“Yeah.” She swallowed down the overwhelming need to beg him not to be mad. “Hurting myself seems to be a habit.”
“Hmm.” He tipped his head, motioning behind him. “Let’s rest in the cabin and get these cleaned up.”
Her gaze darted past him to a tiny structure, half sunk into the earth, that she hadn’t noticed when she fell into the clearing. Willows grew around it, hiding it behind green leaves. The back half of the building had sunk a good foot or more into the earth, a common problem with the permafrost. The graying logs and moss-covered roof of the cabin sloped down toward the back, giving the derelict cabin a kind of Dr. Seuss feel. Hopefully, the inside wasn’t overrun with vermin. Sleeping in there would hide them better than her bright tent.
She followed Davis to the structure, exhaustion turning her legs into wet noodles. They clomped onto the warped boards set up as a makeshift porch. He turned the homemade handle, but the door made from birch logs didn’t open. Her sigh came all the way from her toes.
“Is it locked?” She shifted her pack, wondering why anyone would lock a cabin way out here, especially with the Alaskan bush hospitality code: use the cabin, but leave it better than you found it.
“Just stuck.”
Davis rammed his shoulder into the wood. It creaked but didn’t budge. That door was solid as all get-out, and him banging on it would only get him hurt.
“We can just camp out here on the porch.” She scanned the tilting roof.
It looked sturdy enough. Davis slammed his body against the door again. The roof jerked, raining dirt down on her. She blinked and shook her hair out.
“Davis, this whole thing is going to come down if you keep it up.” Sunny bunched her muscles, preparing to jump to safety if the roof crashed down on them.
“Just one more…”
Davis’s next ram produced a loud scraping of wood on wood. The door opened half a foot. He wrapped his fingers around the door’s edge and gave it a push, screeching it loose further. She peeked in around his shoulder, then followed him in.
The inside smelled of decaying wood and fabric. The furnishings were sparse and handmade, only a table with two chairs and a twin bed. Two shelves hung on the walls. One over a makeshift counter had a few canned goods and a stack of dishes. A handful of books lined the other shelf.
She walked toward the bookshelf, smiling at how the floor sloped toward the back of the cabin, then disappeared into the ground it sank into. Louis L’amour titles mixed with old Alaskan plant and homesteading guides.
“Here, come sit next to the window.” Davis checked the chairs and tables for stability.
She pulled her pack’s strap off her shoulder, hissing as the thorns scraped against the fabric. With the next strap, she wiggled her arm to get it free and let the pack drop to the floor with a thunk. She sat in the chair, her plop sounding a lot like her pack had.
Davis dug out the first-aid kit and laid it out on the table. The other chair scraped as he dragged it beside hers. Without a word, he took her hand and bent over it with the tweezers. She jerked with each thorn he yanked out. He blew on the skin, and she closed her eyes to the sensation. She didn’t think it actually helped with the pain, but it was such a caring action that it eased her muscles. He kissed her palm, and she opened her eyes.
“Next.” His raw voice scraped against her heart.
He didn’t like causing her pain. She smiled wearily as she handed him her other hand. His eyebrows bunched as he looked at the more mangled hand. With her good hand, she ran her fingers through his hair. He’d let the top grow long since last spring, and it curled wildly around his ears and down his neck.
“Sunny, you’re a mess.”
“Yeah, pretty much.” She dropped her hand and stared out the grimy window the table was pushed under.
He cleared his throat. She could feel his stare on her, but she couldn’t look at him. There was no way she could handle the disappointment she’d see there. Not right now when everything hurt and exhaustion pulled at her. Silence stretched between them as he continued to doctor her hand. The fireweed waved in the breeze, their purply-pink blossoms blurring in her unfocused gaze.
“Done.” Davis pressed another kiss to her palm. “All better.”
“Thanks.” She flexed her palm at the throbbing ache.
“Listen—”
The beep of her InReach, clipped to her pack, snapped both of their attentions to it. She scrambled from the chair, and her knees almost buckled at the icon showing they had service. Thrusting the device at Davis, she bounced with the jolt of energy.
“You send for help first.”
She clasped her hands together and pressed them to her mouth, silently praying they’d get a message out. His fingers raced over the buttons. When he pressed send and the confirmation tone beeped, she had to tighten her knees to keep from collapsing.
“Text your family.” He handed the InReach to her.
Just as she typed her message, the connection dropped.