Chapter Thirty-Nine

Karl squinted into the snow. His eyelashes were frosted, his cheeks burned, and his fingers had gone numb at least half an hour ago. Thankfully, though, his frozen hands still gripped the sled rail. Actually, he wasn’t too sure he could let the rail go even if he wanted to.

“How’s she doing?” he yelled into the wind.

“She’s holding on,” Molly hollered back.

She sat in the basket with nearly seventy-five pounds of Cookie sprawled over her lap and chest. The bullet had hit her in the side and she was bleeding bad, but she was still alert. Molly didn’t seem bothered by the fact that her winter coat was covered in dog blood and Karl felt a well of emotion for the woman who understood how much that damned bitch meant to him. He’d raised Cookie since she’d been three months old, an adorable ball of terror. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he lost her.

Cookie growled at Molly’s voice, and without missing a beat Molly tapped her on the nose and murmured, “Hush.”

Cookie lowered her head with a little whine and Karl marveled. Never in all the time that he’d known Cookie had she done anything he’d asked of her unless she wanted to. Molly was obviously some kind of dog goddess.

Or just a goddess.

He looked down longingly at the back of her hood-covered head, which wasn’t easy, what with the frosted eyelashes. Molly and he had been friends since the first grade, when he’d noticed her lecturing Scott Henderson on the proper way to color in a banana—always outline first was Molly’s policy. He’d come over and backed up Molly’s philosophy, even though at seven he hadn’t yet formed any personal coloring guidelines. And when Scott had shoved Molly in inarticulate anger over being lectured on coloring, Karl had kicked him in the shins. Kind of like a knight of old championing his lady fair. That had led to a time-out and an awkward letter home to his mom, but seven-year-old Karl figured it’d been more than worth it.

Molly Jasper had had the biggest, brownest eyes Karl had ever seen.

After that Molly had regularly instructed Karl on such things as Why Ding Dongs Weren’t Health Food and How He-Man Wasn’t a Real Name—Karl secretly still wasn’t entirely convinced on that one. He’d learned how to write cursive with her in third grade. In fifth grade, he’d given her an awesome Spider-Man valentine with a bonus Swedish fish insert—only a little smashed. In eighth grade, he’d asked her to the winter dance—which she’d declined, due to stupid Dave Beaulieu asking her first, but he had danced with her and later kicked Dave in the shins in the boys’ restroom. And when Karl had joined the army and left the rez, Molly had e-mailed him and sent him care packages of wild rice and Swedish fish.

They’d always been friends and somehow Karl had figured that, you know, they’d end up together.

Married. Maybe with tiny Karls going ice-fishing with him and tiny Mollys lecturing him on his caffeine consumption.

But now there was that dickhead Walkingtall, looking so serious—just like Molly—and college educated, and even Karl—who had to admit he wasn’t always the quickest on the uptake—could see they kind of matched. And Molly was mad at him because of the stupid arrowheads and he hadn’t had time to explain yet, and now Cookie was covered in a terrifying amount of blood and they were in a blizzard and he couldn’t see Bug, who was taking lead from Cookie, and Bug wasn’t the brightest dog in the world and for all Karl knew they were headed to Canada, and really?

Things had kind of gone down the shitter.

“Maybe we should’ve stopped,” he said to Molly. “Maybe we should’ve found a cabin and broken in and made a fire and, I dunno, brought all the dogs in and gotten Cookie warm.”

Molly didn’t say anything and Karl actually felt his heart sink. There were times, late at night with all the lights off, that Karl had to admit that he was sort of a screw-up. He had the feeling Molly thought so, too.

The wind howled, beating against him, beating against the sled and the dogs, and Karl wondered if they were going to die out here, him and Molly and his sweet, psychotic Cookie and all the rest of the dogs who only wanted to run and chew on the special rawhides he bought in bulk at the feed store.

He might’ve sobbed.

And then… and then he saw the sign for Sam’s road, suddenly there in the white.

Karl whooped and yelled “Haw!” at Bug, and Bug, that big bundle of dumb mutt, swung left, just like he was supposed to, and they raced down the road and then there was Sam’s cabin and Karl whooped again and yelled, “Whoa!”

So, okay, Bug went a little past the cabin, but Karl got him turned around and then they were there and he looked at Molly as he set the brake and grinned. “We made it.”

She gazed at him a little puzzled. “Of course we did. You were driving.”

Her simple faith in him caught him unawares and made his heart suddenly leap up and soar. He came around the sled and bent and kissed her, frozen-mouthed and hot-tongued. Cookie tried to nip him, probably because she was sort of squished between them, but Karl was too busy being relieved and happy and kind of glorying in Molly’s sexy mouth.

Which was when someone cleared their throat.

He looked up.

Walkingtall stood in the doorway to Sam’s house, pinch-faced and too tall and said, “Doug’s been shot, Doc’s got a fever, Sam and Maisa haven’t returned, and George Johnson’s disappeared. That dog is covered in blood. Is she dying? You want to come in? It’s freezing out here.”

Karl kind of wanted to kick him in the shins.