Free Breaking the Ice by Kim Baldwin Page A

self-discovery.”
    If you ask me, you’re already a little too self-absorbed. Bryson spotted the welcome lights of Bettles in the distance. “What makes you think you’ll find yourself here?”
    “I’m not sure,” Karla said. “But a part of me believes that whatever I’m looking for is here.”

Chapter Six

    “You’ll soon find out. That’s the village up ahead.” Bryson wasn’t sure whether it was her fatigue or the company, but the trip up had seemed to take an eternity. She’d had more than enough of her difficult passenger. Sue was due to pay up in spades, and soon. Bryson hit the transmit button on her radio. “A2024B Piper to BTT.”
    “BTT to A2024B Piper. Where ya been, Bryson? Everybody’s waiting for you.” The voice wasn’t the raspy baritone she expected.
    “Got held up. Where’s Skeeter? Why’re you manning the radio?”
    “You’re the only traffic left tonight. Skeeter ate somethin’ baaad. Way bad. He’s been in the can the last hour.”
    “Coming in on final approach. Pass the word, will you, Lars. I don’t have everything. Only about half.”
    “You better have a good reason ready.” The reply was lighthearted, but Bryson knew Lars well enough to catch the undercurrent of concern in his voice.
    The warning wasn’t necessary. Bryson was already doing a mental checklist of who was expecting something, which included most of Bettles, a few Evansville natives, and a handful of bush residents. She focused on the ones who might react poorly to the news they’d been waiting for her in vain.
    Everyone was cautious around Dirty Dan, because even though he seemed harmless, no one knew anything much about him, and there were plenty of crazies in Alaska. Crazies who holed up there because society had shunned them elsewhere, and people who cracked from the strain of cabin fever. Both types could be unpredictable. There were also the chronic alcoholics who occasionally got mean when they were soused, and more than a few of those were around.
    Bryson glanced at the illuminated dial on her watch. It was almost nine thirty. She might have been back as early as four or five, if she hadn’t had to make so many shopping stops only to get further sidetracked by her unexpected passenger. The folks waiting for their orders had probably started gathering at the Den around three—such supply trips were a highlight of the week, or month. So everyone had certainly had ample time to get loaded while they all sat around waiting for her.
    The double strip of lights ahead was set on low, which was all she ever needed on a clear night like this. But she was so bleary-eyed she clicked her mic seven times, which automatically triggered the lights to brighten to full. As she did, Bryson heard a sharp intake of breath from the woman behind her.
    “You said…Lars? God. I just realized. Bryson Faulkner. You’re on the Web site, too, aren’t you? Arctic Independent Outfitters?”
    “That’s me. You know Lars?” They were dropping fast, the ride smooth as silk as they descended. They’d be wheels down in another two minutes.
    “Lars Rasmussen?” It came out as a squeak.
    “Yeah.” What the heck is going on?
    “I can’t do this! I can’t.” Her passenger’s voice shook. She was clearly in a state of panic. “I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. This is crazy. Just crazy. I’m not ready.” She was talking to herself more than Bryson, a kind of reverse pep talk, but Bryson couldn’t ignore it. “We can’t land. Pull up!” the woman ordered.
    “Spare me the drama-queen routine, huh? First you can’t wait to get here, and now you—”
    “Take me back to Fairbanks. Right now.”
    “Are you nuts?” They were thirty feet up and closing in fast on the runway.
    “I can’t face them. I’m not ready.” The woman’s tone was desperate.
    Bryson could make out the lights of a handful of cars and ATVs at the end of the runway, near the Den. And in the glow of them, at least a couple