And suddenly another face came back to him so clearly it hurt. The county hospital six years earlier. The smell of bleach, cheap medicine, and helplessness.
His wife, Nora. She had lain on a hard narrow bed just like that—thin, pale, almost transparent. Mike remembered sitting beside her for hours, holding her weak hand in both of his.
He had been a strong, healthy man, the kind who could handle himself against a full-grown animal if he had to. But there, in that hospital room, he had been completely useless. There was nothing he could do.
He could only watch life leave the person he loved, one drop at a time. And listen to the clock on the wall. That helplessness had stayed with him all these years, driving him deeper into the northern backcountry, away from people.
Mike clenched his jaw until his teeth ground together. “No,” he said out loud, his deep voice flat in the frozen air. “Not again.”
He slipped the shotgun off his shoulder and hung it on a nearby branch. Pulled his heavy hunting knife from his belt. Working fast and clean, he cut armfuls of spruce boughs.
Then he took the coil of nylon rope he always carried and, in a few minutes, lashed together a rough drag sled out of branches. He spread his own fur-lined coat over it, left standing in only a wool sweater.
Mike lifted the woman carefully. She was shockingly light, almost weightless, as if there were nothing left in her but bones and a fading breath. He laid her on the sled, wrapped her tightly in his coat, covered her head, and tied her in so she wouldn’t fall out on the way.
Then he ran the rope under his arms, made a harness across his chest, stepped back into his skis, and started home. The cabin was four miles away.
On a normal day he could cover that distance in under an hour without much effort. But now he had weight behind him, and the fresh snow from yesterday’s storm came up to his knees in places. He took the first step.
The rope bit into his shoulders through the sweater. His skis creaked. Mike kept his head down and moved.
He set himself a hard, steady rhythm. Inhale—push with the poles. Exhale—step.
Snow caught on the sled and dragged at it. Sweat broke across his forehead and ran into his eyes. He shook it away with quick jerks of his head.
After two miles, his shoulders were on fire. The cold cut through the sweater, but the work made his body burn. Every twenty minutes he stopped, went back to the sled, pulled aside the edge of the coat, and checked her pulse at the neck.
Still there. A thin, stubborn thread of life hanging on. “Stay with me,” Mike rasped, pulling the fur back around her face.
“Not much farther. Don’t quit on me now. I didn’t drag you out for that.” Then he leaned back into the rope and kept going.
The forest changed around him. The sun slid lower, turning the snow a pale pink. His strength drained away, his legs throbbed, and every movement got harder. But in his mind he still saw that white hospital room.
That memory kept him moving. When the dark roof of his cabin finally appeared between the trees, Mike could barely feel his feet. He dragged the sled right to the porch, kicked off his skis, and lifted the bundled body into his arms.
He shoved the door open with his shoulder. The cabin air was cold from being empty all day, but at least there was no wind. Mike laid the woman on the wooden floor near the stove.
First things first—fire. Birch bark, dry kindling, a match. Flame caught fast.
He fed several thick pieces of dry wood into the stove and opened the draft wide. The iron box began to hum as it pulled in the cold air. Now came the important part.
He stepped outside, filled a basin with clean loose snow, and came back in. Kneeling beside the woman, he carefully unwrapped the coat.
She didn’t move. Her breathing was barely visible, shallow and thin. Mike knew enough to survive out here.
You didn’t warm frostbite too fast. No hot water, no rubbing with liquor. You brought circulation back slowly.
He scooped up a handful of snow and began rubbing her legs. His hands were strong but careful. He worked over her blue feet and calves, feeling the frozen skin slowly begin to give under his rough callused palms.
Then he moved to her hands. He peeled away the dirty sleeves, stiff with ice. On her thin wrists he saw old deep scars.
Mike frowned, but kept going. He worked for more than an hour. His arms ached, his back stiffened.
The cabin grew warmer. The stove gave off steady heat, warming the log walls. The snow in the basin melted. At last a faint color appeared in the woman’s cheeks.
Her skin was no longer that frightening paper white. Mike let out a breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He carried her carefully to the wide bunk against the wall, covered her with a clean wool blanket, and laid a bearskin over the top.
He set a kettle on the stove. Outside, darkness came fast, and the woods sank into black silence. Mike sat on a stool by the fire, cleaning his shotgun and glancing now and then at the sleeping woman.
It was past midnight. The kettle had long since boiled and now gave off the smell of pine and dried berries. Then a low moan came from the bed.
Mike set down the rag, stood, and walked slowly to the bunk. The woman was tossing under the bearskin, turning her head from side to side, her brow twisted in pain. Then she opened her eyes—cloudy, unfocused.
She stared at the wooden ceiling, then turned sharply and saw the large bearded man standing over her in the half-dark, lit only by the reddish glow from the stove door. What happened next was not what Mike expected. Instead of weakness, raw panic took over.
She jerked backward. The blanket and bearskin slid to the floor. Ignoring the agony in her frostbitten feet, she scrambled back across the bunk and pressed herself into the cold corner of the wall…
