The One That Got Away

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2025 Duleigh Lawrence-Townshend. All rights reserved. The author asserts the right to be identified as the author of this story for all portions. All characters are original. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. This story or any part thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review or commentary.

This story was written for Literotica's 2025 Valentine's Day Contest. All characters are fictional and do not represent anyone living or dead.

The One That Got Away

A Belated Romance

Chapter 1 - The Alberta Clipper

Uff da!

KZZJ, the voice of the Center of America, just announced that an Alberta Clipper was barreling down on Pierce County, North Dakota, right where Leif Rassmussen was and there wasn't anything Leif could do about it except hurry. An Alberta Clipper is not an Arctic Express, which you hear about endlessly on TV and radio. An Arctic Express is when the jet stream dips down into the continental United States and the temperature drops twenty or thirty degrees. An Alberta Clipper is when Skadi, the Norwegian goddess of winter, attempts to kill you and your family just for the joy of the hunt.

Picture an Arctic Express as your front door being left open on a cold day. Compared to that, an Alberta Clipper is getting all your windows blown out in a subzero blast of wind. The Alberta Clipper is a system of extreme low pressure that comes roaring out of the Canadian Rockies, driving a warm high front ahead of it and that's probably the worst part. The warm front fools people into wearing light clothes, then when all hell breaks loose, people are caught unprepared for the frozen hell that slams down on them. In a moment, the wind whips across the prairies driving loose snow with it, temperatures plunge into the life-threatening depths. When the front between the warm moist high-pressure system and extremely cold low pressure system passes through, you will believe that Hell has the capacity to freeze over.

"I should'a known," grumbled Leif. When he stepped out of Leever's Plen-T-Good grocery in Rugby North Dakota an hour or so ago, it was practically shirt sleeve weather. He put the can goods and the root veggies in the back of his old '95 Ranger and drove three blocks to the VFW for a cold brew with the boys. Soon they were in deep philosophical discussion on how the Vikings were going to blow their chance for the super bowl next year. This year was a spectacular meltdown at the season's 3/4 mark and Leif won $10 in the legion's betting pool for what week the Vikings would be mathematically eliminated from playing in the super bowl (he put $1 on week 14) when the news came over the radio. "Turn that up, eh? A soul can barely hear."

"This is KZZJ color weather radar action center with the following update. A life threatening Alberta Clipper is moving across Saskatchewan and heading southeast at thirty miles per hour. By two PM, the storm should reach Portal, North Dakota. The front is generating temperatures of thirty-five below zero with winds of sixty-five miles per hour."

Portal is on the Canadian border. If it's going to hit the Canadian border at two, it should be after four when it gets here, thought Leif. He looked at his watch. It was three fifteen. By his calculations, he has enough time to get home. He failed to notice that the weather warning was pre-recorded, and things probably changed since it was recorded. "Hey Torvald, do you have any cinder blocks that I can borrow?"

"Nope," said the bartender. "Ain't got a one left."

"How about sandbags?"

"Can you get them back by spring for flood season?"

"If I don't go through the ice at the Balta Dam, ice fishing, yeah. No problem, eh?"

"Deal." Torvald led Leif to the outside storage room, where four sandbags were stacked up. Their job was to block the door from flood waters in the spring floods, but there was nothing in the area that would flood. There were no creeks, streams, rivers, or ponds to over spill their banks. Leif wasn't sure what the need for the sandbags was, but better safe than sorry. He carried them out to his truck two by two and placed them over the rear axle. The Ranger was a great truck, but it was very light in the backend.

A blizzard in North Dakota is not like your eastern, tame blizzards. In Buffalo, they get maybe seven feet of light fluffy snow that interrupts life for a few days, then you shovel out and it melts away. In North Dakota, a blizzard is the finger of the angry goddess Skadi, second wife of Odin, the goddess of the winter and of bow hunting. She reaches out with her bow and picks off lives one by one. Everyone in North Dakota knows someone who died in a winter storm. Leif's neighbors, Emil and Lena Gunvaldsen, both died a few years ago in a horrible blizzard. And it happened not fifteen feet from their front door.

Leif dug his hunting jacket with parka hood out of the toolbox in the back of the truck and pulled out the hunting socks and put them on over his work socks, then laced his boots up. He then put the hunting jacket on over his denim jacket. The idea is to dress in layers and if you don't dress in layers, you're not a fool, you're suicidal. He then moved his groceries into the area behind the seat of his super cab. If the temperature drops as low as the radio mentioned, the food will freeze, even the canned food.

He looked at the area behind the seat and the groceries were stacked in the place where Singer, his American Foxhound, used to curl up and sleep. They're such beautiful dogs. With brown, black and white 'piebald' coloring of a beagle and the same playful nature, they are a long-legged lapdog that loves nothing better than a day in the fields scaring up game. And after a long hunt, Singer loved to stretch out in front of the fire in the wood stove.

And that's where Leif found Singer on that black, frigid morning, laying in front of the wood stove. The fire had gone out in the stove and in Singer. He sighed. It's not fair that we should live into our eighties and the ones that love us the most only last ten or twelve years. "God, how I miss Singer," he said aloud for the thousandth time as he slammed the door and started the truck.

He eased out the clutch and headed over to Lunde's Service Station. There he topped off the tank on the Ranger and filled the two metal military surplus five-gallon cans with kerosene and tied them down in the back. That kerosene heater back home was the best investment he ever made. "How's business?" he asked Elmer Lunde as he went inside and got a scalding hot cup of coffee from the ancient coin-op coffee machine.

"Meh, so-so. I thought folks would be nervous about US 2 closing down, but nobody seems to notice the clouds."

Leif looked in the direction Elmer was pointing, off to the northwest. At first, Leif thought that someone had built a large warehouse on the northwest end of town, but he soon realized what he was looking at wasn't steel or concrete. It was a wall of black clouds bearing down on them. "I need to skedaddle Elmer. What do I owe ya for ten gallons of kerosene?"

"Let's call it forty even. Good enough?"

Kerosene was going for $4.23 a gallon, so Leif got a deal. He dug out a pair of well-worn twenties and set them on the counter. "That'll do, Elmer. I'll see ya when I dig out."

"Good luck, old timer," called Elmer as Leif headed out and got in his truck.

That was a joke, but it still hurt. Elmer is nearly eighty years old, and he called Leif "old timer." Leif was still used to being called "the new guy," and he's lived here over twenty years. After things went tits-up and he got away from It All, he ended up here in the dead center of North Dakota. Away from It All? It All won't even accept calls from a 701 area code. He's away from everything that hurts, everything that sucked the life out of his life. The only thing he needs is Singer, and she's gone. "Best damn foxhound in the west," muttered Leif as he ground the gears a bit then jammed it into first and headed out.

Leif didn't live here in Rugby. With a population of 2,509 souls, it was too big, too metropolitan. He found a city that suited him perfectly. Balta, North Dakota which had a population of 65. When he gets home, the population will be 66. Leif loves Balta, it's home, it's quiet and the best pheasant hunting in the state is just 30 yards out of his back door. Balta has a bar named The Grain Bin with $1.50 a pint tap beer and a fairly good pool table. The Catholic church next door still says the 10:30 mass in Latin and he's got a steady job as mechanic and equipment operator out at Lars Hirschel's 2,000 acre spread. Balta is just 3 miles from Lars's 3,900 square foot farmhouse. It's a commute that Leif will make across the fields on his Can-Am UTV.

Balta was about 20 miles south of Rugby on Highway 3S, then a right turn onto 52nd Street NE for a few miles and you're there. Sixteen square blocks of peace and quiet. Leif's house was in the north-east corner, surrounded by dogwood and elm trees and was as private as you can get. It was like living in a forest. He could work in his garden naked if he wanted and nobody would notice or care.

Right now, the problem was the storm closure gates. He had to cross US 2, a divided four-lane highway that ran east to west. It's one of the major roads in North Dakota and it will close in a storm. Along US 2 were storm closure gates that were activated when a winter blast like an Alberta Clipper comes through and makes driving a life-threatening experience. As Leif pulled up to the intersection, he saw that the amber lamps on top of a sign that said "If lights are flashing do not proceed" were dark.

It took forever for the traffic light to change and as he waited, the snow started to fall. Wet, sloppy, it was snow that was driven by the wind into areas of warm temperatures where it partially melted as it fell. Finally, the light changed and as he crossed; he noticed the lights started flashing on those signs.

Made it! A minor victory, but still a victory. He was now on his own heading south on Highway 3, a two lane paved road without a hint of curve or hill. It's 50 miles of billiard table flat, and straight as an arrow south to Harvey, ND. He's not going that far, he's only going halfway. As he got her into fifth gear, the snow really started coming down. Big wet splatters of snow and his wipers were barely able to keep up.

Leif was five miles south when it hit, and it hit hard. He was slammed with heavy wet snow that froze solid as the arctic blast hit and the truck was rocked with the onslaught. The wind howled, and he safely brought it to a stop, feeling for the edge of the road with his tires. He was completely blind and in the short period that the Alberta clipper hit, the snow that stuck to all his windows was frozen solid. He tried to roll down a window, but the ice had frozen solid and he was afraid he was going to break the window crank, so he stopped trying.

The wind gusts slammed his little truck, and he felt it rocking. The outside thermometer slowly plunged downward. The temp was 34° (1° C) when he left Elmer Lunde's filling station, now it was 20° (-6.66° C) and headed south. For what seemed like an hour, his truck shook and leaned as the wind slammed it, then he noticed his compass had moved. Back before the clipper hit, he was headed south. Now the compass said that he was heading west. Another glance at the thermometer showed 11° (-11° C) and it felt that cold inside too.

Leif's chief concern was keeping the engine running. Being hit by someone else would be a mite inconvenient, even unpleasant, but freezing to death was permanent and not something he wished to experience. Did he put the cardboard in? A trick in North Dakota is to put a piece of cardboard in front of your radiator, that will keep the engine nice and warm when temperatures drop. He looked behind him and there it was, the cardboard that should be in front of the radiator, keeping him warm and alive. Another glance at the thermometer. -8° (-22° C). That was quick, but Leif was sure this wasn't over.

When the shrieking and howling of the wind subsided somewhat, the truck was still running, but it sputtered in the cold, unhappy to be running. The thermometer settled on -21° (-29° C) and the compass settled on northwest. The wind turned his little truck like a dart and spun the heavy end into the wind. Leif attempted to open the door, but it was frozen shut. He slammed his shoulder against the door several times, then, with a cracking noise that sounded like stepping on a bundle of dried twigs, he broke the ice seal that kept him in and opened the protesting door. Shoving the door open against the blast of wind, he stepped outside into a changed, alien landscape.

When he left Rugby, the snow they had was mostly blown away and everything was brown. The wheat stubble in the fields had captured some snow, so the fields were gold poking up through some white, the roads were black and the ditches white. Now everything was white, the fields, the road, the fence posts, the barbed wire, the road signs... even his black Ford Ranger was now solid white. The wet snow driven by the Alberta Clipper stuck to everything and froze in place.

Leif fought the wind and opened his engine hood and wrestled the cardboard into place in front of the radiator. The cardboard sat behind the grill and allowed air around to cool the radiator. And it had a small hole in the middle cut out to provide cooling, which at -20° that's all you really need. Now came the hard part. He got his brass edged window scraper and began scraping port holes to peer through in the ice that covered the whole truck. He started with the side windows because he was going to need them for navigation, and by the time he started scraping the windshield, the defroster had loosened up the ice and he was able to clear the entire windshield. Then he scraped the headlights. He doubted that would help him see, but his headlights would be seen by an on-coming vehicle.

The storm was by no means over, but the initial onslaught had been tempered. The cruel, frigid wind ripped at Leif with life-threatening anger. The windchill had to be below -80° (-60° C) and over the howling of the wind, Leif heard the admonishments from the radio in the truck. "... exposed skin... frostbite in minutes... hypothermia... core body temperature... shivering, confusion, exhaustion, and slurred speech..." yadda yadda yadda, he's heard it all a thousand times before.

What he worried about was the road. He could only see fifty yards up the road, but what he saw concerned him. The road was covered with that wet, slushy snow that melted on contact with the road. Now the wind was blowing abrasive snow across that moisture, flash freezing it and polishing it to a slick and shiny luster. The chances of getting blown off that ice rink were increasing as the storm increased its ferocity.

The first blast was just an opening salvo, a warning to everyone to hunker down indoors. The real fun was about to begin. As he got back in the truck, the wind picked up again. At least this time the snow was a proper snow, a tiny painful ice pellet that could cut into your exposed flesh as the wind drove it into you, but it didn't stick to anything. He put the truck in gear and began the long, painful process of driving in a North Dakota blizzard.

To be a blizzard, a snowstorm must have sustained winds or frequent gusts that are greater than or equal to 35 mph (56 km/h) with blowing or drifting snow which reduces visibility to a quarter mile (400 m) or less and must last for a prolonged period of time, typically three hours or more. In the northern prairies, there is a phenomenon called a 'ground blizzard.' This is when the wind blows the loose fallen snow so much that you can't see. However, if you were on the second floor of a building or driving an eighteen wheeler, you would see a sunny day with a cloud of white from the ground to the altitude of eight feet. If you were driving a semi, you would see the occasional roof of a lifted pickup truck sticking up through that cloud of snow.

Leif put his truck in gear and turned his nose to the south. He couldn't see the road for over ten yards ahead of him, but he could see the edge of the ditch on either side of the road through his side windows, so he drove, watching the ditches and glancing forward into the swirling snow occasionally. He turned on his headlights, driving lights, and floodlights fore and aft. The flood lights were invaluable when trying to repair a tractor or combine harvester that broke down during a night harvest. They could illuminate the work area out in an open field like a well-appointed workshop. Hopefully, he will be seen by an on-coming vehicle.

The yards crept by as he ventured south, and "snow snakes" began forming across the highway. Snow snakes are small snow drifts that stretch across the road. They're only a couple of inches wide and an inch or two high. At Leif's current speed of 15 mph, they were no problem. At 65 the thumping as you drove along and killed snow snakes could drive you batty.

Then, as he peered into the whiteness ahead, he swore he saw a dim glow of red that disappeared into the white gloom. There it was again... now there were two. It was a set of emergency flashers on a car. Was it stopped or was it moving slowly, picking its way through the storm like he was? He cursed the stupidity of anyone trying to drive in this weather (not him, of course, he's a professional at this) and he slowed down.

As Leif approached, he could tell it was stopped. It was a sedan, an old Honda or Toyota with a New Jersey license plate, and through the snow he saw the hood was up.

Shit.

A car with the hood up is a cry for help on the roads of North Dakota. It's not illegal to drive past the car, but it's not something a man should do. Bruce Haagen admitted to driving past a car with a hood up. The car contained a young mother and two children and by the time the police got to her, one child had died. No one spoke to Bruce since. He withdrew and began drinking, then one cold winter he disappeared. That spring, his frozen body was found in a field not far from his home. In small town North Dakota, ostracism is nearly a death sentence.

Leif pulled up behind the car and stopped. There was no acknowledgement of his arrival. He beeped the horn and still nothing. Cursing, he pulled on his old knit scarf and wrapped it around his face and tied it in the back so only his eyes were visible. Then steeling himself, he climbed out and stepped into the white hell that his prairie had become.

The wind was whipping out of the west, so he was shielded from the blast by the body of his truck. He walked forward; the snow stinging his eyes. When he stepped into that open area between vehicles, an angry gust of wind blew him out onto the road. His feet were planted, but the wind blew him across the polished ice like one of those green plastic soldiers and he found himself standing in the middle of the highway. Somehow, Leif skated his way into the lee of the stalled Toyota. Never once did Leif question what he was doing. He was doing what a man needs to do.

He got to the driver's side door and cracked it open. In there, a woman sat behind the steering wheel, staring at the unmoving speedometer. A bundled towel lay on her lap and for a moment he was terrified that it was a baby, but a slender hair covered tail poked out from one end. Thank god, it was a small dog and not a child. "Let's go Lady, I'll take you somewhere warm."

She slowly turned toward him and opened her eyes. Those pale green eyes trapped him. He had only seen aquamarine eyes like that once before, and as they did once before, they captured something that he thought had died and was pickled in alcohol and left to rot... his heart. "Take me home," she said in a soft, dry voice.