Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
FINN
I wake to the sound of voices outside the tent.
Lena's curled against me, breathing with a steady rhythm.
The cold air seeps through the tent's thin walls, but between our shared body heat and the emergency blanket, we've avoided freezing during the night.
I'm acutely aware of my body's reaction to her curled against me—a reaction that would likely make Lena Kensington bolt, even if the real woman beneath the image might understand.
A ghost of a smile touches my lips, remembering her embarrassment last night when she felt my flashlight through my pocket.
Professional boundaries. I need to remember those.
I shift away from her, trying not to wake her.
She needs the rest, especially after yesterday's flash flood and the deer incident.
Four tents for eight people—not ideal, but we're working with what we have.
Elliott's voice carries through the morning air, directing his crew.
I slip into my boots and jacket, leaving Lena asleep.
Time to check our situation and figure out our next move.
I unzip the tent and step out. The first thing I see is Elliott directing Carlos, who has his camera aimed at our tent .
“Perfect timing,” he says to Carlos. “Get Finn emerging from the shared shelter. The rugged guide and the actress forced together by disaster—viewers will eat this up.”
“Put the camera down, Carlos,” I say, but my attention is on Elliott. My voice comes out harder than intended, but I don't care.
“But this is gold! The wilderness forcing proximity?—”
“I said, put it down. You're not filming our sleeping arrangements.”
Elliott's expression shifts between disappointment and calculation. “The audience connects with authentic moments. This expedition is about Lena's transformation, and your role in?—”
“This expedition is about surviving and completing the journey to Painted Peaks,” I cut him off, my voice harder than I intended. “Not manufacturing drama.”
I turn away from Elliott, jaw tight, and crouch by what’s left of our gear, sorting through the salvaged supplies and checking the fire ring for dry kindling. The silence stretches, broken only by the rustle of trees and a distant bird call.
The tent rustles behind me as Lena emerges, hair in a practical braid, her expression alert despite the early hour. Her eyes land on Carlos’s camera, and her expression hardens. “Seriously, Elliott?” She shakes her head.
“There are actual disasters to film. The flood destroyed half our camp. Focus on that rather than whatever narrative you're trying to construct.”
Elliott signals Carlos to lower his camera, though not with good grace. “Fine, fine. Trying to capture real moments.”
“Real would be filming our actual situation,” Lena says, stepping fully out of the tent. “Like how we're going to continue with half our supplies gone.”
She's right. Yesterday's flash flood tore through the valley, washing out trails, destroying bridges, and sweeping away gear. We're lucky no one was injured or worse.
“We need to decide,” I say, addressing the group gathered around the dying fire. “Our planned route is gone. We have two options—head northeast on higher ground to reach Painted Peaks or turn back toward the lodge.”
“Northeast adds three days,” Elliott protests, checking his water-damaged clipboard. “The network has a timeline?—”
“The network isn't out here making life-or-death decisions,” I cut him off. “This isn't about ratings. It's about getting everyone home.”
I survey the group. Carlos's camera equipment looks half-ruined. The others look exhausted from yesterday's ordeal. Only Lena seems steady, focused.
“We push forward,” she says, surprising me. I watch her, trying to find any trace of the Hollywood princess who first arrived at my lodge. That woman has vanished. In her place stands someone I barely recognize—mud-streaked and disheveled, but somehow more present, more real, and beautiful.
“You sure about that?” I ask.
Her eyes meet mine without hesitation. “We didn't come this far to quit now.”
Elliott brightens. “Exactly! The show must go on!”
“This isn't about the show,” Lena says firmly. “It's about finishing what we started. On our terms.”
Our terms. When did this become about us instead of her versus me? Not sure, but I recognize the shift. It's as real as the destroyed landscape around us.
“Okay,” I decide, nodding to her before addressing the group. “We head northeast. Everyone pack only what they need. We travel light and fast.”
The group disperses to pack what's left of their gear. I turn toward our tent, but Lena is breaking it down with surprising efficiency. Not the clumsy fumbling from our first days on the trail.
“You don't have to do that alone,” I say, joining her.
“I'm not helpless,” she replies, but without the edge her voice used to carry. “Besides, I've been watching you do this for days. About time I pulled my weight.”
“How's the ankle today?” I ask, seeing she's moving with more ease than yesterday.
She rotates her foot. “Almost good as new. Your willow remedy worked wonders.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say, surprised by how much her recovery matters to me. “Still, let me know if it gives you trouble on the climb up.”
She nods, then turns her attention back to the valley below. “It's beautiful,” she says, her voice low. “Even like this.”
I follow her line of sight. The mountains rise beyond the valley, snow-capped peaks catching the sunlight. Wildflowers dot the slopes with color. Even the destruction has its beauty—nature's raw power.
“Alaska doesn't try to be beautiful,” I say. “It is.”
Her attention is on my face. “You love it here, don't you? It's not only a business for you.”
The observation catches me off guard. “The lodge is more than that. It's home. A connection to my mother, to the land.”
“I envy that,” she says, her voice soft, almost wistful. “Having roots somewhere.”
Her words hit a nerve. Roots. She feels rootless. And here I am, taking mine for granted. Before I can find the words to respond, Elliott interrupts from across the camp.
“If we're doing this, we need to get moving. What's the plan, wilderness man?”
I pull out my map, spreading it across a flat rock. Lena leans in beside me, her shoulder brushing mine as she examines the contours. “If we head this way,” I say, tracing a route with my finger, “we can follow this ridge line. Steeper but safer than the valley, especially with more rain coming.”
“What about this area?” she asks, pointing to a formation on the map. “It looks like it might be sheltered, and is that a water source nearby?”
“That's Crystal Basin,” I confirm, impressed she spotted it. “Sharp observation. It's a natural shelter with a spring. Would make a good camp for tonight.” I'm surprised by her attention to map details. “How did you pick that out from the contour lines?”
She shrugs, but I catch a flash of pride in her expression. “I pay attention to important things.”
“Like escape routes?” I can't help teasing.
“Like survival,” she corrects, something softer in her voice. “My grandmother would be disappointed if I didn't.”
The mention of her grandmother gets my attention. Every time she talks about her, it feels like a gift—a glimpse behind the Hollywood facade.
“Crystal Basin is our best option,” I agree. “Though it'll be a rough hike up.”
“Nothing has been easy since I stepped off that plane,” she says with a wry smile. “Why start now?”
As we finish packing, Elliott approaches, watching our interaction with that producer's calculation I've come to recognize. “Everything okay with you two?” he asks, trying to sound casual.
“Fine,” Lena answers before I can. “Discussing the best route forward.”
“Interesting,” Elliott muses. “The audience will eat up this developing dynamic. The friction at the start, now this growing partnership... It's gold.”
Lena’s jaw tightens. “We’re not characters in your show, Elliott. ”
“Of course not!” he backpedals. “Just appreciating the journey.”
When he moves off, Lena mutters, “He’s still pushing that helpless angle.”
I don’t respond. We’ve been over it. She already knows I see through it too.
“He wants a rescue story,” she adds, quieter now. “Doesn’t matter if it’s true.”
I want to tell her she’s not the story he’s trying to sell. But I don’t.
Instead, I check my timepiece. “Ten minutes. Pack smart.”
The morning passes in hard work. The trail—what's left of it—climbs through dense forest. Conversation dies as we conserve energy.
Sweat soaks my shirt despite the cool air.
I set a pace that balances progress with caution, monitoring Lena's injured ankle.
Every so often, I stop to check our bearings against the map, calculating distance and terrain.
During one break, Lena comes beside me, offering a piece of jerky from her dwindling stash. “You need to eat too,” she says.
I accept with a nod of thanks, aware I've forgotten my hunger in the focus of leading the group. “Smart thinking.”
“Following your advice,” she says, sitting beside me on a fallen log. “Food is fuel out here. The body needs energy regardless of appetite.”
Hearing my words repeated back brings an unexpected hint of amusement to my face. “You've been paying attention.”
“I'm a quick study.” She looks out across the valley we’ve been climbing away from, the flooded creek now a distant ribbon below. I follow her line of sight, seeing the landscape through a new perspective. The storm-swept valley, the peaks beyond, the sky stretching endless blue overhead.
“This place gets into your blood,” I say, understanding what she's feeling. “Makes everything else seem small in comparison.”
“Is that what happened to you?” she asks, turning to study my face. “Alaska got into your blood?”
“My family's been here for generations. We're part of this land as much as it's part of us.”
She nods, something wistful in her expression. “Must be nice, having that kind of belonging.”
“You don't have to play a part for Elliott,” I say, hearing something forced in her tone. “The real you is...” I hesitate, searching for the right word.
“Is what?” she asks when I don't finish.
Better. Stronger. More interesting. More beautiful. All these answers come to mind, but none seem right. “Is enough,” I finally say.
Something flashes in her expression—surprise, perhaps gratitude—before she rises from the log. “Thanks for the pep talk, wilderness man. Let's get this show on the road.”
The afternoon brings tougher hiking. The path grows steeper, rockier. Recent rains have turned solid ground to treacherous mud. I reach back to steady Lena on the worst sections, and she accepts the help without comment—a quiet shift from the woman who once bristled at needing it.
By mid-afternoon, dark clouds gather on the horizon. The metallic scent of approaching rain fills the air. We need to reach our camping spot before the weather turns.
A call comes from behind. “How much farther?” one of the crew asks, breathing hard from the climb.
“Two miles,” I estimate, checking the ridge ahead. “We can make it before dark if we keep moving.”
The first raindrops hit as we crest the final ridge. The clearing sits nestled between protective rock formations—a natural shelter that will protect us from the worst of the weather .
“Perfect timing,” Elliott says as the rain intensifies.
I direct the setup of our four remaining tents, positioning them where they'll get maximum protection from the elements.
No one questions the arrangements anymore—necessity has overcome modesty.
Dave and Carlos take one tent. Elliott and Miguel another.
The two other camera operators take the third, leaving Lena and me to share the fourth.
While the others rush to unpack before the rain soaks everything, I see Lena examining the surrounding vegetation with interest. “Something catch your attention?” I ask, joining her at the edge of the clearing.
“Wild chamomile,” she says, pointing to small flowers nestled among the rocks. “Good for inflammation, helps with sleep. And over there—” she gestures to another plant “—alpine arnica. My grandmother used it for muscle aches and bruises.”
I regard her with new appreciation. “Your grandmother taught you well.”
“I wish I'd paid more attention,” she admits, a hint of regret in her voice. “I was so focused on becoming someone else that I discarded a lot of valuable knowledge.”
The honesty in her confession surprises me. “It's not lost,” I say. “You still have it. It's part of you, even if it was buried for a while.”
Her eyes meet mine, something vulnerable and questioning in her expression. Before she can respond, the skies open, sending sheets of rain down around us. We dash to the shelter of our tent, laughing despite the soaking we're getting in the process.
Inside, I catch myself thinking about boundaries again.
Professional. Practical. Necessary. But as I watch Lena wring water from her hair, those boundaries seem increasingly meaningless.
The woman before me isn't a client or a responsibility.
She's something more complicated, more important.
And that realization is more dangerous than anything we've faced so far.