Chapter 14 #2
“Ames! For fuck’s sake, I need your help!” There’s a pause, then, “Ames, please.” A moment of silence, then his pleas start again. “Ames? Please help me. I’m hurt.”
A wide grin spreads over my face. The big, brave, alpha man is admitting he needs assistance from a mere woman.
Then I wipe the smile off my face. What would I do if he was badly injured?
His club might swap out my bodyguard with someone else, but it might raise Malachi’s suspicions if my husband suddenly appeared without me in tow.
There’s nothing for it but to make my way back down, hoping this isn’t a trap.
If it is, I’m worried he’ll lock me in the cabin and not let me out again.
Going down the steep slope takes more care than the ascent.
I eye the ground cautiously under my feet, making sure I’m avoiding the roots that seem determined to trip me and the sharp stones that want to cut my feet open.
It’s then I realise he doesn’t even need to lock the door.
Just hiding my shoes would make sure I stayed put.
“Ames!”
Is that pain in his voice I hear? I quicken my steps, then, having slipped but recovered with a virtuoso performance involving windmill arms, I slow and proceed more carefully.
“I’m coming,” I call out. “Where are you?”
“Thank fuck! Here. I’m here.”
I roll my eyes. That tells me nothing. “Keep shouting and I’ll find you.”
“Just get your ass here.”
“You really need my help? You better watch how you talk to me.”
“Fuckin’ bitch!”
Typical. But his voice at least gives me a bead on his location.
I’m back on the trail now, still in the trees, but at least they’re thinning. “Rattler? Talk to me.”
“I’m here.”
His voice suggests he’s close, but I can’t immediately see him. Narrowing my eyes to sharpen my focus, I look around. Nope. Nothing.
“Rattler?”
“Here! Down here.”
Down? That gives me at least a clue. I look to the side of the path where it drops off sharply. A few more yards, and yes. I see something. Drawing closer, my first reaction is to laugh.
“Bitch! Don’t you dare find this amusing.”
Assessing his pride’s more injured than his body, I continue letting my mirth out.
He, on the other hand, finds nothing about his situation entertaining. “Fuckin’ help me up.”
I eye his situation. He’s obviously slipped down the steep drop, and one foot has been caught under a tree root.
He’s lying on his back upside down. Blood rushing to his head has stained his cheeks red.
I watch as he scrabbles to gain purchase.
There’s nothing for him to hold on to. I bite my lip to stop guffawing as he tries to curl himself up to free his boot—his core muscle strength actually impressive—but gravity’s against him and he can’t reach high enough to free himself.
The only way to describe it is like a turtle trying to get right side up.
Crouching down at the top, I clasp my hands together. “Keep doing that, and you’ll get great abs.”
“I’ve already got great abs,” he growls.
I can’t actually disagree, as his t-shirt has slipped down, revealing said muscles.
He tries again but is unsuccessful. “Bitch, help.”
“Stopping calling me a bitch and asking nicely might work,” I casually observe. “Or I could go back to the cabin. Give you a chance to rethink your attitude.”
“Get me out of here now!” he roars. “I’ll fuckin’ end you if you don’t.”
I shrug. “Good to know.” Standing, I turn my back and start to make my way down the path.
I’ve not gone far before I hear, “Ames. For fuck’s sake, help me, please.”
I retrace my steps. I hadn’t really intended to leave him.
“Since you asked so nicely…” Close to him once more, I sink to my haunches again, trying to figure out the best way to help.
“Rattler, if I remove your boot, your foot should come free. Can you brace yourself so you don’t slide down further? ”
He scrabbles with his free heel, trying to dig it into the earth and stabilizes himself with his elbows. “I got it.”
“Okay, hold on.” Inching forward on my stomach, I lean over and reach down to take hold of his boot. I undo the zip, then push the leather to the side and his foot comes free.
It’s a simple fix. Within moments, he’s scrabbled back up the bank and is on the path, hunched over next to where I’m now in a sitting position. I notice he’s breathing heavily as he rests his head in his hands.
I recover his boot, then watch him with concern. “You okay?”
He stretches out the foot that had been trapped and winces but manages to turn his ankle in a circular motion, albeit stiffly and not without pain.
He tries it again the other way. “Think I’ve strained or sprained it, but it’s not broken.
But hell, give me a moment. I’m a bit dizzy. All the blood’s gone to my head.”
“At least it’s the right one for a change,” I murmur under my breath.
He hears me and snorts, then shakes his head. “Give me my fuckin’ boot, will you?”
He’s asked relatively nicely, so I pass it to him. He puts it on, but his rapidly swelling ankle prevents him from fastening the zip. After glaring at it, he turns and looks at me with a slight smirk. “Thought you were going to leave me there.”
“I thought about it,” I genuinely admit.
He barks a laugh. “You run fuckin’ fast.”
I raise and lower my shoulders. “I like running. I’ve done a few ten-Ks and a half marathon. Haven’t yet got up to a full, but one day I’d like to.”
Expecting mockery, I’m surprised at his response. “I preferred track to football when I was at school.” His eyes glaze as if he’s remembering. “I won a medal once.” That figures. He’s got more of an athletic build. Then he huffs out a breath. “But like everything else, that all went to shit.”
He seems lost in the past, and not in a good memory. I try to lighten the mood. “So, you’re saying you could catch me if you weren’t trying to run in motorcycle boots?”
“Which reminds me,” he says, absently, ignoring my question. “I need to fix a hobble on you.”
“Or you could wear more appropriate footwear,” I point out.
“Ain’t got any,” he replies. He raises a boot. “These are all I need.”
I mock gasp. “You’re saying my husband brought me to a hiking resort without trainers or walking boots?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling my wife.”
For some reason, we both find that funny. And when we catch each other's shared amusement on our faces, it makes it worse. He doubles up, clutching his belly, while I collapse in a fit of giggles.
When we finally stop laughing, I stand, a grin still curving my mouth. “Want a hand up?”
That his ankle is probably hurting more than he lets on shows when he gives in and holds out his hand.
I take it, brace, and though he’s in danger of pulling me down, somehow I give him enough support to get him onto his feet.
And when he grimaces as he puts weight on his injured leg, I relent and put my arm around him to help.
Bracing ourselves against each other, we look like a couple in some kind of odd three-legged race as we slowly make our way back to the cabin.
He sighs heavily as we get inside, and I help him onto the couch. Then I go to the shed with the freezer and bring back a bag of frozen peas. He’s already removed his boot and has his foot up on the seat. I place the makeshift poultice over his ankle.
He glances up. “You wasting our food?”
I shrug. “I don’t like peas anyway.”
He chuckles softly. “Me neither.”