I sit up, shivering as the cold air hits my face, and the movement shifts the air mattress enough to wake him.
Nash comes awake instantly, no groggy transition from sleep to wakefulness. One moment he's out, the next his eyes are open, alert, scanning the space before locking onto me.
"Storm's broke," he says, his voice rough with sleep. It's a low rumble that vibrates in the small space, and my traitorous heart does a little skip that has absolutely no scientific basis.
"It's quiet," I whisper, as if speaking too loudly might bring the wind back.
He sits up, running a hand through his hair, and the sleeping bag falls to his waist. He slept in his thermal base layers, a dark gray Henley clinging to his chest and shoulders, which should be illegal in a professional working environment.
"We need to dig out," he says, all business now. "If the snow's as heavy as it sounded, the sleds'll be buried."
He reaches for his boots, effectively ending the strange, intimate moment of the morning. I let out the breath I've been holding and reach for my own gear.
Work, I remind myself.Focus on the work.
The world outside the tent has been erased and redrawn.
Where there were trees and ridges yesterday, there are now soft, undulating sculptures of white. The spruce grove that sheltered us is heavy with snow, branches bowed almost to the ground. The sky is a piercing, brilliant blue that hurts to look at, scrubbed clean by the violence of the night.
It's breathtaking. And terrifyingly vast.
"Two feet, maybe more in the drifts," Nash says, wading through the powder to where the snowmobiles are nothing more than humps in the landscape. "Ideally, this helps us."
"Helps us?" I adjust my snowshoes, grateful for the lesson he gave me on properly securing the bindings. My hands feel steady today, my body fueled by the fish and the stew, my mind sharp. "Won't it cover the tracks?"
"It covers the old tracks," Nash corrects, grabbing a shovel from the side of his pack. He moves with that efficient, fluid grace that I'm trying very hard not to admire. "But it means anything moving today is writing on a blank page. If Waldomoved during the storm, and he probably did, to find cover, his trail will be the only thing out here."
He tosses me a second shovel. "Start with the intake vents on the machines. I'll clear the sleds."
We work in tandem, a rhythm established over the last few days settling over us. There's a satisfaction in the physical labor, in the clear, visible progress of uncovering our gear. I watch Nash out of the corner of my eye as he digs. He doesn't waste energy. Every scoop is deliberate, every movement calculated. He treats his body like a tool, maintained and used like a tool that has to work tomorrow.
Thaddeus was brilliant, a mind like a diamond, sharp and multi-faceted, but he lived entirely in the abstract. He couldn't change a tire, let alone survive a blizzard. I loved him for his intellect, for his vision, but out here? Out here, Nash's kind of intelligence, the knowledge of ice and wind, of leverage and endurance, is the only thing that matters.
"Ready?" Nash asks, stowing the shovel. He's watching me again with that look, half approval, half appetite.
"Ready."
We mount up, the engine's roar shattering the pristine silence. I wrap my arms around his waist automatically now, my body fitting against the solid wall of his back. It feels safer than it should, almost natural.
We ride for hours, cutting a fresh line through the virgin snow. Every surface is blindingly bright, the sun striking sparks off the drifts. Nash drives with an intensity I haven't seen before, standing on the running boards, leaning the machine to carve through deep powder, constantly scanning the tree lines.
I scan too, my binoculars pressed to my goggles. We're heading for the ridge line we identified on the map two days ago, the natural funnel point between the valley and the higher grazing grounds. If Waldo is moving, that's where he'll be.
Around noon, Nash slows the machine, banking hard toward a cluster of black spruce near a rocky outcrop. He kills the engine.
"What is it?" I ask, the sudden silence ringing in my ears.
"Ravens," he says, pointing a gloved hand toward the sky.
I look up. Two black shapes circle against the blue, their harsh calls echoing off the rocks.
"Scavengers?" A knot of dread tightens in my stomach. "Does that mean …"
"Doesn't mean death," Nash says quickly, sensing my fear. "Ravens are smart. They follow the herds because the herds kick up snow to get to the lichen. Ravens swoop in and grab the mice or bugs that get exposed. If the birds are circling, something is moving snow down there."
He climbs off the sled and grabs his pack. "We walk from here. Wind is in our face, so they won't smell us. If we take the machine closer, they'll hear it."
I follow him, stepping into his footprints to save energy. The snow is deep, but my legs feel strong. The weakness that plagued me earlier in the week is gone, replaced by a wire-taut anticipation.
