Across A Thousand Miles

“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.

“Can you sit up?” she asked.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” he said.

She ignored his apology. Since sitting was obviously painful for him, she propped all the pillows behind him, until he was in a half-reclining position. “I made this for you. I figured it would help you sleep.”

He accepted it and sniffed. “Rum?”

“Rum and milk. Is there such a drink?”

“If you made it, I guess there is.” He took a sip and swallowed.

“Is it okay?”

“It’s just fine.”

“How are you feeling?”

He took another sip and considered her question carefully. “Like a half-ton pickup sat on my chest,” he replied. “How are my dogs?”

“They’re fine. You can see them tomorrow. They’re out in my truck, fed and watered.”

“Thank you. More than I can ever say.”

Rebecca stood. “Can I get you anything else?”