Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,3

back to the windows and her husband.

David reached out with the toe of his slipper and touched the back of her thigh, causing her to jump.

“Sorry,” he said. “How about we have a shower? Then I can paint your nails for you.”

His customary glibness had returned.

She looked over her shoulder at him, incredulous. “Do you want a girl who splits firewood and caulks logs or one who dolls herself up with nail polish? ’Cause I don’t see how you can have both for the next couple of months.”

“Jeez,” David said, lips pooched out like he was wounded. “I’m just saying you don’t have to let yourself go because we’re living in the bush.”

“Keep it up,” Sarah said. “That’s the way to talk me into the shower.”

“Really?”

She scoffed. “I’m not about to take my clothes off so I can be murdered with soap in my eyes—not with that awful noise out there.”

“I’ll be in the shower with you,” David said, raising his eyebrows up and down the way he did when he wanted sex. He was pretty much a giant human gland, so his eyebrows were moving all the time.

She ignored the suggestion and stared into the fire, trying not to imagine four months of this.

“You should have told me when Bobby stopped by.”

His dismissive chuckle galled her enough to chase away some of the chill.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not meaning it at all. He patted the couch cushion beside him. “At least sit—”

Every light in and around the lodge went out at the same time, leaving them bathed in the orange glow of the fire—and the shadows. Lots of shadows. The ever-present hum of the generator was gone. They turned it off every night to save on fuel, but the lights ran on backup batteries. They should have stayed on for a while. Voles or squirrels must have gotten into the wiring.

The hissing sound of the river seemed louder now, closer, more invasive. David didn’t appear to notice. He slumped in defeat, slowly beating the back of his head against the couch. No generator, no shower—even if he by some miracle managed to convince Sarah it wasn’t a stupid idea.

The sudden blast of a car horn outside caused Sarah to jump. David bolted to his feet.

The racket of Rolf’s makeshift alarm was grossly out of place against the sounds of the wilderness. The handyman had rigged the contraption using a boat battery, weighted milk jugs, and fishing line to warn him if bears tried to break into the meat shed.

“Hmmm.” David stepped into a pair of insulated Xtratuf rubber boots, the toe of each decorated with a smiley face drawn on with a Sharpie. He threw a wool jacket over his shoulders before scooping up the rifle beside the front door. Sarah didn’t know what was more ridiculous: the sight of David in his shorts and calf-high rubber boots, or the sight of him holding a gun. It was astounding that she’d not noticed what a child he was before she’d married him. He’d grown up in Alaska, but as far as she knew, he’d never shot a gun until they came to Chaga.

The noise of the horn was deafening, but at least it obscured the moan across the river.

David opened the door and peeked out, aiming his rifle downhill toward the meat shed. “Maybe it really is bears. You wait here and I’ll go check.”

“Not a chance.” Sarah grabbed the shotgun from the corner by the door. It was only loaded with birdshot, but was better than her fingernails—which were chewed down to the quick anyway. “I’m coming with you.”

He nodded. “Probably a good idea.”

“Don’t shoot Rolf,” she said.

“Another good idea,” David said, dripping with condescension.

* * *

There was no moon. The wind blew harder now, coming off the freezing river and adding a sinister layer to the darkness. Lengths of split spruce reflected like bleached bones in the harsh beam of David’s headlamp as he took tentative, creeping steps down the hill. Sarah stayed close behind him, playing her flashlight back and forth. She carried the shotgun down by her waist, her hand wrapped around the action. Rolf was out there somewhere, and it was beyond dangerous to go aiming into the darkness without knowing where he was—even if there were bears.

The meat shed was a relatively flimsy affair, its screened sides held in place with scrap two-by-fours and weathered plywood. It did little to protect meat from bears, but that wasn’t the point. The shed was meant