The Snowflake (4 page)

The fourth day one of the dogs dropped and wouldn’t get up. Those close enough watched in silence as Buck cut her out of her traces and then, without a word, steered the rest of the panting, stricken animals around her. We passed her body, one by one, trying to avoid the pained, alert eyes, all of us wondering . . . who would be next?

By noon the feeling of warmth was a hazy, rose-colored memory. It was easy to forget why we were doing this. Why had I let Jonah drag me across a continent in search of a pot of gold? There were no rainbows on my horizon. No, I corrected through the stupor of my brain, he had insisted I come along. And when I’d said I wouldn’t go . . .

I shivered with the memory of his hands around my throat, the black frenzy in his eyes, the strength he suddenly possessed. That was the first time I thought he might really be capable of killing me. The time I finally admitted to myself that his violent episodes were escalating in intensity so I was truly no longer safe with him. But what could I do? He would not survive without me, and besides, I had promised my mother to take care of him until the very end.

I looked up from the blinding snow to see that everyone had slowed. Even though my brother and I brought up the rear, it was easy to see the weaving, tottering, drunkenlike figures in front of us and know the way.

Jonah leaned more heavily against my side, making my muscles quiver and spasm. I glanced at his face, ice crusting over his nose and chin, bright red spots of color on his cheeks. His breath labored and steps faltered, but I did my best to drag his skeletal form along.

By late afternoon we were stopping often so I could support Jonah while racking coughs consumed his body. It was the ailment Buck had warned about. When the air became so cold it froze in the lungs, the result was a lifetime of coughing for those lucky enough to escape death.

We set up camp later than usual that night and were all as sleepwalkers in our chores. One of the sleds held the food for the group, only to be touched by Buck, whose responsibility it was to dole out the rations for dinner each evening.

I watched him surreptitiously in a degree of safety since Jonah was propped up near the fire, grimacing with the pain of thawing feet. Buck’s movements held me entranced: the controlled, supple grace of wilderness-honed muscle; his moccasins clinging to his calves; the fringe and subtle beading of his jacket that a lesser man would look foolish in; the chest and shoulders that fell back, erect and sure . . . the face of a man who knew himself, who spoke his pain out loud, his every word sounding like
truth
.

My heart thudded in my chest, louder and stronger than it had through all the travails of snowbound marching. God help me, I had to get a hold of myself. Jonah would never let me go, and besides, a man like Buck wouldn’t want me.

But I couldn’t look away. He peeled back the frozen tarpaulin to inventory the food as he did every night. His face became tense, his movements swift and economical and . . . angry. Something was wrong. I could sense it in the way he rechecked his work. Buck never wasted precious energy. Something had to be wrong.

I found myself walking toward him. I didn’t stop until I was close enough to see his breath, a cloud of vapor in the frosty air. I breathed it in, shameless in wanting the only part of him I could have. “Buck,” my voice faltered, and I wondered if I really wanted to hear the answer, “what is it?”

He froze, staring at me, the connection palpable. “The beef is missing and some of the flour too. We won’t make it without that food.”

Forever ruthlessly honest.

I didn’t quite know how to reconcile it, this constant truth facing after a life built on lies to keep Mother and Jonah feeling safe, but Buck continued. “There is enough for each of us to have a couple of biscuits. If the hunting party doesn’t come back with some meat soon, the weakness will overcome us all.”

It was strange being someone’s helpmate, someone’s confidant. I had always held my own council and made decisions for my family the best I could, working with and around Mother and Jonah’s inabilities for a normal life. What would it be like to share thoughts and feelings, to come to conclusions together? I could barely imagine the comfort of it, to have someone to hold life’s reins with me. Someone who loved me and cared what happened to me as I him. The thought took my breath away.

Buck handed me the remaining flour. “Make up some bread with this, two small biscuits per person. Give them one tonight and we’ll save the other for tomorrow at noon. I’ll handle the rest. Don’t say a word.”

“How did this happen? Who did it?”

“I have a good idea.” Buck nodded toward a man. “Who among us lacks the pinched-faced, weak limbs of near starvation? I see only one man who has enough energy left over to glare at me at the end of the day. I know of only one man who could convince himself that he has more reason to live than the rest of us.”

I looked to where his words led. Sinclair. Of course.

As the biscuits were passed out, Buck stared back into the questioning, gaunt faces with stoic briskness. “We’re cutting back. Have to make it last in case we don’t get fresh meat.”

Buck waited until everyone was bedded down and asleep before making his move. He was responsible for the well-being of the members of this trek, and he wasn’t about to let one man ruin them. Sinclair didn’t know who he was dealing with if he thought Buck would let him get away with the stolen food.

He eased from his bedroll, then stood, breathing in the bitter air, reaching for the cold handle of his pistol. He crept over to the sleeping form. Sinclair was using his pack as a pillow, but Buck was ready. He aimed the pistol at Sinclair’s nose and slid the heavy canvas out from under the man’s head.

Sinclair woke with a start, rose to the click of the gun being cocked, and then jerked back as it was rammed between his eyes.

“Whaaattt?”

“Don’t move a muscle.”

Buck pressed the gun hard against the big man’s forehead and, with his other hand, dumped out the contents of the bag. He pawed through the articles, mixing them with snow. He couldn’t believe it. No sign of the stolen food.

Turning on the man, he bit out, “I know you stole the food, Sinclair. Listen carefully. If a single man dies on this trail due to starvation, you will pay in kind. Do you understand? You had better sit up the night and pray God’s blessing on the health of this group, or so help me, I will kill you now.”

He wouldn’t really kill the man, of course, but the threat seemed to work as Sinclair’s eyes widened and his face went white. “I didn’t steal anything. I’m as hungry as the rest of you.”

Buck stared at him long and hard. “You a praying man, Sinclair? ’Cause I thought I just told you to get to your knees.” Buck held the gun on the man and waited.

Sinclair scrambled up, clasped his hands together, and closed his eyes in apparent obedience. That should keep him busy for a while.

Buck backed away toward his bedroll. He glanced around at the sleeping forms, his gaze settling on Ellen.
Lord, we need fresh meat or to find that food. I couldn’t bear it if I let another woman under my care die.

The morning brought a heavy snow, the kind that covered us like a fluffy, deadly blanket. I rose from the suffocation in a jerking movement of arms flailing, lungs taking gulping breaths, my hands brushing the snow from my nose and mouth in a panic. I counted the other rising forms, seeing Jonah turn and struggle beside me.

That day the snow was deeper than ever before. I watched Jonah as we stumbled through it, the hair of his beard poking out in stark contrast to his ashen skin, his breath ragged, his eyes as black as death. We both knew it, but I dared not say anything. Jonah might yet have the strength to command the pretend world.

A laugh of hysteria bubbled from my throat. My frozen fingers pressed against my mouth, trying to suppress it, but I couldn’t. There was no use pretending anymore. I leaned away from him and stared into his empty eyes.

“You’re dying,” I said in a soft and sudden rush. I reached out to touch his face, trying to remember the little boy I had played with as a child.

His black eyes found mine, his pupils so dilated the darkness took over the brown irises. It was as if he weren’t there anymore, as if someone else was.

Fear washed over me in a thousand prickles. I moved away from him, staggering but upright. I could still feel my feet.

He stumbled. He fell, flailing in the snow, like a drowning man. I watched . . . horrified and hopeful . . . hating myself . . . and holding my breath. Fate had finally stepped in. I was about to be free.

He landed facedown, unable to turn over. I could save him. I could walk over, shove his shoulder, and give air to his lungs, but what was the point? I couldn’t carry him any longer.

If I was going to survive, I would have to sever the anchor and move on, as light and free as a snowflake on the wind.

His sudden rally sent a shock of fresh fear through me. I stilled and stared as he rose out of the great white and plowed toward me.

I ran. Feeling his breath on my neck, I stumbled through the knee-deep snow.

His panting was loud, heavy, and hard on my heels, catching me, throwing his weight onto my back, making me fall face-first into the bitter cold.

I struggled, trying to outmaneuver him, knowing that even in his weakened state, some evil force strengthened him enough to smother me for my moment’s betrayal. I’d never done that before—chosen my need before his. He would kill me for it.

We wrestled in snowflakes: cold, heavy, lung-filling, air-robbing beauty. A man, with a man’s desperation and a woman with a woman’s hope and a force of nature that could bury us beneath it all. We wrestled in snowflakes.

Chapter Three

I stumbled into camp, my only company the wind that sought out my exposed skin and took my breath with it as it rose, singing, back up into the snow-covered mountains surrounding us. I knew Buck had been watching for me by the way his shoulders relaxed when he saw me.

“Where’s Jonah?”

“I left him.”

Did I say it with joy? How many times I’d envisioned those words, the circumstances that might cause them, the people I would say them to. I didn’t know he would be dead when I said it.