Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
LENA
The small fire that I built casts dancing shadows across the cave walls as I unwrap Finn’s blood-soaked bandage. The gash on his forearm runs deep, angry red against his tanned skin. He doesn’t flinch as I examine it, but the pallor of his face betrays his exhaustion and pain.
“This needs stitches,” I say, turning his arm to assess the full extent of the damage.
“Not equipped for that out here.” His voice is strained, heavy with fatigue, and fear, cold and sharp, clenches my stomach.
He’s trying to downplay it, but he’s hurt, badly.
“We’ll see about that,” I say, more to myself than to him, already rummaging through the first aid kit.
Finn, being an experienced guide, carries a decent medical kit.
Among the supplies, I find a roll of medical tape. This is exactly what I need.
“Maybe not stitches, but we can improvise,” I tell him, pulling out the tape and some gauze pads.
“What are you doing?” Finn asks, watching as I tear several strips of the tape .
“Making butterfly closures,” I explain. “They won’t be as good as stitches, but they’ll help hold the wound together until we can get you proper medical attention.”
Finn raises an eyebrow. “Where’d you learn bush medicine?”
“Believe it or not, from a failed TV pilot.” If he only knew.
Failed pilot, yes, but the hours in that ER weren’t fake.
Some things stick, even when you try to forget the role.
I smile as I work, cleaning the wound with water from his canteen.
“I played an ER nurse for three episodes before the network pulled the plug. Spent two weeks shadowing real trauma nurses for research.”
“Hollywood training comes in handy after all,” he says, watching me work with a mixture of pain and curiosity.
“They made us learn procedures for authenticity.” I press the edges of the wound together, then apply the first improvised butterfly strip. “Though I never thought I’d be using it in a real emergency, especially in a cave.”
Once I’ve closed the wound with the tape strips, I decide to add another element to the treatment.
“Let me add something my grandmother taught me.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the small bundle of yarrow I’d gathered during our hike the day before.
The leaves and flowers are wilted now, but Gram always said that didn’t matter much for their effectiveness.
I select a few of the limp leaves and rub them between my fingers.
Despite their withered state, the bruised leaves release their distinctive earthy scent.
Finn watches with interest as I work. “Yarrow,” he says, recognizing it. “Good choice.”
“My grandmother swore by it for cuts and scrapes.” I place the bruised, lifeless leaves against the skin around the edges of the wound, careful to avoid the butterfly closures. “It’s not as fresh as I’d like, but it should help with infection. ”
“Old-timers up here call it soldier’s woundwort,” Finn says, the pain in his eyes briefly giving way to curiosity. “Your grandmother knew her stuff.”
I secure the yarrow leaves in place with the gauze as I wrap his arm. “She had names for everything that grew wild. Said the mountains speak in their own language—you just have to learn how to listen.”
I can see the toll today has taken on him—the punishing climb up Raven's Spine followed by the fall and injury, all after yesterday's long trek getting Dave to medical help. He looked like he was running on sheer will, his body screaming for rest.
“You need to rest,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re exhausted.”
“We should get back to camp,” he protests, his voice weak. “The others?—”
“Will be fine until morning. You can barely keep your eyes open.” I remove my outer jacket and fold it into a makeshift pillow. “Lie down before you fall down.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t argue. He shifts, reaching for the canvas bedroll tied securely to the bottom of his pack.
With a few movements, he unstraps it and spreads it across the flattest section of the cave floor, its wool lining creating a welcome barrier against the unforgiving stone.
Then he eases himself down onto his uninjured side with a low groan that escapes despite his best efforts.
I place the folded jacket beneath his head, a pang going through me as I see how his body melts into the ground with relief. He’s hurting. More than he’s letting on.
“A short rest,” he says, eyes already closing.
“Of course,” I agree, knowing he’ll be out until morning once sleep claims him. I add more wood to our small fire, grateful Finn had thought clearly enough to get us to this cave before collapsing. Outside, darkness has claimed the mountains, wind whistling past our sheltered alcove .
Finn’s breathing has deepened, exhaustion pulling him under.
I watch his face in the firelight, tension easing from his features as sleep takes hold.
Hours pass. I keep vigil, adding wood to the fire now and then, checking Finn’s bandage, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His color improves with rest, the lines of exhaustion softening.
Sometime in the darkest hours, he stirs, eyes opening to find mine in the firelight. “How long was I out?” His voice is rough with sleep.
“A few hours.” I offer him water. “How’s the arm feeling?”
He flexes it. “Better. Your butterfly strips are holding well.”
“They should get you back to civilization.” I check the bandage, pleased to see no fresh blood has seeped through. The temperature has dropped as night deepens, the mountain air growing bitter with cold. Despite the fire, I find myself shivering. Finn notices, his expression tightening.
“You’re cold. Take your jacket back.”
“I’m fine. You need it more than I do right now.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then shifts position, making space beside him. “Come here.”
I hesitate, uncertain.
“Body heat,” he explains, his voice practical but his eyes saying something else. “Basic survival.”
I move to his side, settling next to him on the bedroll, mindful of his wounded arm.
He lifts his good arm, wrapping it around my shoulders and drawing me against his side. The warmth of his body is a shock after the chill, and I find myself pressing closer.
“Better?” His voice has dropped to a whisper that vibrates through me.
“Much.” The word feels small, barely touching the comfort of his solid presence. Yet here, in this cave, those neglected parts of myself have emerged when needed most. The woman who can identify healing plants and build fires. The woman who doesn't need rescuing.
“My agent would have a heart attack seeing me like this,” I say, attempting lightness. “She's spent years helping me craft my 'sophisticated cosmopolitan image.'”
“And how's that working for you?” Finn asks, cutting to the heart as usual.
I consider deflecting with humor, but something about the night and the way he’s looking at me demands honesty. “It's worked as planned,” I admit. “Got me the roles, the magazine covers, the brand endorsements.”
“But?”
“But it never quite fit right.” I poke at the fire, watching sparks rise. “Like someone else’s clothes that you can wear but never feel comfortable in.”
He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing this. “And out here?”
“Out here is different.” I meet his eyes. “I keep surprising myself with what I remember, what I know. Things I thought I’d forgotten.”
“Or things you tried to forget?” His perception is unsettling.
“Maybe both.” I hand him another drink of water. “Hollywood doesn’t value wilderness skills and herbal remedies.”
“Their loss.” The simple certainty in his voice warms me more than the fire.
We sit in comfortable silence, the only sounds the crackling flames and the breeze outside our shelter. There’s an ease between us that I’ve rarely experienced with anyone—a lack of performance or expectation. We’re two people, all pretenses stripped away by everything we’d been through.
“The lodge is in trouble,” Finn says abruptly, breaking the quiet. The admission seems to cost him, his expression tightening with what I recognize as pride .
I glance at him, keeping my voice soft. “You said it nearly bankrupted you.”
He nods, eyes on the fire. “You already know the gist. Avalanche, windstorm. The repairs wiped me out. I’m still digging out from it.”
I glance at him, struck by how much he’s holding together with sheer will. “And you built it yourself.”
“Every board, every nail.” His uninjured hand makes a sweeping gesture.
“My parents gave me the land, but Crystal Creek Lodge is mine. My dream. My responsibility.” The possessive note in his voice tells me everything about what this place means to him.
This isn’t a business to Finn, it’s his creation, his legacy.
The thought of losing it must be unbearable.
“Your family offered to help?” He looks surprised that I guessed.
“Nash did, this morning. Said my brothers would pitch in too. Even my father.”
“But you said no.”
“Didn’t say anything. Left it hanging.” He stares into the fire. “Taking their money feels like I failed.”
“Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is accept help,” I say, my voice soft. “At least that’s what my grandmother always said when I was young and stubborn.”
“Did you listen?”
“Eventually.” I smile at the memory. “I didn’t always understand her then, but her words stuck. She used to say, ‘Child, love isn’t love if it doesn’t have hands and feet.’ Took me years to understand what she meant.”
Finn is quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. “Your grandmother sounds wise.”
“She was.” I check his bandage again, pleased to see my makeshift butterfly strips holding. “And terrifying when cross. She would have loved these mountains. ”
“And what about you?” Finn asks, his eyes intent on mine. “Do you love them too?”