that she was tutoring Barbi for her GED exam—Barbi might prefer to keep that information private.
“Maybe we can go another day. What’s on tonight’s menu? You’re such a wonderful cook, I’m envious.”
“No call for envy. I’ll probably do macaroni and cheese. It’s easy, Danny likes it and Barbi isn’t coming until after dinner.”
After they said goodbye, Hannah sat at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee. The sun was fully up now and she gazed out, loving the changing view. Honestly, she didn’t think there was anything more beautiful than the Cascade Mountains.
Finally she opened one of the adult-study manuals she’d gotten from the school district office. She taught elementary-age children, and it had been years since she’d looked at the high school curriculum. It wouldn’t bolster Barbi’s confidence about taking the GED test if her tutor wasn’t familiar with the material.
* * *
BRENDAN WENT BACK to work at his desk, disappointed that his great plan to sweep Hannah off for the evening had failed. He would have thought that in a quiet place like Mahalaton Lake, with only a few thousand people and her parents available for babysitting, they wouldn’t have trouble getting together, but she was so busy it was a challenge.
Yet as he dealt with his email, he formulated a plan—if Hannah didn’t have enough time to go to dinner, he would take dinner to her. He’d surprise her by bringing something from Luigi’s, and leave when Barbi arrived.
Hmm.
He frowned thoughtfully.
Barbi Paulson and Hannah?
The two women couldn’t be more different. Luigi’s was the only restaurant in town that delivered, and he ordered regularly from them on weekends. While Barbi didn’t mouth off when she brought his pizza, she wore garish, low-cut outfits that were always a little too tight and a little too short. She even managed to be eye-popping in the winter when she wore things like hot pink ski pants and equally colorful parkas.
With a shake of his head, Brendan reviewed his appointment schedule. It was far less full than when he’d practiced law in Seattle. Relocating to Mahalaton Lake the previous year might be the only impulsive decision he’d made in his entire life, but it had seemed right at the time.
Yet even as he thought about it, he felt a pang of sorrow, remembering the woman he’d once hoped to marry.
Maria had been an associate in his high-pressure Seattle law firm, but she’d died suddenly of a brain aneurism. The other partners hadn’t appeared troubled by the loss; they’d simply divvied up Maria’s client list between them. Yet Brendan had been devastated. For the first time he’d questioned the sanity of working more than a hundred hours a week. Maria had been having headaches and dizzy spells, but she wouldn’t even take time off to see a doctor—success came before marriage, before kids, before everything.
What sort of life was that? Hell, it wasn’t a life. She was gone at thirty-one.
At first he’d tried to cut back his hours—much to the displeasure of the head of the firm, who’d “suggested” resuming his original schedule or finding other options for practicing law. About the same time Maria’s father had told him he was trying to sell his law firm in Mahalaton Lake. Brendan had visited the town a couple of times with Maria, and the idea of completely changing his scenery had caught his imagination. He’d quickly purchased David Walther’s shabby practice and moved.
Of course, in Seattle, he’d also dreamed about Maria every night, hearing her voice urging him over and over to go to Mahalaton Lake. Moving to a small town might seem unusual, but moving because of dreams? He’d never dared tell anyone about that.
Brendan glanced around the office, no longer shabby now that he’d had it redone. The only thing left from David Walther’s days was a carved wood plaque saying, “Work to live, don’t live to work.” He’d kept it as a reminder of the reasons he’d made such a huge change in his life. Maria hadn’t learned the lesson from her father, but maybe he could.
A career here wasn’t going to make Brendan rich, but it wasn’t a bad life, at least for a while. No matter what the reasons, moving to Mahalaton Lake had been a good decision. It was in his professional capacity that he’d met Hannah—she’d asked him to review her rental paperwork for the lodge.
All at once Brendan straightened his tie and checked his cuff links. Life was more casual in Mahalaton Lake than in the city, but he came from a long line of attorneys and had been raised to do things in a certain way. He’d rebelled to a certain extent, but there were some things he couldn’t abandon.
* * *
THE DAY PASSED slowly for Jake. Part of the time he slept, and part of the time he did the exercises the physical therapist in Seattle had taught him. He was starting to understand why the specialists had recommended a couple of weeks in a rehab center, but inactivity wasn’t something he handled well. Freedom had beckoned, even the freedom of a small American town.
Anyway, he had arranged for a therapist from a nearby community to come to Huckleberry Lodge twice a week. It was well worth the expense of having them come to him rather than dragging himself to the clinic.
Jake finally loaded up his computer and began looking through the shots from northern Alaska. It was time to confront his memories of the crash. The photos taken on days before the accident didn’t bother him...a lone male polar bear hunting for seals, one climbing from the frigid sea with water streaming from its fur, another moving with long, purposeful strides. And still more of daily life in the Inupiat village where they’d stayed part of the time.
Then a shot of Gordon popped up and took Jake off guard.
The pilot’s weathered features were creased in a smile and he was lifting a cup of coffee to his mouth. Jake stared for several minutes before clicking on the next image. Several dozen photos later there were more of Gordon, playing with Inupiat children, and others of him talking with the elder members of the community.
Jake had almost forgotten that he’d taken these pictures. He didn’t often take photos of people, but the magazine had suggested it would be nice if his Arctic photographic study could include some of the tools used by the Inupiat for hunting. As a kind of lazy exercise, he’d wandered around, interested by the juxtaposition of modern and age-old technology in use. Pictures of people had inevitably crept in.
His nerves tightened further as he pulled up the images from the day of the crash. The doctors had asked about the accident and he’d refused to answer. Assuming it was because he couldn’t remember, they’d said not to worry, that it was common to block everything out after a trauma. Yet it wasn’t that at all.
Jake’s memories of that day were crystal clear—he sometimes wished he couldn’t remember. He still could feel the purity of the air and hear the sound of ice cracking, along with the noises from the bears and the crunch of their boots as they returned to the plane. And he could see Gordon’s gray face, his bluish fingernails, the snow getting closer, the painful impact...and the realization that the old bush pilot hadn’t survived.
It wasn’t the first time Jake had seen death. When he was a boy, half of his mother’s climbing party had died when they’d tried to climb Sagarmatha—Mount Everest to most people outside Nepal, except the Tibetans, who called it Chomolungma. At eight, he’d been too young to do anything except stay in base camp, but he would
