Touching the Clouds (19 page)

“Paul?” A voice echoed through the trees.

He looked up the trail. It was Patrick. Relief seemed to take the strength out of his legs, and Paul dropped to his knees.

Patrick ran to him, his narrow face lined with worry. “Thank the Lord I found you.”

“How’d you know I was out here?” Paul’s voice sounded raspy.

“Your dogs. Jackpot and Nita showed up at my place this morning.”

Paul pressed a hand to his head. “I got hit by a tree limb. Knocked me out.”

Patrick leaned down and examined Paul’s face. “No frostbite, that’s good.”

“Buck stayed with me. When I came to, he was licking my face.”

“Good dog. And the other two showing up at my place was smart. I think they wanted me to find you.” He eyed Buck. “Figure when Nita has her pups I’ll be wanting one.”

Paul placed a hand on Buck’s broad head. “You can have your pick. That is, after Kate chooses.”

“Kate?” Patrick lifted an eyebrow.

“She needs a companion, especially when she flies.”

“Sure.” Patrick grinned. “Not a bad idea.” He put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Do you think you can make it or should I get the sled?”

“I can walk. My head feels like a bomb went off inside, though.”

Patrick gently pulled back Paul’s hood. “Ooh wee, you’ve got a mess back here. A bad cut, blood everywhere, and a mountain-sized lump.”

“Figured. I could feel something sticky back there,” Paul said, knowing he was lucky to have regained consciousness.

“Sassa will stitch up that cut. She’s good at that kind of thing.” Patrick grimaced and leaned away from Paul. “Smells like you had a one-man party last night. Figure you’d have a headache even if a tree didn’t hit you.” He shook his head. “There are better ways to greet the New Year.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Didn’t think you drank.”

“I don’t—not usually and not again.”

Patrick leaned down and got a shoulder under Paul’s arm and hefted him to his feet. The two hobbled down the trail.

Sassa stepped into the bedroom, carrying a bowl of soup. “This will warm your insides.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’m all right.” Paul lay on his bed, propped up on pillows.

“After what you’ve been through, you better stay put for a few days.” She handed the bowl to Lily, who sat on a chair beside the bed. “Make sure he eats.”

She nodded.

“Lily doesn’t have to stay. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been walloped on the head. Never know what might happen. She’ll take good care of you.”

Paul didn’t respond, too weak to battle.

“She’ll stay with you today, and I’ll be back tonight.” The bossy, though kindhearted, native walked toward the bedroom door. “Praise the Lord you’re all right.” Her expression turned stern. “That was a stupid thing you did. I thought you had more sense.”

“So did I.”

Sassa stepped out of the room. Lily scooted a chair closer to the bed. “Mama makes good soup.” She ladled a spoonful.

“Thanks, Lily, but I can feed myself.” He reached for the bowl, and Lily handed it and the spoon to him.

“While you eat, I’ll clean up the place,” she said and quickly exited the room, acting as if she were embarrassed to be there.

“One thing you can do for me,” Paul called, squeezing his eyes shut at the pain screeching through his head when he’d raised his voice.

Lily appeared at the door.

“How about slicing off a piece of moose meat for each of the dogs? They did a good thing last night.”

Lily smiled. “They did. You could have died.”

Paul tasted the soup. He didn’t want to talk about his poor judgment.

Lily started to leave when Paul said, “Wait.”

She turned to look at him.

“Thanks . . . for staying.”

Her cheeks flushed and her brown eyes turned warm. “You’re welcome.”

Two days later, another storm swept up Cook Inlet and moved inland. Recovering from his concussion, Paul was confined to the cabin. He’d convinced Lily she didn’t need to stay, so he was on his own with a head that still throbbed and a sore, stiff neck.

Wind pelted the little house and snow drifted into piles, transforming the landscape into mounds of white. Paul watched, thinking about all the work the storm was creating. He’d have to clear the snow from the outbuilding doorways, shovel off the porch and steps, and clear drifted snow from beneath the cache and around the wood stack. The dogs had managed to burrow holes so they could climb in and out of their houses, but Paul would have to shovel away enough snow to give them room to move about.

For now, all he could do was tend the fire, sleep, and keep himself and his dogs fed. In spite of his frustration, he knew rest was the best thing for him. However, he couldn’t keep from thinking about his trapline and the animals that might be suffering. He usually checked the traps every other day.

He stepped onto the porch. The thermometer read twenty-five degrees—up ten degrees in the last couple of hours. Still, the storm gave no sign of abating. He wouldn’t be going anywhere, not yet.

The wind increased and snow came down heavily as the temperature continued to rise. It was almost thirty-two degrees, nearly warm enough to rain. Paul had never seen rain in January, not since moving to the creek.

The storm pummeled southwest Alaska for three days. By the time the weather cleared, so had Paul’s headache. The cut on his skull was healing well but still felt tender to the touch. He could move his neck with only little discomfort. He was ready to get outdoors.

The trapline would have to wait one more day while he cleared snow. The porch, woodshed, and outhouse were highest priority, so he tackled them first. By the time he’d completed that, he was sweating and exhausted, and the pounding in his head had returned. He pushed past his discomfort and, after a short break for lunch, went back to work, clearing snow from around the dogs’ leads, the shed door, and the cache, and stomping down trails between buildings. At the end of the day, he was too exhausted to bother eating and fell into bed half dressed.

He rose early the next morning, hungry and eager to get to his trapline. After a breakfast of pancakes and bacon, he made a lunch to take along, then pulled on his parka. With his pack draped over one shoulder and his snowshoes over the other, he headed outdoors.

It was warm. Snow melt dripped from the roof. Wet snow would make for difficult travel. He looked at an overcast sky and noted the winds, which were light and coming from the north. Likely the temperature would drop. He tramped to the sled and placed his pack and snowshoes on it, then headed for the cache for bait. With everything ready to go, he strapped Buck into the harness.

They set off, the big dog lunging through chest-deep piles of white. It was slow going, and Paul soon realized he should have used two dogs. But he’d come too far to go back so they pushed on. When they left the trail, traveling became more difficult, but Buck charged forward. To lighten the load, Paul walked behind the sled. Although Buck and the sled helped pack the snow, soon his muscles ached and his boots felt heavy, as if they’d been filled with buckshot.

By the time he reached the first trap, his headache roared. The leghold was buried and the bait was gone. He cleared away snow, reset the trap, and rebaited it.

At the second leghold, his spirits lifted when he found a marten. It was only partially frozen. He’d have to skin him out as soon as he got back to the cabin.

By midday, Paul had made it through half the line. The takings had been scant—one marten and a fox. His stomach rumbling, he pulled the sled to a stop, fed and watered Buck, then sat on a stump to eat his lunch.

The forest was silent, except for the drip, drip, dripping of melting snow and the occasional
whoomph
as a mound fell from tree boughs. Buck lay with his head on his front paws, eyes closed.

Paul took a long drink from his canteen and fished out one of two sandwiches. He ate both, then three oatmeal cookies Lily had made. They were good.

Finished, he returned to the sled where Buck was up and ready to go. As soon as Paul gave him the okay, he lunged in the harness and plowed forward.

Paul ran most of the way except when Buck headed down a hill, then he rode the footboards. They headed into a gully. When they reached a stream at the bottom, Paul ran behind while Buck trotted across without difficulty.

When Paul stepped onto the ice, it cracked and popped. The next thing he knew, his left foot broke through to the icy water and he lunged forward to gain a foothold. He moved on, the ice breaking with each step.

Freezing water seeped into Paul’s boots and soaked his pants up to his thighs. Afraid the sled would break through, he yelled, “Hike up!”

Buck moved faster, pulling the sled onto the bank and up the hill on the other side.

Paul sloshed to shore, then ran to catch up. “Buck! Whoa, Buck!”

The dog kept moving.

“Buck!”

Paul forced his tired legs to keep moving. When he caught the sled, he pushed down the brake, which planted claws into the snow. The big dog stopped and looked back at Paul, a questioning look on his face.

Paul checked his boots and pants. They were soaked, but he decided the temperatures weren’t cold enough to cause frostbite, so he pushed on.

By the time he made it back to the trail, his feet felt numb. They ached and burned. He needed to get home and warm up. To make better time, he forced himself to run behind the sled instead of riding. Each step sent shocks of pain through his feet and into his lower legs.

Buck moved along steadily. When the cabin came into view, he picked up his pace, stopping only when he reached the yard. After taking Buck out of the harness, Paul left him free while he put the sled away. It hadn’t been a good day—two pelts and two frozen feet.

In spite of his need to get inside to warm up, Paul took care of the dogs first, giving them fresh water and food. Not until he skinned out the marten and fox and stretched them on a board did he finally limp to the house.

Closing the door behind him, he hobbled to the stove and checked for live embers. Some still glowed red, so he added kindling. He filled a pan with water and set it on the cast iron range. After limping to his chair, he dropped onto its soft cushion and pulled off his boots. He could barely wiggle his toes. The kindling crackled to life, so Paul added wood, then shuffled back to the chair and removed his wet pants and socks.

Lifting one leg, he rested the ankle over his knee so he could examine his foot. It was red and mottled. Paul pressed his thumbnail into the skin. He could feel the jab.
Just cold
is all.
He massaged the foot, then checked the other one. It was the same. When they heated up, they’d hurt, but there wasn’t any frostbite.

I should have known better
, he thought. He added more wood to the fire, made a pot of coffee, then put on clean clothes. Feeling slightly better, he dropped into his chair, and rubbed his feet.

About the time the coffee was ready, so was the water. Paul finally settled in his chair and placed his cold, naked feet in warm water. He could barely feel the heat, but knew that would soon change.

He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, wondering what he was doing in Alaska. Nothing had changed. He was as incompetent here as he had been in San Francisco. Two stupid decisions in one week—maybe he didn’t belong here. But if not here, where?

When his feet felt mostly normal, Paul put on socks and slippers. Drowsy, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders and rested his feet on a homemade ottoman. He closed his eyes and thought of home. He could almost feel the touch of a cool breeze and hear the sounds of the city, the clack of trolley cars.

A picture of old Klaus, who lived upriver, imposed on his memories. Would he end up like Klaus, alone and cranky? What would have happened if he’d stayed in San Francisco? He’d run without thought.

Paul dozed, thankful to leave behind his doubts. When he woke, his feet felt nearly as good as new, so he tidied up the cabin and mixed a batch of sourdough bread. After a light meal, he stepped outside to check the temperature. The thermometer registered twelve degrees. The north winds had brought frigid weather just as he’d expected.

He gazed at stars shimmering against a dark sky, then looked at the Warrens’ place. The windows were alight. It was still early; maybe he should stop in and say hello. They’d welcome him; he was sure of that. But remembering Lily, he decided it would be better to keep to himself.

In the distance the howl of a wolf sliced through the emptiness. Paul gazed into the dark forest, wondering where the call had come from. Another cry echoed, this one slightly different from the first.
Even wolves have families.

Wanting somehow to connect, Paul let out a soft howl. It sounded pathetic. He tried again, only this time he cupped his hands around his mouth and called more loudly. He waited, hoping for a response. There was nothing but the quiet wilderness with its sigh of tree boughs sounding like a lonely whisper.

15

T
he shop was quiet, except for the pop of wood in the stove and an occasional sniffle from Jack, who had a cold. The smell of overcooked coffee hung in the air, and Sidney and Jack sat across from each other, playing a game of checkers.

Kate leaned back in her chair, bored and wishing the fog
would lift. The heat and inactivity made her sleepy. Through half-closed lids, she watched a smirk appear on Jack’s lips.

“Who taught you to play checkers, your sister?” he asked.

Sidney remained focused. “Nope. The best player in Kenai— my grandpa.”

“There’s tough competition down there—grannies and girlies.” Jack snickered. He picked up a black checker and jumped one of Sidney’s red ones. He snatched up the game piece and stacked it on two others he already possessed. “Got you now.”

Sidney continued to study the red and black squares. Kate wished he’d make a play. He always took forever to make a move.

Maybe I should go home. Nothing happening here.
She looked out the window. Ice fog draped itself over the world, coating everything with a heavy shimmering frost.