Across A Thousand Miles. Nadia Nichols

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      “It was a bad dream,” she reiterated. “Do you want another pain pill? Sadie left some for you.” She rubbed her arm where he had gripped it.

      He moved his head slowly back and forth. “I’m okay,” he said.

      “Try to relax. You have a bunch of broken ribs. Breathing’s going to be tough for a while. I’m going to get you something to drink.”

      “I don’t need—”

      “I don’t care what you think you need or don’t need,” Rebecca said. “I’m going to get you something, anyway, and you’re going to drink it!”

      She stood up, trying not to show how shaken she was, and quickly left the cabin. The cold darkness of the Yukon night braced her, and she welcomed the dry, clean sting of it. What if he died here in her guest cabin, especially after the miserable way she’d treated him? She rushed to her cabin and rummaged in the cupboards until she found a bottle of rum that Bruce had bought years ago. She tried to remember how to make a hot buttered rum, but for the life of her she couldn’t. She melted a good chunk of butter in a small pan, added a cup of milk and finally a generous slug of the rum. She heated a mug with hot water and poured the mixture into it, wrapped a clean towel around it to keep it warm and carried it quickly to the guest cabin. His breathing had improved, she thought, and he was still awake. These were both good signs. He smiled faintly at her, but his face was still pale.

      “Can you sit up?” she asked.

      “I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” he said.

      She ignored his apology. Since sitting was obviously painful for him, she propped all the pillows behind him, until he was in a half-reclining position. “I made this for you. I figured it would help you sleep.”

      He accepted it and sniffed. “Rum?”

      “Rum and milk. Is there such a drink?”

      “If you made it, I guess there is.” He took a sip and swallowed.

      “Is it okay?”

      “It’s just fine.”

      “How are you feeling?”

      He took another sip and considered her question carefully. “Like a half-ton pickup sat on my chest,” he replied. “How are my dogs?”

      “They’re fine. You can see them tomorrow. They’re out in my truck, fed and watered.”

      “Thank you. More than I can ever say.”

      Rebecca stood. “Can I get you anything else?”

      He shook his head. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. And I’ll be out of here soon, I promise you.” She nodded and turned toward the door. “Hey,” he said, and she looked back. “Was Fred Turner there when you got to my cabin?”

      Rebecca shook her head. “There were no tracks in the snow, and your woodstove was two days cold. And you’d better lay in a few more bottles of whiskey for the winter. Looked to me like Fred found your stash.” She smiled briefly and closed the cabin door gently behind her.

      HIS DREAMS OPENED doors to his past that he kept tightly closed when he was awake. In his dreams he relived every awful moment of that awful time. When he awoke it took him minutes, hours, days, sometimes, to close all the doors, to rebuild and fortify the walls that kept him safe, kept him sane.

      This morning he lay in soft-breathing stillness, staring up at the hand-hewn planks of the bunk above him. The stove still held a fire, but its warmth was ineffective. The light through the thickly frosted window was dim and gray. It was early, very quiet, and very cold. Callie shivered at his feet.

      Mac moved tentatively, shifting his upper body on the hard, lumpy mattress, and caught his breath. No doubt about it. Having a truck fall on you was a seriously painful business. Of course, if he hadn’t been so stupid about overloading his truck, none of this would have happened. Even worse that it had to happen right in front of her.

      Rebecca regarded him as a cheechako and she was right. He was definitely the idiot of the North, completely out of his element. A few months ago he’d been in the Persian Gulf flying one of the most advanced technical fighters off one of the most advanced Nimitz carriers, and now he was lying on a bunk in Yukon Territory with a bunch of broken ribs at the mercy of a woman who didn’t care for him one little bit, in a land so hostile that all he had to do was walk out into it and he could quite easily die.

      He shifted his legs beneath the thick wool blankets. He couldn’t just lie here. If he had to crawl back to his brother’s cabin, he’d crawl. A man had his pride, after all. Sometimes it was the only thing in the world he had. The effort cost him, but he made it as far as the stove, where he fed two split chunks of dry spruce onto the bed of coals and closed the door. He knelt in front of it with the blanket around his waist, shivering, his breath making little frost plumes in the cold cabin air. If this was technically still autumn, what would winter be like? Would he still be alive then, or would wolves be gnawing on his bones?

      The cabin door opened and he glanced up. It was Rebecca.

      “What are you doing out of bed?” Stern, disapproving voice.

      “Freezing to death,” he replied.

      She was carrying a coffeepot and two cups and looked bright and alert, as if she’d been awake for hours. She had walked bareheaded and without a parka from the main cabin, and her hair fell in a thick, glossy tumble clear to her waist.

      “I brought coffee,” she said, scrutinizing him. “How are you feeling?”

      “I feel just fine,” Mac said.

      “Oh, yes, and you look just fine, too. Actually, your dog looks a lot better than you do. I’ll bring her a bowl of food in a little bit.” She set the coffeepot and mugs on the stove and then helped him to his feet with a strength that her small stature belied. “Get back into bed.” She guided him to the bunk and steadied him while he sat. Sitting was still painful, but he didn’t move while she poured him a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, and handed it to him.

      “Thank you.” He cradled the mug between his palms, relishing the warmth that radiated from it. The coffee smelled wonderful. Rich and fragrant. He tasted it, and something inside of him eased. “This is very good.”

      She poured herself a cup and gazed at him over the rim. Steam curled up and wreathed her face. She was without a doubt the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon. Rebecca Reed had the kind of beauty that came from within. He lowered his eyes, afraid of what might be showing in them. “It’s twenty below zero and clear,” she said. “The rivers should freeze up soon.”

      His brother Brian had talked a lot about the rivers, one in particular. “My brother calls the Yukon a drifter’s river,” he said. “A river of dreams.”

      She smiled through the steam. “Bruce and I paddled a canoe down it from Whitehorse to Dawson. Everyone should do that at least once in a lifetime. It mellows the soul.”

      Bruce. Her dead husband. Mac took another swallow of coffee. It didn’t taste quite as good this time. He glanced at her hand, noting the gold wedding band she still wore. “Must have been a good trip.”

      “It СКАЧАТЬ