Chapter 2

~~ James ~~

A snowstorm is coming in. I can feel it. I knew when I was in town picking up the key to the cabin that we”d get more than they’d predicted. I shrug at the thought. That’s ok. I’m out here for some well-earned peace and quiet.

Just me and Rusty. Sharon had warned me the German Shepherd would probably hang around for my stay. The cabin had belonged to her father, and her father had belonged to Rusty. When the old man had passed, no one could keep Rusty from going back to the cabin. After a couple of years, they stopped trying.

I crunch through the snow behind the cabin to bring in more wood for the fireplace. The log rack inside is nearly full, but if that storm hits, I don’t want to have to try to reach the lean-to in that weather.

The small kitchen is fully stocked. I brought a handle of whiskey and a few thrillers I’d gotten from Tom at the Bearberry Bookshelf before I headed out. When the storm blows over, I might go ice-fishing. It’s been a while since I did that, and Sharon assured me there is gear in the cabin.

On my third trip back from the lean-to, Rusty starts whining. He paces back and forth at the edge of the porch. “What is it, boy?”

He starts off toward the river, then stops looking back at me. He takes a few more steps, then turns to look at me again. “Alright, I know what that means. I’m coming.” I tell him. I grab the rifle from inside the door and sling a pack over my shoulder. I know better than to go wandering without safety precautions.

I follow Rusty to the edge of the frozen water. The map in my head says this is the narrowest part of the river, which fans out wide in places. Rusty steps out onto the ice and turns back to me again. “I don’t know, boy. That ice doesn’t look very solid.” He scrambles across and stands waiting on the other side.

I walk along the edge of the river until I find a place where the ice looks thicker. I push some long, fallen branches out onto the ice to test it, and it seems like it will hold my weight. I cross one careful step at a time while Rusty paces.

As soon as I’m on the other side, he takes off. I follow his footprints in the snow around a bend, cutting off sight of the cabin. I’m not familiar with this area, and I’m ready to head back. It’s starting to snow again, and I don’t want to get too far.

I hear Rusty start barking, and he sounds close enough that I figure I can check out whatever rabbit or fox he’s chased down.

There is something on the ground he’s nudging with his nose. I’m not looking forward to trying to pull him away from his catch, but I can’t leave him out in the storm either.

I walk up to him, talking steadily so I don’t surprise him. Sharon swore he was a “man’s dog”, used to working side by side with her father, but I’m still a stranger to him. I don’t want to scare him. When I get closer, I take in the figure on the ground. Worn-out boots, a bulky wool coat, and a long ginger braid trailing out to one side. “Fuck.”

Rusty is nosing the limp hand that’s almost buried in the falling snow, the glove has seen better days, with a hole in the palm and another halfway down the thumb. I pull off my own glove and kneel to shift the knitted scarf aside. I place my fingers on her neck and whoosh out a breath of relief when I feel her carotid pulsing.

I look around to see where she may have come from, but the snow is falling harder, and I can only make out a tall pile of rocks where the tree line heads off from the river. I do a quick exam for injuries. There’s blood on the side of her head, but it has staunched with the scarf pressed between her head and the ground. Nothing feels broken, but it’s hard to tell with the thick winter-wear. I’m going to have to risk moving her.

I shove the rifle through the straps of the pack, then I slide my arms under her neck and her knees and lift her. She weighs almost nothing even under the thick clothing, and I wonder if she’s someone”s lost teenager.

By the time I carry her back around the bend in the river, the snow is falling thicker, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of me. I follow Rusty almost blindly. He leads me to the spot with the branches where I’d crossed before. I hold my breath and step out onto the ice.

I’m across in just a few steps, and I can breathe again. I can’t see the cabin, but Rusty leads me straight to the back porch.

I fumble the door open and lay the girl down on the only bed. The warmth inside the cabin soaks into me, and I take a minute to hang up my wet outer layers.

I unwrap the girl like a gift, peeling off her wet clothing until she’s in nothing but her lingerie. I try to keep my eyes professional, but I can”t help but note she is not a child, by any means.

After a better examination, I determine her knee and ankle are badly wrenched but probably not broken; although she should have x-rays to be sure. With the wind howling outside, that will not be today. Maybe not even this week. I wrap them in bandages from the massive first aid kit in the cabinet in the bathroom, just where Sharon had said it would be.

I clean the dried blood off her face. She stirs, startling me, and I realize I’m tracing the scattered freckles on her cheeks with my finger. “Pay attention, idiot,” I scold myself, and find the wound in the edge of her hair. After I pull the blankets tight around her, I use a clean wet towel to wash the blood from her hairline until all the matted mess is gone, and I dress the split with some butterfly bandages to pull the edges closed. A bit of fresh blood trickles, but it isn’t much.

Now I’m left worried about concussion.

And dinner.

I head into the kitchen to decide what to make. Rusty follows me and noses his empty bowl on the floor. “Alright, boy,” I tell him. “You first.” I check the small pantry and find a large bag of kibble. I pour some out for him. I rinse and refill the water bowl and then grab another towel and rub it over him while he sits patiently. When I’m done, he hovers over his bowl eating with steady crunching sounds.

I’ve had friends with dogs, but I’ve never had one of my own. I find an odd satisfaction in listening to Rusty eat. If it wasn’t for his guidance back to the cabin, I would have gotten lost in the storm. If he hadn’t led me to that girl, she wouldn’t have lasted long. If all he needs in return for making sure we are both safe is a scratch and a bowl of kibble, I would give that to him for the rest of his life.

I ruffle the fur on his back and turn back to the pantry to grab some cans of soup.

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