Cold Nights

Her smile softened, but it didn’t disappear. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

George wanted to answer honestly. He wanted to tell her that being responsible for four friends in Interior Alaska was one kind of pressure, but being responsible for her was something else entirely. He wanted to say that he had noticed every time she tucked loose hair beneath her hat, every time she laughed and looked for him afterward.

Instead, he reached for the tow rope. “We need to reach the clearing before dark.”

“That sounds like an answer.”

“It’s the answer we need.”

Kelly watched him for another moment, then set her cup in the snow. “Fine, Captain Prepared.”

He should have been annoyed. Instead, warmth moved through him that had nothing to do with coffee.

The trail narrowed almost immediately. Their snowmobiles stayed behind at the plowed turnout, and the group pulled sleds by hand along the packed route. At first, the work felt easy. Snow squeaked beneath their boots. The spruce stood close together, their branches heavy with powder, while sunlight flashed between the trunks.

George moved ahead, breaking the trail where wind had covered the packed surface. Every few minutes he turned to count heads.

Kelly was always there.

She walked behind him, close enough that he could hear the soft rasp of her breathing. Once, when the trail dipped, her mitten brushed his elbow. Neither of them mentioned it.

By late afternoon, the temperature had dropped. The wind found the open stretches and pushed through every seam in George’s clothing. His fingers began to ache despite the wool liners beneath his gloves.

Kelly caught up beside him. “How much farther?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I was optimistic.”

“That’s a new personality trait.”

He glanced at her. Her lashes held tiny crystals of ice. “You want me to be pessimistic?”

“I want you to stop pretending you know exactly what you’re doing.”

The words landed harder than she intended. He could tell by the way her mouth tightened afterward.

George kept walking. “The trail is marked.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

Their sleds scraped behind them. Someone cursed when a runner caught beneath a buried branch.

Kelly lowered her voice. “You made this sound easy.”

“I said we were prepared.”

“You said we’d be comfortable.”

“I never said comfortable.”

“You said it would be an adventure.”

He stopped so quickly the rope went slack. Kelly took one more step before turning back.

The cold pressed between them, clean and merciless.

“I’m sorry,” George said. “I should have been clearer.”

Her expression shifted, the irritation giving way to something more vulnerable. “I don’t need easy. I need to know you’ll tell me when something isn’t.”

He looked at her, at the stubborn set of her shoulders and the concern she was trying to hide. “I will.”

It was a promise he wanted to keep for reasons that had nothing to do with the trip.

The clearing appeared through the trees just before sunset. It was smaller than the map suggested, tucked beside a low rise that blocked some of the wind. George felt relief loosen his back. They had made it.

For the next forty minutes, everyone worked.

They stamped down tent sites. They shoveled snow away from the fire ring. George drove stakes through frozen ground while Kelly held the tent wall steady, her shoulder pressed against his as the fabric snapped in the wind.

“Left corner,” he called.

“I have it.”

“Pull harder.”

“I am pulling harder.”

The stake slipped. Kelly stumbled backward, and George caught her around the waist.

For one brief second, she was against him, solid and warm beneath layers of winter clothing. Her hands landed on his chest. He felt her breath against his scarf.

“Got you,” he said.

Her eyes lifted to his. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Catch me.”

The wind rattled the tent between them.

George released her first. “You fall a lot.”

“I don’t.”

“You nearly fell twice today.”

“That’s not a lot.”

He wanted to smile, but the look in her eyes made it difficult. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something neither of them had named.

A gust tore across the clearing, and the moment broke.

They finished the tents in fading light. The largest one went to the others. The smaller four-season tent had a torn seam along one side, but it sat lower behind the rise and held its shape better than the others.

Kelly examined the seam. “This is the best shelter.”

George nodded. “You take it.”

“With you?”

The question was practical. Her voice wasn’t.

The others were busy unloading sleeping bags. No one looked their way, but George felt suddenly exposed, as if the entire clearing could see the answer forming in him.

“It’s a two-person tent,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then we’ll share.”

Kelly’s gaze stayed on his face. “You sure?”

No. Yes. He had imagined being close to her in a hundred harmless ways, but not trapped together in a narrow tent while the temperature fell below zero.

“I’m sure,” he said.

She gave a small nod. “All right, George.”

The stove sat in the center of the larger tent, surrounded by hopeful faces. George connected the fuel line while Kelly held the lantern. The first flame caught with a soft whoosh.

“There,” George said. “See? Fine.”

The stove sputtered.

The flame shrank to a weak blue tongue, fluttered, and died.

No one spoke.

George checked the valve, then the connection. His fingers were clumsy inside his gloves. He tried again. The stove coughed, burned for three seconds, and went dark.

Kelly set the lantern closer. “That doesn’t sound fine.”

“It’s cold. The line needs warming.”

“With what?”

He ignored the question and pulled the fuel canister free. It felt lighter than it should have.

Kelly noticed. Of course she did.

“How many canisters did we bring?”

“Enough.”

“George.”

He looked toward the sleds. “We have another.”

“One more?”

“We planned on using the fire ring.”

“The wood is frozen solid.”

“We can work with it.”

Kelly’s face tightened. “You told us the stove was our backup.”

“It is.”

“And now the backup is the only thing we have.”

The others had gone quiet. The wind pressed against the tent walls, making them bow inward. George heard the thin, uneven breathing of the group and understood that confidence had left the clearing without anyone announcing it.

He forced his hands to remain steady. “I’ll get it running.”

Kelly stepped closer. “You don’t know that.”

“I said I’ll get it running.”

“And I’m saying you don’t know.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. Not anger. Fear.

George looked at her properly then. Her cheeks were pale beneath the cold. She had trusted him enough to follow him down the trail, enough to sleep in a tent with him, enough to let him make decisions for everyone. He had treated that trust like another piece of gear he could secure with a strap.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

The words changed the air.

Kelly’s shoulders lowered a fraction. “Thank you.”

He swallowed. “But I’m not going to leave you cold.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice dropped. “You think I’m trying to prove I can handle everything. Maybe I am. But I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

Her eyes held his. “Why me?”

He had no safe answer.

Because when she is cold, I feel it.

Because every time she looks at me, I forget what I meant to say.

Because losing her would hurt in a way he had never prepared for.

“Because you’re in my care,” he said.

Kelly flinched as if that was not the answer she wanted.

“Right,” she murmured. “Of course.”

She turned away, but George caught her wrist - not tightly, only enough to ask her to stay. She looked down at his glove, then back at him.

“That isn’t all,” he said.

The wind rushed over the ridge. Somewhere behind them, a branch cracked under the weight of ice.

Kelly’s lips parted. “Then what is?”

George could feel the answer, hot and dangerous, behind his teeth. He wanted to remove his gloves, touch her face, and find out whether she would lean into his hand. Instead, he released her.

“I don’t know yet.”

It was the most honest thing he had offered her all day.

They moved the second fuel canister into the tent and worked until darkness covered the clearing. The stove lit once more, gave off a breath of warmth, then sputtered out for good.

Kelly crouched beside it, checking the line with bare fingertips before George stopped her.

“Don’t,” he said. “Your hands.”

“I need to see where it’s blocked.”

“You’ll freeze them.”

“Then help me.”

He knelt beside her. Their shoulders touched. Together they examined the connection, but the fuel was too low and the line too stiff. Kelly found the problem: a thin crust of ice around the valve.

“We brought less usable fuel than we thought,” she said.

George stared at the dead stove. “We can stretch it.”

“Stretch what?”

“The fire. The fuel. Everything.”

“That isn’t a plan.”

“It’s enough for tonight.”

Her expression sharpened. “You’re minimizing this.”

“I’m trying to keep everyone calm.”

“You’re trying to keep me from knowing how bad it is.”

He had no defense. The truth sat between them, colder than the air.

Kelly rose and stepped into the smaller tent. “We’re using the sheltered one.”

George followed. Inside, the space was barely wide enough for their sleeping bags. Their gear filled one corner. When he crawled in, his knee brushed hers.

She pulled off her outer gloves and tucked them beneath her jacket. “If the stove doesn’t run, we’ll have to share body heat.”

George’s pulse stumbled.

Kelly looked at him, wary and brave. “That’s the practical answer.”

“Right.”

“Don’t make it strange.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re making it strange with your face.”

He almost laughed. The sound came out rough. “I’m trying very hard not to.”

For a moment, the cold outside seemed distant. Then the tent fabric snapped, and a thread of air slipped through the torn seam.

Kelly shivered.

George unzipped his sleeping bag. “Come here.”

Her gaze searched his face. “Are you asking?”

“Yes.”

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll give you my bag and sleep in the other tent.”

She considered him, then moved closer. Her shoulder touched his chest. “I’m saying yes.”

He wrapped the sleeping bag around them both. Kelly settled against him, stiff at first, as if every inch of contact required permission. George kept his arms loose until she took one of his hands and placed it against her ribs.

“Like that,” she whispered.

The layers between them were thick, but he felt the shape of her breath. In. Out. Slowly, she softened against him.

Outside, the stove clicked uselessly as it cooled.

Inside, Kelly’s hair smelled faintly of coffee and snow. Her fingers rested over his.

“You’re still scared,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

She turned her head. Her cheek brushed his jaw. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

George looked down at her. “I’m beginning to understand that.”

Her eyes were dark in the lantern’s weak glow. For one suspended second, neither moved.

Then Kelly leaned in and kissed him.

It was gentle, almost questioning. George answered before caution could stop him, cupping the back of her head as his mouth met hers again. The kiss deepened, warmed by all the words they had avoided. Kelly’s hand slid beneath his collar, finding the heat at his throat.

He broke away just enough to breathe. “Still practical?”

Her lips curved, though her eyes remained serious. “Not even a little.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, and she curled closer, her body fitting against his as if the narrow tent had been built for them. The cold remained outside. The fear remained too. Neither of them had solved anything.

But when the wind struck the ridge, Kelly held on to him.

George tightened his arms around her and listened to the dead stove, the restless fabric, and her breathing against his chest.

They had reached camp before dark. The tents were standing.

The heat was not.

And by morning, he would have to tell the others exactly how little fuel they had left.

End of chapter one. 32 more chapters and about 74,233 words in the full book.