Chapter 8 #3
They both knew it.
She wrapped his elbow with gauze, fingers working automatically. The white bandage looked stark against his tanned skin.
An eagle screamed out from somewhere above, its harsh cry bouncing off the canyon walls.
“Nothing up here.” Xander’s voice drifted down twenty minutes later. “Cave only goes about ten feet in. Checked every corner—much to a few vultures’ dismay.” A pause. “Just glad there weren’t eggs. Mama vultures are mean.”
Empty. After all that.
Eden turned to Xander. “You go down to the last landing first, then lower Marcus. I’ll team belay with Teague. When we’re all there, same thing to the next point until we hit the canyon floor.”
Teague stood and brushed off his pants. His movements were careful. Controlled. “I’m sure I can manage. I’ll be bruised, but nothing’s broken.”
“Pretty sure or actually sure?”
“Eighty percent.” He tried a smile. It didn’t quite land. “Maybe seventy-five.”
Eden’s hands moved through the rappel setup—feeding rope, checking the system—but her mind was elsewhere.
He’d listened to her.
Had trusted her. Had gone against his instinct because he was trying to be different. Trying to lead without bulldozing.
The irony.
She helped Teague clip into the rappel, her fingers brushing his as she checked his ATC. His skin was clammy. Up close, she could see pain pulling at the corners of his eyes.
He met her gaze. Held it. Said nothing.
The descent was agonizing.
Marcus went first—slow and shaky but safe, his expensive boots scraping the stone with each tentative step. His face was still pale.
Then Teague.
Eden talked him through every move, watching each motion make him wince. The rope ran through her belay device—warm from the sun, rough under her fingers.
By the time they reached the canyon floor, the shadows had shifted and the temperature had climbed higher. Xander helped Teague lower himself to sit against a boulder in the shade.
Eden clenched her hands until her nails bit into her palms. She shoved them into her pockets.
Teague unclipped. Removed his helmet from his sweat-matted curls. Settled against the rock with a barely suppressed wince.
His face was pale. Pinched. The bruise on his ribs would be spectacular by morning.
Marcus still looked sick. Xander was already pulling out the water filtration system.
Eden stood apart.
She stared up at the route. At the slab section where chunks of the jug still clung to the wall, jagged edges catching the light. At the horizontal breaks that had seemed so solid but had failed when it mattered.
A hot breeze pushed past her.
She’d been so sure.
So confident.
And she’d been catastrophically wrong.
“Eden.” Teague’s voice pulled her back. He was watching her with those steady green eyes, even through the pain. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”
But they weren’t.
She could see it in how he held his ribs. In the gouge on his elbow, blood seeping through white gauze. In the near disaster of that cam ripping out.
They’d been inches from catastrophe.
Her call had nearly killed him.
And she had no idea how to live with that.
So much for their afternoon picnic.
Meg stepped back as Noah paced the dispatch office for the fifth time in ten minutes, his boots scuffing against linoleum with each sharp turn. His hand went to his shirt pocket—again—fingers brushing his phone before dropping back to his side.
The man was a walking ball of nerves.
And here I thought we’d finally have that date.
Their second attempt—the first derailed by karaoke yesterday—was getting sidelined again.
Instead of watching golden light spill across the canyon while sharing sandwiches and maybe, finally, having a real conversation about whatever was building between them, she stood in this cramped office that smelled of old coffee and electronics.
Romance could wait. Apparently.
“They should have reached their first destination by now.” Noah checked his watch. Third time. “Protocol is to check in within an hour of arrival.”
She’d learned to read him over two years of morning coffees—learned how his brown eyes darkened when worry crept in, how his shoulders climbed toward his ears when he couldn’t fix something. How his jaw turned to granite as he tried to solve the unsolvable.
“Maybe they’re still setting up camp.” Meg moved beside him, close enough that her shoulder touched him. “Or they ran into another trail that was washed out and they had to reroute.”
“Both teams? Besides, Eden would follow protocol.” His voice came out rough. “She knows how important communication is.”
“Eden’s probably focused on the climb.” Meg kept her voice gentle. “She’s with Teague. They’ll check in when they can. Are you sure you have the right channel?”
“I think so, but this equipment is too old. Half of it’s outdated. Eden always kept it running, but I don’t know her tricks—”
Noah stared at the silent radio as if he could will it to life through sheer concentration. “That’s why she should be here, not me. She would know what to do. I shouldn’t have let her go down there.”
Let her?
“You didn’t let her do anything.” Meg turned to face him, catching his sleeve. “Eden made her own choice.”
“I could have said no. Could have told Virgil it was a bad idea.” He ran his hand through that shaggy mop of sun-bleached hair.
“Noah.” Meg caught his hand.
His fingers were warm. Calloused. They curled around hers instinctively.
“Sit.” She pointed to a chair. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re hyperventilating in slow motion. There’s a difference.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. But at least he took a seat. “That’s not a real medical term.”
“I have a medical degree. I can make up terms if I want.”
This time the smile actually appeared—brief, but real.
“It’ll be fine.” She ran her free hand over his soft hair.
He let out a long breath but didn’t look convinced. Didn’t let go of her hand either.
Progress.
Meg studied the dispatch setup—radios that looked like they’d survived a half dozen presidential administrations, satellite phones with cracked screens, mapping equipment that belonged in a museum.
“What’s the plan for the money once it’s found?” She leaned against the desk. “Four million in gold. That could make a real difference.”
“If we get to keep it all.” Noah finally looked away from the radio, his deep-brown eyes meeting hers. “There’ll be legal battles. The federal government will probably claim most of it.”
“What would you do with it? What’s your biggest dream if money wasn’t an issue?”
“Buy a second helicopter.”
No hesitation. Like he’d been thinking about it for years.
“Having only one bird means when it’s down for maintenance, we’re stuck.” Frustration edged into his voice. “People die waiting for rescue that’s too far away.”
The weight of those words settled between them. He wasn’t talking hypothetically. He’d watched it happen.
“How much would that cost?”
“A good SAR helicopter?” His expression darkened. “Close to ten million. Maybe more.”
More than double what Roosevelt’s cache was worth.
“So that’s out.” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe we settle for the second-biggest dream.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.
“What about updating the equipment?” She gestured at the ancient setup. “New radios. Better satellite phones. Proper GPS systems instead of”—she raised her eyebrows—“whatever this is.”
“Hey. Don’t insult the vintage equipment. It has character.”
“It has dust. And possibly asbestos.”