Shared by the Mountain Men Page 2
Yep, stories have always been my thing. I guess they help me process the craziness of life. Or, as my military shrink told me before Ace and I retired, I use them as a “coping mechanism.” Whatever that means. The way I see it, you can let the ugliness of reality destroy you, or you can play with the details a bit in your mind and make it a little easier to manage.
And right now, the detail I don’t want to face is the fact that this stunning woman that dropped from the heavens might be heading back there as an angel. I blink the idea away. There’s no point in focusing on that. Right now, she’s breathing and alive and that’s how I intend to keep her.
Getting lost in a story has helped again, because we’re already home. If I would’ve spent that whole time worrying, it would have felt like a much longer walk. Gunnar drags the sled to the front of our cabin and comes to a halt. Ace and I immediately rush to the nameless woman and start unburying her from the blankets we piled her under.
“I’ve got her feet.” Ace’s gray eyes are almost black as worry etches over his face.
“Give me a sec, I don’t want to move her neck around too much,” I caution him and wrap my arms around her to keep her safe from making a potential injury worse. “Okay, I’ve got her. On three. One, two, three!” Ace and I lift her carefully and shuffle to the front door as Gunnar patiently waits, still strapped into his harness.
Ace manages to fumble with the door without dropping the woman’s legs and it swings open into our cold, dark house. We left at dawn and had a fire roaring to keep the place from freezing up, but as we carry the survivor inside, I can see there’s barely a few coals remaining in the stove.
“Let’s put her on my bed, that will keep her back and neck straight,” I instruct my oldest friend.
Not that I really have to. He and I have been together since we were seven. After growing up in the system, we went through basic together and even did a few stints on the same ship together back when we were in the navy. I still remember when I told him I needed more. That the navy was good, but I felt like my calling was bigger than that.
When I told him about my plan to join the SEALs, Ace didn’t laugh or try to discourage me. He was solemn. “We’ll do it together,” he answered. Like, as if I said I wanted to try out for the navy football team instead of head off for the grueling BUD/s training. He didn’t blink, he was solid in his resolve to go with me. But then, we always went through everything together, we shared a room in foster care, worked on a newspaper route together, went to the same school, worked some crappy fast food jobs as teens and then signed up for the navy together. In a world where no one gave us a damned thing, we gave each other loyalty. We were there for each other. We were the only constant in each other’s lives. The only person I’ve been able to rely on since childhood has been Ace, and him me.
Ace lets me take the lead, guiding the woman through my bedroom door and we place her on the bed softly. I watch her for some kind of sign, for any groan or grimace that would give me a sense that she’s close to consciousness, but there’s nothing.
That’s not good.
“All right, I’m gonna check her over and get her bandaged up.” I nod to Ace.
“Got it, I’ll grab Gunnar and radio out for help.” He glances down at the lady lying on my bed. For a moment we both stare at her, I don’t need to talk to him to know he’s just as worried about her fate as I am. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to drive her to Fairbanks in the truck. She might have internal bleeding or her spine might be fractured, right?”
He’s right. The best thing for her welfare is to be airlifted straight to the hospital. Our old beater is nice to have, it keeps us tied to civilization and helps us do supply runs, however, it’s not a smooth ride on the nicest days.
“I think calling for help makes the most sense,” I agree with him and Ace suddenly turns and leaves my room, breaking the silence.
I follow behind him, heading over to the bathroom to grab a first aid kit. I pluck the bright orange mini-suitcase from under the sink and bring it back to my room. Some people would think this professional grade kit is too much, but I spent too many years with the SEALs as a combat medic to ever accept those simple first aid kits with a few Band-Aids and a tensor bandage in them. Real emergencies call for real gear, and out here in the Alaskan wilderness, a real emergency can mean a real death.
Let’s hope that’s not the case today.
I slowly check the mystery woman over, patting her over and checking for broken bones and blood. However, there’s no signs of either. When I tug her eyelid open, her pupils dilate fine, and her breathing is shallow but steady. Still, she’s pale and it’s not hard to see where she bumped her head. The purplish-blue knot is already growing on her forehead.
I toss her coat and boots to the side of my room and it occurs to me to get her little suitcase and make sure there isn’t any clues in there about why the plane crashed. Grabbing the bag from the other room, I scurry back to the bed and unzip the cover to her black carry-on. I rifle through all the pockets and turn it inside out, but there’s nothing like insulin or medication that could possibly explain her state.
Sighing, I turn my attention back to the nameless beauty. Her ribs are trickling blood through her torn shirt and she has a surface wound on her upper thigh. I focus on those, determined to help her. I refuse to surrender to this helpless feeling rising up inside me. I might not be able to wake her up, but I’ll still take the best possible care of her.
I carefully remove her dirty, blood-stained clothes and tend to her wounds. Luckily the shredded fabric from what she was wearing isn’t buried in her cuts. They’re pretty minor and it doesn’t take long to disinfect them and get her bandaged up. She’s only in her bra and underwear, so I give her a quick once over to make sure I don’t see any bones twisted under her skin or puncture wounds down the back side of her.
Nothing.
Thank God for that. I start to tuck her in under my blankets so she’ll be comfortable, but realize that waking up in her underwear might be a bit jarring. Glancing back at her suitcase, I spot a night gown. That will do. I manage to get it over her head and slide her arms into it, easing it down over her belly, then her hips, until she’s completely covered. Now I can tuck her in.
Finally, after a whole lot of struggle to keep her head from jostling too much or anything like that, I get her settled in. She looks like a sleeping beauty, lying on my pillow and waiting for a magic kiss to wake her up. I study her face, the way her dark hair frames her rounded cheeks and angular jawline. It’s easy to see that she’s breathtaking. I’d have to be blind to miss it. My eyes glide over her, for a moment, I’m lost in the beauty in my bed. What is her real story? I let myself travel to an alternate universe for a second, one where she sits up and smiles at me. One where her eyes are crystal clear and her injuries have disappeared and she gives me a look when she whispers about how she’s not sure how she could ever repay me for saving her life. One where I join her in that bed and we both toss our remaining clothing to the floor…
I hear the crackle of the ham radio in the other room and it snaps me back to reality. What is it about her? Is it just the isolation of living up here with Ace that’s got me all worked up? Maybe it was his talk about picking up chicks in Hawaii earlier that played with my head.
One look at her and I know that’s not it. There’s something about her that draws me in, and it’s more than just the time it’s been since I’ve been with a woman. Still, not a single bit of this will matter if we can’t get her some help. I grab my first aid kit and double check all her vitals, pulse, breathing, circulation, pupils. It’s all steady, I didn’t miss anything the first time.
Now we just need to get someone to fly in here and pick her up, before she becomes a real sleeping beauty and slips into a coma, or worse.
4
Ace
Crackle, tsch!
“I repeat, this is call sign AL7VU. We have a medical emergency and require assis
tance, over.” I speak slow and steady into the handheld receiver.
Tsch, vwoow, crackle.
“Coming in broken AL7VU, did you say you have an emergency? Over.” A static filled voice finally fills the room as I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Roger that, there was a small plane crash about two miles from our coordinates. A Cessna went down and we recovered one passenger. She’s alive but unconscious. She needs someone to come take her to a hospital, over.”
All I hear is white noise, the station is as snowy as the fat flakes beginning to pile up on my windowsill outside. I want to smack the side of the radio and make it smarten up, but I know it won’t do a lick of good. That’s just another quirk of living out here, communication, like everything, depends on the weather. And in Alaska, there’s a lot of weather.
“There’s a heavy snowfall warning for the entire area. There are no planes going in or out for at least a week, over.”
Shit.
I rub the corner of the receiver against my forehead and pinch my eyes shut, a week? What the fuck are we supposed to do to keep this woman from dying then? I’ve seen enough death and destruction in my life, you wouldn’t think the idea of losing a complete stranger would grip my gut so tight. But the thought twists inside me, tearing me up. Somehow, losing her would be harder. After pulling her from the wreckage and doing everything we could to save her life, I know her beautiful face would become another ghost haunting me out here, and I’ve got enough of those as it is.
“That won’t do,” I protest in vain. “She’s unconscious and needs real medical attention. A week is too long! We have a truck here, should we try to get her to Fairbanks? Over.”
“Another plane crashing won’t help anyone.” The voice gets terse. “Neither will a car accident. Do you know how to care for an unconscious victim? Over.”
“Yeah, I think so, over.” I sigh.
“Make sure she’s not vomiting, that there’s no clear or straw-colored fluid coming from her ears or nose, monitor her for confusion, check her breathing,” he rattles off a bunch of points like he’s reading them off a website.
“We got all that,” I cut him off. “So, what do you suppose I should do if straw-colored fluid starts pouring out of her ears then? Since you can’t send anyone for a week, maybe you could give me a hint about how I’m supposed to deal with that, huh? Or if she starts puking everywhere, then what?” I manage to talk through grit teeth.
Tsch, crackle, waah.
Is that it? Did the line die? It’s not like it makes much difference if it did. Obviously, the answer is: deal with it. If they can’t send out any help for a week, it doesn’t matter if she’s throwing up or if she’s power spewing across the room while her head spins around, Exorcist style, either way we’ve got to figure it out on our own.
No pressure or anything.
“Roger, we’ll do what we can here. This is AL7VU, over and out.” I drop the black, plastic receiver on the desk with a loud clatter and cringe at the noise. Not that it matters. If anything, I should be making more noise. If there’s a chance it will wake our guest up, I would clang pots and pans together like a toddler playing drums in the kitchen. But I know it won’t do a damned thing for her. Being unconscious isn’t like sleeping. Only time will fix it.
And what if it doesn’t?
I swat away the nagging question buzzing around my brain. There’s no use in thinking like that, now is there? We gotta stay positive right now. It goes against my nature to think about much more than worst case scenarios. If life has taught me anything, it’s that preparing for the worst is often your best plan. Still, I can’t just sit around here acting like she’s already dead. Come hell or high water, I’m gonna try to do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.
“What’s happening?” Razor walks up behind me and I nearly jump out of my skin. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear him approach.
“We’ve got a massive snow storm moving in.” I jerk my thumb toward the pile of kamikaze snowflakes that have crashed into our living room window creating a white, fluffy curtain. “They’re not flying out anyone for at least a week,” I repeat the bad news.
“A week?” His voice is tight.
Gunnar can sense our stress and he watches us back and forth, trying to figure out what’s going on and whether or not this will affect him being fed. He tilts his big, black head at us, searching our faces with his soulful eyes before making his way to my side and pushing his snout up into my hand. I instinctively pet him, as he’s trained me to when he does that. I swear dogs train their owners as much as we teach them. I run my hand over his fur and feel a bit of the stress lift off me, like a steam valve opened up in my chest and relieved some of the pressure.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to do what we can until then.” Razor punches his fist into his palm, like a baseball coach about to unleash a master plan to his team. “We’ll have to watch her in shifts, especially through the night. It’s the only way we can be sure she’s not convulsing or vomiting,” he explains.
Damn, the guy on the radio never even mentioned convulsing. It’s a good thing she’s got an expert medic here to help. If it was just me, she’d be in a world of hurt.
“Sounds good,” I agree. “How about I make us some food and you take the first shift?”
He nods in agreement and Gunnar whines at the mention of the word “food.” My stomach rumbles loudly and I realize the dog isn’t the only one who’s starving.
“Deal,” Razor answers and heads back into his bedroom.
I don’t tell him how I’m afraid to face her. That looking at her makes me feel a cyclone of emotions I’m not used to. How the idea of watching her die is too much for me right now. Instead, I busy myself in the kitchen and try to figure out what to make for supper.
5
Ace
The entire cabin is filled with the aroma of caribou stew, but I still carry a bowl into the room for good measure. Razor wordlessly lifts an eyebrow as I place it on the nightstand beside our unexpected guest. I stand over her, unmoving, and wait. I’m not sure for what. I guess I had this weird idea that if I brought the food in here, it would rouse her from her sleep. Like some kind of smelling salts or something. I mean, she must be hungry, right? Or is that how that works? I don’t know much about this stuff.
She doesn’t magically stretch her arms over her head and flutter her eyelashes open. There’s no smile that crests her lips as she realizes that there’s a hot meal waiting for her to dig into. None of that. The woman whose name I’m dying to know just lies there. Unchanged. My heart sinks. Every single hour that goes by makes me worry that this will become her permanent state.
I notice some of her long, dark hair is swept over her cheek and without thinking I lean over her and brush it off gingerly with the back of my fingers. I hover there for a moment, watching her closely, the way her eyelashes rest in a long, thick line over the rounds of her cheeks. The way her lips almost look puckered they’re so full and pink. She’s the one who’s sleeping, but I can’t help but wonder if I’m the one dreaming.
Finally, my gaze drifts down to her shoulders and I notice for the first time that she’s in pajamas. I stand tall and turn on my heel. “You changed her clothes?” I don’t mean for it to come out so gruff. I’m not sure why this protective feeling is surging inside me. Razor is the best damned guy I know, there’s nothing in a single cell of my body that questions that, not even for a second. So why am I growling at him?
“I had to check her over for breaks and cuts, and her clothes were full of blood, so I put her in something clean and comfortable.”
“Full of blood?” I whirl back around and search her for signs of an injury I missed. Panic swells up inside me. Why didn’t he tell me she was hurt? Well, more hurt than I already knew.
“Yep, just some minor scrapes. I cleaned them out and bandaged her up. It’s all surface stuff, nothing to worry about,” he reassures me.
O
f course, it isn’t serious. That’s exactly why he didn’t come rushing out to report on it. Razor is a professional medic; a few scratches wouldn’t bother him in the least.
“There’s some stew out in the kitchen. I can take over here while you eat,” I offer.
He stands up from the wooden chair he set beside the bed and arches his back as he eases his stiff muscles. “Are you sure? Did you eat already?”
“Nah, I’ll just eat now. That’s for me,” I lie, nodding at the bowl of stew I set down on the table. I don’t need to share that I had some kind of cartoony idea that I would wake this woman with the intoxicating scent of my caribou dinner.
“All right.” He shuffles toward the door. I’ll grab some grub and get cleaned up a bit and then relieve you for the first night shift.” He looks over his shoulder at me and I give a curt nod of understanding.
“Roger,” I agree.
Razor disappears into the kitchen and I ease down into the seat he freed up, grabbing the bowl. Even though I’m sure she can’t hear me, I’m more careful than usual not to slurp at the broth or chew with my mouth open. When it’s just me, Razor, and the dog, manners aren’t a high priority. It’s funny how just the presence of a woman in your space instantly makes you act more civilized. Without them, we’d still be cavemen running around clubbing each other and grunting our conversations.
“I don’t think I’ve introduced myself,” I casually chat to her. Just sitting here eating and staring in silence feels creepy. I want to break the ice and, if there is a slight chance she can hear me, I’m sure she’d feel a lot better knowing whose house she’s in.