Chapter 8 #2
He squinted up. There was a slight color change—a faint darkening in one section. But it looked superficial. Just surface staining.
Everything in him said the crack was the right choice.
But he’d just spent two pitches learning to listen. “Walk me through what you’re seeing.”
Eden ran her hand along the stone, her fingers reading the surface the way a musician might touch an instrument.
“The slab’s going to be more technical, but the rock quality looks better over there.
Those horizontal breaks will take small cams. And there are a few jugs that’ll be easier for Marcus. ”
Teague studied both routes again. The crack still looked like the safe bet.
But he’d committed to trusting his team.
“We’ll take your route.” The words came out steady. Certain. “But let’s do this one person at a time. I lead up, get the protection dialed, then bring each of you up individually.”
Eden nodded. Something like respect flickered in her eyes.
“Three nods,” he said. “This is getting serious.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
She shook her head, but her mouth curved. “Just climb, Hamilton.”
Worth it. Whatever happens next—that look was worth it.
Teague tied in, checked his knot twice, and started up.
The slab was delicate. Completely different from the crack climbing he’d been doing all morning. He balanced on small edges, trusting his feet, placing tiny cams in the horizontal breaks Eden had spotted.
The protection went in adequately but not bomber.
The rock under his hands had a slightly chalky texture. Small crystals of mineral deposits marked where moisture had seeped through.
Should have gone with the crack.
But he kept climbing. Smearing his feet on subtle features. Crimping small edges. The sun beat down on his shoulders.
He placed another cam in a horizontal gap—this one went deeper. Stronger.
See? It’s fine. You’re being paranoid.
They were making great time. Marcus was holding up. The team was working together.
About forty feet up, the holds improved. Better edges. A solid-looking foot placement. The cave entrance loomed just above, dark and promising, maybe hiding the answer to everything they’d been searching for.
Almost there.
He reached up for what appeared to be a good jug. A bomber hold. The kind you could hang your whole body weight on without a second thought.
His fingers wrapped around it.
He tested it with a light pull.
Solid.
He committed his weight—and the hold exploded under his hand.
Teague was falling.
And it was all Eden’s fault.
Time fractured. Each second stretched into an eternity as she watched—helpless, frozen, her fingers locked around the rope that couldn’t save him.
Teague’s body pitched backward as gravity claimed him. His right hand clutched at air and chunks of crumbling limestone—the jug that had looked so solid disintegrating beneath his fingers.
His feet lost the wall.
For one suspended heartbeat, he hung airborne. Arms windmilling. Green eyes wide.
Eden’s stomach dropped.
He fell fast—five feet, ten feet—the rope above him going slack, snaking through the air in loose coils.
Then the rope snapped tight on the cam he’d placed three body lengths back.
The metallic click of the cam’s trigger echoed impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
The rope caught.
Teague’s fall arrested with a jolt that punched through Eden’s own chest—a sympathetic impact that drove the air from her lungs. His body slammed into the slab wall. His elbow connected with a sharp protrusion of rock.
But it wasn’t over.
The cam was ripping.
Eden watched the shallow horizontal break give way—limestone dust puffing out in a chalky cloud, the cam’s lobes scraping against water-weakened stone. The stone she’d insisted was better than the crack.
Her route.
Her call.
No, no, no—The words clogged her throat.
The cam popped free with a sharp metallic ping.
Teague fell again.
Fifteen feet. Twenty. His body rotated in space, the rope trailing above him in a useless arc. Eden’s vision tunneled.
The next piece of protection—another cam in one of those marginal horizontal breaks—caught him hard.
Too hard.
The rope went bar tight. Teague slammed into the wall with a sickening thud that Eden registered in her bones. In her teeth. In her chest.
The type of impact that drove the air from your lungs. His helmet cracked against limestone with a hollow sound that made her jaw ache.
Then he just hung there.
Spinning slowly on the rope. One arm wrapped around his ribs. Face twisted in pain. Blood dripped from his elbow, dark droplets spattering against the pale stone below.
“Teague!” Her voice finally broke free. Her hands were already moving—clipping into the anchor, checking her belay device even though her fingers shook so hard she could barely work the carabiner.
The metal was slick under her sweating palms. Strands of blonde hair had escaped her braid, sticking to her neck. “Teague, talk to me!”
Marcus stood frozen a few feet away, one hand pressed against his mouth. His brown hair was disheveled, his normally polished demeanor shattered.
Xander had locked off his belay device, his powerful frame already positioning to move. His blue-gray eyes were sharp with concern.
Eden shook her head. “I’ll go, Xander.”
She was the better climber. She was lighter.
And this was her fault.
“I’m…” Teague’s voice drifted down, thin and threaded with pain. “I’m okay. Just. Give me a second.”
He wasn’t okay.
Eden could see it in the way he held himself—that careful stillness that spoke of broken things. His right arm stayed clamped against his ribs while his left hand maintained a white-knuckled grip on the rope. His auburn curls were dark with sweat beneath his helmet.
The wind had picked up, hot and dry, carrying the scent of dust and sage.
My fault. My fault. My. Fault.
She’d been so confident. So sure the slab route was better. She’d pointed out water seepage that Teague couldn’t see in the crack, and she’d convinced him to trust her judgment over his own instincts.
And he had.
He’d listened to her. Studied both routes. He hadn’t agreed—she’d read that much in his eyes—and yet he’d chosen to trust her.
And she’d been wrong.
Catastrophically wrong.
“Can you climb?” Her voice cracked. “Or do we need to lower you?”
“I can—” Teague sucked in a breath that hitched halfway through. “I can make it to your anchor. Just. Slowly.”
Eden watched him start moving. Each placement of hand and foot was deliberate. Painful. He favored his right side. His breathing came shallow and quick.
Sweat darkened his shirt in spreading patches, mixing with limestone dust and blood.
The sun beat down. A bead of sweat ran into Eden’s eye, stinging, but she didn’t blink. Didn’t look away from Teague’s agonizing progress.
Below them, the creek continued its mindless babbling.
Why had she ever agreed to this?
She had quit for a reason. Losing Landon had changed something in her. Something fundamental.
This proved that.
Teague shouldn’t have listened to her. The old Teague would have been up the other route without asking for input.
Why had he listened?
Teague reached the ledge.
Eden grabbed his harness, helping him clip into the anchor with trembling hands. Up close, the damage was worse than she’d thought. The gouge in his elbow was deep—skin torn away, raw flesh beneath. Scrapes carved angry red lines across his forearms. A nasty one on his calf.
And the way he held himself, twisted, protecting his right side…
His face was pale under the tan and dust. Jaw tight. Green eyes clouded.
“Let me see.” She reached for his shirt.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a question.” She lifted the fabric away, revealing a spreading bruise along his ribs—already darkening to purple.
Eden’s chest constricted.
“You need to get off this wall.” Her voice came out harder than she intended. “We’re aborting. Getting you down and back to base camp.”
“We’re almost to the cave—”
“I don’t care.” She cut him off. “You’re hurt. This route is compromised. We’re done.”
Teague opened his mouth. Then he seemed to see something in her face. He closed it again. Nodded. Just that small tilt of his head.
And something cracked in Eden’s chest.
That nod. So similar to the one she’d given him last night.
“I can go up the crack. Give it a once-over.” Xander’s voice drifted up from below.
Eden was ready to shut that down, but he held up a hand.
“It’ll give Teague a minute to catch his breath before we head down.
Besides”—a wry grin—“someone should make sure there’s no treasure up there worth dying for. ”
She couldn’t argue with that.
One look at Teague—resting against the warm stone, eyes closed against the pain—and she knew he needed more than a minute.
His gaze found hers. Waiting.
Why was it her call? She’d just nearly gotten him killed.
But they could have that conversation later.
She glanced at Xander. “Be careful. You know how to drop cams?”
He offered a quick nod and moved to the crack system Teague had preferred—the route that looked clean and solid in the bright sunlight.
And Xander made it up with no problems.
His movements were smooth and confident. Each cam slotted perfectly into solid stone.
The crack had been fine. Teague’s instincts had been right.
And she’d been convinced that she knew better.
Eden pulled out the first aid kit. The nylon was hot from the sun. She wet a gauze pad with lukewarm water and moved to Teague’s side.
Marcus had turned away, his face green.
“Xander to save the day. Think we should start calling him Captain America?” Teague’s voice was strained but held a hint of humor.
“Not if you want to stay on his good side.” Eden dabbed at his elbow, watching him draw a slow breath as she cleaned away dirt and limestone dust. This close, she could smell sweat and copper. Could see his jaw clench with each touch.
“I’m sorry.” The words barely made it past her throat. “Teague, I’m so sorry. The crack would have been—”
“Don’t.” His voice was rough. “You made the best call you could. Rock fails sometimes. It’s not your fault.”
But it was.