Under the Northern Lights(11)

He made an awkward-sounding soothing noise as he rubbed my back. “It’s okay. You’re okay—everything is okay,” he murmured, sounding conflicted.

When I finally calmed down, embarrassment flooded through me. “I’m sorry,” I said, letting go of my fierce grip on him. “I just . . . I thought for sure . . .”

“It’s all right . . . I understand,” he said slowly. Clearing his throat, he indicated the pile of wood that I hadn’t been able to ignite in time. “Let’s get you warm.”





Chapter Four

My savior—Michael—had the fire going in no time. He helped me get up, then helped me move to the other side of the log so I could sit down. My leg hurt worse than ever. I could tell the wound was bleeding again, and now, to make matters worse, my ankle was throbbing. As I hissed in a strained breath, Michael propped my leg up on a rock. Removing my boot, he checked my ankle. I whimpered when he touched the tender spot.

Looking up at me, he frowned. “It’s pretty swollen. I think you sprained it. Ideally, you should stay off it for a few days.”

A small laugh escaped me. Right. Like that was possible out here. Michael seemed to understand my reaction, and he gave me a sympathetic smile. “Can I check that?” he asked, pointing at my bloodstained pants.

I gave him a weak nod. “During the wreck, a branch . . . stuck in me. The cut is pretty deep. It was sort of healed, but I think it reopened when I fell.”

Michael undid the straps, then flipped on his flashlight again. The gauze pad was soaked through, and when he gently pulled it off, I could see that I was right: it was flowing pretty well again. My stomach rose at seeing it, and my vision swam. Michael’s flashlight shifted to my face. “Hey, hang in there. It’s going to be okay. I can fix this.”

I wasn’t sure how he was going to do that in the middle of nowhere, but his assurance was comforting. Slipping a pack off his back, he started rummaging through it. Moments later he had the one thing I hadn’t brought with me—needle and thread. I started hyperventilating as I looked at it. “No, no . . . just slap a bandage on it. It will close.”

He gave me a sad smile. “It will close faster this way.” I begged him with my eyes, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I need to do this. And I know how much it hurts.” He patted his side. “I’ve done it to myself.”

Panic made me shake my head. “It’s not sanitary. I’ll get infected.”

He grabbed a small pot hanging off his pack, then filled it with snow. Putting the needle on the snow, he put the pot in the fire. “It will be sterile enough soon,” he said.

My heart sank as I watched the snow begin to melt. “Okay,” I whispered. “I have some rubber gloves in my first aid kit.” I indicated my tent with my head, and Michael swung his eyes in that direction.

Nodding, he returned the gauze pad and had me hold it in place while he went to retrieve the rest of what he needed to fix me. When he returned with my kit, he pulled out the scissors and cut my pants open even wider. I couldn’t believe I was about to have surgery in the middle of the woods. This wasn’t something I’d ever pictured happening out here. Maybe I should have.

After the water had boiled for a while, Michael poured it out, put on the gloves, and retrieved the needle. Handing me the flashlight, he said, “I’m sorry you’re going through this, but I need light, so . . . hold it steady.”

Somehow, I nodded at him. Oh God . . . I couldn’t do this. Just a few moments later, the needle was sliding through my skin, and I was doing it. My hand shook, and I had to bite my cheek to stop from crying out. The pain came in waves, retreating and exploding over and over. My stomach rose into my throat, threatening to spill out again. I swallowed it back as I felt warm tears slip down my cheeks, and I prayed over and over for the pain to be gone soon.

Michael murmured encouragement the entire time he worked on me, and the sound was oddly soothing. Once he was finished, sitting back on his heels to examine his work, I blew out a staggering breath. “Oh my God . . . I don’t ever . . . want to do that again.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to,” Michael said, smiling as he covered the stitches with ointment, then put a fresh gauze pad over it. He loosely replaced the straps, then looked up at my face. “Anywhere else hurt?” He brought the flashlight up to the cut above my eye.

I immediately help up my hand. “It’s fine. No more stitches.”

His smiled widened. “I think a bandage will do.” He tended that wound with a simple butterfly bandage, then looked me over again. “Anything else? I wouldn’t want to waste these,” he said, lifting his gloves.

I shook my head. “Just my ribs, but I don’t have anything for that in my pack.”

He frowned. “I don’t either . . . but I’ve got plenty of wrap at my cabin. That will help.” I nodded, relieved that the painful inspection was over for now. “Rest up,” Michael said, pulling off the gloves. “I’ll take care of the bodies.”

I was so distracted by the fact that he had a cabin out here that I wasn’t sure what he meant by bodies. Seeing my confusion, he pointed at the wolves that we’d been forced to kill. I instantly felt bad that we’d had to take the lives of such beautiful creatures, but we really hadn’t had a choice; it had truly been life or death.