Two Alone

Hands braced on his hips, he faced her. “None of those alternatives sounds very appealing to me. On the other hand if we clean this place up, we can survive. It’s not the Beverly Hills Hotel, but it’s shelter and there’s a constant supply of fresh water.”

She didn’t appreciate his sarcasm and her mutinous expression let him know it. His whole demeanor suggested that she was foolish not to see all that without his having to explain it, and issued a challenge she wasn’t about to back down from. She had been weak this morning, but she never would be again. Pushing up the sleeves of her sweater, she said, “What do you want me to do?”

He hitched his head backward. “Start with the stove.”

Without another word, he gathered up the foul bedding and carried it outside.

Rusty attacked the black iron stove with a vengeance, scouring it from top to bottom, using more elbow grease than soap, since she had more of that. It was hard work, especially since she had to keep herself propped up on one crutch. She moved from the stove to the sink, then to the windows, then every stick of furniture got washed down.

After he had boiled the bedding in a caldron outside and hung it up to dry—or freeze, if the temperature turned much colder—Cooper came inside and washed the stones of the hearth. He found a colony of dead insects beneath th

e woodpile. They had no doubt died of old age since it was almost a certainty that the hearth had never been swept. Keeping the door and windows open to air the place out, he shored up the front porch and stacked firewood on the cabin’s south side to protect it from the weather’s brunt.

Rusty couldn’t sweep the floor, so he did. But when he was finished, she got down on hands and knees and scrubbed it. Her sculptured nails broke off one by one. Where a mere chip would have sent her into a tizzy not long ago, she merely shrugged and went on with her scrubbing, taking satisfaction in the results of her labor.

Cooper brought in two beheaded and plucked birds— she didn’t recognize the species—for their dinner. She had made an inventory of the Gawrylows’ hoard and was pleased to find a fair amount of canned goods. They had apparently made their October trip to Yellowknife and were well stocked for the winter. A gourmet cook she wasn’t, but it didn’t take much talent to boil the fowl together with two cans of vegetables and a sprinkling of salt. By the time the stew was done, the aroma was making her mouth water. Darkness was settling in before Cooper carried in the bedding.

“Is it deloused?” she asked, turning from the stove.

“I think so. I boiled the hell out of it. I’m not sure it’s quite dry, but if I leave it out any longer, it’s going to freeze. We’ll check it after dinner and if it’s not dry, we’ll hang it up in front of the fire.”

He washed his hands at the sink, which was sparkling compared to what it had been.

They sat down to eat at the table Rusty had sanded clean. Cooper smiled when he unfolded what had once been a sock and was now acting as a napkin and placed it in his lap, but he didn’t comment on her ingenuity. If he noticed the jar with the arrangement of autumn leaves serving as a centerpiece, he said nothing to indicate it. He ate two portions of the stew but didn’t say a word about it.

Rusty was crushed. He could have said something nice—one single word of encouragement. Even a puppy needs to be patted on the head now and then.

She dejectedly carried their tin dishes to the sink. While she was pumping water over them, he moved up behind her. “You worked hard today.”

His voice was soft and low and came from directly above her head. He was standing very close. His sheer physicality overwhelmed her. She felt tremulous. “So did you.”

“I think we deserve a treat, don’t you?”

Her stomach rose and fell as weightlessly as a balloon. Memory of the kiss he had given her that morning filled her mind, while a potent desire to repeat it flooded her veins. Slowly she turned around and gazed up at him. Breathlessly she asked, “What did you have in mind, Cooper?”

“A bath.”

Chapter Six

“A...bath?” Dorothy couldn’t have said “Oz?” with any more awe and wistfulness.

“A real one. The works. Hot water, soap.” He went to the door, opened it, and came back in rolling a large washtub. “I found this behind the cabin and cleaned it out.”

She didn’t remember feeling this grateful when she opened the present from her father and found her full-length, red fox coat folded amid tissue paper. She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “Oh, Cooper, thank you.”

“Don’t get gushy,” he said querulously. “We’ll get as disgusting as the Gawrylows if we don’t bathe. Not every day, though.”

Rusty didn’t let him spoil her good mood. He didn’t allow people to get even close enough to thank him. Well, that was his problem. He’d done something very thoughtful for her. She had thanked him. Beyond that, what else could she do? He must know how much this meant to her, even if he chose to act like a heel about it now.

She filled several pots and kettles with water from the pump. He carried them to the stove to heat them up, refueling the fire to hurry them along. He then dragged the tub across the wooden floor and placed it directly in front of the fireplace. The metal was icy cold, but in a few minutes the fire would warm it up.

Rusty watched him making all these preparations with expectation, then a growing concern. “What do I do about, uh...”

Saying nothing, expressionless, Cooper unfurled one of the rough muslin bed-sheets he’d boiled and aired that day. The ceiling of the cabin had bare beams. Apparently the Gawrylows had hung meat from it because there were several metal hooks screwed into the dark wood.

Cooper stood on a chair and pushed one of the sharp hooks through a corner of the sheet. Repositioning the chair several times, he soon had the sheet hanging like a curtain behind the tub.

“Thank you,” Rusty said. She was glad to have the sheet there but couldn’t help but notice that with the fireplace behind it, it was translucent. The tub was silhouetted against it. Anybody in the tub would be, too.