Chapter Eleven
Sienna
A second crack echoed across the trees.
Louder than the first.
Closer.
Heavier.
Everything in me froze.
Not the polite kind of stillness you get when you think you left the stove on and just need to go back inside to turn it off.
This was the primal, instinctive kind that lives in your bones. The kind of awareness that whispers: you are not the biggest thing out here right now.
Carson shifted slightly in front of me, not touching me yet, but close enough that I could feel a sort of gravity around him. His head tilted, listening.
Really listening — the way only someone who’s spent too many years in wild terrain can.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“I’m not sure yet,” he murmured, eyes scanning the trees. “But stay behind me.”
I bristled. “I can handle—”
The third sound cut me off.
A low, rolling chuff.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
“Oh,” I breathed. “Oh no.”
Carson didn’t move except to widen his stance. “Yep.”
“Mama bear.”
“And she’s not alone.”
A smaller, higher noise followed.
The distinct mewling whine of a cub echoed through the air.
Cubs.
Plural.
Which meant this was Very Bad.
Black bears weren’t generally aggressive in winter unless disturbed, and even then, nine times out of ten, they chose retreat over drama. But mothers with cubs? That was a different rulebook entirely.
Carson kept his voice level. “We back away. Slowly. No sudden movements.”
“I know the drill,” I whispered.
“I know you do.”
But he stayed in front of me anyway.
Which, under normal circumstances, would have annoyed me.
Under these circumstances?
It made something warm and tight coil low in my stomach.
We stepped backward along the compacted snow. Each crunch of ice under our boots felt too loud. Too obvious. Too alive in a forest that had gone silent except for the faint shifting in the underbrush ahead.
A patch of shadow moved, and I held my breath.
But a bulky black shape stepped between two pines, snow dusting the fur on her back, breath fogging in the cold air.
Mama bear.
Followed by two cubs who looked like they’d only recently discovered legs.
Way too early for that.
Way too early for any of this.
“Oh no,” I whispered again. “They shouldn’t even be up yet.”
“I’m aware,” Carson murmured.
She wasn’t charging. Not yet.
But her attention was fixed on us all, swiveling, low, and assessing. Her posture wasn’t defensive, not exactly, but protective in a way that made every instinct inside me scream for caution.
“We need to shift left,” I whispered. “Toward the ridge. Give her the space she wants.”
“Agreed.”
We moved slowly, every motion deliberate, and Mama Bear huffed again, nudging her cubs behind her with one massive paw. Carson eased us farther left until a thick spruce created a natural barrier between the small family and us.
Another tense minute.
Her ears twitched.
She sniffed.
And then, mercifully, she turned away first, guiding her cubs deeper into the woods, their tiny paws pattering through the snow.
Only once she was well out of view did my lungs finally restart.
Carson breathed out, too.
Carefully.
“Well,” I whispered. “That was fun.”
He shot me a sideways look. “That’s your definition of fun?”
“I’m very outdoorsy.”
“I’m aware,” he said, but his voice sounded different.
I didn’t like what that did to me.
Actually, I liked it too much, which was the problem.
He scanned the trees again before turning fully toward me. “You all right?”
“Yes,” I said, maybe too quickly. “Totally fine.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“I mean,” I amended, “my blood pressure is somewhere near Jupiter right now, but other than that? Great.”
“You handled it well.”
The praise warmed me stupidly from the inside out. I swallowed. “You did too. Especially the… protective thing.”
“The protective thing?”
“You know.” I gestured vaguely at his broad frame. “Stepping in front of me like a human bear shield.”
He paused. “That wasn’t intentional.”
“You liar.”
His mouth twitched. “Okay, it was partially intentional. I feel like I need some street cred around you.”
“But just for the record.” I crossed my arms. “I don’t need a shield.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You don’t.”
Something in his eyes flicked downward, softening, just for a fraction of a breath, and that flicker sent my thoughts tumbling into dangerous, slippery terrain.
I suddenly became hyper-aware of everything:
The cold air. The hum of adrenaline.
How close we were. How warm his breath looked in the freezing air.
How badly I needed to get it together.
I forced a breath. “So. That happened.”
“Yes.”
“And it won’t happen on the actual trip,” I said. “Because we already got it out of the way.”
“Is that how it works?” he teased.
“In my world,” I said.
“I like your world.”
“Smart man.” I smiled, feeling all those annoying feelings swell up again.
“I like to think some of the time.”
“Good. Well, we’re in total agreement. Excellent teamwork. Go us.”
He studied me again, and I felt my stomach do the little dippy thing.
“We should get started,” he said.
“Yes,” I agreed enthusiastically. “Before I process feelings.”
He blinked. “…What?”
“I said before I process the trail conditions. Trail conditions.”
He nodded slowly, even though he absolutely knew that wasn’t what I said.
Kill me, I thought.
With the bear encounter behind us, Carson lifted both our packs with unfair ease and slung them over his shoulders.
Show-off.
His breath came out in calm, even clouds, while mine puffed like I’d been sprinting across the Arctic tundra. I didn’t know if it was because of the Mama Bear or Carson.
I strapped my own crampons on with more force than necessary, refusing to look at him when he leaned in slightly.
The scent of cedar and cold air and something warm underneath made my brain short-circuit.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” I said honestly. “But also yes. But also no.”
“That clears it up.”
“You’re welcome.”
The trail ahead sloped upward, narrow and shaded by old-growth pines. A thin sheet of ice stretched across the first fifty feet, glittering like ghostly danger.
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “The trail is a slip-and-slide.”
“We can handle it,” Carson said.
He said it like a fact, not a reassurance.
And unbelievably… I believed him.
This was so not the kind of spring weather I’d signed up for.
We started the minor ascent, crampons biting into the crust as the sky lightened to a watery peach. The world smelled like pine needles, frost, and morning, with that clean scent that always made me feel alive and grounded.
But the world also contained Carson Reed.
Which made me feel the opposite of grounded.
I focused on the trail, the incline, the snowpack, anything but him.
“My hope,” I said, because talking kept me alive, “is that this is all melted by the time we bring the honeymoon couple out. I mean, look at this. They’ll spend the whole trip sliding around like newborn deer.”
“Deer are capable,” he said.
“These people are from Chicago, Carson.”
“Point taken.”
“And they’re newlyweds. They’ll definitely be distracted.”
“Understandable.”
“They’ll be looking at each other, not the ground.”
“Also understandable.”
I stopped mid-step. “You’re not helping.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
“You’re supposed to tell me I’m being ridiculous.”
He met my gaze without flinching. “You’re not ridiculous.”
Oh no.
No, no no.
He couldn’t say things like that with that voice and that face and those eyes and expect me to remain functional.
I swallowed and marched forward. “Never mind. Ignore me.”
“I’m trying,” he said quietly.
My heart hiccupped.
Had he meant to say that?
Had it slipped out?
Was he teasing?
Was he telling the truth?
I didn’t dare ask.
My boots crunched over the snow, my breath fogged the air, and every step brought me closer to a truth I didn’t want to face.
This man unraveled me.
This man unsettled me.
This man, without even trying, made me feel things I’d spent years convincing myself I didn’t need, didn’t want, didn’t have room for.
We reached a ridge overlook. One that we’d show the honeymoon couple on the second day of the official trip, but it was a great place to pause and catch our breath.
Below us, the valley stretched wide and white.
Above us, the sun finally crested the ridge.
Beside me, Carson stood tall, silent, unreadable… yet somehow intensely present.
I looked at the trail.
I looked at the sky.
I looked everywhere except at him, but then I did look.
Just once.
Just enough.
And my chest tightened, hard, because he was looking at me, too.
Something unspoken passed between us, a pull, a spark, or recognition. Maybe all the above?
I looked away first.
Because if I didn’t…
I might do something reckless.
And then, just as my heart began to steady as I convinced myself that I could survive this dry run with my sanity intact, Carson shifted slightly, listening again.
Alert.
Focused.
Then he said my name.
Quiet.
Low.
“Sienna.”
I looked up sharply.
His eyes weren’t on the valley anymore.
They were fixed on the tree line behind me.
Something moved.
Something big.
And this time…
It wasn’t a bear.