Ice Dogs (13 page)

“He's going to be okay, right?” Chris asks, kneeling down to smooth the fur sticking up around Bean's ruff.

“Maybe, if he gets to rest that shoulder. But he still needs a vet.”

Bean closes his eyes under Chris's light touch. The sight makes my chest tighten, and I fight to push down the fear for my lead dog. I have to get him to a vet for antibiotics and anti-inflammatory drugs.

“Let's go eat,” I say. “I'm starving.”

W
E LEAVE THE DOGS TO SLEEP
off their full bellies. I send a silent prayer to Dad to heal Bean overnight. When we enter the cabin again, the wall of heat hits me. That combined with the smell of chicken noodle soup, and I almost fall over.

“Wow, we're going to be warm tonight!” I shed my outer clothes, and hang them to finish drying along with the dog coats and harnesses. Steam already leaks from the harnesses, giving off a bouquet of wet dog.

“So what does a dog bootie look like?” Chris asks, tightening his clothesline.

“It's like a little fleece sock that fits over their foot. Not too big that it would bunch up on them, but wide enough that lets their toes splay out when they run. They stay on by attaching a piece of Velcro on the top to cinch on their leg.” I use my hand to show Chris what I mean, not really believing he'll be able to make anything that Whistler can use. Then I pour soup into both bowls on the table.

“I hope the owner doesn't mind us borrowing all this stuff.” Chris sits, pulling up his oversized pants.

I ignore the spoon and grab the warm bowl with both hands. Just holding the bowl is heaven. I slurp loudly, and actually feel the soup travel the whole journey down.

“Its bush law,” I say around a mouthful of noodles. “If anyone's in trouble out here, you use what you need, then replace it later.” The hot golden liquid gushes sensually around in my empty belly.

Chris puts down his spoon and copies me with his own bowl.

“Aaah,” he says with feeling, then gulps another mouthful before putting the bowl down and waving his hand over it to cool it.

“What we really need is a snowmobile. Too bad he didn't leave one of those laying around.”

“I think that's the last thing you need. Where did you learn to drive anyway?”

“Well, I've never actually been on one before.”

“Shocking.” I gulp another mouthful and close my eyes briefly. “So no snowmobiling in Toronto, and not much snow. Sounds pretty boring.”

“It's not! And I didn't spend all my time at the mall, as you seem to think.”

I drop four cubes of sugar into my mug with a tea bag. The coffee creamer packets look a little suspicious with some sort of mold growing on their corners, so I pass on those. I reach for the kettle on the stove that Chris had filled as well, and pour the hot water into my mug.

“That's good because you'd be disappointed with our sad excuse for a mall. It's really just a row of stores. There's Wicker's feed store, the grocery store, the post office and trading post, the coffee shop, and the pool hall. The pool hall actually burned down. Twice. But half the kids in my class hang there anyway.”

“Not you?”

“No. I . . . I don't really have time to hang out.”

“Huh. Shocking,” Chris repeats, and then slurps more soup. He reaches for the tin of crackers, and adds half its contents to his bowl, creating a mound of crumbs escaping back onto the table. He gives me a big satisfied smile as he pats his stomach.

“So where
did
you spend all your time?” I grab a handful of crackers and stuff them into my mouth. The crunch and salt of them fills me with reverence for Mr. Saltine.

“I just hung out, you know, over at the Trap and Skeet club. It's next to the snare wire depot.”

“Do you even know what ‘skeet' means?”

Chris laughs. “Okay. I told you, I swim. Competitively. I used to practically live at the pool. Practiced twice a day prepping for the big meets.”

“So, you're good?”

“I'm better than good. My relay team wasn't too happy with me moving. No one can touch my fly.”

I laugh. “Humble much?”

“I'm just saying.” Chris puffs out his chest. “So you're going to have the best teacher when we start your lessons. I cannot wait to start showing you something that I can do, finally.”

“Yeah, that's not happening.”

“What? Why? You're afraid of what might happen when you see me in a Speedo, aren't you?”

I curl my lip at him. “Gross! I'll be running the other way is what will happen.” Feeling my neck heat up, I down my soup and rise in one quick motion so Chris doesn't have the satisfaction of watching me blush.

I bring my empty dish to the sink, gulping the rest of my tea, and gag on something. When I check the bottom of my mug I see what looks like a clump of hair.

“What the . . . ”

“What?” Chris asks.

I stride back to the kettle on the stove and open the lid. I slosh the water around and peer into the dark depths. There's something in there. When I dump the contents into the sink, my stomach heaves.

Lying in the sink is a very dead, bald mouse.

I clutch my belly and whirl around. “Didn't you check the kettle before you filled it?”

“Uh, check it for what?” Chris peers into his own half-finished tea.

I shrug, looking pointedly at the sink. Watching his face as he figures it out is almost worth the imagined grit in the back of my throat.

A
FTER A DEEP, DREAMLESS SLEEP ON
the top bunk, I wake sore from yesterday's drag behind the dogs. Hard to believe that was only yesterday. Stretching into a sitting position, I find gifts at the end of my bed.

Four little dog booties lay in a row next to a wool hat that has even been lined with what I recognize as the curtain off the kitchen shelves. The booties have been made from what looks like another pair of wool pants, wherever Chris found them.

A piece of tape from the first-aid kit should work to keep them on Whistler's feet. I pull them inside out and inspect the seams, widening my eyes in amazement. Tiny, even stitches run up the length of the booties as if they'd been professionally sewn. The hat could be store bought, it's so well shaped. I snug it on to find it fits perfectly.

How does Chris know how to sew? Picturing him bent over a sewing machine at home makes me shake my head. The more I learn about him, the more I realize how much I don't know.

How long have we been out here? What feels like months has hardly been a week. I count backwards . . . two, three nights. We've been out here four days. I know Mom will not have slept this whole time. It will seem like months for her, too.

I lean over the side of the bunk to peek down at Chris, and all I see is his hair sticking up in all directions. He's burrowed under a wool blanket that has four bootie-shaped holes cut out of it along with a chunk missing from the side.

“Hey! Milquetoast. Stove duty.” I jump off the bunk and head for my outer clothes. I feel so much stronger today. Amazing what a warm night's rest can do. Now we need some protein. I can't wait to check our trapline.

But Bean comes first.

The fire has long since died so the cabin floor creaks in the cold. I adjust my new hat and smile. Once again, it's as if Bean can sense me, because a howl starts up outside.

“Pitter-patter, let's get at 'er.” Dad's words come out of my mouth.

The long hump on the bottom bunk stirs as I head out the door. The dog song ends abruptly as the door shuts behind me. Six pairs of eyes swivel toward me expectantly.

“Breakfast soon, guys. Just me for now.”

I crunch toward the drop line and right away notice something under Dorset's curled-up body. When I get closer, I see it's a blanket on top of her straw. Dorset lies in the center of it and thumps her tail at my approach.

“Looks like you've got yourself a friend, Dorset. When did he give this to you?”

Chris would have had to come out here after I fell asleep. By himself. And the dogs are so used to him, they didn't make a sound.

I kneel in the snow beside Bean. He's standing, his face coated in gray frost. He's not putting any weight on his leg, but his eyes shine. I suddenly have a lump in my throat and hug him fiercely to me.

My dogs. What was I thinking trying to get better leaders? I have the best dogs in the world.

“What do you think of this computer geek, Bean? Do you think he's strange?” I gently run my fingers along his shoulder, feeling for any improvement. “I think you like him, but you don't want to admit it.”

The swelling might be down a little, but it's where the swelling is that scares me. It's a serious injury, definitely a tear. “You won't be running anywhere for a while, Beanie. Don't want to wreck that leg for life.”

The puncture looks normal, it will heal fine, but the gash is meaty and deep with an angry redness. I frown at it, wishing again for antibiotics. Bean noses my hand and I force a smile, trying to look unconcerned.

A jarring, ear-splitting explosion shatters my thoughts. All the dogs jump. Dorset lets out a startled yip. I leap to my feet, confused for a moment, staring at the cabin.

“What the . . . ”
Chris!
Oh, no!

Finally, I react and sprint through the snow. My foot hits an icy patch and I spin out, falling hard. I jump back up and keep running. Blood pounds in my ears.

Horrific images play out in my mind. It sounded almost like a gunshot. Did he shoot himself? Is he dead? I didn't notice a gun in the cabin. Did someone else come and shoot him?

No, a gun wouldn't sound like that. A strangled noise chokes out of me as I reach the stairs, vault up two at a time, stumble to the door. I fling it open.

Chris is picking himself up from the floor. Smoke fills the room. The front door of the stove is missing, but then I see it by the bunks. A can of white gas for the lamp sits on the table and I glance back to the stove.

“Whoa . . . ” Chris blinks at me.

He smells like burnt pig. His eyebrows are singed half off. A large burn hole covers the front of his jacket, but his shirt underneath looks untouched.

“I—I tried to light the fire.” Chris looks around with a blank stare then sinks into the chair.

“With what?” My voice sounds shrill but I don't care. I glance at the can on the table.

“It was really cold in here,” Chris says defensively. “I thought I'd light the fire quicker.” He inspects the front of his jacket and lets out a groan.

“You didn't use
this,
did you?” I stride to the table and grab the fuel. When I pick it up, I punch it out toward him. I feel like I have a tsunami bubbling up inside me. “White gas is highly volatile.”

“Well, now you tell me.”

The tsunami rises to the surface, it rolls over me, and I burst out in hysterical laughter. Chris looks at me, shocked.

I laugh so hard that I double over and hold myself. “I leave you alone for two minutes,” I gasp.

I'm scaring myself, my emotions are so uncontrollable. Why am I laughing? But I can't seem to stop. I suck in a breath and convulse in another fit of laughing.

Chris stands, looking panicked.

“How have you . . . gotten this far without killing yourself?” Tears roll down my face. I take a ragged breath. “You could've
died!
”

Suddenly, I let out a sob. More tears burst out and course down my cheeks. Everything that's happened seems to flood my mind at once. I literally feel like I will explode if anything else goes wrong.

I sob like I'm six years old. “I don't know where we are. I don't know how to get us home. I don't know why my Dad had to die!”

My chest heaves and I gulp down a racking breath. A mortifying hiccup escapes. My last words seem to echo and hang in the silence around us.

Chris stares at me with his singed eyebrows.

“Please don't use white gas again,” I finally say.

“Trust me, I won't,” Chris says softly, and then adds, “I'm really sorry your dad died, Vicky.”

It's the first time he's said my name and somehow it helps. I breathe deeply. “Me too.”

I
WIPE AT MY NOSE AS
C
HRIS
picks up the stove door with a loud scrape across the floor. The smoke has thinned out in the room now.

“Some people use gas to start a fire quicker,” he says. “I've seen it done—well, on TV.”

“They don't use white gas, I can tell you that.”

“I just wanted to help.” Chris fits the door back on the hinges. It squeals as he tries to swing it closed. “I didn't know it would blow up like that.” He feels his eyebrows.

I'm not used to seeing Chris without his grin. He props a piece of kindling against the stove door to keep it shut, then nods as if he's fixed it. He backs up to the table and sinks in a chair, taking a drink of water. When he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, he sucks in a breath and looks at it. “I burned my hands.”

“You're lucky you didn't burn the whole camp down. We should leave before you break anything else.”

“Oh! You don't want to stay here in case someone comes? I sort of thought we'd stay.”

Chris looks so dejected slumped in the chair with his singed hair and a red burn on his upper cheek. His forehead swelling has gone down, but the bruise and cut still remain.

I suddenly feel the need to cheer him up. I realize I've been making all the decisions, and look where that has got us.

“We need to decide what to do. Together.”

Chris stares at the wood stove, lost in thought. “Yeah, well one thing.”

“What?”

“You tell me everything from now on.
Everything.
Okay?”

I nod and sit at the table across from him. “Okay. So I'm thinking that waiting for someone to rescue us doesn't sit well with me. There's no way of knowing how long we'd be waiting. This trapper may have filled his quota and be done for the season. He might not even be planning on coming back.”