Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
FINN
The air feels cleaner after yesterday’s rain. I shoulder my pack and watch Lena try to hide her wince as she shifts weight onto her injured ankle. When she bends to pick up her pack, I move faster.
“I’ll take that,” I say, lifting her pack before she can protest.
“I can carry my gear,” she says, reaching for the straps.
I hold it away from her grasp. “Your ankle needs time to heal. No sense pushing it with unnecessary weight.”
“I’m not an invalid,” she insists, though she doesn’t put full pressure on her injured foot.
“I’m not saying you are. But there’s a difference between tough and foolish.” I secure her pack on top of mine, adjusting the balance.
She stares at me, arms crossed. “You know, in Hollywood, we have these amazing inventions called porters. They carry things and don’t make sarcastic comments.”
“In Alaska, we call those bears. They carry things too, but mostly into their caves to eat later. ”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Are you saying you’re the bear in this scenario?”
“I’m saying porter service includes attitude in these parts.”
Elliott approaches, clipboard in hand as always. “Are we ready to move out? We’ve lost a full day of filming.”
“We’re ready,” I confirm, glancing at Lena. “Like I said, we take it slow today.”
She nods, a grateful expression on her face, though I can see determination in the set of her jaw. Typical. Even injured, she’s pushing herself harder than necessary.
The trail leading away from the cabin winds through dense forest before descending toward Crystal Creek—not the same one that runs behind my lodge but named for the same quality of usually-clear waters. Today, it runs muddy and swift.
Carlos eyes the rushing water. “Was it like this before?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s risen since we crossed it a few days ago.
” The simple log bridge we built still spans the creek, but water now laps at its underside.
What had been a gentle stream is now a churning current, swollen with runoff from higher elevations.
“Snowmelt and yesterday’s rain,” I explain.
“All that water works its way down from the mountains.”
Elliott frowns at the torrent. “Is it safe to cross?”
I weigh our options. Going around would add at least a day, maybe more, with this terrain.
The logs look stable enough. It’s a risk, but losing another day is a bigger one for the production, and for getting Lena’s ankle properly looked at, eventually.
“We’ll go one at a time,” I decide. “Step where I step and use the guide rope.”
I secure a rope across the makeshift bridge—three sturdy logs lashed side by side—and demonstrate the crossing, stepping on the center log while keeping one hand on the guide rope.
On the other side, I tie off the rope to a tree and signal for the first crew member to follow. One by one, they make their way across.
As I help the next person over, I notice two of the cameramen moving into position—clearly intent on filming the rest of the crossings from both sides.
Lena watches, her jaw set with determination, though there’s a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. When her turn comes, she moves with surprising grace despite her injury, testing each step before committing her weight.
“Not bad for someone who showed up in Alaska wearing designer heels,” I say when she reaches my side. “Those logs are a long way from the red carpet.”
“The red carpet is a glorified log with better lighting,” she replies, brushing dirt from her palms. “And I walked it in six-inch stilettos after three glasses of champagne. This was practically a sidewalk.”
“Ah, yes, the natural predators of Hollywood—champagne flutes and paparazzi.”
“Don’t forget directors with wandering hands,” she adds under her breath. “I’m full of surprises,” she continues, her eyes meeting mine. “Most of which aren’t in my IMDB profile.”
I turn to watch Carlos cross, the last in our group. His camera equipment is distributed between a large backpack and a waterproof case he clutches to his chest. The creek has risen in the time it took everyone to cross, water now splashing over the logs in places.
“Be careful with your footing,” I call as he steps onto the first log. He moves slowly, the heavy pack affecting his balance. Halfway across, he adjusts the case he carries, his attention divided between his equipment and the treacherous footing.
“Carlos, focus on crossing first, equipment second,” I call, not liking how the logs bob under his weight .
“Almost there,” he replies, eyes still on his case rather than his feet.
“Eyes forward, Carlos,” I say, my voice firmer. “The equipment can be replaced. You can’t.”
His head snaps up, but the movement throws off his already precarious balance. His right foot slips on the wet bark, arms windmilling as he fights to stay upright. The heavy pack shifts, pushing him off-center.
“Drop the case!” I shout, moving toward the bank. But Carlos clutches it tighter, unwilling to sacrifice his expensive equipment.
With a startled cry, he topples sideways into the rushing water, the case still clutched in his hands. Damn it!
“Carlos!” Lena shouts, already moving, a blur of motion toward the bank before I can even bark out a warning for her to stay put.
The current sweeps him downstream, the weight of his equipment pulling him under momentarily before he surfaces, sputtering and gasping. He keeps the camera case above water with one arm while thrashing with the other.
“Drop the case and swim to the edge!” I yell, running along the bank. But the shoreline quickly grows steeper, the rocks slicker from the recent rain. I can’t get close enough to reach him.
“He’s heading for the rapids,” Elliott shouts.
“I can see that,” I growl, searching for a spot to intercept him.
Carlos seems to realize the danger he’s in.
He releases the case, letting it dangle from the strap around his neck, and attempts to swim toward shore.
But the current is too strong, pulling him toward a section of rapids thirty yards downstream.
The crew races along the bank, shouting useless encouragement.
I scan the terrain, calculating distances, trying to find a place where the creek narrows enough that we might reach him.
But the bank grows steeper, the current faster. We’ll never get to him in time.
Then Lena does something unexpected. “Give me your rope,” she commands, her voice cutting through the panic.
Without hesitation, I hand her the coil of rope from my belt.
Her fingers fly, a blur of motion, creating a complex series of loops and knots I recognize from my training but hadn’t expected her to know.
She isn’t fumbling or guessing—these are the movements of someone who’s tied these knots hundreds of times.
“Hold this end,” she instructs, thrusting the rope back into my hands. Then she fashions a makeshift harness around her waist and chest. “When I give the signal, pull hard.”
Before I can ask what she’s doing, she scrambles down the bank toward a boulder jutting into the creek, upstream from the rapids. Carlos is getting closer—still fighting the current, still losing.
“Carlos!” Lena shouts. “Grab my hand when I say now!” She positions herself on the rock, secured by the harness she rigged earlier, and extends her arm over the water. As Carlos sweeps toward her, she leans out, far.
“NOW!” she yells.
Carlos lunges for Lena’s outstretched arm. Their hands connect, fingers locking tight. His momentum nearly yanks her off the ledge, but the lines absorb the shock, tension snapping through the rig instead of her shoulder.
“Pull!” she calls to me.
I heave on the rope, muscles straining against the creek’s pull, amazed at how effectively her knot system works. It gives us the mechanical advantage we desperately need. Where the hell did she learn this? With a final effort, we haul them onto the bank, both soaked and gasping.
Carlos collapses on the muddy shore, coughing up creek water, while Lena unwinds the rope harness with calm, efficient hands.
“That was...” Elliott begins, for once at a loss for words.
“Unbelievable,” finishes one of the crew members, staring at Lena with new respect.
She shrugs, self-conscious as everyone gapes at her. “It was nothing. Basic rescue knots.”
“Basic rescue knots?” I repeat. “That was a textbook swift-water rescue harness. Where did you learn to tie something like that?”
She glances up, something vulnerable flickering across her face. “My grandfather. He was a fisherman.” Then, as if catching herself revealing too much, she adds, her tone lighter, “Plus, I had to play a Coast Guard officer in that movie... You know, the one with the hurricane.”
“ Rough Waters ,” supplies Elliott. “You had, what, three scenes before your character got killed off?”
“Four,” she corrects. “But who’s counting?”
I study her, noting the way she avoids my eyes as she coils the rope with efficiency. Those weren’t movie knots. Those were skills someone lives by, passed down, the kind that settle deep in your bones.
Meanwhile, Carlos has recovered enough to check his camera equipment, dismay tightening his features as water pours from the expensive case. “My footage,” he moans. “Everything from yesterday is on these memory cards.”
“At least you’re alive to shoot more,” Lena points out, wringing water from her hair.
“Elliott’s going to kill me,” Carlos groans, not seeing his boss standing three feet away, arms crossed.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Elliott says. “Depends on how salvageable those cards are.”
I help Lena to her feet, noting she’s re-injured her ankle in the rescue. “That was quick thinking,” I say in a low voice. “You saved him.”
“We saved him,” she corrects, wincing as she puts weight on her ankle.
“You’re hurt again,” I observe.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I counter. “You’ve re-injured it.”
She shrugs. “Better a sore ankle than a dead cameraman.”