Touching the Clouds: A Novel (Alaskan Skies Book #1)

Paul took a bottle of Jack Daniels down from an upper cabinet, uncorked it, and poured the liquor into a glass. He stared at the amber liquid. He was about to break his own rule to drink for medicinal purposes only. It was New Year’s Eve and he was alone just as he had been for the last four years. After pushing the cork back into the bottle, he returned to his chair and the book Call of the Wild.

He sipped the drink, then set the glass on a table beside him and turned to the familiar story. But his mind wandered to previous New Year’s celebrations. His family had always gathered for fireworks displays or an evening of game playing at his parents’ home. One year, when he wasn’t quite a man, he and his brothers raided their father’s liquor cabinet. When their mother discovered them pickled, she’d given them a tongue lashing and then, grabbing the two closest to her, she dragged them by the earlobes to their rooms. The other boys followed, thankful they’d been out of their mother’s reach.

Paul smiled at the memory. It had made a lasting impression.

Like a malevolent shadow, loneliness crept about inside of him. He tried to concentrate on the story, but couldn’t block out his surroundings. The house felt too isolated, too empty, too quiet. He set the book in his lap, picked up the glass, and took a gulp. It burned as it went down, and heated his belly before gradually traveling to his limbs.

Eyes closed, he laid his head against the back of the chair. The indifference of the wilderness closed in, and a black hole of misery called to him. What lay ahead? Would he spend his life alone?

He returned to his book, but after reading the same paragraph five times, he set it aside. Taking the whiskey with him, he left his chair, went to the front door, and stepped onto the porch. It was quiet except for the sound of tree boughs in the wind and the clank of chains as the dogs roused. Clouds scuttled across a half moon.

He looked toward the Warrens’ place. They’d invited him for dinner and game playing, but the idea of Sassa’s matchmaking had kept him away. Jasper, the raven, cawed at him from his perch on the porch.

“You feeling lonely too?” Paul went to touch him, but Jasper flitted to a post out of reach. “What a friend you turned out to be. Go on, then,” he said, feeling betrayed and flagging him away. The bird took flight.

Paul’s thoughts wandered to San Francisco. What was his family doing? He allowed his mind to roam back to the last New Year’s he’d shared with Susan. If he’d known their time together would be so short, he’d have made sure to do something special—perhaps a night on the bay, sailing under the radiance of a bright moon with the city lights glistening off the water. She’d always loved sailing.

Instead their last celebration had been spent at his mother’s. That year everyone had gathered at the piano. They’d started with fun songs like “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree,” “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” and “The Red River Valley.” His mother had suggested some of the sacred tunes—she always did. Her favorite was “Beautiful Home Somewhere.” Susan had insisted they sing “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder.” His heart squeezed at the memory. It still didn’t seem possible that she was gone.

He tried not to think about her, but loneliness yawned at him from the night. Paul downed his drink, then returned to the kitchen for another. He filled his glass, pulled on a coat, and headed back outdoors. This time the dogs whined, hoping for a romp.

A braid of green light rippled across the sky. There was another, and then one that blazed red and pink reached toward heaven. Paul never tired of watching the Northern Lights. They were startling and mysterious. I wish . . . He stopped the thought. Wishing did no good. Some things weren’t meant to be.

He leaned on the porch rail and sipped his drink. The wind gusted, sifting frozen snow across the top of the railing. He stared at the sky where the winter spectacle of lights had quieted. Clouds shielded all but a few winking stars.

“Why did you take her from me? Why? She was so beautiful, so good. She deserved to live.” The acrid taste of bitterness tracked a familiar path inside him.

His glass empty, Paul returned to the kitchen for a refill and downed another drink. Grabbing the bottle of whiskey, he dropped onto a chair at the table. The world was tilted and out of focus. He replenished his glass, slopping whiskey over the edges of the tumbler. He gulped down the fiery liquid. The lantern blurred and the room spun slowly. He’d had too much. Fresh air would help. He grabbed his coat, taking several tries to get his arms through the sleeves.

Paul stumbled onto the porch and down the steps. Slipping on the frozen boards, he barely caught hold of the rail before landing on his backside. He hauled himself upright, then strode to the dogs. He gave each a pat. “Sooo,” he slurred. “You wanna romp?”

He nearly fell over when Buck leaned against him. “Watch it, buddy.” His tongue felt thick and his words came out mangled. Giving the dog a good scrubbing around the neck, he unhooked his chain. Buck bounded around him, then took off up the trail. The other two dogs whined and lunged on their leads. When Paul freed them, they chased after Buck.

Walking a wavering path, Paul set off after them. They were soon out of sight and sound. Strong winds gusted, scattering ice and snow that lay on frozen birch and alder branches. Paul held out his arms, enjoying the shower. The world tipped, and he fumbled his way to the snow-covered ground where he lay on his back gazing up through tree limbs. Clouds had moved in and blocked out the stars.

Paul felt warm and mentally numb. He lay there a long while. Snow started to fall. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the lacy crystals on his face. The sound of the dogs crashing through underbrush roused him from his stupor. He sat up and stumbled to his feet.

“Hey, Buck, where are you?” His words were slurred and indistinct. He peered into the forest, then hollered, “Jackpot. Nita.” They didn’t appear. Paul called again. Still nothing. “Where’ve you gone off to? Nita, you need to take care— you’ve got pups to think about.”

Dizzy, he leaned against a birch, wondering if he had enough wherewithal to make it home. The wind howled now, and the snow no longer drifted but came down in a heavy white curtain. Paul glanced about. Even in his drunken state, he knew he needed to get back to the cabin.

After one more unsuccessful call for the dogs, he staggered up the trail. A strong blast of wind stripped snow and ice from trees, and Paul heard a loud pop. He looked up just as a limb whacked him across the skull. Pain and bright colors exploded in his head. Then the world went black.

The next thing Paul felt was something warm and wet on his face. He struggled toward consciousness and tried to pry open his eyelids. He blinked and peered through spruce boughs and snow. He could make out dusky light. Buck stood over him. Paul pushed a tree branch off his head, and Buck enthusiastically washed his master’s face. Trying to avoid the unwanted bath, Paul turned his head, but the movement sent piercing pain through his skull, down his neck, and into his right shoulder. He tried to sit up, but the world spun and nausea rolled through him. He lay back down, closing his eyes tightly. Buck continued to lick him.

“Cut it out.” His eyes still closed, Paul pushed the dog back.

Buck whined and nudged him.

“Okay. Okay.” Paul looked up at the big dog’s face, only inches from his own. He could feel the warmth of his breath.

Moving slowly this time, he looked around, but didn’t see the other two dogs. “Thanks for staying with me, boy.”

His head throbbing, Paul pressed a hand to his brow. How long had he been out here? Buck lay beside him and rested his big head on his master’s chest. Paul buried a hand in the dog’s thick coat.

Knowing he needed to get back to the cabin, Paul forced himself up on one arm. Immediately the dizziness and nausea returned. He waited and gradually the spinning slowed. He brushed snow off his coat and pants and tried to make sense of the revolving world as he managed to get to his feet. Standing amplified the throbbing in his skull. He leaned against a tree, thinking back to the previous evening. He remembered the whiskey and the snowstorm. He was lucky to be alive.

Home seemed a long way off, but he managed one step and then another. How far had he come? With Buck at his side, Paul moved forward, his stomach churning and his head thumping. He probably had a concussion. Keep going. Don’t stop.

“Paul?” A voice echoed through the trees.

He looked up the trail. It was Patrick. Relief seemed to take the strength out of his legs, and Paul dropped to his knees.

Patrick ran to him, his narrow face lined with worry. “Thank the Lord I found you.”

“How’d you know I was out here?” Paul’s voice sounded raspy.

“Your dogs. Jackpot and Nita showed up at my place this morning.”

Paul pressed a hand to his head. “I got hit by a tree limb. Knocked me out.”

Patrick leaned down and examined Paul’s face. “No frostbite, that’s good.”

“Buck stayed with me. When I came to, he was licking my face.”

“Good dog. And the other two showing up at my place was smart. I think they wanted me to find you.” He eyed Buck. “Figure when Nita has her pups I’ll be wanting one.”

Paul placed a hand on Buck’s broad head. “You can have your pick. That is, after Kate chooses.”

“Kate?” Patrick lifted an eyebrow.

“She needs a companion, especially when she flies.”

“Sure.” Patrick grinned. “Not a bad idea.” He put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Do you think you can make it or should I get the sled?”

“I can walk. My head feels like a bomb went off inside, though.”

Patrick gently pulled back Paul’s hood. “Ooh wee, you’ve got a mess back here. A bad cut, blood everywhere, and a mountain-sized lump.”

“Figured. I could feel something sticky back there,” Paul said, knowing he was lucky to have regained consciousness.

“Sassa will stitch up that cut. She’s good at that kind of thing.” Patrick grimaced and leaned away from Paul. “Smells like you had a one-man party last night. Figure you’d have a headache even if a tree didn’t hit you.” He shook his head. “There are better ways to greet the New Year.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Didn’t think you drank.”

“I don’t—not usually and not again.”

Patrick leaned down and got a shoulder under Paul’s arm and hefted him to his feet. The two hobbled down the trail.

Sassa stepped into the bedroom, carrying a bowl of soup. “This will warm your insides.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’m all right.” Paul lay on his bed, propped up on pillows.

“After what you’ve been through, you better stay put for a few days.” She handed the bowl to Lily, who sat on a chair beside the bed. “Make sure he eats.”

She nodded.

“Lily doesn’t have to stay. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been walloped on the head. Never know what might happen. She’ll take good care of you.”

Paul didn’t respond, too weak to battle.

“She’ll stay with you today, and I’ll be back tonight.” The bossy, though kindhearted, native walked toward the bedroom door. “Praise the Lord you’re all right.” Her expression turned stern. “That was a stupid thing you did. I thought you had more sense.”

“So did I.”

Sassa stepped out of the room. Lily scooted a chair closer to the bed. “Mama makes good soup.” She ladled a spoonful.

“Thanks, Lily, but I can feed myself.” He reached for the bowl, and Lily handed it and the spoon to him.

“While you eat, I’ll clean up the place,” she said and quickly exited the room, acting as if she were embarrassed to be there.

“One thing you can do for me,” Paul called, squeezing his eyes shut at the pain screeching through his head when he’d raised his voice.

Lily appeared at the door.

“How about slicing off a piece of moose meat for each of the dogs? They did a good thing last night.”

Lily smiled. “They did. You could have died.”

Paul tasted the soup. He didn’t want to talk about his poor judgment.

Lily started to leave when Paul said, “Wait.”

She turned to look at him.

“Thanks . . . for staying.”

Her cheeks flushed and her brown eyes turned warm. “You’re welcome.”

Two days later, another storm swept up Cook Inlet and moved inland. Recovering from his concussion, Paul was confined to the cabin. He’d convinced Lily she didn’t need to stay, so he was on his own with a head that still throbbed and a sore, stiff neck.

Wind pelted the little house and snow drifted into piles, transforming the landscape into mounds of white. Paul watched, thinking about all the work the storm was creating. He’d have to clear the snow from the outbuilding doorways, shovel off the porch and steps, and clear drifted snow from beneath the cache and around the wood stack. The dogs had managed to burrow holes so they could climb in and out of their houses, but Paul would have to shovel away enough snow to give them room to move about.

For now, all he could do was tend the fire, sleep, and keep himself and his dogs fed. In spite of his frustration, he knew rest was the best thing for him. However, he couldn’t keep from thinking about his trapline and the animals that might be suffering. He usually checked the traps every other day.

He stepped onto the porch. The thermometer read twenty-five degrees—up ten degrees in the last couple of hours. Still, the storm gave no sign of abating. He wouldn’t be going anywhere, not yet.

The wind increased and snow came down heavily as the temperature continued to rise. It was almost thirty-two degrees, nearly warm enough to rain. Paul had never seen rain in January, not since moving to the creek.

The storm pummeled southwest Alaska for three days. By the time the weather cleared, so had Paul’s headache. The cut on his skull was healing well but still felt tender to the touch. He could move his neck with only little discomfort. He was ready to get outdoors.

The trapline would have to wait one more day while he cleared snow. The porch, woodshed, and outhouse were highest priority, so he tackled them first. By the time he’d completed that, he was sweating and exhausted, and the pounding in his head had returned. He pushed past his discomfort and, after a short break for lunch, went back to work, clearing snow from around the dogs’ leads, the shed door, and the cache, and stomping down trails between buildings. At the end of the day, he was too exhausted to bother eating and fell into bed half dressed.

He rose early the next morning, hungry and eager to get to his trapline. After a breakfast of pancakes and bacon, he made a lunch to take along, then pulled on his parka. With his pack draped over one shoulder and his snowshoes over the other, he headed outdoors.

It was warm. Snow melt dripped from the roof. Wet snow would make for difficult travel. He looked at an overcast sky and noted the winds, which were light and coming from the north. Likely the temperature would drop. He tramped to the sled and placed his pack and snowshoes on it, then headed for the cache for bait. With everything ready to go, he strapped Buck into the harness.

They set off, the big dog lunging through chest-deep piles of white. It was slow going, and Paul soon realized he should have used two dogs. But he’d come too far to go back so they pushed on. When they left the trail, traveling became more difficult, but Buck charged forward. To lighten the load, Paul walked behind the sled. Although Buck and the sled helped pack the snow, soon his muscles ached and his boots felt heavy, as if they’d been filled with buckshot.

By the time he reached the first trap, his headache roared. The leghold was buried and the bait was gone. He cleared away snow, reset the trap, and rebaited it.

At the second leghold, his spirits lifted when he found a marten. It was only partially frozen. He’d have to skin him out as soon as he got back to the cabin.

By midday, Paul had made it through half the line. The takings had been scant—one marten and a fox. His stomach rumbling, he pulled the sled to a stop, fed and watered Buck, then sat on a stump to eat his lunch.

The forest was silent, except for the drip, drip, dripping of melting snow and the occasional whoomph as a mound fell from tree boughs. Buck lay with his head on his front paws, eyes closed.

Paul took a long drink from his canteen and fished out one of two sandwiches. He ate both, then three oatmeal cookies Lily had made. They were good.

Finished, he returned to the sled where Buck was up and ready to go. As soon as Paul gave him the okay, he lunged in the harness and plowed forward.

Paul ran most of the way except when Buck headed down a hill, then he rode the footboards. They headed into a gully. When they reached a stream at the bottom, Paul ran behind while Buck trotted across without difficulty.

When Paul stepped onto the ice, it cracked and popped. The next thing he knew, his left foot broke through to the icy water and he lunged forward to gain a foothold. He moved on, the ice breaking with each step.

Freezing water seeped into Paul’s boots and soaked his pants up to his thighs. Afraid the sled would break through, he yelled, “Hike up!”

Buck moved faster, pulling the sled onto the bank and up the hill on the other side.

Paul sloshed to shore, then ran to catch up. “Buck! Whoa, Buck!”

The dog kept moving.

“Buck!”

Paul forced his tired legs to keep moving. When he caught the sled, he pushed down the brake, which planted claws into the snow. The big dog stopped and looked back at Paul, a questioning look on his face.

Paul checked his boots and pants. They were soaked, but he decided the temperatures weren’t cold enough to cause frostbite, so he pushed on.

By the time he made it back to the trail, his feet felt numb. They ached and burned. He needed to get home and warm up. To make better time, he forced himself to run behind the sled instead of riding. Each step sent shocks of pain through his feet and into his lower legs.

Buck moved along steadily. When the cabin came into view, he picked up his pace, stopping only when he reached the yard. After taking Buck out of the harness, Paul left him free while he put the sled away. It hadn’t been a good day—two pelts and two frozen feet.

In spite of his need to get inside to warm up, Paul took care of the dogs first, giving them fresh water and food. Not until he skinned out the marten and fox and stretched them on a board did he finally limp to the house.

Closing the door behind him, he hobbled to the stove and checked for live embers. Some still glowed red, so he added kindling. He filled a pan with water and set it on the cast iron range. After limping to his chair, he dropped onto its soft cushion and pulled off his boots. He could barely wiggle his toes. The kindling crackled to life, so Paul added wood, then shuffled back to the chair and removed his wet pants and socks.

Lifting one leg, he rested the ankle over his knee so he could examine his foot. It was red and mottled. Paul pressed his thumbnail into the skin. He could feel the jab. Just cold is all. He massaged the foot, then checked the other one. It was the same. When they heated up, they’d hurt, but there wasn’t any frostbite.

I should have known better, he thought. He added more wood to the fire, made a pot of coffee, then put on clean clothes. Feeling slightly better, he dropped into his chair, and rubbed his feet.

About the time the coffee was ready, so was the water. Paul finally settled in his chair and placed his cold, naked feet in warm water. He could barely feel the heat, but knew that would soon change.

He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, wondering what he was doing in Alaska. Nothing had changed. He was as incompetent here as he had been in San Francisco. Two stupid decisions in one week—maybe he didn’t belong here. But if not here, where?

When his feet felt mostly normal, Paul put on socks and slippers. Drowsy, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders and rested his feet on a homemade ottoman. He closed his eyes and thought of home. He could almost feel the touch of a cool breeze and hear the sounds of the city, the clack of trolley cars.

A picture of old Klaus, who lived upriver, imposed on his memories. Would he end up like Klaus, alone and cranky? What would have happened if he’d stayed in San Francisco? He’d run without thought.

Paul dozed, thankful to leave behind his doubts. When he woke, his feet felt nearly as good as new, so he tidied up the cabin and mixed a batch of sourdough bread. After a light meal, he stepped outside to check the temperature. The thermometer registered twelve degrees. The north winds had brought frigid weather just as he’d expected.

He gazed at stars shimmering against a dark sky, then looked at the Warrens’ place. The windows were alight. It was still early; maybe he should stop in and say hello. They’d welcome him; he was sure of that. But remembering Lily, he decided it would be better to keep to himself.

In the distance the howl of a wolf sliced through the emptiness. Paul gazed into the dark forest, wondering where the call had come from. Another cry echoed, this one slightly different from the first. Even wolves have families.

Wanting somehow to connect, Paul let out a soft howl. It sounded pathetic. He tried again, only this time he cupped his hands around his mouth and called more loudly. He waited, hoping for a response. There was nothing but the quiet wilderness with its sigh of tree boughs sounding like a lonely whisper.