Authors: Kim Baldwin
The double strip of lights ahead was set on low, which was all she ever needed on a clear night like this. But she was so bleary-eyed she clicked her mic seven times, which automatically triggered the lights to brighten to full. As she did, Bryson heard a sharp intake of breath from the woman behind her.
“You said…Lars? God. I just realized. Bryson Faulkner. You’re on the Web site, too, aren’t you? Arctic Independent Outfitters?”
“That’s me. You know Lars?” They were dropping fast, the ride smooth as silk as they descended. They’d be wheels down in another two minutes.
“Lars Rasmussen?” It came out as a squeak.
“Yeah.”
What the heck is going on?
“I can’t do this! I can’t.” Her passenger’s voice shook. She was clearly in a state of panic. “I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. This is crazy. Just crazy. I’m not ready.” She was talking to herself more than Bryson, a kind of reverse pep talk, but Bryson couldn’t ignore it. “We can’t land. Pull up!” the woman ordered.
“Spare me the drama-queen routine, huh? First you can’t wait to get here, and now you—”
“Take me back to Fairbanks. Right now.”
“Are you nuts?” They were thirty feet up and closing in fast on the runway.
“I can’t face them. I’m not ready.” The woman’s tone was desperate.
Bryson could make out the lights of a handful of cars and ATVs at the end of the runway, near the Den. And in the glow of them, at least a couple dozen dark silhouettes of gathered townspeople.
Suppressing a sigh, she pulled back on the controls, gave the Cub some gas, and began to lift away from the ground just as they reached the first lights of the runway. She wouldn’t be winning any popularity contests tonight. “Who are you afraid of facing? Lars?” she asked as they passed over the crowd. She could pick out a few of her friends by their shape and clothes, but it was too dark to read their expressions.
“Is
she
there, too?”
A hand reached up and grip Bryson’s elbow.
“Maggie? Is she there?”
It all came to her, then. It would have sooner, if she hadn’t been so exhausted.
The e-mail.
“Are you
that
Karla?”
The woman gasped. “How could you possibly know that?”
“You sent an e-mail to the Web site, right? Asking whether Lars had a wife named Maggie?”
“Jesus. I never thought…I mean, it was just a quick line. How did you find out about it?”
Bryson started circling the village, a wide loop that would give them time to sort this out and figure out what to do. “Just came up, is all. Skeeter—he does the Web site—mentioned it to Lars and me because it was kind of unusual. Anything a little mysterious around here tends to get talked over.”
“So Lars knows, too?”
“Well, he wondered who you were and why you were asking about him and Maggie, yeah. Didn’t recall ever meeting a Karla before.”
“We haven’t met.” Her client’s breathing was so loud and fast Bryson was afraid she might hyperventilate. “I came here to see them. Kind of on impulse. And I know it probably sounds crazy, but I’m just not ready to face them yet.”
Lars’s voice came over her headset. “Hey, Bryson, what’s going on? Problems?”
“Give me a couple minutes, Lars,” she replied. “Nothing wrong, just checking something.” She switched off her mic. “We have to set down,” she told Karla. “I don’t have enough fuel to get back to Fairbanks, and there’s a whole lotta people down there camped out waiting for me. If it matters, I don’t think Maggie’s there. Only Lars.”
Karla was silent for a minute or two. “I have to ask you a favor. Can you…can we…not tell Lars who I am?”
“You’re not giving me a lot to work with here. Lars and Maggie are good friends,” she said. “I won’t lie to him, especially if this is about something that’ll upset them. Frankly, lady, you’re acting a bit unhinged.”
“I don’t know how they’ll react to what I have to tell them,” Karla volunteered. “I’m hoping they’ll think it’s good news. Mostly, anyway. But I need some time to think about what I’m going to say. I can’t explain any better than that. I’m just asking you to respect my privacy and not say anything to anyone.”
“All right. But you better not make me regret giving you a lift here.” Bryson hit her mic button. “Coming in, Lars. See you in a few.”
“Roger that, Bryson.”
She lined up the Cub for another approach and descended toward the runway. The crowd gathered at the end had increased significantly during their circling.
“Where can I stay?” Karla asked as the wheels touched down.
“Only one place in town, the Den. Right there.” She had both hands busy with the controls, so she tilted her head in the direction of the roadhouse. “Should warn you, gonna be some curiosity about you. Especially since a lot of people won’t be getting the supplies they’re expecting.” The Cub rolled to a stop twenty feet from the gathered crowd. Immediately the townspeople began to converge on the plane.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not your concern now,” Karla said.
The declaration was welcome news, but Bryson refrained from saying so.
Lars and Geneva were at the head of the pack. They reached her door just as she opened it.
“A
ha.
Now I see why you got held up.” Lars grinned as he looked past her approvingly to Karla, who was unbuckling herself.
“Who’s she?” Geneva asked with much less enthusiasm.
“Missed her flight, so I let her hitch along.” Bryson climbed out of the Cub and started around to the other side, but a burly six-three pipeline worker named Hank stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He reeked of whiskey.
“Lars says you didn’t get evythin’.” He slurred his words. “Better have that damn ax I been waitin’ for all day.”
“And my ointment,” said the hulk’s shadow, a twitchy ferret of a man named Jerry who’d obviously consumed nearly as much alcohol as his chum. The two shared a cabin several miles outside the village. “Fucking rash is driving me nuts.” He scratched a greasy hand across his chest as if to illustrate the extent of his misery.
“Got everything on the list, just had to leave a few things behind till I can make it back there. Maybe in the morning.” Bryson stepped deftly around both of them as they started to protest and reached the passenger door just as Karla emerged.
“You got my cigarettes?” a woman shouted, and Bryson winced
.
The cigarettes, she knew, had been in the bag that had been on the passenger seat. Those had definitely been left behind.
“Sammy’s waiting up for his soccer ball,” another voice hollered.
“
She
the reason you didn’t get evythin’?” Hank had trailed her, and he and his drunken ferret-shadow were now staring at Karla, Hank with disgust and Jerry with a leer.
And more trouble was brewing. Bryson caught a glimpse of Dirty Dan, pushing angrily through the crowd toward them.
“Hold on, everybody. Chill.” She held up her hands. “I promise, what I don’t have with me, I’ll pick up tomorrow if the weather holds. Now, if I can get some hands to help haul this stuff into the Den, we’ll sort out what’s here and what’s not,
yet.
”
Karla looked a bit shell-shocked to be the center of attention. She shrank against the door of the Cub. Bryson glanced around for Lars as she opened the cargo hatch and was relieved to find him positioned directly behind Dirty Dan, who had pulled up short to study Karla with narrowed eyes and an annoyed frown.
She took out the nearest box and thrust it toward Hank. “Make yourself useful.” He shouldered it without further complaint, and his companion accepted the sack of groceries that was next out of the plane. Others stepped forward to help unload, and soon most of the crowd had dispersed, all headed back to the Den. Geneva stood off to one side, and Dirty Dan also remained, still eyeing Karla suspiciously, with Lars behind him.
Karla, withering under the glare of attention, had inched ever closer to Bryson’s back during the unloading, so that by the time it was done, she was standing so near that Bryson almost knocked her down when she turned around.
Her elbow impacted Karla’s side, and Karla, startled, jumped back, off balance. But Bryson’s fatigue had faded entirely under the threat of trouble and her curiosity about Karla Edwards, and her senses were on hyperalert. She grabbed for Karla as she fell back and managed to wrap one arm around her waist. She caught her, though the momentum carried her forward and she landed hard on one knee.
Bryson grimaced in pain and muttered a curse under her breath. The woman in her arms scrambled to regain her feet as Lars shot forward. “Hey! You okay?” he asked, putting an arm around Bryson’s shoulder.
“Fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
“That sounded painful.” Karla stooped next to her. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Said I’m fine.” Would this nightmare of an evening never end? Bryson struggled to her feet, wincing as new pain shot through her knee. That would leave a bruise. Forcing a smile, she gave Lars a subtle indication with her eyes to keep alert to Dirty Dan and got a small nod of acknowledgment in return. She reached into the hold for her daypack and slung it over one shoulder, then extricated Karla’s duffel.
“I’ll take that,” Lars offered, stepping forward.
“I can—” Karla started to reach for it herself but Lars waved her off.
“No. Let me. I’m happy to.” Lars took the duffel in his left hand and offered his right to Karla. “I’m Lars. Welcome to Bettles. You staying with us long?”
Karla’s heart was thundering as she reached for her brother-in-law’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Lars. Thank you. I’ll be around a while.” She hoped so, anyway, but that all depended on Maggie.
Her first impression of him couldn’t have been better, a stark contrast to Bryson’s aloof demeanor. His welcoming kindness was genuine; she could see it in his sweet smile and feel it in the firm grasp of their hands. And Lars was a strapping, handsome man. Six feet tall. Blond. With a square jaw, high cheekbones, and clear blue eyes.
They all headed into the roadhouse, where a chaos of activity greeted them. Only a few patrons were seated at the bar and scattered tables. Most of the sizeable crowd was gathered anxiously around the boxes and bags from the plane, which were now piled in the corner on a small raised platform stage. A stocky man with a bushy red beard and black wool cap was doing his best to dissuade anyone from rummaging through the contents, but the irate voices of the drunks in the crowd indicated a few tempers were beginning to boil.
Bryson headed purposefully toward the melee, and Lars followed suit, pausing just long enough to deposit Karla’s duffel at her feet.
Karla grabbed the bag and took a seat at the end of the bar, grateful to have the attention of the town shifted elsewhere so she could take a moment to breathe and think about what she was going to do.
“Settle down, folks.” Bryson’s voice rang out over the crowd as she pushed her way through to the stage. “Got my list right here.” She doled out the supplies, with Lars flanking her on one side and the red-bearded man on the other.
“Hey, there. Welcome to the Den. What can I get ya??? The bartender smiling at Karla epitomized her image of the typical Alaskan roughneck. Big and broad-shouldered, with a silver-tipped beard and hair that hadn’t seen clippers in a decade or more.
“Mmm. White wine?”
“You got it.” He set a well-polished wineglass in front of her and filled it to the rim with Chardonnay. “If you’re hungry,” he added, tapping one of the menus tucked between the salt-and-pepper shakers and napkin holder to her left, “kitchen’s open until midnight.”
“Thanks.” As the bartender retreated to his other customers, she downed a long sip of her wine. The place reminded her of the Brick in
Northern Exposure,
with its taxidermy décor and quirky Arctic accents. A broken dogsled hung from the ceiling, along with ancient gold-mining paraphernalia: pans and picks and broken shovels. The neon beer signs behind the bar advertised local brews she’d never heard of, with colorful names like Forty-Niner Amber, Solstice Gold, and Caribou Kilt.
The bartender delivered a large bowl of stew to a patron two stools down, and the savory aroma reminded her it’d been hours since she’d eaten anything. She reached for the menu, which was as eclectic as the bar. Reindeer stew. Caribou steaks. King crab. Smoked salmon tacos. And for dessert, wild berry crisp with home-churned vanilla-bean ice cream.
“Go for the stew,” Bryson suggested as she claimed the seat to her right. “Specialty of the house.”
Karla looked past her and saw that the mob of townspeople had dispersed back to their tables and booths, some smiling over their purchases, a few glaring unhappily at Bryson’s back.
“I didn’t realize what a problem it’d create for you to have to leave so much behind to get me here,” she said. “Looks like a lot of your friends are pretty upset.”
“They’ll get over it. Hopefully I can make a quick run down at first light and be back with the rest before they sleep off their hangovers.” Bryson hailed the bartender, and he hurried toward them with a smile.
“Handled that like a pro,” he told Bryson as he popped the top off a bottle of Black Fang beer and set it in front of her. “How’d you defuse ol’ Dan?”