Chapter Ten
Carson
The temperature at five a.m. was twenty degrees.
Twenty.
Even my jacket seemed offended by it.
The sky was a dark slate-gray, the kind of predawn color that existed in the quiet space between night and day, and frost creaked under my boots as I crossed the lodge’s side lot toward the equipment shed.
A single light glowed from inside.
Sienna was already there.
I stopped before going in, partly because of the biting cold wind, partly because I needed a breath. After the dry humping confession, she looked like she might hop a plane to Alaska and never come back, but she was here, readying for two days and one night.
I didn’t need that thought in my bloodstream before sunrise.
I opened the door, and Sienna stood near the workbench, tightening the straps on a winter-weight pack.
Her headlamp cast a warm halo around her face as she worked, braid swinging across a puffy insulated jacket the color of cranberry.
Her winter gear looked equal parts professional and vaguely explosive with all the layers.
Dark thermal leggings.
Thick wool socks stuffed into waterproof boots.
A fleece-lined beanie with a tiny pom-pom on top.
Black gloves with touchscreen pads on the fingers.
And a bright neon gaiter around her neck that clashed in a way that somehow made sense on her.
For a moment, she didn’t notice me.
Her breath fogged in the air as she wrestled with the cinch pulls. “Why are winter packs so dramatic?” she muttered. “Just cooperate. I don’t need this level of resistance in my life.”
I almost smiled before I could stop myself.
She finally looked up, startled in a full-body jolt that made her pack tip sideways and crash to the floor.
She froze.
I raised an eyebrow. “Morning.”
“That was totally nothing,” she said quickly, trying to drag her dignity off the floor along with her backpack. “I meant to drop it. Warming up the… straps. Gravity check. Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“Possibly.”
She glared in a way that wasn’t even remotely threatening.
I knelt beside the pack and helped her stand it upright. “Ready?”
“No,” she said. “Yes. Maybe. It’s five a.m. on a Saturday, and the world is cold and unkind.”
“It is twenty degrees.”
She pointed at me. “Exactly. Twenty degrees is the opposite of kindness.”
I clipped the buckle across the top of her pack. “It could be worse.”
“It could be summer,” she retorted.
I almost laughed at that, but I didn’t. I needed to be careful today. The last thing I needed was for my guard to slip when we were supposed to be assessing trail logistics.
The pack cinched tight, she stood and dusted off her gloves. “Okay. Let’s get the ATV.”
The lodge kept one main vehicle for hauling guides and equipment to nearby trailheads: a Polaris Sportsman 570 ATV, forest green, with a winch, heated grips, and a rear cargo rack large enough to hold our packs.
It was a good machine.
Reliable.
Which was more than I could say about the two of us this morning.
As we walked toward it, Sienna fumbled with her gloves and dropped one in the snow.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, bending to grab it. “I’m great. I’m amazing. I am a highly trained, competent wilderness professional who definitely did not panic-stretch her gloves onto the wrong hands.”
I glanced down.
She had.
I didn’t comment.
She noticed anyway and gasped. “Oh my God. They’re reversed. Don’t look at me.”
I turned away politely.
She fixed the gloves with unnecessary force. “I swear I’m not usually like this.”
“What are you usually like?”
“Graceful,” she said immediately. “Elegant. Poised. A gazelle among humans.”
I coughed. “A gazelle.”
“Yes. Or a deer. No. A ram. I’m tough like a ram, but still steady on my feet.”
“You did chase a zebra last week,” I pointed out. “That takes a lot.”
“I refuse to discuss it.”
I strapped my pack onto the cargo rack of the ATV while she climbed onto the driver’s seat.
“You’re driving?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, sounding offended. “Do you not trust me?”
I didn’t answer fast enough.
She gasped. “Oh my God. You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you,” I said.
“Then get on,” she challenged.
I did.
As soon as I sat behind her, her shoulders went tense.
It wasn’t from fear but awareness.
Of me.
The realization hit deeper than I wanted it to.
She cleared her throat sharply. “Okay. Starting engine.”
She pressed the ignition.
The ATV coughed.
Spluttered.
Then died.
We sat in silence.
She tried again.
Same result.
Her voice went high-pitched. “I knew this machine hated me.”
“It doesn’t hate you.”
“It does. It senses my emotional vulnerability.”
I leaned slightly forward, closer than I intended. “You flooded it.”
She froze. “I flooded it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a wilderness professional,” she whispered. “This is humiliating.”
“We will let it sit for a minute,” I assured her.
She groaned dramatically and flopped forward onto the handlebars. “This would never happen in the real world.”
“This is the real world.”
“No, it’s the humiliation world. Everything is backwards. Up is down. I’m functionally incompetent because my family borrowed a lumberjack for six months, and my self-confidence took a dive.”
“You’re not incompetent.”
“You didn’t see me this morning.”
I did see her, all flustered and anxious, adorable in a way she had no idea she was. I pushed that thought away immediately.
“Try it again,” I said.
She straightened, took a breath, and pressed start.
The engine sputtered to life.
She lifted her chin proudly. “I fixed it with my mind.”
I shook my head. “Of course.”
She revved the throttle. “Hold on.”
I did.
But not too tightly.
We drove down the narrow snow-packed trail toward the ridge. The early-morning light seeped through the trees in pale-blue streaks. The ATV bounced slightly on frozen ruts, and every now and then her shoulder brushed my chest through her heavy jacket.
She reacted each time.
A tiny inhale.
A stiffening.
But she’d force herself to relax.
It did things to me. Unwanted things.
And I had to remind myself I was not here to experience those types of things.
Six miles wasn’t long, but she spent five of them trying not to look over at me and the sixth mumbling to herself about professionalism.
We reached the trailhead with our dignity partially intact.
Partially.
She parked the ATV and shut off the engine. The silence of the forest wrapped around us, crisp and pure.
She hopped off too fast and nearly slipped.
I grabbed her arm.
She steadied herself, cheeks flushing even in the freezing air. “I meant to do that.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Because I’m coordinated.”
“Yes.”
“And competent.”
“Yes.”
“And attractive.”
The word slipped out of her before she could stop it.
She slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh no. No. Not what I meant. That wasn’t… I mean, I know I said it, but I didn’t mean it about me, I meant it…actually, no, I didn’t mean anything at all.”
I stared at her, and she stared back, mortified.
And God help me, something warm pressed under my ribs.
The kind of warmth I couldn’t afford here.
Not now.
So, I turned away and put physical distance between us.
I grabbed my pack from the cargo rack. “We should begin.”
Her voice was small. “Right. Work mode.”
I nodded. “Work mode.”
But she didn’t move.
She just watched me for a moment, expression shifting with confusion, frustration, and something else. She didn’t understand the shift in my tone. She didn’t understand why I needed space.
Hell, I didn’t understand it, except I did.
Because I liked her too much.
And if I didn’t manage it now, I would lose every ounce of professional focus I had left.
She finally hoisted her pack onto her shoulders, cheeks still pink.
“Trail starts with a slight incline,” she said quietly. “Nothing major. About three miles to our campsite.”
“All right.”
“We’ll check stream crossings, verify snow depth, and map the safest switchbacks.”
“Yes.”
“And… you know. Not talk about anything weird.”
“Agreed.”
She exhaled and gave a tiny nod. “Okay. Professional. We can do professional.”
I looked at her and saw the determination in her stance, at the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide, and at the spark in her eyes she didn’t know she carried.
And I knew, with absolute clarity, that pushing her away was necessary, but it would come at a cost.
She didn’t approach me again as we started up the trail. She didn’t babble nervously. She didn’t fumble or joke or tease.
She went quiet.
Focused.
Distant.
Exactly what I told myself I wanted.
Exactly what I told myself I needed to keep this job from becoming something messy.
But as the cold air filled my lungs and the trail opened before us, one truth settled into the space between us:
The chemistry wasn’t gone.
It sat there burning, just waiting for the next spark.
The first mile passed in near silence.
It wasn’t uncomfortable quiet, just the kind that felt like both of us had retreated behind invisible shields.
Sienna walked ahead of me, her boots crunching over the crusted snow, with pebbles and pine needles peaking through, and her gait steady, determined, and focused.
More focused than she needed to be for a trail she could probably hike blindfolded.
Every few minutes, she’d point at something like frost heaves, bent trail markers, a half-buried cairn, and her tone stayed strictly professional.
Too professional.
Too careful.
This was exactly what I thought I wanted.
Distance.
Neutrality.
Control.
But there was a tightness in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before I pulled back at the trailhead. And realizing I’d put it there hit me harder than I expected.
I adjusted my pack and tried to shake off the thought.
“You’re quiet,” she said suddenly, not turning around.
“So are you.”
“That’s because we’re working.”
“Are we?”
She stopped walking.
Just stopped.
The cold air carried her breath upward as she slowly turned to look at me. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed, more in confusion than irritation. “You’re the one who switched gears this morning.”
I didn’t answer because she was right.
She snorted and kept walking. “If you want to be all stoic-wilderness-guide, that’s fine. I can match energy.”
“You’re matching energy?”
“Yes,” she said, almost snapping the word. “Because you clearly don’t—” She cut herself off. “Never mind.”
I exhaled slowly and followed.
We hiked another stretch of trail. The incline steepened, the snow softened under the trees, and the early light filtered through the branches in pale stripes.
We reached a narrow wooden bridge partially swallowed by drifts, its handrails frosted silver. Sienna stepped onto it first to test the stability. The boards creaked sharply under her weight.
She froze.
So did I.
“Sienna,” I warned.
“I know,” she said, voice low. “It’s fine. I’ve crossed it a hundred times.”
But it wasn’t fine. The wood was older than it looked from a distance, and the snow had settled unevenly across the planks. She shifted her weight again, and a loud crack split the air.
“Sienna!”
I lunged forward as the snow beneath her boot caved slightly, the board dipping before stabilizing again. She caught herself on the railing, breath stuttering out in a white puff.
She wasn’t falling, not yet, but she was one bad step from going through the bridge and straight into the half-frozen stream below.
“Don’t move,” I said, stepping onto the first board.
“Carson, I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” I said sharply. “Don’t take another step.”
Her eyes flicked to mine, startled by the tone.
I reached her in three strides, braced her elbow, and guided her back off the bridge plank by plank, my boot pressing deliberately on each board to test their weight. Her breathing picked up, not panicked, but rattled.
When her boots finally hit solid snow again, she exhaled shakily and looked up at me.
She was so close, shaken, and too vulnerable in a way I wasn’t prepared to see.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me,” I said quietly. “I should’ve been in front.”
She swallowed, gaze darting over my face. “I can usually handle myself.”
“I know,” I said. “But you don’t have to today.”
For a moment, something unspoken passed between us.
Something that made every professional wall I’d rebuilt this morning start to crack.
Then—
A second crack echoed sharply across the woods.
Louder.
Not from the bridge.
From the trees behind us.
Sienna jerked her head toward the sound. “What was that?”
I straightened slowly, scanning the shadowed woods, every instinct in my body going still.
“I don’t know,” I said.
But whatever it was…
It wasn’t small.
And it wasn’t far.