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

Sunlight burned brightly against Paul’s eyelids. Hoping to linger in sleep a little longer, he rested an arm over his eyes. It was no use. He was awake. In frustration, he rolled over and looked at the clock on the bureau—8:15. A list of chores rattled through his mind.

Paul sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. When his feet touched the floor, spikes of cold jolted him. He’d been so tired the previous night, he’d fallen into bed without starting a fire.

He rested his arms on his thighs and stared at the floor. He remembered the woman he’d met at the mercantile. What was her name? Oh yeah, Kate. For a few moments he allowed himself to mull over the memory of the Alaskan newcomer. Then he forced all thoughts of her from his mind. He’d decided— no women, not ever.

Blowing out a breath, he pushed his fingers through tousled hair, grabbed his pants and pulled them on, then fumbled his way into the kitchen. He lifted off the lid of the firebox, crumpled paper, and shoved it inside. After adding kindling, he lit the newsprint. Soon a small fire danced and popped. He added a couple larger pieces of wood and slid the firebox lid back in place.

After filling a coffeepot with water from a hand pump in the sink, he tossed coffee grounds into the basket, and then set the aluminum percolator on the cooktop. With the pungent aroma of coffee in his nostrils, he moved to the sink and splashed his face with cold water. Shivering, he towel dried.

Now fully awake, he fed chunks of alder and birch into the fire, enjoying the sound and smell of burning wood. Barking dogs announced a visitor. He glanced out the window just as Lily Warren stepped onto the porch. It was early for a visit. He wondered what she wanted. Paul draped the towel over the back of a chair and went to the door.

The seventeen-year-old girl looked at him with her usual quiet smile. Although her father was white, she looked more like her native mother. “Morning,” she said.

“Good day, Lily.”

She glanced at her feet, then turned warm brown eyes on Paul and held out a basket. “Mama thought you might like some fresh sourdough biscuits, since you just got back last night. She baked them fresh this morning.”

Paul took the basket. “Your mom must have started baking early.”

“You know Mama, she’s up before the birds.”

Paul knew all about Sassa. And she was more interested in his marrying her daughter than in filling his stomach. “Tell her thank you for me.” Paul wasn’t sure just what to do. He didn’t want to give Lily the idea that he took her mother’s ambition of making him a son-in-law seriously. Still, it seemed rude to leave Lily standing on the porch. “Would you like some coffee? I have a fresh pot brewing.”

“Yes. I’d like that.” Lily stepped inside.

Paul closed the door. He wished Sassa would stop trying to match up Lily and him. He was too old for her—fifteen years were too many to overcome.

Lily’s eyes lingered on Paul’s bare chest. He glanced down, realizing he didn’t have a shirt on. “Uh. Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” He hurried to the bedroom, grabbed the shirt he’d flung over the back of a chair the previous evening, and pulled it on, then pushed his feet into slippers. Still doing up the buttons on the shirt, he returned to the front room. He could feel heat in his cheeks. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” Lily smiled sweetly.

“It’s not proper for you . . .” Paul fumbled around for the right thing to say. “Well, it’s just not right.” He tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “It was kind of your mother to send over the biscuits.”

“She figured you might like something fresh for breakfast, especially since you got in so late.”

“How did she know what time I got back?”

“Saw your light.”

Paul was glad for neighbors, but sometimes the few acres of land that separated the Warrens’ homestead and his weren’t enough. Setting the basket on the table, he said, “These’ll hit the spot. Would you like one?”

“No thanks. Already had a couple.” Lily sat at the roughhewn table.

“Coffee will be a few more minutes.”

“That’s all right.” A dark plait of hair had fallen over Lily’s shoulder. She tossed it back. “What was Anchorage like?”

“Busy—a lot of people in town. Figure folks are getting set up for winter.”

Lily propped her elbows on the table, clasped her hands, and rested her chin on them. “Mama and Daddy are going in next week. Wish I could go along. I have to stay and take care of my brothers.”

Paul checked the coffee. It still wasn’t ready. He wished it would hurry. He glanced at Lily. She looked like she was sulking. “Something wrong?”

“It’s just that I never get to go anywhere. I want to see something besides this crick.”

“I thought you liked living here.”

“I do, but . . .” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Sometimes I feel trapped. There’s a whole world I’ve never seen. I wonder what the outside is like.”

“It’s not so great. Believe me.”

She studied him, then said, “You never said why you left California.”

A pulse of trepidation surged through Paul. No one had ever directly asked him why he’d left San Francisco. People in the bush seemed to understand that if someone wanted to share their past, they would. “I had my reasons.” He glanced out the window. “Cold this morning. Wonder if winter’s going to move in early.”

“Maybe. The trees are already turning.”

“You think we’re in for a rough season?” He checked the coffee again.

“Hard to tell. But the critters are getting ready.”

The coffee was boiling. Paul grabbed two cups off a shelf and filled them, setting one in front of Lily.

“Thanks,” she said.

The aroma of coffee filled the room. “You like yours black?”

“I like milk, if you have it. Daddy’s the one who says he doesn’t believe in muddying up his coffee. Figures it’s a waste of good milk.”

“Sounds like Patrick.” Paul took a can of milk down from a shelf. Using the sharp end of a bottle opener, he punched two holes in it, then set the can on the table along with a spoon.

Lily poured a little into her cup and stirred it in, then took a drink. “Good.” She gazed at Paul, her brown eyes inviting.

Her look unsettled him. Did she have feelings for him? “So, did your dad get the roof finished?” He leaned a hip against the counter, holding his cup in both hands.

“Nearly.” Lily sipped her coffee. “But we lost some of the new shingles in a storm that blew through a couple of days ago. Barely got them up, and now they’ve got to be put back.”

“I’d be more than happy to give him a hand.”

“I think Daddy wants the boys to learn some responsibility. He won’t even let me help.”

“Okay. But I’m here if he changes his mind.” Paul glanced outside. “Must have been a bad storm. I noticed a lot of trees down on the trail.”

“It was bad. The wind came up all of a sudden. Thought it might blow us off the homestead.” She set her mug on the table. “I don’t really mind. I like storms. Makes life more interesting.”

Paul cradled his cup in the palm of one hand. “While your parents are gone . . . if you need anything, just let me know.”

“I’ll be fine, but thanks.” Lily straightened. “’Course, we saw a couple of wolves two nights ago. They were pretty close to the house.”

“Wolves?”

“I’ve never seen them around our place before. Daddy figures they must be hungry—hasn’t seen much game this summer.”

“You have trash out?”

“No. We’re real careful about that.” Lily shrugged. “’Course we got the compost pile. Sometimes that’ll draw in animals.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” Paul took a drink of coffee, then looked at it. “Took this off the stove too soon.” With a shake of his head, he added, “Can’t rush coffee.”

“It’s fine.” Lily leaned back in her chair. “Mama thinks it’s a bad omen.”

“What is?”

“The wolves. She says them coming in so close isn’t right.” She tapped the edge of her cup with her index finger. “She’s scared.”

“Your mom? I didn’t think she was scared of anything.”

“She’s not . . . not usually. But wolves spook her. Did she tell you that when she was little, a pack killed a girl in her village?”

“No.”

Lily drank the last of her coffee and then stood. “Since seeing the wolves, she won’t even go to the outhouse without a rifle.”

“I didn’t think wolves bothered people much.”

“Never can tell what a wild animal will do.” She glanced at his rifle leaning against the wall near the door. “Probably ought to keep your gun with you and watch out for your dogs.”

“I will. But I doubt we have much to worry about. They’re likely a long ways from here.” Paul finished his coffee, then moved to the stove to refill it. “You want more?” he asked, hoping she’d say no.

“I gotta get back.” Lily picked up her cup and set it in the sink before heading for the door. When she stepped outside, the dogs whined. “Sure do like your dogs. They’re beautiful.”

“Yeah, they’re fine animals.”

“If Nita ever has a litter, I know Daddy’ll want one of the pups.”

“I’m hoping to have some come spring.” Paul moved onto the porch and closed the door behind him. Whining turned into barking. “They need a run.”

Lily walked down the steps. “See ya,” she said and headed for the trail that connected the two properties.

Paul remained on the porch and watched her go. Patrick and Sassa were good neighbors. He was thankful for them. They were helpful and weren’t much for meddling. The only real point of contention was Sassa’s idea of him and Lily getting married. He’d tried to be straight with her, but she wouldn’t listen.

Lily’s a pretty little thing, but even if she were old enough, there’ll never be another woman for me. The sorrow he usually managed to keep tapped down swelled in his chest. Fighting memories, he stepped back inside the house.

The dogs whined and barked when Paul walked toward the run where they spent most of their time. The largest of the three, a big male, powered toward him and planted his feet on Paul’s chest.

“Hey there, Buck, how you doing?” Paul buried his fingers in the animal’s thick ruff and kneaded his coat. He’d named him after the character in Jack London’s Call of the Wild. He moved to Nita, the female. She pressed in and nipped at Paul’s hands. She was the most intelligent of the three, so he usually ran her at the front of the lead when they were out with the sled. He patted her head. Jackpot, the quieter and smallest dog, held back, his tail thumping the ground. Paul stroked his glossy black fur. Although more reserved, he was also the most determined of the bunch. He’d won him in a game of cards, hence the name Jackpot.

He unhooked Jackpot’s lead first. “Did you guys miss me?” More panting and tail wagging was his answer.

Once free the dogs romped, bounding on and over one another. Paul headed for the trail, picking up a stick and sending it flying. All three dogs tore after it. Jackpot was the first to grab it. Although smaller, he was faster than the other two. Buck pounced on him, trying to wrestle away the prize. Jackpot held tight and trotted back to Paul with his offering. Paul took the stick and threw it again. While the dogs chased, he moved down the trail, accompanied by the occasional trill of a bird.

The air smelled like fall—sharp and clean with the scent of fermenting berries. He breathed deeply, nature lifting his spirits. Alder and birch leaves were turning color, showing up as bright flecks of yellow amid the greenery. Soon the forest would be ablaze with yellows, golds, and reds.

He stepped over a small birch lying across the path as the dogs bounded ahead of him and disappeared into the thick foliage. His attention went to the downed trees. There were several small birch and alder blocking the trail. They’d make good firewood.

Paul scanned the forest, wondering where the dogs had gone. Putting his fingers to his lips, he whistled, splintering the quiet. A few moments later the sounds of something crashing through the brush moved toward him. All of a sudden the dogs broke free of the underbrush, tongues hanging and carefree expressions in their eyes. They lumbered toward Paul, their tails beating the air.

He knelt and greeted his wilderness comrades. Buck nearly knocked him over.

“Okay. Okay. That’s enough,” Paul said with a laugh. “Time to head back to the house. I’ve got work to do.”

He walked toward the cabin, the canines by his side. Paul tied them, gave each a piece of salmon and some fresh water, then went to the shed to retrieve a handsaw and an axe. He’d limb and cut up the trees that were down on the trail, then load them onto a cart and come back for the dogs.

The first downed tree was very near the house. He cut away limbs and threw them into a stack for burning later. The tree hadn’t broken completely away from the trunk, so he cut it free with an axe. Using a crosscut saw, he divided it into manageable chunks that he stacked on the cart.

After he’d taken care of two other trees, he sat on a stump to rest. He wiped sweat from his face, then chugged water from a canteen. He studied the area. It was a nice spot. A breeze cut through the forest, rustling the leaves and bending tall grasses. Brilliant pink patches of fireweed swayed. On a day like this it almost felt like home.

Although not as bad as they’d been in the early summer, mosquitoes still pestered him. He slapped one of the annoying insects dining on his forearm, then flicked off its remains.

Don’t recall feasting bugs in San Francisco. His mind carried him back to his home. He remembered cool summer days with fog-laden mornings, and sunlight gleaming off the bay. He missed it. But there was nothing for him there, nothing but reminders of all that he’d lost and the shrieking blare of guilt.

He took another drink. He’d add one more tree to the cart, then go back to the house and get Buck and Jackpot. The two of them should be able to pull the load easily enough. He replaced the lid on the canteen and looped it over the cart handle.

A branch cracked in the underbrush. Paul studied the dense woodland, but didn’t see anything. Breathing easy, he listened. Something was out there—he could feel it. Cautiously he moved to the tree where he’d left his rifle. He picked it up, cocked it, and waited.

And then there was something . . . a shadow that moved in the deep green. A grizzly? This time of year, the huge carnivores were scavenging the last of the berries and any grubs they could find before denning up.

Several minutes passed, and when Paul heard nothing else, he decided whatever it was had moved on. He rested the gun against a tree and walked to a downed birch and set to work, hacking off limbs with his axe. Then, from the corner of his eye he caught movement.

He straightened just as a wolf darted into the shadows. His heart rate picked up and he grabbed his rifle. The large canine came out of hiding. Its golden eyes stared, challenging him. This wasn’t normal behavior.

Paul kept his gaze fixed on the animal. Its lips curled back and it showed its teeth. A snarl came from deep in its throat. Paul held his gun ready. The wolf took a step toward him. To his left he heard the snap of a branch. Another wolf appeared. Like the first, it stared at Paul. And then there were three . . . four . . .

Tension ignited the air. Paul barely breathed. Palms sweaty, he gripped his rifle. This was bad. How could he hold off a whole pack?

The predators paced back and forth. Paul took a step up the trail, then another. They kept their distance. Maintaining eye contact with the wild animals, Paul moved toward the cabin, one determined step at a time. They followed.

Although wolves were not known for their aggression toward humans, Paul’s mind raged with stories of attacks. He’d never been overly concerned about the predators, but now had to fight to quiet his racing imagination.

Before he could see the cabin, he heard the fierce barking of his dogs. They knew the wolves were here.

The first one who’d shown himself moved closer. He’s most likely the alpha. Paul counted them again—one, two, three, four, five . . . six. Were there more? They kept pacing and darting in and out of the underbrush, tongues lolling, yellow eyes staring.

He raised his rifle and fired one shot into the air. They backed off, but only momentarily. Paul kept moving. They were all around him. He took longer steps and fought panic that told him to run.

The cabin was close now. He could see his dogs lunging on their leads. A large wolf sprang at Paul. He lowered the rifle and shot. A blast and a yelp splintered the air. The animal fell. Another charged from the opposite direction. Paul fired again. This time he missed and the wolf seized his upper arm, tearing cloth and flesh. Pain flashed through Paul’s bicep.

He pushed his rifle against the animal’s gut and pulled the trigger. The wolf dropped to the ground, lifeless. The others kept their distance. Paul finally made the porch steps where he stood with his back to the cabin. His dogs strained against their leads, snarling and barking viciously. If the pack came at them, they’d have no chance while tethered, but Paul dared not release them. I should have closed them in the shed, he thought, angry with himself for taking the sighting of the wolves too lightly.

For several minutes the wolves remained at the edge of the clearing around the cabin, remaining mostly hidden in the foliage. One moved forward, and Paul dropped him. The rest of the pack dissolved into the forest. He calculated how many shots he’d taken—five. He had only one shell left in the chamber.

Keeping his eyes on the woods, he backed up the cabin steps, opened the door, and grabbed extra bullets from a shelf just inside. Hands shaking, he plugged them into the magazine, then returned to his post on the porch where he remained, waiting and watching. His dogs quieted. The wolves did not reappear.

A sound came from the side of the house. Paul turned, training his gun at the noise. It was Patrick.

His friend raised his hands, a rifle in one of them. “Whoa, neighbor. It’s just me.”

Taking a deep breath, Paul lowered his weapon. “Sorry.” All of a sudden his legs felt weak as the adrenaline wore off. He sat on the porch step.

Patrick’s eyes went to the wolf lying in the yard and to Paul’s bleeding arm. “Looks like you had some trouble here. You all right?”

“Yeah. They came at me.” Paul wiped sweat from his brow. “One got ahold of me, but it’s nothing I can’t take care of.” He shook his head, thinking about what could have happened.

“I heard the shots. That’s why I came running.” The long-limbed man cautiously moved to the dead animal. With his rifle aimed at it, he nudged him with the end of the barrel. “He’s pretty lean.” His eyes moved to the forest. “How many of them were there?”

“I saw six and killed three. There’s two, dead, on the trail.”

Patrick turned his eyes to the forest. “They’ll likely be back. We better set out traps.”

“Good idea.”

Patrick moved to Paul. “You want Sassa to take a look at that bite?”

“No. I’m fine.” He ripped the already torn shirtsleeve and tied it off to staunch the bleeding.

“Might as well make use of the pelts.” Patrick headed toward the trail.

Paul followed, ignoring the burning in his arm. It would need cleaning and stitching, but that would have to wait while he and Patrick skinned the animals.

After stretching the last hide, Patrick said, “Sassa’s got supper waiting for me. You want to join us?”

“Not tonight.” Using his good arm, he gave Patrick a friendly clap on the back. “Thanks for your help.”

“You’d do the same for me.” He headed toward the trail, his rifle resting on his shoulder. “Take care of that arm.”

“I will.”

Paul set his rifle against the porch steps and moved to the dogs. One by one he released them and led them into the cabin. Tonight, they’d sleep indoors.