Too Close For Comfort

“Wait!” Cyd yelled, her mouth full. She gripped her fork and knife in her fists. She flashed Jeffrey a look that bordered on panic.

Cyd Thompson, panicked? Jeffrey’s antennae started waving.

“You can’t sleep here, not in this room. Those dogs will be all over you. By morning, you’ll be covered head to toe in their hair—and smell like…” She wrinkled her nose, indicating the word she meant to use.

The lady flies me to the wrong town, and is now concerned about where I sleep?

The concern was compelling.

Too compelling.

Cyd Thompson was definitely up to something, but exactly what wasn’t yet clear to Jeffrey. Funny how it had always been tougher to read the intentions of someone who had street savvy versus business sharp. Then it hit him how Alaska was just a different version of the streets. A damn sight prettier, but just as tough because it was a world where people had to fight the elements and outwit the beasts to survive.

And that was Cyd to a T. An Alaskan street-savvy woman. No wonder he was having a hell of a time figuring what she was up to.

“Yes, you’d probably smell pretty damn bad,” Charlie concurred with a chuckle, “not to mention you’d be part dog by the mornin’.”

Cyd turned her attention to the room. “Hey,” she yelled, “anyone got a snowmobile I can borrow? Gotta get to Geraldine’s tonight.”

Jeffrey was glad he’d just downed a whiskey—it helped him weather the blast of energy Cyd had just emitted. He looked at her perched on that bar stool, her back rigid as she glanced around the room. When had she last combed her hair? It looked like one of those “in” hairdos one saw on the streets of New York, all spiky and sassy. But Jeffrey had no doubt that Cyd’s hair was the result of efficiency and practicality. He’d bet she just took a pair of scissors, chopped off a bit here and there, and slapped on a baseball cap.

“You can borrow my machine for a few days,” said Harry, sliding a glance from Cyd to Jeffrey and back. “I just loaned it to George, who lives next door.”

“And what am I suppos’d to do?” asked a baritone voice, who Jeffrey guessed to be George. “Mine’s not fixed yet.”

“You got a team and me to cart you wherever you need,” Harry answered gruffly.

Jeffrey noticed it was the end of that discussion. If Jeffrey had his group dynamics pegged in this room, Harry was the lead Husky.

Cyd cut off another hunk of meat. “Thanks, Harry.” She shoveled some fries and salad onto the meat. “We got a ride to Geri’s,” she said, glancing at Jeffrey before chomping down on a bite of food that could be a meal unto itself.

He waited until she swallowed. “And there’s a place for me to stay at Geri’s?” Considering Cyd had promised to take him places before, he didn’t want to take anything for granted.

“You got a bed, a roof, free grub.”

He fought the urge to smile. He’d had ladies lure him into bedrooms with everything from promises of a “good time” to a bottle of French champagne on ice. But “a bed, a roof, free grub” was a new one.

Of course, Cyd wasn’t luring him anywhere…or was she?

“I’ll take it,” he answered. Better than waking up part dog. “And a ride back here tomorrow morning?”

“No problem,” said Cyd sweetly between bites, shooting him that same big-eyed look she’d given him in the radio room.

Which left him wondering why she’d bothered to say the word “no” because he sensed the other word, problem, loomed in his immediate future.

3

CYD CUT THE ENGINE of the snowmobile. “We’re here,” she said. “Time to get off.”

Under different circumstances, Jeffrey would have grinned at a lady saying it was time to “get off.” But after careening over miles of snow in the gut-chilling Alaskan wilderness with nothing but moonlight as a guide, he wasn’t sure if he could even move, much less smile.

Cyd had parked in front of a log cabin, its windows ablaze with light, smoke from the chimney disappearing into the snow-laden sky. An animal’s howl punctured the night.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Babette.” Cyd leaned over the back of the machine, untying a pouch filled with jerky Harry had insisted she take. Jeffrey hadn’t asked, but figured it was in case they got stuck en route.

“Babette?”

“Aunt Geri’s dog.”

It howled again. A long, mournful sound unlike any dog Jeffrey had known.

He stared at the log cabin, which had at first appeared like some kind of Norman Rockwell painting, but was rapidly taking on the sinister image of a Steven King novel. “Dog? Sounds more like a wolf.”

“Wolf?” Cyd muttered something under her breath that sounded like “city slicker.” “You better start walking to the cabin. If you keep standing there, your feet will stick to the ice and we’ll have to chop them off.”

“Anyone ever told you to try stand-up comedy?”

She giggled as she brushed ice off the pouch. “No, but if you’re good, maybe I’ll sing a few bars.”

Her comeback took him aback for a moment. Rough and tumble Cyd had a sense of humor, too?

Jeffrey started heading toward the cabin, his feet crunching through the snow. The air smelled smoky, traced with the tang of evergreen. Just as he reached the door, it shook with the weight of something heavy hitting it from the other side. Sniffling and scratching followed, along with a guttural growl.

Jeffrey stared at the door, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. Having street smarts didn’t exactly prepare one on how to deal with Cujo.

“Just go in!” Cyd yelled. “Babette’s a pussycat.”

He looked back at the expanse of moon-glazed, glittering snow that stretched as far as the eye could see. Maybe retracing his steps and having his feet chopped off wasn’t such a bad thing.

A huffing, stomping sound distracted him. “Doesn’t anybody in New York or L.A. know when to get out of the cold?” With a roll of her eyes, Cyd nudged past him, grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. “Aunt Geri?” she called out.

He followed Cyd inside, blinking into the haze of light. A woodstove, the fire crackling behind its glass door, sat across the room. The scents of baked bread and coffee wove around him, lulling him out of his mood.

“Hi there, big girl,” Cyd cooed, scratching and patting a big, furry head.

He should’ve known that Cyd and wild beasts would be best pals.

“This is Jeffrey,” she said, pointing the furry beast’s face at Jeffrey.

“Hi,” he said, his eyes adjusting to the light. Babette’s yellow eyes took in Jeffrey. She barked, loudly. He put his hand down for her to sniff, hoping she’d eaten something recently. She rubbed her wet nose against his hand, her tail swinging wildly.

Cyd looked up at Jeffrey. “She likes you.”

“Good.” He’d outwitted death, again. “What kind of dog is she?”

“Mongrel. Part Shepherd, part Husky, and something else.”