Chapter Eighteen
NASH
We're on the spine of the ridge. To our left is the box canyon, now a slaughterhouse echoing with the sounds of the pack. To our right is a steep, forested drainage that eventually leads back to the river.
I check Aris. She's leaning against a boulder, her chest heaving, her skin pale and waxy. She climbed that scree slope like a goat, but the tank is empty. Her hands are trembling. I can see it from here.
"We have to loop around," I explain, pointing down the timbered slope. "We can't go back down the scree. We have to drop into that drainage, follow the creek to the river, and hike back up to the sled."
"How far?" she asks, her voice thin.
"Five miles. Maybe six. In deep snow."
Aris groans, dropping her head back against the stone. "Six miles. Breaking trail in snowshoes. After that climb."
"The good news," I say, helping her stand, "is that it's mostly downhill. And the wolves are busy eating."
"Silver linings," she mutters.
We start the descent. It's a grueling slog that turns into a nightmare by the first mile.
The high of the fight evaporates instantly, leaving behind a crushing, leaden weight.
One minute I was a warrior putting a round into the rock beside a wolf's head; now I'm just a man standing in deep snow with legs that feel like wet sand.
The cold, which I had successfully ignored during the standoff, comes rushing back with a vengeance.
"Nash?" Aris's voice is a whisper, barely drifting over the sound of the wind.
I stop and turn. She's ten yards behind me, swaying. Her face is gray, the scrape on her cheek standing out like a brand against her pale skin.
"I'm here," I say, walking back to her. "You okay?"
"My legs," she whispers. "They don't want to work."
"They don't have a choice," I say, but I grab her arm, pulling it over my shoulder. "Lean on me. We do this together."
We walk.
The snow in the drainage is soft and thigh-deep in places. Every step is a battle against the crust. We have to lift our legs high, marching like tin soldiers, the effort burning through our remaining energy reserves in minutes.
By the second mile, the cold begins to win. Sweat freezes against my skin, the minus-twenty air feeling like it's stripping the flesh from my bones. My fingers are numb inside my gloves. My nose feels like a block of wood attached to my face.
Aris stumbles on a hidden root, going down hard into the snow. She doesn't get up. She just lies there, face down in the powder.
"Aris!" I drop to my knees beside her, rolling her over. Her eyes are closed. "Aris, open your eyes."
"It's soft," she murmurs, her speech slurring. "Just for a minute, Nash. Just a minute."
Terror, colder than the wind, spikes in my chest. Hypothermia is seducing her.
"No," I growl, shaking her hard enough to rattle her teeth. "No sleeping. Wake up!"
I pull her up to a sitting position, slapping her cheeks lightly with my gloved hands. "Talk to me. Tell me something. Tell me … tell me about the brothers. Why are Rhys and Reid twins but not identical?"
She blinks, struggling to focus on my face. "What?"
"The twins," I demand, dragging her to her feet. "Talk to me. Keep your brain working."
"They're identical," she mumbles, her feet dragging as I pull her forward. "Just … chose different sides of the Force. You said it. Reid is … Han Solo. Reckless. Drives too fast. Shoots first."
"And Rhys?" I ask, forcing us over a fallen log.
"C-3PO," she whispers, her frozen lips barely moving. "Obsessed with odds. Hates adventure. But … with better hair."
I laugh, but it comes out as a sob.
"And you?" she manages.
"I'm Chewbacca," I say, gripping her hand tighter. "Hairy. Loud. Good with a bowcaster."
"Keep talking, Chewie," she says, focusing on the back of my parka. "Just keep talking."
We stumble through the timber. I'm taking most of her weight now. My own legs are trembling, my vision tunneling to the few feet of snow in front of us.
Just one more step, I tell myself. Then one more.
Somewhere around mile four, we stop. Not because we want to, but because a sound cuts through the wind.
Awoooooo.
It's faint and distant, but undeniable.
Aris stiffens against me. "Did you hear that?"
"Wind," I lie.
"No," she whispers. "Wolves. They're done eating."
"They're miles away," I say, though I know she's right. The pack has finished with the caribou. Now they're remembering the two that got away.
"We have to run," Aris says, panic flaring in her eyes, melting the lethargy. She tries to pull away from me, to move faster.
"Easy," I say, gripping her hand. "Panic kills. We keep moving. Steady."
But we move faster. We scramble over rocks that tear our pants and slide down embankments. The howling gets closer, drifting on the wind, a chorus of ghosts nipping at our heels.
It pushes us past the point of exhaustion, past the point of pain. We're running on instinct now, two animals fleeing a larger predator.
When we finally break through the tree line and see the river, it looks like a hallucination. And there, a tiny black speck against the white ice, is the snowmobile.
"There," I wheeze, pointing with a shaking hand. "Chariot awaits."
We practically slide down the last slope, tumbling in a cloud of snow, landing in a heap at the bottom.
Seeing the machine feels like seeing a long-lost friend. I pat the seat, my hand shaking uncontrollably.
"If I never see a pair of snowshoes again, it will be too soon," Aris says, her voice thick.
I mount up in front of her. "Hold on."
The ride back to camp is a blur of cold wind and exhaustion. When we finally pull into our little campsite, the circle of trampled snow, the fire pit, the tent, it looks like the most luxurious accommodation on earth.
I kill the engine and let the quiet catch up to us. We sit there for a minute, neither of us moving.
"We did it," Aris whispers against my back. "We got the collar off."
"We did."
"Waldo is free."
"Waldo is free," I agree. "And minus one herd member."
"Yeah." Her voice drops. "The young bull."
"He bought the rest of them time," I say. "He did his job."
We climb off the machine. We're moving like old people, all stiff joints and groans.
"I'll start the fire," I say. "You get inside. Get warm."
"No," she says. "I help. Division of labor."
She grabs the hatchet, and starts shaving kindling. I watch her for a second, my throat going tight again.
We build the fire together and melt snow for water. We eat rehydrated chili that tastes like Michelin-star cuisine.
We don't talk about the wolves or the fall. We sit shoulder to shoulder, staring into the flames, letting the heat soak into our bones.
"Nash," she says after a while.
"Yeah?"
"We leave tomorrow, don't we?"
I look at her. "We have the collar. The research part is done. We need to retrieve the data from the unit, but … yeah. We're done here."
Six weeks was the plan. The wolves negotiated it down to two.
"So we go back to the lodge."
"We go back to the lodge."
"And then I fly to Fairbanks to process the data."
"And then you fly to Fairbanks," I repeat.
The reality settles over us like a wet blanket. The mission is over. The "forced proximity" excuse is evaporating.
"What happens then?" she asks. She's looking at the fire, afraid to look at me. "When we're not fighting for survival every ten minutes. Does this …" She gestures between us. "Does this hold up when there's no adrenaline?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I've never done this without adrenaline."
I fold my hand around hers. Her fingers are rough, calloused, cold.
"But I know one thing," I say. "I'm not letting you go without a fight. I fought a wolf pack today. I can fight a logistics problem."
She looks at me then, exhausted and wry. "Logistics problem. Is that what I am?"
"You're the most complicated logistics problem I've ever had," I say. "City girl. Scientist. Stubborn as a mule. Terrible taste in trail mix."
"Hey."
"But," I say, pulling her hand to my lips, "I'm realizing I really like solving problems."
She leans her head on my shoulder. "I like solving problems too."
We sit there as the fire burns down to embers. The wolves are five miles away, feasting in the canyon. Waldo is somewhere in the rocks, free of his collar. And we are here, alive, together.
"Shelter?" I ask eventually.
"Shelter," she agrees.
We crawl inside the survival sack. There's no frantic urgency tonight, no desperate tearing of clothes. We strip down to base layers and climb into the zipped-together bag. We wrap our arms around each other.
It's not sexual. We're holding each other up, because if we let go, we might collapse.
"Goodnight, Nash," she whispers against my chest.
"Goodnight, Aris."
I hold her until her breathing evens out into sleep. I listen to the wind outside.
Tomorrow we go back to the real world. Tomorrow we deal with brothers and deans and flight schedules.
But tonight, I hold onto the woman who climbed a mountain with me, and I know that whatever happens next, the guy who lived alone at Misty Meadows is gone. He died on that scree slope.
The man lying here now has a partner. And he has absolutely no idea how to let her go.