Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
FINN
First light hits the windows at the lodge as I finish packing supplies.
The helicopter evacuation yesterday went smoothly—Dave was delivered straight to Craig Medical Center, an IV already pumping antibiotics into him.
By the time we got him to the valley, he was past the point of May being able to help, so they took him directly to the hospital. I hiked back to Port Promise.
Getting back to the lodge and resupplying took longer than expected. Now I’m behind schedule.
The lodge is unusually alive for this early hour. I spot boots by the door that aren’t mine—worn hiking boots I recognize.
“Didn’t expect to find you back so soon.” Nash stands in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand. He’s supposed to be deep in the mountains on a week-long guided hunt, not here at the lodge.
“Could say the same to you,” I respond, cinching my pack closed. “Thought your hunting trip lasted through Friday.”
“Got cut short.” The tired lines around Nash’s eyes tell me more than his words. “Had some trouble with those eco-activists again.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“Not this time.” Nash takes a long swallow of coffee.
“But they crossed a line, Finn. Left death threats pinned to our gear. Slashed the tires on our ATVs. A clear message they wanted us gone.” Eco-activists.
Exactly what I needed. Another damn fire to put out, and these ones play dirtier than most.
I stop what I’m doing. Nash isn’t the kind of man who flinches—he’s spent too many seasons carving paths through untamed land. The tension in his stance tells me everything.
“You report it?”
“Yeah. State troopers took statements, but you know how it goes. By the time anyone investigates, the trail’s cold.” He sets his mug down, watching me pack. “TV crew done filming?” he asks.
“Not yet. They ran into some delays. I told them I’d catch up—meet them further in.”
Nash raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
I shrug and reach for my pack. “They’ve got three weeks scheduled for the shoot,” I say, adjusting the weight across my shoulders. “And either way, the contract guarantees rental income for the full summer. That should cover what I need.”
Nash grunts. “With what they’re paying, you ought to have it under control.” He picks up one of the bank notices pinned under a smooth rock on the kitchen table. “Found these while I was making coffee.”
My stomach tightens. I’d meant to put those away somewhere safer before leaving with the expedition.
“Forgot they were there,” I mutter, reaching for the notices.
Nash holds them out of reach. “Three months behind, Finn? Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s under control. ”
“Doesn’t look that way to me.” Nash gestures around the empty lodge. “Still haven’t recovered from the avalanche repairs, have you? Not to mention that windstorm last winter.”
“I know my business,” I snap, then regret the tone. Nash means well.
“Your business is about to belong to First Alaskan Bank unless you accept some help,” he counters. “I’d be happy to contribute, and I’m sure Reid, Rhys, and Kane would come through too.”
“I don’t need handouts.” The words come out harsher than intended.
“It’s not a handout.” Nash’s voice remains even. “It’s family helping family. Hell, even Dad would pitch in if you’d swallow your pride long enough to ask.”
That got under my skin. The lodge sits on land my parents gave me, but everything else—every nail, every board, every window—I built with my hands. Taking their money now feels like admitting failure.
“I built this place,” I say, adjusting my pack. “I’ll fix it.”
“You built it on family land—with help,” Nash reminds me. “No shame in needing it again. That avalanche would’ve bankrupted businesses twice your size.”
He’s not wrong. Between the avalanche that took out two cabins and the windstorm that damaged the main lodge roof, Crystal Creek hasn’t had a chance to recover. But accepting help means admitting I can’t do it alone, and that’s a truth I fight admitting.
“I need to think about it,” I say, shouldering my pack. “After I get back.”
“From meeting the actress.” Nash gives me that steady look of his, all quiet assessment.
“What’s her name again?”
“Lena. Lena Kensington. ”
“Right.”
“You good on gear?” he asks.
“I’ve got the satellite phone,” I say. “We’re covered.”
“Which route you taking to Painted Peaks?” Nash leans against the counter.
“Raven’s Spine.”
The coffee mug in his hand pauses halfway to his mouth. “That’s not a trail. That’s a climbing route.”
I adjust the straps on my pack. “Cuts six hours off. I need to make up time.”
I don’t like leaving them with nothing. No backup. No second way out if something happens. And the longer I’m gone, the worse that sits with me. So yeah—Raven’s Spine is steep, narrow, and not exactly friendly. But it’s the fastest way back. And right now, that’s what matters.
“Or break your neck trying.” Nash sets his mug down with enough force to slosh coffee. “The main trail would get you there tomorrow morning. Safe and whole.”
“I promised Lena today.” The words come out with more force than intended.
Nash watches me for a long moment, something changing in his expression. “She must be some actress.”
I don’t answer. Can’t explain what I don’t understand myself—this pull toward Lena, this need to keep my promise at any cost.
“Be careful,” Nash says. “Dad would kick my ass if I let you kill yourself on that ridge.”
“Not planning on dying today.” I head for the door. “And we’ll talk about those bank notices when I get back.”
“And the activist problem,” Nash calls after me. “Reid heard they’re getting more organized. Might be someone new pulling the strings.”
I nod, filing the information away. Lodge finances and eco-drama will have to wait. Getting back to Lena can’t.
The morning air bites cold as I hit the trail out of Crystal Creek.
The path climbs through forest before opening to alpine terrain.
I push hard, muscles still tired from yesterday’s descent with Dave, but I ignore the discomfort.
Every minute counts if I’m going to reach Painted Peaks basin by nightfall.
By mid-morning, I reach the fork where the main trail continues its gradual climb toward the peaks. Instead of following it, I veer right onto a barely discernible game trail that climbs steeply up the eastern face.
Raven’s Spine—named for the dark rock formations that jut like feathers along its crest. Few hikers attempt it, and for good reason. It’s treacherous, demanding, and unforgiving of mistakes. But it’s also direct. And right now, direct matters more than safe.
The first hour tests every muscle, the incline so steep I use hands as much as feet, loose shale sliding beneath my boots.
I focus on each movement, each handhold, shoving away the image of Lena’s face when I last saw her, the worry about the bank notices, Nash’s damn knowing look. Up here, distraction gets you killed.
Midday finds me perched on a narrow ledge, catching my breath and checking my position against landmarks.
The valley spreads below, the main trail a thin ribbon winding around the gentler slopes.
I’m making decent time despite everything.
If I maintain this pace, I’ll reach the upper ridge by late afternoon, then down into the basin before dark.
I force myself to eat a protein bar, though hunger’s nowhere in sight.
The repairs after the avalanche nearly wiped me out.
Taking loans for the windstorm damage pushed me to the edge.
Now I’m hanging on by my fingernails, refusing help out of stubborn pride.
The lodge is mine—the thing I built, the legacy I created.
Accepting money from family feels like giving that up.
But Lena ... something’s different there.
She belongs in these mountains in a way I never expected.
The thought sits, uncomfortable but right.
The climb becomes a punishing rhythm. One foot, one handhold at a time. Dad’s voice echoes in my head—”The mountain doesn’t care about your problems, son. It asks if you’ve got what it takes.”
By late afternoon, my muscles are burning. I reach the knife-edge that marks the final approach to the upper basin. The valley spreads below, and I can make out the distant glow of a campfire. Good, they made it to the upper basin as planned.
The descent demands as much focus as the climb—loose rock and steep drops waiting for any mistake.
I pick my way down, using poles for balance.
The basin grows larger with each switchback.
Near the lower section of the trail, I reach for a handhold on a jagged outcropping.
The rock gives way, sharp edges raking across my forearm as I fall forward.
I manage to catch myself with my other hand, but not before slamming my side into the rocky slope.
Pain flares hot along my ribs and arm. When I look down, blood seeps through my torn sleeve from a deep gash running from wrist to elbow.
Not life-threatening, but deep enough to need attention.
Damn it. Stupid mistake. Lost focus. Thinking about her smile when I gave her the compass.
Thinking about her, when I should have been thinking about the damn rock.
I unzip my pack with one hand, pulling out the first aid kit.
The wound needs cleaning and stitches, but all I can manage is a quick rinse with water from my canteen and a pressure bandage wrapped around my forearm.
Blood seeps through the white gauze by the time I secure it.
My ribs throb with each breath—bruised for sure, possibly cracked.
Progress slows to a painful crawl. Each movement jars my injured side, each step requiring balance with my wounded arm held close to my body.
But I push forward. The upper basin is close, perhaps an hour away at this new pace.
Shadows lengthen across the valley floor as the sun begins its descent behind the mountains. I’ll be navigating the last section in twilight at this rate. Not ideal, but manageable.
I’m still a half-mile from the basin floor when I detect movement ahead—a figure on the trail below, moving upward with speed.
Too far to make out details, but something in the way they move looks familiar.
As the distance closes, recognition punches through the haze.
Lena. Coming up the trail, alone, moving fast. What the hell is she doing out here by herself? At dusk?
She hasn’t spotted me yet, her head swiveling as she scans the fading light, like she’s searching for something—or someone.
I try to call out, but my voice barely carries.
I raise my uninjured arm instead, hoping to get her attention before she passes me by.
The moment she sees me, her pace quickens, eating up the distance between us.
I try to move faster to meet her, but each step sends fresh waves of pain through my ribs.
Lena reaches me, her expression shifting from relief to concern as she sees the blood-soaked bandage on my arm. “Finn! You’re hurt.” She moves to my side, assessing the injury.
“A rock broke loose on the descent,” I say, the relief of finding her finally catching up with the pain. “The cut is deeper than I’d like. Where’s everyone else?”
Still at camp," she says. "We made good time from the lower basin yesterday. Elliott's planning to push to high camp tomorrow.” She hesitates, glancing up the steep ridge behind me, then back to my face. “But I had a feeling something was wrong. I couldn’t sit around and do nothing.”
“You came after me? Alone?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Told the crew I was turning in early, grabbed a light, and waited until they were distracted. Then I headed out.”
I stare at her. “You left camp by yourself. In unfamiliar terrain. At dusk.”
Her brow lifts, calm and unbothered. “Says the guy who free-climbed with a bleeding arm and no backup?”
That earns a breath of something like a laugh. It hurts. But it’s worth it.
“Camp is about an hour from here,” she says, stepping under my arm to support my weight.
“Too far,” I mutter. “There’s a shallow cave about a quarter mile ahead. Used it once during a storm. It'll do.”
“Then that’s where we’re going,” she says. “Once we get there, I’m checking that arm.”
The conviction in her voice doesn’t surprise me—not anymore.
This isn’t the same city woman who stepped off the seaplane a week ago, wide-eyed and unsure.
This is someone who has found her footing in these mountains—and perhaps in herself.
As we make our slow way toward the promised shelter, I realize something has shifted.
We trust each other now, the respect moving in both directions.
And whatever else is building—that unnamed pull that drove me across Raven’s Spine with single-minded determination—that, too, seems to have only deepened despite my injury. Or maybe because of it.
The cave, when we reach it, is more an overhang than a true cavern, but it's dry and sheltered enough to give us a place to rest. Lena helps me sit with my back against the rock wall, then sets about gathering material for a small fire.
“You make that look effortless,” I observe as she arranges kindling with ease.
“I've had plenty of practice on this trip,” she says, striking a match. “Though I admit, doing it while worried about your arm makes my hands shake.”
The fire catches, throwing warm light across her features.
In this moment—miles from civilization, blood seeping through my bandage, pain throbbing with every heartbeat—I'm struck by a simple truth, I don't want this journey to end.
Not the expedition—that was always temporary.
But this connection with Lena. This unexpected partnership that is both new and somehow familiar—like coming home to a place I didn't know I'd been missing.
Crystal Creek’s financial problems haven’t disappeared.
The uncertainty of what happens when this expedition ends still looms. But as Lena kneels beside me to unwrap the bandage, her hands gentle, one thing becomes clear amid all the questions.
Whatever comes next, I’m not letting Lena Kensington walk out of my life.
Some trails, once taken, change your map forever.