Chapter Three #2
She reaches into the cargo box of her snowmobile and pulls out a wicker basket covered in a red checkered cloth. It looks out of place against the snow and the heavy machinery, something out of a fairytale, if Red Riding Hood drove a Polaris 800.
"I come bearing gifts," she says, marching over to the sled. "Because I know for a fact that Nash's idea of 'breakfast' is usually black coffee and staring at a map until he gets hungry enough to eat beef jerky."
"I made oatmeal," Nash says. He sounds almost offended.
May pauses. She looks at him, then at me, then back at him. Her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline, disappearing under the fur hat.
"You cooked?" she asks. The skepticism in her voice is thick enough to walk on.
"I can cook," Nash says defensively. He crosses his arms over his chest.
"You can cook," May agrees. "You just usually don't. Last year, you told that lawyer from Chicago that if he wanted a hot breakfast, he could set himself on fire."
I snort. I can't help it. The sound escapes before I can clamp a hand over my mouth.
Nash glares at me. His ears are turning a distinct shade of pink against the collar of his jacket.
"She has dietary restrictions," Nash mutters, grabbing a bungee cord and yanking it tighter than necessary. "She doesn't eat meat. I couldn't just feed her pemmican."
"Mmm-hmm." May looks at me with a new, speculative gleam in her eye. She looks from Nash's flushed ears to my amused expression. "Dietary restrictions. Is that what we're calling it?"
She uncovers the basket. Inside are scones. Huge, golden-brown scones studded with blueberries and cranberries. The smell hits me—butter, vanilla, baked flour—and my stomach gives another rumble, completely betraying the fact that I just ate a bowl of oatmeal.
"Blueberry and cranberry," May says, handing me one. "Eat. You look like a stiff breeze would knock you over. Nash likes 'em sturdy, but he doesn't know how to feed 'em."
"I am right here," Nash says.
"I know," May says without looking at him. "Eat the scone, Doctor."
I take a bite. It's heaven—buttery and crumbly and sweet, the berries bursting with tart flavor.
"Oh my god," I moan around a mouthful of pastry. "May, I love you. I don't even know you, but I love you."
May grins, the lines of decades pulling up with her mouth.
"See? She's got sense. Unlike some people.
" She jerks her head toward Nash. "Stop by the diner when you get back.
I'll make you sourdough pancakes. My starter is older than you are.
It came over the pass in '98. It'll change your life. Or at least your cholesterol."
She turns back to Nash, and her expression sobers instantly. The banter vanishes, replaced by something sharper. Harder.
"Lars says the pack is moving, Nash," she says quietly. "He saw signs in the lower valley this morning. Big tracks. Bold behavior. They took a dog from the Miller place last night. Right off the porch."
Nash goes still. The playfulness drops off him like a shed coat. He is suddenly the guide again, alert, dangerous, focused.
"The Black Rock pack?" he asks.
"Looks like it. The big gray male is leading them. He's pushing into new territory."
"We know," Nash says. "We saw signs yesterday. We'll be careful."
"You be extra deliberate," May warns. She steps closer to him, lowering her voice, but in the crisp air, I can still hear every word. "And watch yourself with this one, Nash."
She jerks her head toward me. I freeze, mid-scone, crumbs falling onto my glove.
"What do you mean?" Nash asks, frowning.
"She's got the look," May says cryptically.
"What look?"
"The look of someone who stays," May says. "Don't get used to it. Scientists migrate, Nash. Just like the caribou. They come for the season, they take what they need, and then they follow the funding south."
Nash looks at me then. He really looks at me. For a second, I see the conflict behind his eyes, the warning May gave him hanging in the cold air between us.
Scientists migrate.
"I know the drill, May," Nash says. He yanks the strap he already tightened. "She's a client. That's all."
"Uh-huh," May says. She doesn't sound convinced. She walks back to her snowmobile and swings a leg over the seat. "Just remember, honey: you can't domesticate a wild thing. And you can't keep a bird that wants to fly."
She fires up the engine, the roar shattering the moment. She raises a hand in farewell, spins the machine around, and tears off across the lake, leaving us standing in the exhaust fumes and the silence.
Nash stands there for a long moment, watching her go. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
"She's … intense," I venture, brushing crumbs from my gloves, feeling like I just witnessed a scolding and a blessing all at once.
"She's the closest thing to a mother I have left," Nash says quietly. "And she's usually right."
He turns to me. The warmth is gone from his face, replaced by the professional mask. The guide is back.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say.
"Then let's go. We're burning daylight."
He straddles the snowmobile. I climb on behind him. The seat is narrow. There's no way to do this without pressing my body against his back.
I wrap my arms around his waist. Through the layers of his parka, I can feel the solid heat of him.
I can feel the muscles of his back tense as he grips the handlebars.
It feels different now. Yesterday, he was just a driver.
Today, after the oatmeal and the scones and May's warning, he feels like … a complication.
"Hold on," he shouts over the engine. "The trail gets rough past the ridge."
He hits the throttle. The machine surges forward, snapping my head back. We fly across the lake, the wind biting at my exposed cheeks, the vibration of the engine rattling my teeth.
As we hit the tree line and start the climb, I tighten my grip on Nash's waist. May's words are still ringing in my ears, louder than the wind.
Scientists migrate.
She's right, of course. I'm leaving in a matter of weeks.
I have a tenure clock ticking and a life in Seattle that runs on espresso and indoor plumbing and faculty meetings I take by video, because my department sits two thousand miles north of my apartment.
I earned my doctorate up here, under Thaddeus, at the University of Alaska.
I do the job from a warmer zip code now. I have a plan. I've always had a plan.
But as I lean into the turn with Nash, matching his movement, feeling the sync of our bodies against the machine, I have a sinking feeling that leaving might be harder than I thought.
And looking at the back of Nash's head, at the stubborn set of his shoulders, I have a feeling that May Sweeney saw right through me—and probably through Nash, too.