Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
FINN
I wake before dawn in the cramped Forest Service cabin and stoke the small woodstove that barely kept us warm through the night.
Through the single window, patches of blue push through thinning clouds.
Yesterday’s rain has passed, but the trail ahead will be wet and rough—mud, loose rock, and miles of it. Not great for a sprained ankle.
While the others sleep on the wooden floor around me, I slip out to scout the area around the cabin, searching for what I need. The streambed nearby has a stand of willows, their branches bending in the light breeze.
When I return, Lena is still asleep on the narrow bench where we made her bed. She looks better than yesterday—less like a drowned rat, not shaking from the cold anymore after that fall at the ravine.
Elliott crawls out of his sleeping bag, blinking hard, his hair a flattened mess on one side. “Schedule for today?”
“We need to reassess the situation,” I say, my voice low, not wanting to wake the others. “The rain has made the upper trails dangerous. ”
“We need to keep moving,” he insists. “The network has deadlines.”
“The network isn’t carrying anyone down a mountain with a broken leg.
” Elliott opens his mouth to argue, then closes it when I level my eyes at him.
“Two hours,” I say. “Everyone needs to eat and rest. Then we’ll decide.
” He retreats to his corner of the cabin, muttering about production schedules and all the shots they were losing.
I set the branches I’ve gathered beside the stove.
My mother started teaching me their uses when I was barely tall enough to reach them—how the pale inner bark could ease pain like aspirin, how the leaves made a poultice to bring down swelling.
May built on that knowledge over the years, always saying, “Our job is to remember the lessons.”
A soft groan draws my attention—then the sound of rustling. Lena is awake.
I move toward her bench, branches in hand. “Morning. How’s the ankle?”
She pushes up on her elbows, hair tangled from sleep. Her eyes, rimmed with fatigue, still carry a clarity that catches me off guard. No performance. Just her. And despite looking like she’s been through hell, there’s a quiet strength I’m starting to recognize.
“It hurts,” she says simply.
“Mind if I look? I might have something that could help.” I hold up the branches. She hesitates, then shifts to make room for me on the edge of the bench. The scent of damp clothes and the faint trace of her shampoo hang between us.
She stretches out her leg. The ankle is swollen, purpled and angry.
“That’s a nasty one,” I say, leaning in without touching. “Can you move your toes?”
She does, with a wince.
“That’s a good sign. Likely just a sprain. ”
I set the branches between us. “Willow bark eases pain—same compound as aspirin, but easier on the stomach. The leaves help with swelling.”
“What are they called?” she asks, eyeing them.
“The Athabascans call it K’aii. Been using it for generations—long before pharmacies ever existed.”
Her expression shifts—subtle, but not lost on me. “Does it actually work?”
“I wouldn’t offer it if it didn’t.”
I strip bark while she watches, then crush the young leaves between two smooth rocks I’d gathered earlier. The rhythm of the task grounds me.
“Thanks for catching me yesterday,” she says quietly. “At the ravine. I don’t think I said that.”
“Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“Not everyone would’ve caught me in time.”
“There’s no need for thanks.” I keep my hands busy, setting some bark aside for tea and handing her a smaller piece to chew.
“My mom taught all six of us to live off the land. When I was five, she showed me which berries were safe—probably a hundred times before I got it right. Good thing she did. That knowledge saved my life a few years later.”
“What happened?” Lena asks.
“When I was eight, I got separated from her while picking blueberries. I spent a night alone in the woods before they found me.” I continue working the willow paste as I speak.
“I was scared out of my mind, but I remembered what she taught me. I found shelter under a fallen log, made a bed from spruce boughs, and even ate some berries without poisoning myself.”
“What happened when they found you?”
“My mother hugged me so tight I thought my ribs would crack. Then she made me recite every decision I’d made while I was lost, correcting the bad ones and praising the good ones.
” I smile at the memory. “After that, she took me out every weekend, teaching me more about survival. She said if I was determined to wander off, I’d better know how to survive. ”
“That knowledge stuck with you,” Lena notes.
“It did. Years later, when my parents gave me the plot where Crystal Creek now stands, those skills helped me survive while building the lodge. I constructed it myself with help from my brothers. Took nearly two years of living in a tent on the property while we worked.” The willow paste is ready.
I hold it up. “This goes directly on the swelling. It will be cool at first, then warm.”
She extends her foot, and I apply the paste with light touches, taking care not to press the tender areas.
“Your mother sounds remarkable,” she says, watching my hands work.
“She was extraordinary.” The ‘was’ hung in the air for a moment.
“She taught all of us her wilderness knowledge, but each of us took to different parts of it. Kane, the oldest, runs a commercial fishing troller—supplies most of the county and probably half the restaurants in Juneau. Nash became the hunting guide. The twins, Rhys and Reid, handle the dock and the deep-sea charters. Eliza, my little sister, followed in Mom’s footsteps as a teacher, though she’s home full-time now with her child. I was always the plant kid.”
“My grandmother was the same way,” Lena says, her voice low. “She could look at a hillside and name every growing thing on it.”
I glance up, nodding. “She taught you well.”
“Some.” Her voice grows guarded. “She made the best stew—wild onions and these little roots she’d dig up. I don’t remember what they were called.”
I wrap her ankle with strips of clean cloth, securing the willow poultice. “Some of that knowledge must be in your blood, then. That’s a good heritage to have.”
“I suppose it is. ”
“Now we need to prepare the tea,” I say, changing subjects. “The bark needs to steep. The flavor isn’t much better than over-the-counter pills, but it works equally well.”
She makes a face.
“Doctor’s orders,” I add.
A small smile touches her lips. “Are you a doctor now?”
“In the wilderness, I’m close enough to one.” I hand her the prepared bark chips to chew while I fetch water to boil on the woodstove. When I return, she’s making a sour face but working the bark between her teeth.
“It’s bitter,” she says.
“Medicine often is,” I reply.
Around us, the cabin starts to wake up—grumbles from sleeping bags, complaints about stiff backs and the cold floor. Elliott cuts through the noise, barking out ideas for the day’s shoot.
I pour hot water over prepared bark in a metal cup and bring it back to Lena. “Elliot wants to capture your struggle with the injury,” I say. “Talking about the best angle for sympathy.”
“Of course he does.” A bitter edge sharpens her voice. “Suffering sells to viewers.”
“You don’t have to give him what he wants.”
She lifts her head, a question in her eyes.
“Your ankle needs rest. Forcing you to hike on it would make it worse. Better if you stay here in the cabin while I take the crew ahead to scout the trail. We would come back for you tomorrow when the swelling has gone down.” I hand her the steaming cup.
“He’ll never agree to that,” she says. “The whole point is getting footage of me suffering.”
“Let me worry about dealing with Elliott.”
Something in my tone makes her study my face. “Why are you helping me so much? ”
The question catches me off guard. Why am I?
Two days ago, I’d seen her as nothing but a spoiled actress playing at wilderness adventure.
Now... “Because you’re trying harder than most would in your situation,” I say at last. “Few people would keep going after what you’ve been through these past few days. ”
“I haven’t been through anything compared to a real survivalist.”
“That’s my point. You’re not trained for this kind of expedition, but you’re still putting one foot in front of the other. That takes courage, and I respect that.”
She looks down at the willow paste on her ankle, then back at me. “I’m so hungry I could eat pinecones right now.”
The abrupt change of subject startles a laugh out of me. “It might come to that, but let’s try something more digestible first.” I reach into my pack and pull out an emergency ration bar. “This contains nuts, dried fruit, and honey. No cameras are watching us right now.”
She hesitates, then takes it, turning the package over in her hands. “Why does Elliott’s approval matter so much to you?” I ask as she unwraps it.
Her fingers still. “My entire career depends on this show being successful.”
“One television show can’t determine your whole career.”
“This one can.” She takes a small bite, chewing. “You already know what happened. Let’s say I don’t get a lot of second chances.”
“By being shown as helpless in the wilderness?”
“By proving I can change and grow.” She takes another bite, larger this time. “From Hollywood party girl to resilient survivor. That’s the story they want to sell to viewers.”
“But that’s not your actual story, is it?”
Her eyes meet mine, something unguarded in them. “No one wants to hear my story. ”
The hell they don’t, I think, a sudden sharp urge to protect that unguarded look in her eyes rising in me. Before I can speak, Elliott’s voice cuts across the cabin.
“Lena? We need to get moving!”
I watch it happen—the mask slamming back into place, her vulnerability vanishing. “Coming!” she calls back, voice pitched in that too-bright tone she reserves for performances.
Elliott heads our way, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene: Lena’s wrapped ankle, the willow branches, my proximity.
“What’s going on here?” he asks, stepping into our corner of the cabin.
“I’m providing medical attention,” I say, rising. “Her ankle’s worse this morning than it was yesterday.”
“We need to stick to the schedule,” he says, tone already climbing. “The network?—”
“The network isn’t here right now,” I cut in, turning to Lena, noting the shadows under her eyes, the way she’s trying to mask the pain.
Dammit, she’s running on fumes and pretending she’s fine.
“I am. And I’m saying she needs a day off her feet to recover—really recover, not push through for some damn camera shot. ”
“That’s impossible. We have to get usable footage today.”
“You’ll get footage of a medical evacuation if you push her too hard on that ankle.”
Elliott’s expression sours. “Lena, we need you out there. The viewers want to see you overcoming challenges, pushing through pain. It’s the narrative we’ve established for the show.”
I watch Lena’s face, seeing the conflict play across it. Part of her wants to refuse, to listen to her body’s need for rest. But the other part—the part tied to her career, her public image—is calculating how to give Elliott what he wants .
“I can hike today,” she says, though her voice lacks conviction.
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend.
Both of them look at me in surprise. “This isn’t a discussion,” I continue, moderating my tone.
“As the wilderness guide responsible for everyone’s safety, I’m making a judgment call.
Lena stays here today with a camp attendant.
The rest of us will scout ahead and return tomorrow. ”
“You can’t decide that on your own,” Elliott sputters.
“Actually, I can. It’s in the contract you had me sign.
Safety decisions rest with the guide.” I haven’t read the entire document, but I’m betting Elliott hasn’t either.
“Page six, paragraph three, subsection B, if you want to check the paperwork.” Elliott glowers, but uncertainty flickers in his eyes.
“Who stays with her, then?”
“Carlos,” I say. He’s the quiet one who seems more interested in capturing nature footage than Lena’s discomfort. “He can get footage of camp life, medicinal plant preparation, whatever narrative you need for the show.”
Elliott’s eyes narrow. “Carlos is one of my best operators. I need him on the trail with us.”
“He’s also the least intrusive with his camera work,” I counter. “Lena needs rest, not someone hovering with a camera in her face all day.” I keep my voice low enough that only Elliott can hear. “Unless you’d prefer I stay instead? Then you’d have no guide at all for today’s shoot.”
Elliott considers, clearly calculating which asset he can spare. Carlos is by the window, capturing the morning light filtering through the trees, focused on his craft rather than the drama Elliott keeps manufacturing.
“Fine,” Elliott concedes. “One day. We’ll get B-roll of the trail and wilderness shots today. Tomorrow she’s back on her feet, adversity narrative in full swing.”
Once he’s stepped away to brief the others, Lena releases a long breath. “How did you manage to convince him like that?”
“People like Elliott understand two basic languages—money and liability. I spoke to him in both.”
She smiles, a real one that reaches her eyes. “Thank you for standing up for me.”
“Drink your tea.” I give a slight nod to the steaming cup. “And rest that ankle today. I’ll have Carlos bring you food throughout the day.”
As I turn to gather my gear, she catches my sleeve. “Finn?”
I pause.
“Be careful out there.” Something in her tone makes me look back. The mask is gone again, revealing something softer.
“I’m always careful.”
Outside, I take a moment to breathe in the mountain air, centering myself.
The interaction has left me oddly unsettled.
Which version of Lena is real? The determined woman who’s hiked miles on a sprained ankle without complaint?
The vulnerable one who’s shared a fragment of memory about her grandmother?
Or the calculated performer who can switch personalities to please a producer? Maybe all of them. Maybe none.
As I organize the day’s expedition, I plan what edible plants to show her when I return. Things that might trigger more memories of her grandmother’s cooking. Plants that might bridge the gap between Lena Kensington, Hollywood actress, and Magdalena Reyes-Johnson, the woman she keeps hidden.
I’m not sure why it matters to me so much. But somehow, it does.