Chapter 2
Sawyer
The smell of clean antiseptic and the steady hum of an overhead radiant warmer
pulled Sawyer out of the fog. He lay flat on a firm exam table, wrapped in two
heavy heated blankets, an intravenous line taped securely to the back of his
right hand. His entire left arm felt like dead meat on fire, the humeral head
jammed forward against his collarbone in an agonizing anterior dislocation.
Dr. Jude Miller stood beside the bed, checking an ultrasound screen positioned
over Sawyer’s ribs. "Good to see you awake, Brand. You have three cracked ribs
on your left side and a mild concussion, but the chest cavity is intact. We need
to put that shoulder back in the socket right now before the deltoid muscle
spasms clamp down permanently."
Sawyer tried to sit up, his teeth grinding against the nausea rolling through
his stomach. "Do it without the heavy narcotics, Doc. I hate waking up cloudy."
"You get five milligrams of midazolam for muscle relaxation and a local
lidocaine nerve block," Jude replied, his tone crisp and authoritative. "Silas,
grab the counter-traction sheet."
Silas Ward looped a folded canvas sheet beneath Sawyer’s left armpit, anchoring
the ends around his own hips. Jude took Sawyer’s left wrist and elbow in a firm,
steady grip, applying smooth, axial traction while gently rotating the forearm
outward. The pain flared white-hot through Sawyer’s shoulder joint, making his
neck muscles lock rigid. Jude gave the humerus a deliberate, upward push.
A loud, wet clunk resounded in the quiet room as the bone snapped back into the
glenoid fossa.
A wave of intense physical relief washed through Sawyer’s chest, the sickening
nerve pressure vanishing instantly. Jude secured the arm in a rigid sling across
Sawyer’s chest, cinching the Velcro straps tight against his ribs.
The heavy clinic door banged open against the wall.
Declan Ross marched into the room, still in his snow-crusted tactical trousers
and black base layer. He carried a transparent evidence bag containing the
sheared half of Sawyer’s carbon-fiber ski binding and a ruggedized GPS data
logger. Standing six-foot-three with shoulders broad enough to block the
doorway, Declan looked like a mountain storm ready to tear the roof off the
building.
Marcus Vance, the county sheriff, stood just behind Declan in the hallway, his
arms crossed over his leather uniform jacket.
"Telemetry confirmed," Declan said, tossing the evidence bag onto the stainless
steel tray at the foot of Sawyer’s bed with a loud clatter. "You crossed the
boundary ropes at the Sun Valley summit gate at ten-thirty, ignored three
illuminated avalanche hazard warning signs, and dropped a sixty-degree couloir
on a day with an extreme hazard rating. You triggered a four-hundred-yard crown
fracture that wiped out five hundred feet of timber and closed State Highway 75
for four hours."
Sawyer leaned back against the raised pillow, forcing a slow, insolent grin to
mask the cold phantom sensation of four feet of suffocating snow pressing
against his chest. "I held the line on the upper drop, Ross. The slab gave out
beneath the compression turn. Bindings sheared on the granite shelf."
Declan took two massive strides toward the bed, planting both hands on the side
rails and leaning down until his dark eyes bored directly into Sawyer’s face.
The raw heat radiating off the big man smelled of pine needles, gunpowder, and
frozen mountain air.
"You didn't hold anything, Brand," Declan growled, his voice a low, threatening
rumble. "You got buried in a terrain trap. If I had arrived ninety seconds
later, Jude would be putting you in a body bag right now."
Marcus Vance stepped into the doorway, his deep voice cutting through the
tension. "Resort management wants criminal reckless endangerment charges filed,
Brand. Caleb and I worked out a deal with the county prosecutor instead. You are
sentenced to sixty hours of mandatory community labor with the Sawtooth Peak SAR
unit. You start tomorrow morning at five o'clock under Declan’s direct
supervision."
Sawyer’s jaw dropped slightly. "I am a professional freeride athlete with three
active corporate sponsorships. I don't shovel driveways."
Declan leaned an inch closer, his mouth curving into a cold, predatory smirk
that made Sawyer’s throat tighten. "You won't be shoveling driveways, hotshot.
You will be hauling ninety-pound explosive charges and digging five-foot snow
pits in the high country at zero degrees. If you complain, slack off, or drop a
piece of my gear, Marcus writes the warrant and you spend the rest of the winter
in the county jail."
Declan backed away from the bed, his broad frame dominating the small room.
"Five in the morning, Brand. Bring your work boots."