by tomorrow—unless whoever was coming here to “deal with this unfortunate situation” turned out to be some officious, governmental toady, determined to make a mountain out of a molehill. Corporal O’Brien had already used that annoying phrase, “ dealing with this unfortunate situation ,” at least two hundred times since she arrived at this godforsaken hellhole. Now, all she wanted was to get home as quickly as possible, and never set foot in another Royal Canadian Mounted Police station. Especially one in the freaking middle of freaking, frozen nowhere, with only short, plump Corporal Michael O’Brien for company .
When did “Mounties” start looking like cops everywhere else? Anne wondered. Whatever happened to rugged guys like Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, or Renfrew of the Mounted, those tall, handsome men of iron, popular in the comic books of the forties and fifties? Her older brother, Paul, had been collecting vintage comic books for years, and warning his nosy little kid sister that if she so much as touched them, she risked torture, dismemberment, or even something serious. After Paul joined the Army, naturally enough, she’d wasted no time in digging the forbidden comic books out of his closet, and spent the warm, summer afternoons reading the early exploits of Superman, Batman, and the Green Hornet. The “Mountie” stories had been Anne’s favorites, though—possibly because at eleven-going-on-twelve, she was just beginning to form a rough vision of what real “men” should look like, and be like. At eleven, she had already decided upon a career as a world-famous journalist— a tough, hard-bitten reporter, making her way in a man’s world—the real world.
In young Anne’s daydreams, masked heroes with bulging muscles and superhuman powers didn’t do a thing for her, but rugged outdoorsmen were a different matter entirely. Real men. Intelligent but manly men, capable of wrestling bears and mountain lions, tracking escaped felons through the wilderness, and occasionally pausing long enough to rescue a hard-bitten but astonishingly beautiful female reporter who has fallen (through no fault of her own) into a perilous crevasse in the ice.
Pudgy, bespectacled RCMP corporal Michael O’Brien just didn’t fit this romantic image at all. As far as Anne could tell, he spent most of his time scribbling reports, and when he wasn’t writing reports, or on the telephone, he was dusting and cleaning everything in sight. Or reading Rudyard Kipling. Record-keeping and obsessive tidiness had apparently replaced wrestling bears and rescuing maidens in distress. But Rudyard Kipling? Who in the name of God read Rudyard Kipling in the year 2013?
Her promised “escort” had been delayed for three days because of bad weather, and now, as the single engine plane banked right, circled once overhead, and dropped quickly through the morning’s low clouds, Anne felt her stomach clenching up. Nerves , she thought. Nothing to worry about. It’s not like you’re a criminal, or anything. Not a real criminal. What can they do to you, really, except throw you out?
“Is that for me, do you think?” she asked the young man sitting at the desk. O’Brien had been tense and distracted all day, and now, with the promised reinforcements he had wanted so badly arriving, it surprised her that he seemed not to have heard the drone of the approaching plane.
He looked up from what he was doing. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?” he asked.
“There’s a small plane out there, about to land,” Anne explained. “Were you expecting anyone, besides?
Her question was answered when Corporal O’Brien jumped up from his chair so suddenly that he knocked the stack of papers he’d been working on to the floor. His face seemed to light up. “It has to be the guy from Regina,” he breathed. It sounded to Anne like profound relief, or maybe a heartfelt prayer. And an insult aimed at her, of course. The corporal was
When did “Mounties” start looking like cops everywhere else? Anne wondered. Whatever happened to rugged guys like Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, or Renfrew of the Mounted, those tall, handsome men of iron, popular in the comic books of the forties and fifties? Her older brother, Paul, had been collecting vintage comic books for years, and warning his nosy little kid sister that if she so much as touched them, she risked torture, dismemberment, or even something serious. After Paul joined the Army, naturally enough, she’d wasted no time in digging the forbidden comic books out of his closet, and spent the warm, summer afternoons reading the early exploits of Superman, Batman, and the Green Hornet. The “Mountie” stories had been Anne’s favorites, though—possibly because at eleven-going-on-twelve, she was just beginning to form a rough vision of what real “men” should look like, and be like. At eleven, she had already decided upon a career as a world-famous journalist— a tough, hard-bitten reporter, making her way in a man’s world—the real world.
In young Anne’s daydreams, masked heroes with bulging muscles and superhuman powers didn’t do a thing for her, but rugged outdoorsmen were a different matter entirely. Real men. Intelligent but manly men, capable of wrestling bears and mountain lions, tracking escaped felons through the wilderness, and occasionally pausing long enough to rescue a hard-bitten but astonishingly beautiful female reporter who has fallen (through no fault of her own) into a perilous crevasse in the ice.
Pudgy, bespectacled RCMP corporal Michael O’Brien just didn’t fit this romantic image at all. As far as Anne could tell, he spent most of his time scribbling reports, and when he wasn’t writing reports, or on the telephone, he was dusting and cleaning everything in sight. Or reading Rudyard Kipling. Record-keeping and obsessive tidiness had apparently replaced wrestling bears and rescuing maidens in distress. But Rudyard Kipling? Who in the name of God read Rudyard Kipling in the year 2013?
Her promised “escort” had been delayed for three days because of bad weather, and now, as the single engine plane banked right, circled once overhead, and dropped quickly through the morning’s low clouds, Anne felt her stomach clenching up. Nerves , she thought. Nothing to worry about. It’s not like you’re a criminal, or anything. Not a real criminal. What can they do to you, really, except throw you out?
“Is that for me, do you think?” she asked the young man sitting at the desk. O’Brien had been tense and distracted all day, and now, with the promised reinforcements he had wanted so badly arriving, it surprised her that he seemed not to have heard the drone of the approaching plane.
He looked up from what he was doing. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?” he asked.
“There’s a small plane out there, about to land,” Anne explained. “Were you expecting anyone, besides?
Her question was answered when Corporal O’Brien jumped up from his chair so suddenly that he knocked the stack of papers he’d been working on to the floor. His face seemed to light up. “It has to be the guy from Regina,” he breathed. It sounded to Anne like profound relief, or maybe a heartfelt prayer. And an insult aimed at her, of course. The corporal was
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