father's
suicide. Any time I ventured out in public previously I was always
escorted by the one and only Barry Farrady.