Across A Thousand Miles. Nadia Nichols
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was doing.
Finally she opened the cabin door quietly. Ellin had left a lamp burning on the table, which she’d moved closer to the bunk. Mac was asleep, and Callie was curled at his feet. His head was turned away from the table so that the lamplight shone on the back of his neck and his left shoulder. His breathing was shallow and rapid, but given the nature of his injuries, Rebecca thought that was probably to be expected.
Almost against her will, she moved closer to the bunk and gazed down at him as he slept. She felt a twinge of guilt at how she had treated him earlier. Aside from owing her a chunk of money, which he’d earnestly promised to repay, she had no real reason to dislike him so. Except…except that he was undeniably handsome, and she resented the fact that she was attracted to him. She was the widow of Bruce Reed, a man she had loved deeply and would for all time. She had no right to feel attracted to another man.
She turned away abruptly and fed three more good-size chunks of wood into the stove. With the dampers closed, the fire should hold through the night, especially since morning wasn’t too far off.
She was walking toward the cabin door when Mac shifted, moved his head from side to side and moaned. His breathing became more rapid. Rebecca froze. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and one arm knocked the covers down to his waist. Callie sat up, alarmed.
“No!” he gasped harshly. “I can’t reach it! It’s no good, I’m pinned! Mouse, get out! Get out! Can’t breathe!” His arms thrashed and his breathing became even more labored. Rebecca found herself at his side, reaching down to stop his struggles, to wake him from the clutches of some awful nightmare, but the minute she closed her hand on his arm, he shot upright, smacking his head hard against the upper bunk. “Oh, God!” he gasped, grabbing her arm with a strength that both hurt and frightened her.
“Mac! It’s me, Rebecca! It’s all right, you were just dreaming. It was just a dream!” She put her hand over his, trying to reassure him.
“Mouse!” he said, his shoulders heaving as he gasped for breath.
“No, it’s Rebecca! Wake up!”
He turned his head slowly and his eyes focused. “Oh, God!” he said again.
“It’s all right, Mac! Everything’s okay.”
He released her slowly, raised a hand to his head and then slumped back onto the bunk, flat on his back, and moaned again. His skin was cold and clammy, and his face was pale.
“It was just a dream,” Rebecca repeated. “A dream about a mouse.”
“Not a mouse,” he said, struggling for breath, remembering. “Mouse! Mouse is dead. His plane crashed.”
“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