Mary Connealy Read Online Free PDF Page A

energy. Alaska, by dint of trying to kill everyone who came here, taught a person to be practical.
    Amy looked at the contents of the umiak behind her and wondered what pile of impractical frippery Braden Rafferty hauled in those crates. It was just more evidence of how ill-equipped he was for this journey.
    Amy had a single change of clothes, her knife, a cloth book of needles, and a small, cast-iron skillet. The indulgence of the skillet nearly shamed her, and Amy hoped Wily never found out about it. He’d shake his head as he had so many times when, as a child, she’d shown fascination with the things Wily hauled. He didn’t talk much, but he’d let her know she’d gone soft.
    She could easily enough create a pan out of a soaked slab of bark from a cedar tree. Her mother had raised her right. The cedar even added a nice flavor. But a skillet worked better and took less tending. With her sore ribs and aching muscles, she’d been inclined to spoil herself. When she’d sold off her things to pay for the trip home, she found a few coins to spare for a frying pan in case she ended up camping along the trail. But there’d be no camping. Because of the early docking of the ship, she’d be home in a single day.
    Of course, some of Braden’s things would be supplies. And Amy wasn’t innocent of indulging her papa. She’d sent a bit of sugar and a few pounds of flour to him every spring, even though he only asked for traps or tools.
    Amy sighed, wondering where Papa had gotten to. Her stomach twisted. Why hadn’t he written? He was an old man by her Tlingit people’s standards, nearly forty. He might not be tough enough to tackle Alaskan winters and survive all this territory threw at him. She wished suddenly that she’d had the money to bring her papa a few treats. Perhaps she shouldn’t fault Braden for toting foolish things over a mountain.
    “Can I help pull?” Braden’s voice turned her to face the shore. He held out a hand for one of the two ropes Wily had slung over his shoulder. Wordlessly, Wily handed one over. She watched Braden loop the rope until it was a bit shorter. Braden fell in, following a few steps behind Wily. The going was easy now, but the terrain ahead would be rough.
    She couldn’t wait to get into the mountains. As she drank in their beauty, she realized that away from these mountains she’d only been half alive.
    ❧
    This mountain wanted him dead.
    Braden’s foot slipped off a rock, and he sank to his ankle in the icy river. The weather was mild, but the water still held the frigidity of winter within it. Wily had given him a pair of waterproof boots. Amy told him they were made of walrus intestines so his feet stayed dry—bitterly cold, but dry. The spring thaw allowed them to pass, but ice patches still lined the river, and in places, the umiak had to break through a thin sheet of stubborn spring ice. They’d been going at a forced march since they docked at Skaguay this morning, and Amy had assured him he’d sleep at Ian’s tonight.
    Enjoying the motion that stretched his muscles, long inactive on the boat, wouldn’t have been so bad if his feet weren’t frozen lumps.
    “Papa’s cabin is just ahead.” Amy eased the rope off her shoulder and straightened.
    Braden watched her for signs of collapse. She’d worked hard once the water got shallow and they’d crossed to the other side of the river, throwing her shoulder into the rope. Braden had protested, sure Amy would collapse within a mile, but Wily and Amy overruled him. Wily handed over the rope to Amy, then waded behind the umiak, pushing it over the sand when it bottomed out. Braden had insisted on taking the lead rope, pulling for all he was worth to keep Amy’s work to a minimum.
    They’d started as quickly as they could get off the ship and get to Goose Chase and had been dragging this blasted umiak—or whatever Amy called it—for hours.
    Braden’s shoulder ached. The fabric of his shirt was tattered. He’d