Across a Thousand Miles (8 page)

“Climb on, dammit, and shut up!” There was an edge of hysteria in her voice that must have compelled him to obey, and he had no sooner deposited himself atop the bag when the dogs, in a frenzy to get going, ripped the ice hook free and continued their wild run down the frozen river toward home. She hung on tight and kept both feet on the section of snow-machine track between the runners, hoping to slow the dogs enough to tire them
before the Klondike cutoff, but her weight proved an ineffectual drag. When the time came to turn around, they were traveling way too fast. She cursed as the opportunity blurred past. She was bareheaded and barehanded, and the cold was beginning to get a firm grip on her. Where could she turn the team around? She had to get back to her truck. She'd left the headlights on, and Tuffy was sitting in the front seat waiting for her.

Her parka had a hood with a good fur ruff, and she pulled it over her head with one hand, cinching it tightly against the stiff wind. She checked the pockets for a spare pair of gloves and came up with a thin pair of polypropylene liners. They wouldn't help much but were better than nothing. She pulled them on. “Think,” she said to herself. “Where can I turn this team around?”

“I can drive them home,” Mac mumbled.

She ignored him and tucked one hand inside a pocket. The fresh snow had slowed the trail some, but the dogs were still loping. “Mac, where's your headlamp?”

“Gone,” he said. “Lost it while I was dragging.”

“I don't suppose you carry a spare.”

“Sorry.”

“What about spare gloves?”

“Check the glove compartment,” he said, and then laughed or coughed, she couldn't tell which. But after a few moments she felt something hit her leg, and it was Mac, flapping one of his big mitts against it. “Wear mine,” he said. “I can keep my hands in my pockets.”

She pulled them on gratefully. Her fingers were completely numb, and even wearing Mac's prewarmed mitts it took a while before any feeling returned. She hunkered down inside of her parka and peered ahead into the snowy darkness. Turning the team around was no longer
an option. They were running home for their supper and wouldn't stop until they reached Sam and Ellin's.

 

M
AC WAS IN AGONY
, but it wasn't only his bruised body that was causing him pain, it was his wounded pride. Once again he'd made a fool of himself in front of Rebecca. He had completely blown any chance of impressing her. If he'd been a weaker man, he might have given up. Instead, he levered himself out of the sled bag and swung his upper body around until he was sharing the runners with Rebecca and standing closer to her than he ever had before, which was a very pleasant experience.

“My turn,” he said before she could speak. “Climb into the sled bag and take a break. I've warmed it up for you.”

“I don't know if I trust you to drive,” she said. “What if you go into shock and fall off the sled?”

“Look!” he said in the sternest voice he could manage. “This is
my
team and
my
sled. These dogs are used to running for me. They'll run faster and we'll get home quicker if I drive.”

“A little while ago you were practically unconscious!”

“Not true. I had the wind knocked out of me, that's all. You should know by now that I'm pretty resilient. Now get inside the sled bag.”

He was relieved when she finally did. “Comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks. You take the mitts. I'll use my pockets.”

She passed him his mitts. They were still warm from her hands. Her lovely, strong, capable hands. “I know a shortcut we can take that'll shave five or six miles off the run,” he told her.

“You'd better stay on the river trail,” she cautioned. “It's still snowing pretty hard. The side trails might be drifted in.”

“Oh, no, this one's fine. Trust me. I use it all the time.” Moments later he gee'd Merlin up over the riverbank. A few miles later, winding their way at a quick trot through the spruce woods, John Campbell's abandoned cabin loomed beside the trail. Merlin, seeing that the door was ajar, made the sudden decision to take the team inside. Before Mac had time to shout a proper curse or step on the sled brake, half of the dogs had scaled the cabin steps and disappeared within.

“Damn you, Merlin!” he growled, hobbling stiffly off the runners and working his way up the snow-covered cabin steps. The floor of the cabin was rotten and his feet broke through twice, banging his shins hard both times. It took all his remaining strength—combined with Rebecca's help—to haul the dogs out of the cabin and get Merlin pointed in the proper direction. He waited for some sarcastic comment from Rebecca, but she remained silent, though once they were moving down the trail again, he could have sworn he heard her laughing softly.

Forty minutes later Merlin led the team up to Sam's hangar. The house was lit up like a palace, the big Wisconsin generator was roaring, and there were several vehicles parked in the cabin yard. Mac barely had time to open the hangar door and drive the team inside before Ellin and Sam confronted him.

“Mac!” Ellin cried out. “Have you seen Rebecca? The police called—they found her truck parked beside the river with the engine running and Tuffy inside… Rebecca! Is that you! Oh, thank God, thank God, you're safe! We were worried to death!” Ellin's hug was so vigorous that she knocked Rebecca back into the sled.

“Mac!” another voice cried, and he froze in the act of unsnapping the dogs' tug lines. “Mac!” Sadie Hedda rushed toward him like a freight train, her face a mask of concern. “What happened to you? Your face! All that blood!”

“I'm fine,” he said. “I fell on the ice, that's all. Sadie, please, I need to get the dogs unhooked and fed.”

“Son, you'd better sit down,” Sam said, taking him by the arm. “Let Sadie have a look at you. Your face is cut up pretty bad.”

The warmth inside the hangar had caused the blood to flow. He could feel a warm trickle running down his neck. “It's just a cut, that's all, head wounds bleed a lot. I've got to get the dogs fed. They've had a long day.”

“I'll feed your dogs, Mac,” Rebecca said. “You better let Sadie look at you.” She began walking past him, and he reached out and caught her arm.

“I can take care of my own dogs!” he said, and she turned to look at him, startled.

“I know that,” she said. “But the least you can do is let me help you, after you fixed my truck and fed my dogs.”

“Mac, your face is a mess,” Sadie said. “A couple of those cuts are definitely going to need stitches, and you could have a concussion!”

“Now look!” he said, releasing Rebecca's arm and glaring at Sadie. “Right now, I'm going to take care of my dogs. When I'm done, if you feel it's absolutely necessary, you can examine my cuts, gashes, and lacerations to your heart's content.”

Rebecca busied herself unharnessing the dogs and picketing them with the others on the far wall. Mac stepped out, grateful for the cold and darkness, and made
his way to the little cabin where he lived, hoping that the big pot of water atop the stove would still be hot enough to mix the dogs' food. He lit the oil lamp, fed some firewood onto the bed of coals that still glowed inside the stove and thrust his fingers into the pot of water. It was plenty warm. He was mixing the food with a long-handled spade when the door opened and Rebecca walked in.

She didn't say anything, just crossed to the sink as if she'd been in his cabin a hundred times before, took a hand towel down from a nail above the washbasin and poured some water from the teakettle into the basin. Mac was astounded.
She
was going to minister to his wounds? He continued mixing the dogs' food, deeply moved by this action of Rebecca's and struggling with something inside he couldn't begin to verbalize. Then, just when he thought that maybe he'd found the right words, she turned with the towel and washbasin in hand, cool, brisk and businesslike.

“Mac,” she said, “I think the reason Merlin tried to stop at that cabin was because he has a cut on his foot. He must have pulled the bootie off on that first stretch of river trail and cut his pad on some sharp ice. I'm going to clean and wrap it. It's not that bad, but you probably shouldn't run him for a week or so.” Mac looked at her, nodding dumbly, the important words he had been about to say remaining unspoken, unheard. “And I really think you'd better let Sadie have a look at you,” she added. “You have a couple of pretty deep cuts on your face, and you're bleeding like a stuck pig. Sam's taking me to Dawson to get my truck.”

“Merlin's hurt?” he said.

She nodded. “Merlin's hurt. I'm going to wash his paw and bandage it.”

He closed his good eye and slumped against the cabin wall. She watched him for a few silent moments and then put a hand on his arm. “You okay?” she said, and he nodded even as he struggled with the mental and physical pandemonium that her touch evoked. “Listen, Mac, if I were you, I'd seriously reconsider my plans to run the Quest. You still have time to drop out of the race and get your entry fee back.”

He straightened to face her squarely. “And if I were
you,
” he said, “I'd be home harnessing my own team just as soon as I got my truck back, because if you expect to finish that race ahead of me, you've got some serious training to do.”

 

F
OR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS
, they both trained hard, meeting each other frequently on the trail. Mac's injuries from his wild ride out of Dawson didn't slow him down, nor did his bruised ego. In fact, he seemed determined to flirt with her. Whenever they met, he'd stop to talk, and during the course of these conversations, he would switch the subject from training dogs to things of a more personal nature. “Ellin wanted me to ask you to supper tonight if I saw you out on the trail.” To which she would reply, “Really? I talked to Ellin just this morning and she mentioned no such thing. Besides, I have too much work to do. A deadline to meet.” He would lean closer. “All work and no play… Say, you owe me a beer. Remember? I could take you to Dawson tonight, and we could tank up on beer and pizza. My treat. I'm a workingman now. Sam lined up a few jobs for me on the side, mostly mechanical stuff for friends of his. Oh, and by the way, before I forget, here's another installment toward the dog food. Go ahead, take it. It won't
bite. It's good, honest money. So what do you say? I could pick you up after chores.”

She would politely decline, and he would continue his attack the next time they met. “You know,” he commented during another such encounter, “I have this wicked craving for Chinese food. Ever get those cravings? Let's hit Dawson after chores tonight. If you won't let me buy, we could go Dutch. That way you wouldn't feel obliged to kiss me good-night.”

Finally, unable to face him again, she began changing her training routines, using different trails and training at different times. That didn't work, either, because after a week of playing such wilderness hide-and-seek, he drove his dilapidated truck into her yard just after chore time and jumped out, taking the porch steps two at a time. His hair was carelessly tousled and his face windburned from long miles on the trail and still showing the damage from his escapade on the river. There was the bristle of stitches over his right cheekbone, another shorter row above his right eyebrow, tape strips across the bridge of his nose. But his badly bruised eye had opened up, and his gaze was as clear and keen as ever. He grinned unabashedly as she stepped onto the porch. “Hey! Guess what's playing in Dawson tonight?
Iron Will!
It must be fate! What do you say? I'll spring for the popcorn.”

Rebecca's heartbeat tripled. “Mac, how many times do I have to say no before you finally get the idea?”

“Oh, I get the idea, all right. You want to be a hermit. A recluse. You want to hide out here in this cabin with your typewriter and your dogs and shut out the rest of the world. I just don't think it's a very good idea, that's all.”

“What I do with my time is my business. Maybe it's time you started minding yours.”

“Rebecca, you don't have to talk to me, you don't even have to sit next to me in the theater. We don't have to hold hands, kiss good-night, have sex or get married. I'm just asking you to go to town with me. To get away from here for a little while. That's all. Honest.”

“No!”

Mac squared off, his countenance darkening with frustration. “You know what you are? You're a living mausoleum. You're the most beautiful mausoleum I've ever seen, but a mausoleum nonetheless. Living for your husband's memory isn't enough, Rebecca. You can't shut yourself away from the world forever.”

Anger swept through her in a hot, fierce wave, and she tensed against it, keeping her voice calm. “Did Ellin put you up to this?”

He shook his head. “No. I care about you, that's all. I know you aren't exactly crazy about me, but you've helped me out in so many ways. I just want to return the favor.”

“By asking me out to the movies?” Rebecca moaned with frustration and pressed her palms to her temples. “Look, Mac, why don't you ask Sadie? She'd love to go with you. I appreciate your concern for me, but it's completely unwarranted. I like what I do. I like how I live. I don't mind being alone. I honestly don't! I just wish you'd let me be!”

Mac was silent, then he shoved his hands into his parka pockets, stared at his boots for a moment, nodded and turned to go. He paused at the bottom of the steps and glanced back at her, his sudden grin brash and unexpected. “I guess you're telling me to get lost, right? You'll be glad to hear I almost got good and lost today,
trying to find you out on the trails. We must've covered close to a hundred miles. I got so turned around that if it weren't for Merlin, we'd probably still be out there.” He took two steps toward his truck and glanced back, still grinning at her in a way that caused butterflies in her stomach. “I guess there might be worse reasons for getting lost than looking for you, Rebecca Reed, but I don't know if there could ever be a better one.