Chapter 12 #2
“I’m convinced that nothing can happen to me in this life that isn’t used or designed by God to know him better.”
He looked up at the encroaching darkness, a few early stars speckling the sky. Maybe it wasn’t about escaping his mistakes, but letting God change him because of them.
The red flags on the trees wagged in the breeze, snow starting to blow over his tracks. If he remembered correctly, the outpost was just a quarter mile, maybe less—
A shot cracked the air, and he ducked, then shook it away. Branches falling, trees adjusting to the cold.
Calm down—
Another shot. This time, bark chipped off a nearby tree.
What—?
A third shot, and he reached for his rifle—
Tripped, his skies tangling. He got the rifle around, even as he fought for balance, the skis trapping him. His numb knee tore, heat spiking through him, as momentum pulled him back . . .
And over the edge of the riverbank.
Then he was tumbling, hitting rock, slamming against the boulders, and finally plunging into the lethal cold of the Copper River.
Keely wasn’t just going to sit here and do nothing. Like she might be a princess or something.
For one, she’d discovered the outpost ran on a generator, like the community, only this one was located in the back of the house, in a closet.
She switched it on and voilà, let there be light.
The instant hot water heater also worked, so that meant the dishes got cleaned, along with the floor.
She should clean up the blood, but maybe it was a crime scene . . .
And in that case, she’d made a mess of it.
Except, then she discovered, in the bedroom with the missing comforter, a small cradle in the corner, covered in a blanket. She did the math and wanted to weep for the scenario she saw in her mind.
So yes, after she took off her underjacket—thanks to the warming house—she cleaned the blood and the plates off the floor, and made the bed with new, fresh sheets, and then swept the place, which left her with nothing to do except root through the cupboards for food stores.
Potatoes, onions, and canned meat. Dried garlic and some kind of herb—smelled like dill—and she found a pot and dumped it all together, added a can of tomatoes, and after a bit, the place smelled homey and stirred up memories of the community.
Please, Dawson, come back.
He’d been gone for hours. At least three, maybe more, and night crept into the room.
“Stay put. I’ll be back.”
She simply refused to believe anything else.
With the soup simmering, she headed to the office. Small, tidy. A map hung on the wall with tacks marking locations. One tagged the community, another a cabin on the river. She guessed that might be where Dawson went.
“Stay put.”
She’d put the handheld transceiver of the ham radio on the desk, and with the smell of soup filling the cabin, she pulled out a chair and took a look at it. The back of the device had dented in, the case breaking open, and the antenna had broken off, so maybe it took a hard fall.
Like a guy trying to call for help only to have his wife collapse in the kitchen, breaking the plate she was holding, causing him to drop the transceiver.
She should be a detective.
Please, God, bring Dawson back.
It felt like a perfect prayer, easier than she’d thought.
Screws held the back in place, so she rooted around the desk drawer, past more tacks and duct tape and pencils, and found a small screwdriver.
In a moment, she had the transceiver open.
The light waned, and a glance out the window said the sun had surrendered. Oh, Dawson, please don’t get lost. She found a flashlight in another drawer and flicked it on. Shined it on the back of the handheld.
A circuit board and wires and fuses and—bingo. One of the fuses had turned black.
She should have taken a look at this before Dawson left. Except, a search through the drawers didn’t unearth any extra fuses.
Maybe they had tinfoil somewhere. She got up and rooted around the kitchen. Nothing.
A pantry held dishes and foodstuffs, mostly canned goods—wait. There, in a basket, a few lunch-sized Cheetos bags.
She grabbed one, opened the bag, munched a Cheeto—Goldie would have a coronary at the free license she’d taken on her eating—and then took the bag into the office. She cut off a piece and wrapped the foil around the fuse, then put it back in.
It snapped and burned out.
What? Shining her light on it, she discovered the problem—the metal prong touched the fuse and grounded it out.
Taking the fuse back out, she inserted the edge of the screwdriver and bent the metal, ever so slightly, away from the fuse.
Then she ate another Cheeto, wrapped more foil around the fuse, and inserted it. Turned the radio on.
Joy to the world and hallelujah, it lit up. She almost wanted to sing.
She depressed the mic. “Hello? Hello? Anyone out there? Hello?”
Static.
She tried again. “This is the . . .” She looked around, searching for a call sign, and spotted a calendar turned to March with the name Bowie Resorts on top. It showed a man standing in gaiters in the middle of a frothy river, hauling in a fish.
Bowie. That sounded right. “Bowie Outpost. Anyone there?”
More silence. Shoot, she’d really hoped—
“Hello, Bowie Outpost. Is this a Mayday?” Male voice.
“Um. Yes. Sort of. I mean . . . no one is hurt, except at Woodcrest. There’s this little girl. But . . .”
“We know about the little girl, Bowie Outpost. Are you in danger?”
She looked out the window. No Dawson, and her chest tightened. “Yes. Yes, we are. My . . . my friend is out in the storm, and he’s not back yet, and . . . I’m worried.”
“Understood, Bowie Outpost. And your name?”
“Keely. Keely . . .” Aw, this could go south, if the person on the other end knew anything about Bliss. Which sounded ridiculous, but something simply gripped her, and suddenly she found herself saying, “Dalton. Keely Dalton.”
“Keely, can you tell me if you were in a plane accident a number of days ago?”
Oh. “Um, yes. Uh, is this—” What was the name of Dawson’s friend—“Moose? Is this Moose?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s Moose. Sit tight, Keely Dalton. We’re coming to get you.”
She set the handheld in her lap and blew out a breath. Okay. So, it was over.
Warm clothes, a bath, pizza, civilization.
Back to her life.
Then why, suddenly, did her throat tighten, her eyes burn?
Because that wasn’t her life. It was a life she’d created. But here, maybe, she’d discovered a person she longed to be. Strong and capable and smart and . . . maybe she could even be a decent mother.
She could at least try.
Maybe losing her voice had been the best thing that ever happened to her. That, and a plane crash, and an overzealous dog, and a grumpy ex-cop.
And maybe it was too soon—way too soon—and the lingering memory of their Hallmark getaway, but . . .
She could love this man. Could even be on her way . . .
Oh boy. But what was she supposed to do with a man like Dawson? Sweet and considerate and self-sacrificing and . . .
So this was how it felt to want to love, the urge to give them the best of yourself, to shed all the fears and lies and simply . . . love back.
Bliss suddenly felt so far away, a costume, really, that it was time to shed.
Time to be set free.
A scratch at the door made her sit up. Set the handheld on the desk. “Dawson?”
She got up. Another scratch, and this time whining.
What—? She unbolted the door and—
Caspian?
Snow covered his dark fur, and the dog wiggled in past her, turning and barking, his entire back end wagging.
“What are you doing—wait, did you follow us? All the way from the community?” She crouched, and Caspian came over and nudged her, then lay down on his back.
“Tummy rubs, huh?” She scratched him. Oh, he was cold. But clearly alive, because he rolled back to his feet and shook off the snow, then started running and sniffing through the house.
She stood, watching him. He sniffed at the fire for a long time, then over to the area where blood had dropped, went into the bedroom, and came back out, then came over to her and sat.
Looked up at her with those big brown eyes.
She rubbed his ears with both hands. “I s’pose Dawson couldn’t really live without you. Don’t worry. Rescue is on the way.”
The door had eased open, and she walked over to close it when Caspian stood up, headed toward it, and stood in the opening. Outside, the wind cast snow across the porch. She found a porch light and flicked it on.
Caspian took off, across the porch, down the stairs, barking.
What now? “Caspian!”
She stepped out onto the porch, her arms around herself, and—
Oh no. Caspian had stopped, just outside the ring of light, pawing at a form—a body.
No, no—
She had taken off her boots, but kept them by the door, and now she shoved into them, didn’t bother to lace them as she reached for her jacket, just ran down the stairs into the snowy yard, the light reaching out past her to nudge the man in the snow.
Dawson. He lay unmoving, no skis, his knees drawn up, his hat off, his dark hair tipped in white. Caspian licked his face, trying to rouse him.
She reached him and pushed him over.
He seemed dead. Except for the tiniest huff of breath.
“C’mon, Caspian, help me!” She rolled Dawson over and grabbed his jacket.
She wasn’t serious, but Caspian clamped onto the scruff of his coat and, with her, began to pull.
The man weighed a thousand pounds. She didn’t have a hope of getting him to the house or up the stairs—“C’mon, Dawson!
” The shout lifted, high and loud, and tore through. “Wake up!”
Movement, and he groaned and then reached up and caught her arm. Squeezed.
She let go. “You’re alive.”
He grunted as he rolled over to his hands and knees, the sound deep inside him, as if he might be trying to rev something. His heart, probably.
He sat up, and she slammed herself into him, her arms around his neck. “You came back. You came back!”