Across a Thousand Miles
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Nadia Nichols
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CHAPTER ONE
Now promise made as a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code…
Robert Service, from The Cremation of Sam McGee
THE MAN WHO DROVE his truck up Rebecca Reed’s rutted dirt drive was a stranger, and her dogs let her know it long before she stepped out of the arctic entry to her small cabin and onto the front porch. She shrugged into her parka which had been hanging in the small pre-entry room as she watched his approach. The afternoon was chilly in spite of the sunlight, and the limbs of the aspen and willow were silvery and bare. Ravens were calling along the river and the wind played a lonesome song through the spruce behind the cabin. It was late autumn and the taste of snow was in the air.
He was tall. She could see that quite clearly as he climbed out of his truck. Even if his truck—with the dog box bolted to its rusting bed—hadn’t given him away, his clothing would have. “Uh-oh. Another crazy dog driver,” she commented to Tuffy, the small black-and-tan Alaskan husky who had followed her onto the porch. In her prime, Tuffy had been Bruce’s favorite lead dog, but she was old now, her muzzle graying, her movements stiff, and her eyes a bit cloudy. “I’ll lay odds he’s after a load of dog food and he’ll want it real cheap,” Rebecca said. “But how on earth did he get past my truck?” Tuffy looked at her quizzically and flagged her tail.
The stranger was dressed like a typical musher, and as he walked up the path toward the cabin, he paused for a moment to brush the worst of the mud off his drab-colored parka. His clothes were dog-eared, dog-chewed and dog-dirty. His insulated boots were patched with rubberized tool dip, his tawny shock of hair needed trimming, he was at least two days unshaven, and heaven only knew when he’d last had a decent bath. A bush dweller and a musher. A dangerous combination. He walked to the foot of the porch steps and paused there, looking up at her. “Hello,” he said with a nod and the faintest of grins. “Your truck was blocking the road and I moved it. Hope you don’t mind, but the hood was left up as if something was wrong so I took a quick look.”
“I went out to get the mail yesterday and it stalled on me,” Rebecca explained. “The battery went dead, but it shouldn’t have. It’s fairly new.”
“Well, your battery was fine, but the ground-wire connection was loose. I tightened that up, and she started like a champ, so I moved her down the drive a ways into that little pullover near the blowdown. I’ll drive her in for you if you like.”
Rebecca was taken aback. “No, thank you. I’ll walk out and drive back. Thank you very much for fixing it. My wallet’s inside. Hold on a moment, I’ll get it.”
He grinned and shook his head. “No, you won’t. I was glad to help and that was a real easy fix. The reason I’m here is that Fred Turner told me you sold dog food. He said you had the best prices in the Territory, so I thought I’d swing by your kennel on my way into Dawson.”
“I do sell dog food,” Rebecca said warily. “But it’s good dog food. I don’t sell the cheap stuff.”
“Good dog food’s what I’m looking for,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around her yard. “You’ve got quite a few dogs yourself,” he said.
“Forty,” she said.
“Forty!” He glanced up at her, and she noticed that his eyes were exceptionally clear and bright, a shade of gray that hinted at blue or green, she couldn’t tell which. “My name’s Bill MacKenzie. Most folks call me Mac.”
“Rebecca Reed,” she said, with a curt nod. “How much food were you looking to buy?”
“Well, I only keep fourteen dogs myself, and I have plenty of chum salmon to carry them through the winter. I was thinking along the lines of forty bags, if you had that much to spare. That should see me through till spring.”
“I could sell you that much food,” Rebecca said, “but that truck of yours is only a half-ton, and it isn’t even four-wheel drive. I doubt it could haul that heavy a load.”
“Well, I know it doesn’t look like much,” Mac admitted. “But it’s a tough truck, sure enough. She’ll carry a ton of food, easy, four-wheel drive or no.”
“How far do you have to take it?”
“Thirty miles or so. Not far. Hell, if it would just hurry up and snow, I could ferry the food back with my dog team. It’d be good training for them.”
Rebecca smiled faintly. “It’ll snow soon enough. You said you were on your way to Dawson, so I guess you’ll be wanting to pick the food up on your way back to wherever it is you live?”
Mac nodded. “That’d be great. I’m bringing a dog to the veterinarian for a checkup. She’s a good dog but she’s been off her feed for nearly a week. My appointment isn’t until four, so I thought I’d spend the night in town and get an early start tomorrow. I could be here by eight-thirty, if that’s all right with you.”
Rebecca shrugged. “Fine by me. I suppose if Fred Turner told you I sold dog food, he probably also told you that I don’t extend credit. My husband started this business five years ago and he gave credit to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that came up the trail. Couldn’t say no to anyone. When he died he left me in an awful mess. I’ll sell you however much dog food you need, but you’ll pay cash at pickup, same as everybody else. Twenty-five dollars a bag.” Rebecca narrowed her eyes as she spoke, aware that her words were hard and businesslike, and aware, too, that MacKenzie probably didn’t have two dimes to rub together. Probably didn’t even carry a checkbook or a credit card.
“I understand,” Mac said, nodding. “That’s good business.” He patted the flat, frayed pocket of his parka and grinned again. “Not to worry about my finances,” he assured her. “I’ve got me a good little jag of cash, what with all the furs I’ve sold. I could pay you right now if you like.”
“You can pay at pickup,” Rebecca said. “You’re a trapper?”
“I run a trapline up along Flat Creek.”
“Really.” Rebecca frowned. “How long have you been living out there?”
Mac paused, his eyes suddenly intent on searching the ground at his feet. The color in his windburned cheeks deepened. “Well, not that long,” he admitted. “Since early August. Actually my brother’s the trapper and they were his furs, but he’s gone to Fairbanks to finish his degree at the University of Alaska. He asked me if I’d like to spend a winter in the Yukon, taking care of his dogs and running his trapline. The timing was perfect, so here I am.” Mac grinned again, raising his eyes to hers. “They’re real good dogs. He ran the Yukon Quest with them last year and finished third. He told me to sell the furs and buy dog food for them.”
“Ah,” Rebecca said. “You’re Brian MacKenzie’s brother.”
“Yes. You know him?”
“He and my husband were friends.”
Mac nodded. “Well, he wants me to run his dogs this winter, so I expect I will. There’s not much to it, really. He gave me a some lessons before he left, and I’ve been working with the dogs for a few months now. We should be able to do really well at some of these races. I’d kind of like to win the Percy DeWolf. It’s only 210 miles and those dogs of my brother’s will eat that up like it was nothing.”
“Had you ever driven a dog team before you came out here?” Rebecca asked.
“Nope. But I’m a quick study and my brother’s a good teacher. What about you? Are you planning to run any races this season?”
Rebecca shrugged again. “Depends on the training, I guess, and my work schedule.” She straightened up and zipped her parka. “You’d better get headed for Dawson. It’ll be pitch-dark soon, and I’ve still got chores to do.”
“Need any help? I could give you a ride out to your truck,” he offered.
“No, thanks. I can manage and I like the walk.” She started to turn away and then paused. “Be careful of that soft spot in the drive just before you get to the main road. Keep to the left of the deep ruts and you should be okay.”
Rebecca watched him turn and walk back toward his truck. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “Early thirties,” she said to Tuffy, who had remained at her side. “See the way he walks? Definitely military. I should have guessed he was Brian’s big brother when he told me his name.” She laughed softly, the first time she’d laughed in forever. “Win the Percy DeWolf? He’s awfully arrogant, wouldn’t you say, Tuffy, for a cheechako who probably doesn’t know a dog harness from a doghouse!” Tuffy, as always, cheerfully agreed.
MacKenzie’s truck started hard, with much grinding and groaning. It took several tries for him to turn around in Rebecca’s yard, backing up into the irregular gaps between the spruce trees and the dog barn, and the dog yard fence and the cabin porch. At length, with a burst of black exhaust, he was gone, and the sound of the old truck’s engine faded into silence.
Rebecca gazed beyond her late husband’s dog yard, at the wall of rugged mountains that made up the Dawson Range. Bruce Reed, she thought, I miss you like crazy and I hate you for leaving me here with a pack of forty sled dogs to look after and a business that’s still in the red….
Her eyes stung with tears, and a sudden chill made her wrap her arms around herself as she stood on the cabin porch. Tuffy leaned her small but solid weight against Rebecca’s leg. Rebecca sniffed and let one hand drop to stroke the dog’s head. “I don’t hate him, Tuffy,” she said softly. “I’m just mad at him, that’s all. I want him back and he won’t come, but that’s not really his fault, is it?”
She might have stood there feeling sorry for herself indefinitely, but there were chores to do. There were dogs to feed, a wood box to fill, water to haul and, finally, her own supper to cook. Tomorrow she had sled dogs to train, more chores to do, more wood and water to haul, and the guest cabin needed a good cleaning in preparation for the steady stream of clients that would inhabit it once the snow came, some flying in from as faraway as Japan to spend a week in the Yukon behind a team of dogs. Bruce’s outfitting business, now in its fifth year, had gotten off to a slow start, but if Rebecca’s figures were correct, this year it would actually turn a profit. Nearly all of the available dates were filled with clients seeking a northern adventure. More than half of them were repeats. Between the food sales, the guided trips, and the small sums she earned writing a weekly column for a Whitehorse newspaper, Rebecca, without her husband, was managing to scrape by.
As she mixed the dog food in the big galvanized washtubs, three of them set side to shoulder inside the cabin door, she caught herself thinking about Bill MacKenzie. “He’ll never make it,” she said to Tuffy as she mixed the ground meat into the kibble and added copious quantities of warm water from the huge kettles steaming atop the woodstove. “He’ll never last out the winter in Brian’s shack up on the Flat. He may think he’s Jeremiah Johnson, but he doesn’t have a clue. This country will eat him up.” She shook her head and laughed for the second time that day. “Ex-military. He probably has a hard time tying his bootlaces without a drill sergeant instructing him.” She scooped the warm, soupy mix of meat, kibble, fat, vitamins and water into five-gallon buckets, hoisted two of them with hands that were callused and arms that were necessarily strong. She pushed the door open with a practiced kick of her booted toe, did likewise to the door from the arctic entry and emerged from the cabin to the wolflike chorus of forty huskies howling for their dinner.
Halfway through her chores she paused for a moment, pushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist and shook her head. “Boy, I feel kind of sorry for his dogs.”
“WE’LL NEED TO TAKE X rays to see what’s going on,” the veterinarian said, removing his stethoscope and laying it on the side table. “From what you’re telling me and from what I’m hearing inside her, it sounds like some sort of intestinal obstruction. Does she eat rocks?”
“Rocks?” Mac stared down at the small sled dog that he steadied in his arms. “Why would she do that?”
The veterinarian laughed. “You’d be amazed at the things we find in a sled dog’s intestines. Rocks are the most common. They start out playing with them and then for some unfathomable reason they swallow them.”
“Rocks,” Mac said. He shook his head. “I guess there’s a lot I need to learn about these dogs. Okay, so what happens now?”
“We’ll knock her out, take some pictures and if there’s an obstruction, we’ll go ahead and surgically remove it. She’ll have to stay overnight for observation, and I’d like to get some IV hydration into her.”
“And if you don’t find anything?”
“I’ll do some blood work and we’ll take it from there. The other option is to keep dosing her with mineral oil the way you’ve been doing and hope the obstruction works its way through. But she’s pretty dehydrated right now and she’s lost a lot of condition. There’s also the possibility of a rupture of the intestine, which would cause massive infection. It’s up to you. If you want to wait a little longer…”
Mac shook his head. “Go ahead and do whatever needs to be done. I don’t want to take any chances with her. Can I call here tonight and find out how she’s doing?”
“We should know how we’re going to proceed as soon as we see what the problem is. If you leave a number where you can be reached, I’ll give you a call.”
“I’m staying at the Eldorado,” Mac said. He stroked the dog’s head one final time before leaving her to the vet. “You’re a good girl, Callie,” he said. “You’ll feel better soon.” Sick as she was, Callie wagged her tail at his words and tried to follow him out of the examination room, which made him feel worse than ever. If someone had told him three months ago that he would be so attached to a pack of sled dogs, he would have laughed in disbelief, but abandoning Callie at the veterinarian’s launched him into a state of high anxiety.
He paced the lobby at the Eldorado for nearly an hour before the phone call came. The X rays showed a large obstruction, probably a rock. They were commencing surgery and would phone again to let him know how things went. Another ninety anxious minutes later, he got word that the operation had been successful and that Callie was fine. “That rock was as big as a hen’s egg,” the vet said. “I saved it for you.”
Mac’s relief was followed by intense hunger. He ate a huge and satisfying meal, then had a couple of cold beers while watching some of the locals shoot pool in the barroom. His thoughts kept returning to Rebecca Reed. Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Fred Turner was a taciturn old cuss, but he’d divulged a good deal about her when he’d stopped at Mac’s cabin for a visit two weeks back. “Terrible sad story,” Fred had said, shaking his head and blinking the sting of a large swallow of Jack Daniel’s from his eyes. “She came here with her husband, oh, must be five, six years ago. Quiet little thing. Shy. Hard worker, though. Worked right alongside her man, never shirked. Good with the dogs, too. She helped Bruce train, ran some races herself and did real well.
“Bruce, he ran the long races. The Iditarod and the Yukon Quest. Those are thousand-mile races. Tough races. Rebecca ran some of the shorter ones. Two, three hundred milers like the Fireplug, the Copper Basin, the Percy DeWolf. They started up a business giving tours by dog team and selling dog food. Best prices in the Territory on dog food. And then Bruce went and got himself killed. Hit a moose with his truck coming back from a supply trip to Whitehorse. We all thought she’d pack up and leave, but by God she’s stuck it out, all by herself. Folks say she hasn’t smiled once since Bruce died, and she’s got no family to turn to, just a mother back East who thinks she’s crazy livin’ way out here in the wilderness.”
Mac leaned his elbows on the bar and cradled the beer bottle between his palms. Fred hadn’t mentioned that Rebecca Reed was an arrestingly beautiful woman. Long, dark hair plaited in a thick braid, high forehead, wide-set blue eyes, straight nose, expressive mouth that wanted to smile but wouldn’t, and a determined chin with a little dimple in it. The thought of her living in that cabin all by herself, grieving for her husband, disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Divorced for several months, his own experiences with women had led him to conclude that most of them were fickle. Loyalty simply did not abide in them. Yet how could he explain this woman living in voluntary seclusion, this young widow who hadn’t smiled since her husband died? And might things have turned out differently for him in that military courtroom if he’d had the love and support of a wife like Rebecca? Would he have fought harder for his exoneration?
Mac sighed. Taking care of forty dogs must be a hell of a lot of work for a woman! Caring for his brother’s dogs turned him inside out, and getting away from them for just one day was more of a vacation than a three-week holiday used to be. How on earth did she manage all by herself?
“Hey, mister.” A man leaned on the bar beside him, olive-drab wool cap with the ear flaps turned up, windburned complexion, black eyes, red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt, green wool pants with bright orange suspenders. “Barkeep tells me you play a mean game of pool and you’re looking for some action.”
Mac finished his beer and straightened. “Well, I don’t know how mean it is, but it’s pretty good, I guess.”
“Good enough to place a bet on?”
“Maybe.” Mac followed the woodsman to the pool table, thinking smugly, Ha! Easy money!
Six hours later he opened his eyes and stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or why he felt so awful. Pool… He’d played pool with a guy named Joe Redshirt, and Joe played a pretty mean game of pool himself. Whiskey. Joe had bought him several shots over the course of the evening. One of the last coherent memories Mac had was of an easy rail shot he’d pooched, and Joe’s deadpan voice drawling, “Don’t worry, son, I couldn’t make those shots when I was young, either.”
Mac closed his eyes, moaned, then opened them again, realization flooding through him. “Dammit!” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, not overly surprised to find himself fully clothed. He held on to the nightstand for a moment until his legs steadied beneath him, then staggered to the chair. His fingers dug into the frayed pockets of his parka with frantic movements, and he knew a moment of wild relief when he drew forth the carefully folded envelope that held the dog-food money. He spilled the bills out onto the coverlet and counted them. Sweat beaded his brow. He counted again, as if more might appear the second time around then sank onto the edge of the bed. By nature he was neither a gambler nor a heavy drinker, but betting on a game of pool had seemed like such an easy way to win money to help pay both the vet and the hotel charges, and Joe Redshirt had kept handing him those shots of whiskey…
…and somehow Mac had gambled away half his dog-food money.
One hot shower and thirty minutes later, he was standing in the vet’s office counting those same bills again. Then he pushed all but sixty dollars toward the receptionist. She counted it primly before writing him out a receipt. “I’ll get Callie for you now,” she said, and disappeared into the back room. Mac stared at the remaining bills in his hand with a feeling of doom. “Oh, God,” he said to the empty room. “I’m flat broke.”
When he finally got Callie comfortably ensconced in the passenger seat of his old truck, he was stunned to realize that it was nearly 10 a.m. He had an early-morning appointment to pick up nearly a ton of dog food from a beautiful widow named Rebecca Reed, who lived about an hour outside of Dawson…and who didn’t sell dog food on credit.
“Oh, God,” he said again, putting the truck in gear and heading down the Klondike Highway. “I’m a dead man.”
“YOU’RE LATE! Rebecca said, hands on her hips. I could have trained three teams of dogs in the amount of time I’ve spent waiting around for you.”
A stiff wind bent the tops of the spruce, and the overcast sky gave off an ominous thundering. “I’m sorry,” Mac said. He stood at the foot of the porch steps looking about as apologetic as she’d ever seen a man look. Those broad military shoulders were hunched, and his hands were shoved deep into his parka pockets. His tawny hair was tousled, though clean and freshly trimmed, and he had obviously shaved, revealing more clearly the strong, masculine planes of cheekbone and chin, but his eyes mirrored his abject guilt.
“Well, I’m not going to help you load the dog food. That’s your job. Back your truck up to that door on the end of the dog barn. Your food is on pallets stacked to the right of the door. Forty bags, though I seriously doubt your truck will take the load.”
He nodded again, looked over his shoulder at the old rusted truck, then dropped his gaze to the toes of his worn-out pack boots. He stood silently at the foot of the cabin steps until Rebecca felt a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.
“What is it?” she said.
He sighed and dug his hands deeper into his parka pockets. He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. A snowflake fluttered down from the leaden sky and brushed over his shoulder unseen. “Well, the thing is, I’m a little short of cash,” he said in a low voice, speaking to the ground at his feet. “The vet bill turned out to be higher than I expected. You see, Callie ate this big rock…” He raised his eyes and pulled one hand out of his pocket, fingers unfolding to reveal the smooth egg-shaped stone cradled within.
Rebecca stared at the rock and crossed her arms in front of her. The wind was cold, but a curious feeling warmed her blood. “I see. Yes, that certainly is a big rock. So. You spent all your money on what had to be the most expensive surgery ever performed in the Yukon, and I suppose now you want me to extend credit to you?”
Mac shook his head. “I have enough left to buy a couple of bags. I can come up with more money. I’ll sell some stuff up at the cabin. A couple of bags will hold me over till I can hock my watch. I have a good one. A Rolex.” He bared his wrist to display the watch, but Rebecca was unimpressed. Another snowflake whirled through the air, a tiny dance of white, a promise of winter. He watched it land and disappear, then raised his eyes to hers. “I’m not asking to buy on credit. I’ll get the money. Callie’s okay, and right at this moment that’s all that matters.”
Rebecca’s arms tightened against herself. Bruce would have done the same. He would have sold his soul to the devil to save one of his dogs. And truth be known, so would she. “Take the food,” she said shortly, “and pay me when you can. Your brother, Brian, did very well with his trapline. I expect you’ll be able to make good on this loan in a month or so. I can’t abide the thought of those good dogs of Brian’s going hungry, and they can’t live on chum salmon…and egg-size rocks.”
Mac stared at her until she felt the cold knot in the pit of her stomach return with a vengeance. “What is it now?” she demanded.
“Trapping.” His eyes pleaded with her to understand, and the flush across his cheekbones deepened. Rebecca waited, grim-faced, for him to continue. “I tried trapping. I set the traps like Brian showed me. For a while there was nothing, and then I caught a fox,” he said. “When I came to check the trap, the fox was… It had…” He half turned away from her and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. His shoulders rose and fell around a silent sigh. “I let the fox go. It just didn’t seem right.”
Rebecca looked at him for a moment and then turned her back abruptly, raised her hands to her mouth and coughed behind them to hide her smile.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do to earn the money, but something’s bound to come up.”
She turned around, her face composed, and nodded curtly. “I’m sure you’re good for it. Load the dog food. You have a long trip ahead of you, and it’s starting to snow.”
She watched him back the old truck up to the barn door and let her hand drop to rest on the head of the dog who was forever by her side. “He can’t trap wild animals, Tuffy,” she said softly, a bemused smile curving the corners of her mouth. “Who can figure the heart of a man?”
IT TOOK MACKENZIE a good thirty minutes to load the bags. Rebecca spent the time mixing her own batch of dog food for the evening feeding. The cabin was warm, and she lit an oil lamp against the early twilight. The hardest part of living in the north was the lack of daylight in winter months. It wasn’t so bad now, but come December the nights would be endless, and sunlight all but a precious memory. She gave the stew pot a stir and poked the pan of sourdough bread rising on the warming shelf, shifting it to a cooler spot. A light tap on the door drew her back onto the cabin porch. MacKenzie stood humbly before her. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be off now.”
“Good,” she said.
He nodded. “I’ll pay you within the month.”
“I’m sure you will.”
She couldn’t keep the edge of sarcasm from her voice. He nodded again and turned away, walked down the three steps and crossed the yard to where his truck was parked. He paused before climbing into the cab. “Need any mechanical work done on your truck?” he asked hopefully.
“Nope.”
“Two weeks,” he said. “I’ll have the money in two weeks!”
She didn’t reply, and he climbed into the cab and slammed the door. The truck started right up, but he had to work to get it into first gear. He pulled ahead with a lurch that stalled it. He started it again, waved his arm out the side window when the engine finally caught and slowly rumbled out of the yard, the old truck’s springs sagging under the heavy load. As he drove cautiously down the long rutted track that led to the main road, it began to snow in earnest, the flakes whirling past on a strong westerly wind. By morning there would be a foot or more. Winter came all at once in the north country and stayed for a very long time.
She stepped inside to fill the buckets with dog food, hurrying now to beat the darkness and the storm. The dogs howled with delight as she reemerged bearing their supper, which she ladled into the feed pans attached to the sides of their houses. “We’ll run tomorrow, Thor,” she promised the black lead dog, another of her husband’s favorites. “Maybe even with the sled.” She’d been training the dog teams with a four-wheeler since the weather had cooled in August, letting twelve dogs pull the ATV down miles of dirt roads, and while rig training was important, she couldn’t wait to get back onto the sled. Nothing compared to a fast run behind a good team of well-trained dogs. Rebecca had come to love the dogs and the lifestyle they represented. She had come to love this little place on the edge of the wilderness, the timeless cycle of the seasons, the ebb and flow of life, and the hard, harsh laws of the wild. If not for the aching loneliness that had hollowed her heart since losing Bruce, she would be quite content here.
“Okay, Quinn, I’m coming with the chow. Hold your horses!” She dished out the food quickly, moving amongst the whirl and dance of the excited animals with practiced ease, speaking each dog’s name as she fed it. Finally she dropped the scoop back into one of the empty buckets with a weary sigh. “Done and done.” The snow was already turning the ground white, and strong gusts of wind lifted it up in streamers. “Wild night ahead.”
She wondered how MacKenzie was making out on his long drive home, and no sooner did this unbidden thought enter her mind than the dogs erupted into a frenzy of barking, all eyes focused on the dirt track that led to the main road. She followed their gaze and after a few moments picked out the dark shape of a man moving through the thick veil of wind-driven snow. “It can’t be!” she said.
But it was. MacKenzie trudged into her yard and veered in her direction. His hair was plastered with snow. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said over the roar of the wind. “My truck broke a U-joint about half a mile from here, just shy of the main road.”
Clutching both empty buckets in one mittened hand, she stared at him. “I guess it was too heavy a load,” she couldn’t resist saying.
“I guess,” he said.
“You got into that soft spot, didn’t you?” she said. He nodded. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“I was wondering if I could borrow your phone.”
“You’re assuming I have one. Who do you plan to call?”
“God,” he said.
“I don’t have that kind of a phone. Mine is a limited-signal radio phone, and the best you can do with it is to call over to Sam and Ellin Dodge’s place. They have a ham radio and can call into Dawson for a wrecker, but nobody will come out tonight with a storm brewing. And even if someone does, a wrecker won’t get you home with a load of dog food for a pack of hungry dogs.”
“No, ma’am, probably not.”
“And if you don’t get home tonight, who’s going to feed your dogs?”
“Fred Turner. He’s staying at my place till I get back.”
“Fred Turner?” Rebecca glared at Mac. “Fred Turner’s about as dependable as one might expect an alcoholic amnesiac to be. If you left any liquor in your cabin, he’s drunk it all by now. Lord only knows what shape your dogs’ll be in when you get back.”
“I can fix that U-joint in jig time. All I need is the right part. I noticed you had an old, broken-down Ford parked behind the dog yard…”
“That old, broken-down Ford is my snowplow, mister, and you aren’t laying a hand on it! Sam Dodge has some junkers over at his place. He may have the part you need. Like I said, you can use my phone to call him, though you won’t be able to do much in the pitch-dark.”
“I have a headlamp in my truck,” Mac said. “Hell, I could work blind if I had to. I’m a fair enough mechanic. How far away do these folks live?”
“Sam and Ellin? Not far. Five miles down the trail, east of here.”
“Which trail?”
“That one.” Rebecca raised her free hand and pointed. “If you hurry you could get there and back in my four-wheeler before the snow gets too deep, but we’d better call ahead first.”
“I appreciate this,” Mac said, following her into the warmth of the cabin. He stopped inside the door and looked around while she hooked the radio phone to the twelve-volt battery. She noticed him staring at Bruce’s clothing on the wall pegs near the door and the pair of man-size Bunny boots behind the wood cookstove. “You have a real nice place here,” he offered. She said nothing, dialing Sam and Ellin’s number by heart and hoping that they had their phone turned on.
They did. Ellin answered on the second ring. Her voice was always warm and welcome to Rebecca’s ears. “’Becca! Sweetheart, how are you? I hope you’re all ready for winter, my dear, because its here!”
Rebecca quickly filled Ellin in, and within moments Sam was speaking directly to Mac about parts and pieces and tools and time. Finally, Mac handed her the phone and grinned. “All set!” he said. “They have the part I need. All I have to do is pull it, bring it back here, and fix my truck. Callie should be all right in the meantime.”
“I could drive you over,” she offered, albeit grudgingly. She had chores to finish, a column to write and a deadline to meet.
“No need, if I can borrow your four-wheeler.”
Relieved, she led him back out into the brumal blast, zipping her parka against the cold. It was rapidly growing dark. The four-wheeler was parked inside the barn, and she swung the door wide and held it open against the force of the wind while he started up the vehicle and drove it out. Once again she pointed at the mouth of the trail that led directly from her yard into the thick spruce forest. “Just follow that trail. You can’t possibly get lost. It takes you right into Sam and Ellin’s yard. Don’t worry about Callie. I’ll bring her into the cabin and keep an eye on her.”
“Thanks,” he said, visibly relieved. He shifted into first gear, and was swallowed up instantly by the darkness and the storm.
