Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Sarah
T his was a terrible idea.
I adjust my backpack for the tenth time in as many minutes, trying to ignore the dampness seeping through my jacket. What started as a light drizzle has steadily intensified, and now fat raindrops hammer against the hood of my jacket, drumming a mocking rhythm that seems to say: amateur, amateur, amateur .
The trail that looked so manageable on my phone screen last night is now a treacherous ribbon of mud snaking up the mountainside. Each step requires more concentration than the last as my boots—stiff with newness—slide and stick in the increasingly slippery terrain.
"Just a little farther," I mutter to myself, though I have no idea how far the viewpoint actually is. The clouds have descended, shrouding the higher elevations in a thick gray mist that makes it impossible to see more than twenty feet ahead.
I pause, catching my breath against a large pine tree. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to turn around. There won't be any spectacular view of three mountain ranges in this weather. The entire point of this hike has literally been swallowed by clouds.
But turning back now feels like admitting defeat. Like confirming I don't belong out here, that I'm exactly what everyone would expect. Sarah Miller, the baker who should stick to her ovens and measuring cups. Not Sarah Miller, the woman brave enough to step outside her comfort zone.
"The rain might let up," I tell myself, even as it continues to fall more heavily. "Maybe the clouds will clear once I reach the summit."
It's a lie, and I know it. But I didn't drag myself out of bed at dawn, drive all the way up here, and struggle this far up the trail just to give up. For once in my life, I'm going to follow through on something spontaneous. I'm going to reach that viewpoint, even if all I see is fog.
I push on, my boots squelching in the increasingly soggy trail. Another hundred yards reveals a steep section where rainwater now courses down like a small stream. I pick my way carefully across exposed roots and slippery rocks, using low-hanging branches to steady myself. By the time I make it up this section, my hands are muddy, my breathing heavy, and my earlier determination is wavering.
The rain intensifies, becoming a heavy curtain of water. The wind picks up, shaking the trees and sending cascades of droplets from the branches overhead. My supposedly waterproof jacket has given up the fight, moisture seeping through to my skin as water runs in rivulets down my neck. In the distance, I hear the first low rumble of thunder.
I should have known better. I should have checked the weather forecast more carefully. I should have listened to that little voice of caution instead of charging ahead with this impulsive plan to prove... what, exactly? That I could be adventurous? That I could step outside my comfortable bakery and embrace the wilderness the way Connor does every day?
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I freeze mid-step, counting the seconds before I see a flash of lightning through the trees. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three—there it is. The storm is still a few miles away, but moving closer.
I need to turn back. Now.
The realization brings both relief and disappointment. No breathtaking view of three mountain ranges today. No proof that Sarah Miller can be spontaneous and brave. Just a soggy, humbling trudge back to my car.
I carefully pivot on the narrow trail, wincing as cold rainwater slides down the back of my neck. The path looks even more intimidating going down. Steeper somehow, and the muddy sections feel more treacherous. I take a deep breath and start my descent, one tentative step at a time.
"Slow and steady," I whisper, trying to channel some of the confidence Connor always exudes when he talks about his outdoor adventures. "Focus on the next step."
For a few minutes, it works. I make progress down the trail. The deluge continues unabated, but I'm walking, inching closer to the safety of my car with each cautious step.
Then it happens.
My right foot lands on what looks like solid ground but turns out to be a slick patch of mud concealing a root. My ankle twists. My arms windmill frantically as I try to regain my balance. For one heart-stopping moment, I think I've caught myself. Then my left foot slides completely out from under me.
I don't even have time to scream.
The world tilts, then spins as I tumble off the edge of the trail. I'm falling, sliding, my hands clawing desperately for anything to stop my descent. Pain flares as branches scrape my face and hands. My backpack catches on something, jerking me roughly before tearing free.
Then, impact. Hard and sudden.
I land with a breathless "oof" on a small ledge several feet below the trail. Pain shoots up my left leg as my ankle bends at an angle nature never intended. For a moment, I just lie there, rain pelting my face, too stunned to move.
When the initial shock subsides, I try to take inventory. Nothing feels broken, at least not seriously. My palms are scraped raw from trying to catch myself. My jeans are torn at the knee, with blood seeping through the fabric. But it's my ankle that concerns me most. There’s a hot, pulsing pain that intensifies when I attempt to shift position.
"Okay," I gasp, rolling carefully onto my side. "Just... get back to the trail."
I look up at where I fell from. It's only about six feet, but the slope is steep and muddy, with nothing substantial to grip. Under normal circumstances, maybe I could scramble back up. With an injured ankle? Not a chance.
I fumble for my phone in my jacket pocket, my cold fingers clumsy with fear and pain. One bar of service. Just one. I try to call Maya, but the call fails to connect. I try Kathryn next. Nothing. 911? The call begins to ring, then drops.
"You have got to be kidding me," I mutter, staring at the useless device in my hand.
Thunder cracks directly overhead now, making me flinch. The rain is coming down in sheets, plastering my hair to my face despite my hood. I'm cold, I'm hurt, and I'm completely alone on a mountain in a storm.
I try to stand, putting weight gingerly on my injured ankle. White-hot pain shoots up my leg, and I collapse back onto the muddy ledge with a cry that's swallowed by the storm.
I'm trapped.
Panic rises in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. I force myself to take deep breaths. Someone will notice I'm missing eventually. Maya will wonder why I haven't checked in. Or maybe a fellow hiker will come along.
But even as I think it, I know how unlikely that is. Who else would be stupid enough to be out in this weather?
"Help!" I call, my voice pathetically small against the roar of the storm. "Can anyone hear me?"
The only response is another crack of thunder, so close now that I feel it vibrate through the ground beneath me.
I pull my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible, to conserve what little body heat I have left. My camera bag, miraculously still slung across my body, digs into my side. I could document my own idiocy, I suppose. The Last Photos of Sarah Miller: Baker, Amateur Photographer, Mountain Disaster .
The thought of never seeing my bakery again, never kneading another batch of dough, never glimpsing Connor walking through my door on a Tuesday morning—it brings tears to my eyes that blend seamlessly with the raindrops on my face.
"Help!" I try again, louder this time. "Please! Someone!"
My voice echoes briefly before being swallowed by another crash of thunder that shakes the mountainside. I flinch, curling tighter into myself as the storm intensifies around me.
No one knows exactly where I am. The rain is coming down harder and harder, turning the ledge beneath me into a miniature river of mud and debris. My injured ankle throbs in time with my racing heart. I glance up at the steep incline I tumbled down—my only route back to the trail—now slick with running water.
I'm completely, utterly trapped. And the storm is only getting worse.
A violent gust of wind sends a spray of icy water into my face, and I turn away, pressing my forehead against my knees. I've spent my whole life playing it safe, and the one time I try to be adventurous...
Lightning cracks overhead, illuminating the forest around me in a brief, harsh flash. In that split second, I see just how precarious my position really is—the ledge I'm huddled on isn't much wider than my body, with a much steeper drop continuing below.
Darkness returns, and with it, a terrifying thought: What if no one finds me before nightfall?
* * *
Time blurs as I huddle on my narrow ledge. Minutes stretch like hours, each rumble of thunder making me flinch. The temperature drops with the storm, and I can't stop shivering. I've tried shouting for help a few more times, but my voice is swallowed by the wind and rain.
Rational thought begins to slip away, replaced by rising panic. No one knows where I am. My phone is useless. Night will fall eventually, and the thought of being trapped here in the dark?—
A sound cuts through the storm. Not thunder, not wind. A voice.
I freeze, straining to hear. Maybe I imagined it, my desperate mind playing tricks.
Then it comes again, clearer this time.
"Sarah!"
My heart lurches. I know that voice.
"Hello?" I call back, my own voice thin and wavering. "I'm here! Down here!"
For several agonizing seconds, there's nothing. Just rain and thunder. Then movement above me on the trail. A dark shape moving through the mist.
"Sarah!" Connor's face appears at the edge of the trail, his expression a mixture of relief and alarm. "Are you hurt?"
The sight of him—rain-soaked, mud-splattered, but wonderfully, impossibly real—makes my throat tight with emotion.
"My ankle," I manage. "I fell. I can't climb back up."
He assesses the situation quickly, his eyes scanning the slope between us, then the ledge where I'm huddled. "Hang on. I'm coming down."
"No!" I protest. "It's too steep, too slippery?—"
But he's already moving, finding footholds in the muddy slope, descending with controlled slides that somehow look deliberate rather than desperate. He makes it look easy, like this is just another day in the mountains for Connor Callahan.
Within moments, he's crouching beside me on the narrow ledge, his larger frame blocking some of the rain. His hand, warm despite the chill, touches my shoulder.
"Let me see your ankle."
I wince as he gently examines it, his fingers careful but certain.
"Sprained, not broken, I think," he says. "But we need to get you down from here." His eyes meet mine, intense blue even in the storm's dim light. "I saw your car at the trailhead. What were you thinking, Sarah? This trail is treacherous even in good weather for someone who doesn't hike regularly."
There's frustration in his voice, but something else too—an urgency that seems more than the situation calls for.
"It was supposed to be easy and I wanted to see the view," I say, the explanation sounding pathetically inadequate even to my own ears.
Connor's jaw tightens, but he doesn't press further. Instead, he shrugs off his backpack, pulls out a small first aid kit, and quickly wraps my ankle with practiced efficiency.
"I'm going to carry you back to the trail," he says, zipping the kit away. "Then we'll get you down to safety."
"You can't carry me up that," I protest, looking at the steep slope.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s not quite a smile, but something close. "Watch me."
Before I can argue further, he's positioning himself beside me. "Arms around my neck."
I hesitate, suddenly aware of how close we are, of the rain dripping from his dark hair, of how his eyes never leave my face.
"Sarah." My name is both a command and a plea.
I loop my arms around his neck, and in one fluid motion, he lifts me. The movement sends a jolt of pain through my ankle, and I bury my face against his shoulder to muffle a gasp.
"Sorry," he murmurs, his breath warm against my rain-chilled skin.
I'm acutely aware of his strength as he shifts me in his arms, finding the best hold before turning to face the slope. My fingers grip the wet fabric of his jacket, and I can feel the solid muscle beneath, the steady beat of his heart against my side.
"Ready?" he asks.
No, I think. I'm not ready for this. Not ready for being this close to him, for the strange intimacy of being carried in his arms, for the confusion swirling inside me alongside relief and pain.
"Yes," I say instead.
The ascent is a blur of sensation—Connor's careful but determined movement up the slope, one secure foothold at a time; the strain evident in his breathing but never in his hold on me; the momentary shelter of his body against the worst of the storm. He mutters under his breath as we climb—something about reckless hikers and stubborn bakers—but his arms never falter.
When we reach the trail, he carefully sets me down, keeping one arm firmly around my waist for support.
"That was the hard part," he says, though I can hear the effort in his voice that belies the claim. "Think you can walk if I help you?"
I test my injured ankle, putting just a hint of weight on it. Pain shoots up my leg, but it's bearable. Barely.
"I think so," I say, gritting my teeth. "Just... slowly."
Connor shifts to my side, wrapping one strong arm around my waist while guiding my arm across his shoulders. His height makes the position a bit awkward, but he adjusts, bending slightly to accommodate me.
"Lean on me," he instructs. "And tell me if you need to stop."
We begin our slow journey down the trail, each step a careful negotiation. The rain continues to pelt us, turning the path into a muddy obstacle course. Connor is solid beside me, taking most of my weight, his body heat a stark contrast to my rain-chilled skin.
"Connor," I begin, not even sure what I want to say. Thank you? I'm sorry? Why did you come looking for me?
He glances down, raindrops clinging to his eyelashes, and something in his expression makes my words die in my throat. There's relief, yes, and the remnants of frustration. But there's something else. An intensity, a focused concern that seems deeper than the situation warrants.
For a moment, Connor Callahan is looking at me like I matter. Like I'm not just his Tuesday morning coffee stop or his friend from school or the town baker. Like I'm someone he couldn't bear to lose.
It's gone almost as quickly as it appeared, his expression shifting back to determined focus.
"Save your energy," he says. "We've got a ways to go yet."