The Yukon isn’t an easy place to live—with long, dark winters that never seem to end—but it is a place that people choose. A place that seduces. I don’t need my sister to be seduced, but I want her to see the magic. As Dalton and I talk to the couple, she picks at her scone and keeps checking her watch. We still have an hour to go—plenty of time for the five-kilometer drive to the airport and the nonexistent security line—but her anxiety is contagious, and finally, with regret, I surrender to it.
* * *
The first time I came to Rockton, we drove from Whitehorse to Dawson City. Dalton and I have made that trip a couple of times since, when he needs supplies he can’t get in Dawson. If he’s picking up newcomers, he’ll usually fly that leg, if only to avoid being in a car with a stranger for six hours. That’s what we do today. We fly into the tiny Dawson airport, and then we head into the hangar, where our bush plane awaits.
“Are you going to be okay with a small plane?” I ask.
She stares, uncomprehending, and I remember my first walk to this hangar, when Dalton handed me a couple of pills. Mild antianxiety meds for the flight. The former town doctor had known my background and sent the pills. I’d given Dalton a look not unlike April’s, as I’d tried to figure out why anyone would think I needed medication.
“Your parents?” he’d said.
Because my parents died in a small-plane crash. I’d been walking to a small plane without even thinking about that. Ashamed, I’d hurried to cover it up, to not be the cold bitch unaffected by the tragic death of her parents.
When April gives me that look, I realize she’s not making the connection either. I won’t make it for her. I won’t put her through that discomfort. So I just say, “Bush planes aren’t for everyone.”
“If you’re referring to Mom and Dad’s crash, I am well aware of the statistical unlikelihood of perishing under the same circumstances. I am many times more likely to die in a car accident, and yet I don’t see people swearing off motor vehicles when a loved one passes that way.”
Sorry I mentioned it.
I want to mutter that, as I would have when I was young. Instead, I stick to my adult method of dealing with April: I ignore her.
As we fly, the noise of the plane makes conversation difficult. Dalton and I still manage it, mostly in gestures, him pointing out something in the forest or me doing the same. April doesn’t say a word. By the time we land and taxi into the hangar, I’ve forgotten she’s even there, and I jump when she says, “Where are we?”
“Nowhere,” I say. Then I grin at Dalton. “Everywhere.”
April rolls her eyes. “I know I’m not supposed to ask for details. I simply didn’t realize it was quite so…” A scrunch of her nose. “Remote.”
“Yep,” Dalton says. “That’s why we warned you. No Wi-Fi. No cell service. We’ve got electricity, but it’s strictly rationed.”
“You’ll be able to use whatever you need with Kenny, though,” I say.
I haven’t used his name before, and I expect her to comment. She only waits for the door to open.
As I help Dalton unload the plane, April wanders outside. I hear the thump of running footsteps and then a happy bark that makes me grin.
Storm must circle past April, wide enough that my sister doesn’t notice a charging eight-month-old Newfoundland pup. The dog skids to a stop at my feet and dances with excitement until I give her the command. Then she jumps on me, front legs planted on my shoulders. After I hug her, she takes off to greet Dalton.
I step outside. April is about twenty feet away, at the edge of the clearing. I’m about to move away from the dark hangar when Anders jogs up behind April and pulls her into a hug.
“Didn’t go well with your sister, huh?” he says.
April jumps like she’s been knifed.
Anders falls back fast. “Shit. You’re not…”
“Not the sister who allows strange men to hug her?” she snaps.
I jog out from the hangar.
“So you let strange men hug you?” Anders calls to me. “Guess that explains how you ended up with the sheriff.”
I shake my head. “Will, this is my sister, April.”
“Yeah, I figured that.” He extends a hand. “Will Anders. Local deputy and the remaining third of the police force.”
She gives his hand a perfunctory shake. Then she sees Storm and startles.
“Not a bear,” Anders says. “Well, supposedly. Eric says she’s some fancy purebred, but I’m still convinced someone conned our sheriff and sold him a black bear cub.”