Northern Lights

I'll be heading on up to my room alone. If you don't, I'll be heading up to hers."
    "I'm just here for the stew."
    "Then I'll be staying in her room tonight."
    "John. Doesn't it bother you?"
    John contemplated his beer. "Having it bother me doesn't change the way things are. The way she is. The romantics like to say you don't have a choice who you love. I disagree. People pick and they choose. This is my choice."
    Charlene brought out the stew, a basket with chunks of fresh bread, and a thick wedge of apple pie.
    "Man works out in this weather, he needs to eat. You do justice by that now, Nate."
    "I will. You hear from Meg?"
    Charlene blinked as if translating the name from a foreign language. "No. why?"
    "Just thought you two might've gotten in touch with each other." To let the stew cool a little, he started with the bread. "Seeing as she's out there on her own in this."
    "Nobody knows how to handle herself better than Meg. She doesn't need anyone. Not a man or a mother."
    She walked away, letting the kitchen door slap shut behind her.
    "Sore spot," Nate commented.
    "Tender as they come. Bigger bruise yet if she thinks you're more interested in her daughter than in her."
    "I'm sorry to be the cause of that, but I am." He sampled the stew. It was loaded with potatoes, carrots, beans and onions, and a strong, gamey meat that couldn't have come from cow.
    It slid warm into his belly and made him forget about the cold.
    "What's this meat in here?"
    "That'd be moose."
    Nate spooned up more, studied it. "Okay," he said, and ate.
     
     
    IT SNOWED ALL NIGHT, and he slept like a stone through it. The view out his window when he woke was like the static on a television screen. He could hear the wind howling, feel it pressing against the windowpane.
    The lights didn't work, so he lit candles, and they made him think of Meg.
    He dressed, studying the phone. It was probably out, too. Besides, you didn't call a woman at six-thirty in the morning just because you'd had sex with her. There was no need to worry about her. She'd lived up here her entire life. She was tucked inside her house with her two dogs and plenty of firewood.
    He worried anyway as he used his flashlight to guide himself downstairs.
    It was the first time he'd seen the place empty. Tables were cleaned off, the bar was wiped down. There was no smell of coffee brewing, bacon frying. No morning clatter or conversation. No little boy sitting at a table looking up at him with a quick smile.
    There was nothing but dark, the howl of the wind and . . . snoring. He followed the sound and shined his light over the Mackie brothers. They lay, toe to nose, on the pool table, snoring away under layers of blanket.
    He worked his way into the kitchen and, after a hunt, found a muffin. Taking it with him, he pulled on his gear. With the muffin stuffed in his pocket, he pulled open the door.
    The wind nearly knocked him over. The force of it, the shock of it, the bitter snow that flew into his eyes, his mouth, his nose as he fought his way through the door.
    His flashlight was next to useless, but he aimed it out, followed the line of the rope in its beam. Then he stuffed the light in his pocket, gripped the rope with both hands and began to pull himself along.
    On the sidewalk, the snow was up to his thighs. He thought a man could drown in it, soundlessly, even before he died of exposure.
    He managed to fight his way to the street, where thanks to Bing's plow, and horse-turd whiskey, the snow was no more than ankle deep, unless you ran into a drift.
    He'd have to cross the street damn near blind, and without the guide, to get to the station. He closed his eyes, brought the image of the street, the location of the buildings into his head. Then lowering his shoulders to the wind, he let go of the rope, grabbed the flashlight again and started across.
    He might as well have been in the wilderness instead of in a town with paved streets and sidewalks, with people sleeping behind board and brick. The wind was like a storm surf in his ears, one that kept trying to shove him back as he bulled his way through it.
    People died crossing the street all the time, he reminded himself. Life was full of nasty risks, nastier surprises. A couple of guys could walk out of a bar and grill, and one of them could end up dead in an alley.
    An idiot could walk into a blizzard, try to cross the street and end up wandering aimlessly for hours until he dropped dead of exposure three feet from