3. Frankie
Chapter Three
FRANKIE
The rain hits me hard as soon as we step away from the helicopter. Ryder's arm around my waist is the only thing keeping me upright against the howling wind. Risky darts ahead of us, his wet fur plastered to his body as he leads the way toward the cabin.
“Stay close!” Ryder shouts over the storm, his voice barely audible despite how near he is.
As if I could do anything else. The solid heat of him beside me is like a beacon in the chaos of wind and water. His body shields mine from the worst of it, his broad shoulders creating a windbreak. I've never been this close to him before.
The old ranger cabin looms ahead, sturdy and weathered, its windows dark. Fifty yards feels like miles as we struggle through ankle-deep mud, the ground sucking at our boots with each step. Lightning splinters across the sky, illuminating Ryder's handsome profile in harsh white light.
We reach the cabin just as another lightning bolt cracks across the sky, so close the air buzzes with electricity. Ryder shoulders the door open, keeping me tucked against his side. The ancient hinges protest but give way, and we stumble into blessed stillness.
The inside is dark and musty, but at least it's dry. Ryder fumbles in his pocket and produces a small flashlight, its beam cutting through the gloom to reveal a rustic interior. There’s one room with a stone fireplace, a small table with two chairs, a counter with a hotplate and an old pump sink, and a bed pushed against the far wall.
One bed. Of course .
My pulse quickens as I try not to stare at it, or think about what sharing such a small space with Ryder might mean.
“I’ll be back,” he says, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space as he sets the flashlight on the table. “I need to get the emergency supplies from the helicopter.”
Before I can protest, he's gone, leaving me alone with Risky, who's investigating every corner of the cabin with his nose. I wrap my arms around my body, shivering. My clothes are plastered to my skin, my hair hanging in dripping ropes down my back.
I pick up the flashlight and explore the space, finding an old kerosene lamp on the counter and some candle stubs. There's kindling and a few logs next to the fireplace, dry enough to burn, thank goodness. In a small cupboard, I discover pillows and blankets. In another are a stack of canned goods that look relatively recent and a bottle of whisky.
The door bursts open again, bringing a gust of rain and Ryder, laden with two large duffel bags. He kicks the door closed behind him, water streaming from his hair and clothes.
"There's a standard emergency kit in every SAR helicopter," he explains, dropping the bags on the table. “Food, water, medical supplies, clothes, survival gear. Should get us through a day or two.”
His eyes meet mine, and something shifts in the air between us. In the diner, he can barely look at me. Now, his gaze is direct, intense. It's like I've spent two years looking at a blurry photograph of someone, only to suddenly see them in high definition.
“You're shivering,” he says, unzipping one of the bags and pulling out a bundle of clothing. “You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
I catch the clothes he tosses me; a thermal shirt and pants, thick socks, even a spare fleece. “What about you?”
“I'm fine,” he says automatically, though his own clothes are just as soaked as mine.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You're dripping on the floor, Ryder.”
His name feels strange in my mouth. Have I ever actually said it to him before? In the diner, we've never been on a first-name basis, not really. It was always “Good morning” and “The usual?” and… silence.
Something flickers across his face, before he gives a small nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
He turns away, busying himself with making a fire, and I realize he's giving me privacy to change.
“Is there somewhere I can...?” I ask, modesty winning out.
Ryder glances over his shoulder. “There's a small bathroom through that door.”
I grab the dry clothes and retreat to the tiny bathroom. It’s really just an oversized closet with a sink, toilet, and a small mirror. I find a stack of clean towels on the shelf behind the door. I wash the grime from my face and strip off my wet clothes.
The thermal shirt and pants are clearly made for someone Ryder's size, but they're blessedly dry and warm. I roll up the sleeves and pant legs, and emerge feeling slightly more human.
The transformation in the cabin is immediate. A small fire crackles in the hearth, casting a warm golden glow over the room. Ryder has lit the kerosene lamp and a couple of candles, creating pools of gentle light that make the space almost cozy. Risky is curled up on one of the blankets near the fire, already half-asleep.
Ryder himself is arranging items from the emergency kit on the table; water bottles, energy bars, a small medical kit. He's changed too, into dry clothes similar to mine. The thermal shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, defining muscles that are usually hidden beneath his jacket. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
He looks up as I enter, and his expression makes heat rise to my cheeks. For a long moment, we just stare at each other, the crackling fire and drumming rain the only sounds.
“Better?” he asks finally, his voice lower than before.
I nod, suddenly shy like I am at the diner. “Much. Thank you.”
He gestures to the fire. “You should get warm.”
I move to the hearth, holding my hands out to the flames, aware of how he watches me from the corner of his eye as he continues unpacking supplies. The silence stretches between us, but it's different from our usual silences at the diner. There's an electricity to it, a tension I can almost taste.
I try to break it with a joke. “So... come here often? Wait, don't answer that. Worst pickup line ever for a rescue situation.”
He raises one thick, dark eyebrow, but says nothing.
I try again. “How did you know? That… I was in trouble?”
Ryder stops what he's doing, hands stilling on a packet of freeze-dried food. “Henry called. He was worried when you didn't answer your phone.”
“Oh. And you just... took the helicopter up? In the middle of a storm?”
He shrugs. “I did. That’s my job.”
“Is it part of the job to risk your life? To fly in conditions that would ground most pilots?”
His jaw tightens. “If someone needs help, yes.”
“But you didn't know I needed help. For all you knew, I was perfectly fine, just waiting out the storm.”
He glances away. “The forecast was getting worse by the minute. Flash flood warnings. Landslides. I made a judgment call.”
I’m not giving up. “A judgment call that could have killed you.”
“Better me than you.”
The words hang in the air between us. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I take another step toward him, drawn to him like a magnet.
“That's not how it works, Ryder.”
“That's exactly how it works. And I couldn’t let something happen to you. I had to try.” he counters, his voice rough.
“If you cared so much, why have you barely spoken to me for two years?” I ask, the question escaping before I can stop it.
His eyes meet mine with an intensity that steals my breath. For a moment, I think he might actually answer, might finally explain why he's so different with me than with everyone else in town.
But the moment breaks as Risky whines, trotting over to nose at Ryder's hand. He exhales, tension draining from his shoulders as he crouches to pet the dog.
“He's probably hungry,” Ryder says, reaching for one of the emergency ration packages. “What about you?”
Just like that, we're back to safe topics. Survival. Practicalities. Anything but the questions hanging heavy in the air between us.
He moves around the small cabin, efficient and focused, setting water to heat on the small camp stove he's produced from one of the duffle bags. There's a confidence in the way he moves, so at odds with his awkward silence in the diner.
Within minutes, he's prepared simple meals for all three of us; rehydrated stew that smells surprisingly good, plus a portion of kibble for Risky. I grab the whisky bottle and pour us both a glass. When he hands me a steaming bowl and a packet of crackers, our fingers brush, and the contact sends a jolt of awareness up my arm.
We eat in silence at the small table, the narrow space forcing our knees to brush occasionally. Each time they do, I feel a little shock, like static electricity but warmer, deeper. When I sneak glances at him, I catch him watching me too, his eyes quickly darting away.
“How long do you think the storm will last?” I ask, setting down my empty bowl.
Ryder's expression turns serious again. “Hard to say. The weather system was massive, but fast-moving. Maybe a day or two before it's safe to fly or hike out.”
A day or two. Alone in this tiny cabin. With him .
“The radio?” I ask, gesturing to the small handheld unit on the table.
“Solar battery's charging. It should work by morning, but comms will still be spotty until the worst passes.” He hesitates, watching me carefully. “Are you worried? About being stuck here?”
There's something vulnerable in the question that catches me off guard. I consider lying, saying I'm fine, but something about the firelight and the storm and the strange intimacy of this moment pushes me toward honesty.
“I’m not worried. Just... confused, I guess.”
His brow furrows. “About?”
“You.” I take a deep breath. “In the diner, you don’t seem to like me much. You've come in on the same days for the last two years, but you don’t want to talk. Is it because of the pancakes?”
His lips twitch. “The pancakes?”
“The blueberry pancakes. The first time I met you, you wanted blueberry pancakes. I thought maybe you were holding a grudge. They’re a nightmare to clean off the skillet. I guess I owe you now. I can put them back on the menu.” I shrug.
“It’s not about the pancakes, Frankie.” His voice is gruff.
“Well, you act like you hate me. And then you fly into a storm to rescue me. It's like you're a completely different person!”
Ryder's jaw works, tension visible in the cords of his neck. For a long moment, I think he won't respond at all. Then he exhales, a deep, weary sound.
“I'm not good with words… when it matters.”
“You seem to do fine with your brothers. With every other person in town. Folks always talk about how charming you are.”
His fingers tap restlessly against the table. “With them, I don't…” He trails off, frustrated.
“Don't what?”
His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there steals my breath. “Care what they think. About what I say. How I sound.” He looks away, down at his hands. “It doesn't matter if I make a fool of myself with them.”
Understanding dawns slowly, warm and liquid in my chest. “But it matters with me ?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Yes.”
“Why?” The word is barely a whisper.
The cabin creaks around us as a powerful gust of wind hits it, but neither of us moves, locked in this moment of almost-truth. Ryder's eyes find mine again.
“I think you know why.”
My heart thunders so loudly I'm sure he must hear it. The air between is charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Before I can respond, there's a crash outside, loud enough to startle both of us. Risky jumps up, barking sharply. Ryder is on his feet in an instant, moving to the window to peer out into the storm.
“Tree branch,” he says after a moment, his back to me. “Nothing to worry about.”
But when he turns around, his expression has changed, guard back in place. The moment is broken, the confession unfinished.
“We should try to get some rest,” he says, professional again. “Tomorrow I'll need to check the helicopter, see what I can do.”
I nod, suddenly tired. The adrenaline of the day is crashing, leaving me drained. “Right, okay. Sleep.”
We both look at the bed, narrow and old-fashioned, pushed against the far wall. Ryder runs a hand through his hair.
“Well, I guess there’s no fighting over who gets the master suite,” I joke. His lips twitch, then he pulls them into a frown.
“I'll take the floor,” he says quickly.
“Don't be ridiculous. You need to be rested if you're going to work on the helicopter tomorrow.”
“I've slept worse places,” he assures me, already pulling one of the blankets toward the hearth.
“The bed is big enough for both of us if we're careful.” A flush creeps up my neck as I say it, but I push on. “Neither of us should spend the night on a cold, hard floor when there's an alternative.”
Ryder goes very still, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight. “You sure about that?”
I nod, though my pounding heart suggests I'm anything but sure. “It's just practical. For warmth.”
A strange light enters his eyes, and for a second, I think he might argue. Instead, he nods once, a quick, sharp movement. “Okay. For warmth.”
The way he says it, low and rough, sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the temperature. We arrange the blankets on the bed, both of us careful not to touch, though in the small cabin it feels like we're still too close, too aware of each other.
We slip into bed, both of us stiff and awkward, pressed as far to opposite edges as the narrow mattress allows. But even so, I’m aware of his heat beside me, every careful breath. His scent is cedar and leather, and it’s intoxicating up close.
“Goodnight, Frankie,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble in the darkness.
“Goodnight.”
How the hell am I going to sleep?