Got you now… I have the caribou lined up beautifully in the scope of my crossbow, and just when I’m about to send the deadly arrow flying in his direction, he tenses then bolts off in a blur, disappearing deep into the forest before I have a chance to take the kill shot.
I lower my weapon, rip my hat off my head and throw it to the ground, snarling, “Son of a bitch! You lucky fucking bastard!”
Then I hear it, the unmistakable mechanical hum of a chopper closing in. It’s flying low, swooping right up the side of the mountain.
Thanks a lot, asshole. Took me all day to track that caribou.
The winter storm has already begun, kicking the snow up into near whiteout conditions. I thought I could use it to my advantage to track the beast, and had it not been for that fucking tourist taxi, I would’ve had my prize. Guess it will make next time around that much sweeter. I’ll get you on my grill you before spring. Count on it. I’ve yet to take down a caribou, and it’s high on my priority list. Patience has never been a trait of mine. Time to head back. The boys are probably lonely by now. I try never to leave them longer than a four- or five-hour stretch, and it’s closing in on that now.
I’m just about to head for my truck when I happen to glance one more time in the direction of my elusive prey. That’s when I see it—an odd color that definitely doesn’t belong in nature. I sling the padded strap of my weapon over my right shoulder and walk toward the immobile object, more curious than anything. When I’m about twenty feet away, I lock up, realizing that the turquoise and silver mass on the ground is a human being, a small woman. From the looks of her ice-coated braids she’s been out here a while.
“Goddamn it!”
I sprint the rest of the way, thinking that she must be dead or close to it, alone out here in these brutal conditions.
“Hey! Hey, lady!”
Nothing.
I reach the body, dropping to my knees at her side. Pulling the curled-up ball into my lap, I tear my glove off with my teeth, lift her face, and press my fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse. It’s faint as hell, but it’s there. She’s alive. But not for long if I don’t do something fast.
“Hold on for me! Don’t you go dying on me today, you hear me?”
The unconscious woman stays motionless as I unlatch her helmet. The fuzzy white hat she wears underneath looks relatively dry so I leave it on her. I unzip my hunting coat and pull her against my chest, pressing her face tightly against my sweater as I ease back up to my feet. I’m doing everything I can think of to warm her until I can get us both back to the truck.
Clutching her tight, I race back the way I came, tracking through my earlier footprints as her heavy ski boots crash against my right hip. It hurts like a motherfucker, but I ignore it and trudge faster, dodging trees, struggling not to pitch us face first into the deep snow.
My thighs are burning when I finally spy the flash of navy through the thick trees.
Nearly there ….
I push hard, frustrated that I can’t move faster. After what seems like hours, we finally reach the Tahoe. I’m sucking in huge gulps of air as I set her down, pinning her between me and the cab so I can get to my keys. I pull the door open and pick her back up, sliding her in as gently as possible before slamming the door shut. I toss my gear into the backseat and hop in to crank up the engine. I pull my gloves off and blast the heater, hoping it will help.
Don’t kid yourself, maybe she’s already too far gone ….
Her lips and cheeks are bluish white. I shove the truck into drive and haul ass toward the docks, desperate to get us on the ferry to Dahl Memorial Clinic, the only urgent care facility around. The nearest hospital is a hundred miles south of us in Juneau and with this approaching blizzard it’s unlikely we’d make it.
It’s a white-knuckle ride to the docks, my truck skidding to a stop as I jump out and lock the unconscious woman safely inside. There are no roads leading into Skagway; you can only access it by ferry or airplane. That’s both the beauty and the curse of living out here in the wild.
The overhead chime rings loudly as I shove hard against the glass door. The scrawny teenager with the green baseball cap looks up from his computer monitor. He’s wide-eyed, and before he can say a word, I state bluntly, “Need to get on that ferry, got a half-dead girl in the front seat of my truck.” I hike a thumb in her direction.
He leans to the left, glancing around me and shaking his head. He tells me nervously, “Wish I could help you out, man, but we shut down all service to Skagway over an hour ago. Even emergencies. The national weather service is callin’ for the blizzard of the century.”
His chair rolls back several feet as I slam my palms on the desk and growl across at him, “You aren’t understanding me. I can’t have this woman die on me. Now get that fuckin’ ferry in gear!”
Stunned, he shakes his head hesitantly. “Listen, buddy, I want to help you out, really do, but the captain’s already gone home. We’re closing the office up in five minutes.” His brow furrows. “Wait, she’s not one of the missing heli-skiers they’ve been searching for all day, is she?”
“Hell if I know. Found her close to the base of Mt. Harding.”
“Must be her then,” he mutters.
I contemplate leaving her here, but what if they close down the roads soon and she’s stuck with this mental genius looking out for her? No way.
I practically snarl, “Fine. I’ll handle it.”
I turn and punch open the annoying door, ignoring him as he yells after me, “Hey, hold up, aren’t you ….”
The door closes before he gets the name out.
As we drive up, the boys are barking like crazy, eager to get out of their pen and back into the warmth of the house for a meal. After the treacherous drive I feel like I need ten shots of bourbon. Even with the 4WD on, the truck slid twice and nearly got stuck in a deep drift that had piled up on a narrow bend in the road. I can’t believe we’ve made it. The front porch light is still on and I hope that we don’t lose power over the next couple of days. I put the Tahoe into park and hold tight to the steering wheel. She’s leaning against the passenger door, still out cold but alive, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s a victory.
I get out and round the front grill to trudge through the two-foot-deep snow outside the passenger door. I have to snake one arm inside a narrow opening to brace her; otherwise she’ll topple out onto me. Once I have her securely in my arms, she makes her first sound, a barely audible moan of distress. I stop dead in my tracks and watch her, thinking she might open her eyes at any second. Soon I realize the sound must have been involuntary; maybe she’s delirious. Who knows what hell she fought through to end up where I found her.
I open the door. There’s no need to lock it; my closest neighbor is five miles due west. Aside from the realtor who I bought the cabin from seven months back, she’s the first woman who’s stepped foot in this place.
I carry her over to the sectional and carefully lay her down on the longest part before tackling those annoying boots she has on. I’m thinking, Yeah, those just fucking suck, lady.
I practically have to pry them off because chunks of ice are wedged down into the padding. I silently hope she doesn’t have frostbite. If she does, I’ll have to get online asap to see what can be done about it. I peel one sock off and find another thick wool one beneath. Smart girl. That decision might have just saved your feet. I take the interior sock off and find her skin and toes are pinkish white, warm to the touch. They look healthy. The nails are painted pink and her feet are small and delicate just like everything else I can see on her. I slowly release her foot and stare down at the wood, mentally shaking off the uncomfortable stirrings of attraction. As quickly as possible I remove her other boot and socks and check that the other foot is in good shape.
I pause before slipping off her ski gloves, not sure if I’m ready for what I might find. From playing hockey outside most of my childhood, I know firsthand that the fingers are the first to show the ravages of frostbite. Slowly I pull off the left one, hoping that the curled-up position I found her in kept her extremities from bearing the brunt of the cold. The tips are an unnatural shade of white and I hiss out a low curse, hoping like hell she doesn’t have hypothermia and maybe even early-stage frostbite.
I decide to look up the symptoms online. After wrapping her in a thick quilt, I stand up and look her over, making sure that everything but her face is covered. Not enough. I rush over to the hall closet and pull out a spare quilt from the shelf, thinking that it couldn’t hurt. I hurry back to where she’s lying motionless, snap the thing open, and after peeling off her damp jacket, drape it over her.
Then I cross to my desk and fire up the laptop.
I punch in ‘Hypothermia treatment’ and wait.
“Come on, come on ….”
I scan the suggestions on Web MD. Heat her core first, avoid rubbing the hands and feet so she doesn’t go into shock, remove all wet clothing. Keep the person warm. Okay, got this covered. I’ll check her fingers again in a few minutes and do more research if needed.
Next up, phone the cops. I use the landline because my mobile service is normally spotty and with the way this storm is beginning to rage, why even fucking bother? I search the number for the Skagway Sheriff’s Department. Staring at the screen, I punch the digits into the phone. The dogs are going insane in their pen, but they’ll have to hold tight for just a few more minutes.
A gruff male voice answers, “Skagway Sheriff’s Office; this is Rick speaking.”
“Hey, I’m calling to report finding a girl late this afternoon near the base of Mt. Harding. I think she might be the heli-skier that went missing.”
Silence. Then, “She’s alive?” The stunned voice on the line sounds on edge but hopeful.
“Yeah, she’s alive. Half frozen and still knocked out, but alive.”
“Can you get her to town?”
“Tried, but I live on the mountain and the ferry stopped running by the time we got there.”
“Is she with you now?”
“She is, yes.”
“I need your name and number in case we become disconnected.”
Here we go.
“It’s Roark Thibault and my number is—”
He cuts me off, asking angrily, “Is this some kind of a sick joke?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said your name’s Roark Thibault?”
“I did, yeah, so what?”
Silence, then, “Roark Thibault, the enforcer from the Edmonton Oilers?”
Fuck.
I reply sternly, “This is Roark Thibault, the former enforcer from the Oilers. If you watch your damn hockey, then you know I no longer play.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned! Saw that final game of yours last season and I gotta say that player should be in jail for what he did to your knee. Criminal. Never knew you had a place up here. Must be a bit of a hunter then, huh?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get my anger in check. I want nothing more than to slam down the phone. Repeatedly. Until it’s in shards. Instead I steady my voice. Ignoring his last question, I give him my address and home number as calmly as possible. Finally I say, “When will you send someone to get her?”
“Whoa, there, Mr. Thibault. First we need to call off the search. You know we’re expecting over twenty-six inches, right?”
“I’ve heard.” Dumbass.
“So we’ll do our best, but emergencies take priority right now, and even then, just like you, we can’t get to your cabin when the ferry’s not running. Only the chopper could get to your place right now, and they made the final sweep for her thirty minutes ago—had to pull them back in due to the dangerous weather. Got a few of our mountaineering trackers still up there on snowmobiles now; we’ll need to contact them as soon as you and I disconnect. Safety above all else. You can appreciate that, I’m sure. Besides, if anyone is capable of keeping Miss Borgia safe in this violent storm, it’s you.”
“Miss Borgia?”
“Yup. Sabine Borgia. Strange name, I know.”
Beautiful name.
“Oh, and one last thing … when she wakes up, tell her that the companions she was skiing with were both airlifted over to Anchorage. One of them—think it’s the cousin—might not make it. Pretty gruesome injuries, but I’d hold back on telling her those details if I were you. Gotta relay this info to the men now. We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait! Hold up. What happened to them up on the mountain?”
“Avalanche. Not a big one, but enough to do damage.”
With that, the line goes dead, and I’m left gripping the phone in my hand. I glance uneasily over my shoulder to stare across at the sleeping girl named Sabine. I’m tempted to try and wake her but decide to head out and tend to the dogs first. I need time to think about the best way to handle my new guest. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I even spoke to a woman—maybe the waitress at the diner a couple of weeks back and even then, she sure as shit didn’t look anything like this girl.
After closing the front door, I look down and see that I’ve left my gloves inside, but I can’t be bothered to go back in. The cold air is a relief compared to the nearly stifling situation going down in my living room. I head over to the dogs’ long wire pen located on the side of the cabin. They’re both standing on their hind legs, straining against the fence with their paws—their way of greeting me.
“Hey, boys, you’ve been keeping watch today?”
Two sets of arctic blue malamute eyes stare across at me expectantly as I unlock the gate.
“C’mon, then.”
They hop down and nearly trip over each other in a frantic attempt to get to me. Gauge leaps up first, going for the paws-on-chest body bump.
“All right, big boy, I got ya.”
I stroke his furry head and push him back, bending to give the same attention to his pup, Flynn.
“What’s happenin’, little dude?”
At a hundred and ten pounds, Flynn’s hardly ‘little.’ He goes for the epic tail wag-a-thon, the snow flying all around him as he whirls around in fast, tight circles. As usual, they both follow right on my heels as I step onto the porch to gather some wood that’s stacked beneath a green tarp.
Before we head in, I turn to stare at both dogs, giving them a stern, “Behave.”
Gauge cocks his head like he’s trying to understand, while Flynn’s eyes just sparkle with puppy joy.
This should be interesting ….
The door opens and they nose past my legs, nearly knocking me off balance to get to her. They sniff all over the blankets, curious to examine the new arrival in their home.
I stack the logs in the leather sling and give a low whistle, calling them over so they’ll stop bothering her. They’re both reluctant but finally trot over toward me. The commotion seems to have worked, and I watch as she slowly comes to. I decide to act busy, reaching for the lighter and fire poker, determined not to look like some pervert who’s hovering over an unconscious, defenseless female.
I position a few logs and light the kindling beneath them. As I push the dry sticks around with the poker, I listen closely to the rustling of the blankets behind me. Hesitantly, I turn around and inhale a sharp breath. Pale blue eyes, so light that they have an otherworldly quality, are eying me warily. They’re framed by long, pure black lashes. Twin dark braids fall nearly to her waist, her hat having slipped off in her sleep.
I thought she was beautiful unconscious. I didn’t have a fucking clue ….