Wild Men of Alaska 02 - Moosed-Up

porch. Problem was, his dad was notorious for booby-traps.
    He checked around the gate, looking for wires, sharp instruments, and then gave it a solid kick. The gate swung open.
    Well, that seemed anticlimactic.
    Puffs of air steamed in front of his face. His breathing increased as he struggled toward the cabin. He didn’t want to go in there. Nobody had been living in the dump for three months. Who knew what could have crawled in and died. For that matter, who knew what kind of condition Earl had left it in? His dad had never been the best about picking up after himself.
    Aidan took a moment to rethink staying in the cabin while he went through what remained of his father’s life. He could get a room at the Chatanika Lodge instead. But then he was sure to run into people—people he didn’t want to see. Or, more precisely, people who didn’t want to see him.
    Maybe he could risk catching a glimpse of Raven.
    Nope, the faster he could clean up and clear out the better. No one wanted anymore to do with him than they had his father. No one would miss Earl Harte.
    Not even him.
    Aidan stepped cautiously, keeping an eye out for anything that looked suspicious. Earl would have a trap or tripwire set on the front entrance that would release something sharp and nasty for anyone stupid enough to bother him. He rounded the corner of the cabin heading toward the back door, hunching his shoulders against the cold and slapping his thin-gloved hands together in an attempt to warm them. The snow was deeper around the side of the cabin. Nothing looked like it had been disturbed. Not even animal prints cut the icy crust of the snow.
    Suddenly, he skidded, his arms flailing wide. He regained his balance and looked at what he’d slipped on. A piece of tin. He glanced up and saw where it had fallen off the roof at some point. The place was falling apart. He shook his head and stepped carefully.
    Steel teeth of a bear trap sprung, spearing into the flesh of his lower leg.
    “Son of a bitch!” He screamed as pain stabbed through his leg.
    He clawed at where the teeth of the rusty trap punctured into his flesh, through his jeans, through his boots, and into the tender flesh of his leg. Dropping in the snow, he cried out again as pain seared like fire through his leg, causing him to shake. He moaned through gritted teeth, struggling with the jaws of the trap. Sweat dripped down his face.
    He quickly looked around, for anyone—anything—that would help free him from the snare.
    Silence.
    The only sound was his own choppy breathing, his pounding heart, and his useless moaning. He was alone. He was freezing.
    He was seriously fucked.
    What kind of sick son of bitch laid traps next to the back door of his own home?
    Aidan clenched his teeth, grabbed the edges of the steel-teeth trap, and tried to pry the jaws apart. He roared and strained with everything he had. The effort wasted. Blood soaked through his jeans and dribbled like syrup, staining the snow.
    The sun dipped and shadows grew menacing.
    And cold seeped in like death.
    Aidan’s heart grew heavy in his chest. He sat—spent—in the snow, the heat of his body causing the snow to melt through his jeans and freeze next to his skin.
    Think Harte, think .
    Damn, but it was hard to think when his body was racked with pain. Maybe, he could crawl to the SUV with the trap and drive for help. He scratched around in the snow until he found the chain attached to the anchor of the trap. He heaved until his muscles drained.
    No use. The anchor was encased in ice, frozen into the earth.
    Come up with something else quick, or you’re a dead man.
    He patted his pockets, and pulled out his keys. Nothing on the key ring that could help him. He pocketed them and felt around for more. A Jolly Rancher. He snorted out a laugh. Not much of a last meal. Then he found his cell phone.
    “Yes!” He flipped it open and dialed 911. No bars. “What the—”
    He shook the phone as if that would miraculously gain him coverage. Nothing. He moved the phone around him, over his head, searching for reception. “Come on,” he prayed. “Come on.” Again, nothing.
    It started to snow.
    Big, quiet, heavy flakes that smothered the earth. Despair began to settle in, becoming partners with the throbbing pain. He was going to die here. Born and died in the same place. It was kind of funny. Or ironic.
    He wondered when his body would be found and by whom. Would it be spring? Or would an animal find him and