I consider lying to her. Old habit, comfortable as a worn boot. But this woman has earned the truth.
Or at least enough of it to keep her alive.
"Because the men from that camp know where this cabin is. The one driving the truck that came back last night saw us leave on the snowmobile. He'll regroup. He'll come here. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, but it's coming."
She absorbs that in silence. Then she nods once, firm, and pushes herself off my chest with both hands. The sudden absence of her weight against me is disorienting. I feel lighter and heavier at the same time, if that makes any sense.
It doesn't, of course. Nothing about any of this does.
"How's the ankle?" I ask.
"Awful. But functional."
"That'll have to do."
I'm on my feet and moving before the stiffness in my joints can talk me out of it. The years are heavy this morning. Forty doesn't sound old until you've spent the night on a hardwood floor with your back against a couch after fighting six men and riding a snowmobile through the dark at fifty miles an hour. My knees are louder than ever.
I start packing. Not much—this isn't a vacation. I pull a canvas duffel from under the bed and fill it with essentials: ammunition for the Remington, the folding knife, a first-aid kit, as many cans of beans as I can fit, a bag of Wolf's kibble, matches, a tarp, the wool blanket. I roll the sleeping bag and strap it to the outsideof the duffel. From a tin box in the kitchen, I take the rest of my cash—it's not much, maybe four hundred dollars—and divide it between my jacket pockets.
Caroline watches me from the couch, hugging herself against the cold. "Can I help?"
"Fill the canteens." I nod toward two aluminum canteens hanging on hooks by the sink. "There's a water jug under the counter."
She does it without argument, which tells me the events of yesterday have already begun to do psychic damage that may never heal. She moves carefully on her bad ankle, but she moves, and she doesn't complain.
I'm pulling the photograph off the nightstand and tucking it into my breast pocket—next to the folded granola bar wrapper—when Wolf goes rigid.
His ears flatten. His hackles rise in a stiff ridge from his neck to his tail. A low, unending growl builds deep in his chest, the same rumble he produced two days ago when he heard the motor sound through the cabin walls.
Caroline freezes by the sink. Her eyes find mine.
I hold up a hand.Don't move.
I lunge to the window and peel back the curtain with one finger. The clearing is still murky with dawn, shadows pooling under the birches. I scan left to right, systematic, with hunter's eyes.
There.
Southeast tree line.
Movement.
Two figures, dark against the snow, moving in a low crouch along the edge of the clearing. They're a hundred yards out and closing. Behind them, deeper in the trees, I catch the dull flash of a third figure.
Wolf's growl intensifies. I drop the curtain.
"Time's up," I say. "We go now."
Caroline doesn't ask questions. She grabs the canteens and stuffs them in the duffel while I sling the Remington over my shoulder and shove my feet into my boots without lacing them. I grab the duffel from her.
"Back door. Stay behind me."
The cabin's rear exit opens onto the woodpile and, beyond it, the snowmobile I parked there last night. I left the key in the ignition because I am not an optimist by nature and I expected this exact scenario.
The morning air is so cold it hurts. Autumn is long gone—winter sank her teeth into this mountain and she is not letting go anytime soon. I set Caroline on the seat first, then the duffel behind her. Wolf needs no instruction. He launches himself onto the rear cargo rack with the sureness of a dog who has done this before, bracing his paws wide, tail low.
I throw a leg over and turn the key.
The engine catches on the first try. The Polaris's roar shatters the morning silence, which means the men in the trees now know exactly where we are. I don't have the luxury of caring about that anymore.
