Chapter 4
KEELY OFFICIALLY hated Alaska.
And why not? Because only here did she survive a plane crash and an attempt on her life—attempts—only to be chased down by a blizzard?
The wind roared around them, through the forest, shaking the trees, whipping against her bare neck. Icy droplets of snow pinged against her jacket, the world around them turning fuzzy and white.
She couldn’t feel her toes, her fingers, her nose. Even her ankle had ceased its throbbing.
So this was what it felt like to freeze to death. If she escaped this, she would never leave her Manhattan penthouse again, thank you. She’d do her concerts via Zoom.
“You doing okay?” This from Dawson. “You’re breathing funny.”
She nodded, her throat brittle and scratchy.
He glanced down at her and she offered a tight smile. Dark eyes, deep blue, and they focused on her a moment, as if trying to read her.
She looked away, blew out a breath. Probably she owed him some kind of explanation, but her throat hurt, and she needed her energy.
Of course she had to be rescued by a cop.
A cop.
God clearly had a sense of humor, or maybe it was her mother up there, nudging the Almighty, refusing to let well enough alone.
Although, so far, the cop wasn’t arrogant and bossy, just focused. Determined.
And strong. That part hadn’t escaped her as he’d tightened his hold around her waist, helping her over downed logs, steadying her as they fought snow layers and drifts.
Behind them, his friend Sully—and wasn’t that a small world, really?—scanned for Thornwood.
She’d landed in a bizarre North Woods action thriller.
Not much farther turned into an hour of trudging through snow and ice and wind and—
Please, someone, save her from Alaska.
They emerged from the woods to a lake, not large, with a rocky shoreline, a layer of snow across the icy surface.
In the distance, hallelujah, she made out a clearing, with the lodge she’d seen earlier maybe, a spiral of welcoming smoke emitting from a chimney.
It seemed they were coming in from the north side, her memory laying out fields to the south and east.
“You think the ice is strong enough?”
Oh, Dawson had addressed his friend, Sully, aka Daniel Boone.
Sorry, but the guy did radiate a sort of wilderness warrior vibe.
Especially with her bloody scarf knotted around his leg.
Hermès cashmere, she’d picked it up in London during her last tour.
It’d cost nearly as much as Sully’s fancy Overland coat.
She hated Alaska.
The dog—she didn’t know what to think about him. One second scary, the next pushing up against her or Dawson, like he might need a hug—now bounded out in front of them through the snow, onto the ice.
“I dunno. We had a warm spell recently, but I don’t think it’s enough to weaken the ice.” Sully glanced back. “Let’s go.”
Really, if she took a step back and out of this tragedy, the view could be called breathtaking.
The wind swept snow off the white, pristine surface of the lake like fairy dust. Snow coated the pine trees that edged the lake with frosting, and whitened mountains rose in the distance, majestic against the darkening sky, now streaked with the lingering colors of the day—oranges and mottled purple—fighting the advance of darkness.
The colors splayed upon the glistening surface of the lake as they ventured out.
Here, the snow turned solid, with a caked layer that they crashed through with every step. Slow going. Next to her, Dawson seemed to struggle with his left leg.
Sully crunched in the snow behind them, and a glance over her shoulder confirmed a sort of military alertness as he scanned the woods around them. He still limped badly, clearly in pain.
“Will we be able to call for help from the community?” She shouldn’t have spoken, maybe, because her voice rasped out.
“I don’t know.”
“They have a ham radio,” Sully said, so maybe her question had carried. “Although I’m not sure it can get a signal out with the blizzard. You may need to sit tight for a day or so.”
“We could take the snow machines out to your place,” Dawson said.
Sully made a sound, more of acknowledgment than agreement.
Around them the wind howled, more open here. It wound through her jacket.
The dog had vanished, out ahead of them.
She wanted a bath—a hot bath—and cocoa and her wool socks and flannel pajamas and—
A crack sounded, and for a second, she nearly ducked. But Dawson held her tight against him and froze.
“Is that the ice?”
“Could just be groaning. Ice does that,” Sully said. But he, too, stilled.
Wait—what? She drew in a breath.
“This day just keeps getting better,” Dawson muttered, then looked at her. “Can you swim?”
“Is that a joke?” She cleared her throat. “We go in the water, we’re dead.”
He glanced at Sully. “Hang back.”
“What, why? Are you serious?” Keely asked.
He didn’t answer her, just eased her forward.
Oh . . . please, God, get me out of this.
He slowed them, easing into each step, and she practically held her breath.
Ten feet more, and then behind them, Sully started to move.
If Thornwood had followed them, now would be the perfect time to pick them off. Aaand . . . she’d clearly watched one too many action movies.
Barking on the far side made her look up. The dog paced the opposite shore, then started bounding out toward them.
“Caspian! Go back!” Dawson motioned to the animal, but he didn’t respond. Just kept coming.
Another crack, somewhere in the distance, and Dawson tightened his hold on her. His hip pressed against hers, and weirdly, a sort of strength strummed through her. He picked up his pace.
Caspian had nearly reached them, and now barked, turning, as if beckoning them to follow.
He bounded back to shore, now some twenty feet away.
The next crack sounded right under their feet. Dawson didn’t move. “Ice is thinner near shore. It melts first, and all this snow is an insulator.”
Perfect.
And then he pointed.
Maybe thirty feet away, a small opening in the ice revealed a slate-gray puddle of open water.
“It’s a warm water hole,” Dawson said. “A current, or even marsh gasses, can keep the water warm enough not to freeze.”
She nodded. Glanced at the shore. So close. “Now what?” Her voice emerged rough-edged in the wind and snow, barely audible.
Caspian continued to bark louder, pacing the shore. Then, suddenly, he bolted and ran toward the lodge.
No, toward a man dressed in an orange hunting suit, towing a flat-bottomed toboggan. Another man accompanied him, carrying a ladder.
“That’s Donald Cooper,” Sully said from behind them. “And the one with the ladder, I think, is Griffin Talon.”
Donald lifted a hand, waving.
Dawson waved back, still not moving.
The two men came to the shore, and Griffin set the ladder onto the ice, then held it as Donald stepped out, walking on the rungs, towing the toboggan.
He set it down and pushed it out to Dawson, holding a long lead.
Dawson reached out and grabbed it, pulling it closer. He started to lower Keely toward it. “Get on.”
“What?”
“It’ll disperse your weight. Trust me.” He kept lowering her down.
She grabbed him around the neck and held on as he maneuvered her onto the sled.
“Roll over and hold on.”
She didn’t want to let go, but she nodded, scooted back, and rolled over, holding onto a strap dangling from the curled front edge.
Donald pulled her to the ladder. Then he helped her up to step onto it.
“I’ll crawl.” She took it rung by rung to the shoreline.
She rolled out onto solid ground, watching as Dawson came in, then Sully.
Dawson stepped off the ladder, limped over to her. “You okay?”
Caspian came and lay beside her, his warmth almost calming. Still, she didn’t think she’d ever be okay again. But she nodded.
Sully groaned as he stepped off the ladder. “Thanks, Griff.”
“Bear attack?” Griffin pointed to his leg, then walked over to put an arm around him.
“Long story,” Sully said. “Let’s get inside.”
Dawson pulled her up, again securing her against himself. Looked at her. “See, we’re going to be fine.”
She waited for a gunshot to part his words, but only the wind chased them as they headed to the lodge. So maybe he was right.
Next stop, anywhere but Alaska.
Okay, maybe a detour to the warm and embracing lodge.
Hello, North Woods escape. She stepped into the centerfold of Mountain Living magazine, the rustic version, but still sweeping and inviting.
The entire building bespoke craftsmanship, from the hand-hewn logs chinked with white plaster to massive, log-framed sofas padded with overstuffed cushions that circled a towering, three-story river rock fireplace.
It rose from the far end of the room, flanked by windows that overlooked the frozen lake.
Inside a hearth that seemed large enough to walk into, a fire crackled, emanating heat through the massive protective screen.
Wooden pine tables with long benches ran down either side of the room, and above them hung a multitiered antler chandelier the size of a Volkswagen. At the tables in clusters sat men and women with children, a few with books open, some of the children coloring, others playing games.
A balcony ran down each side of the lodge, with rooms on the upper level, and below them, more rooms, the doors closed. They bore nameplates, like Med Clinic and Supplies. Other doors had designs carved into them, one with a cross.
The delicious aromas of baking bread and maybe a rustic stew with garlic and tomatoes reached inside and roused a hunger Keely didn’t realize she possessed. Following the smells, she spotted a massive kitchen behind a serving counter.
A man, mid-twenties, sat on one of the sofas in the front of the room, playing a guitar.
Caspian came in and sat as a couple kids ran over to him. His tail brushed the floor, but he didn’t move, his back to Dawson.
So clearly not the attack dog she’d thought him to be.