Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Connor
T he rain hammers down relentlessly, turning the narrow trail into a muddy river. Sarah's weight against my side grows heavier with each step, her face paler than I've ever seen it. The brave front she's putting on isn't fooling either of us. Every time she puts even a hint of weight on that ankle, I feel her body tense against mine.
"You doing okay?" I ask, my voice nearly lost in the steady drumming of rain on leaves.
"Never better," she says through gritted teeth. "Isn't this how everyone spends their Thursday mornings?"
Even injured and stranded in a thunderstorm, she's got spark. I can't help smiling, though worry gnaws at my gut. We're making progress, but too slowly. The temperature is dropping, and Sarah's shivering has gotten worse over the past ten minutes. Her jeans and light jacket are soaked through, and the rain shows no signs of letting up.
She stumbles slightly on a slick patch of mud, a small cry escaping her lips as her injured ankle takes weight. I tighten my grip around her waist, nearly lifting her off the ground.
"Sorry," she whispers, her fingers digging into my shoulder.
"Don't apologize." I scan the trail ahead, trying to get my bearings through the sheets of rain. We're at least two miles from the trailhead where I left my truck, and at this rate, it would take hours to get there. Hours Sarah doesn't have in her condition.
We need shelter. Somewhere to get dry, to properly examine her ankle, to wait out the worst of the storm.
And then it hits me.
"The Johnson cabin," I murmur, memories surfacing of exploring these woods with my brothers years ago.
"What?" Sarah looks up at me, rain streaming down her face.
"There's an old hunting cabin not far from here. The Johnson family used it for generations before they sold the land to the forest service. Liam, Declan, Rowan, and I used to explore it when we were kids." I adjust my grip on her waist, taking more of her weight. "It's rough, but it's shelter."
"How far?"
"Quarter mile, maybe less. Just off the main trail." I look down at her, studying her face. "Can you make it that far?"
She nods, a determined set to her jaw that I've seen countless times over the years. When she entered her first baking competition at sixteen. When she took over the bakery after her mom got sick. When she insisted on catering Kathryn and Nolan's wedding despite having the flu. Sarah Miller doesn't give up easily.
"Lead the way, mountain man."
I guide us off the main trail onto a narrower path, nearly invisible now with overgrowth and rain. The going is slower here, the terrain more challenging. I'm practically carrying her at points, her arm tight around my shoulders, my arm firm around her waist.
"Almost there," I encourage her as we navigate a particularly rough section. "Hold on."
She's trembling against me, whether from cold or pain or both, I can't tell. Her normally rosy cheeks are pale, lips taking on a bluish tinge that sets off alarm bells in my head. I need to get her warm, and soon.
Then, through the curtain of rain, I spot the weathered outline of the cabin, half-hidden by pines and nearly reclaimed by the forest. Relief surges through me.
"There it is," I tell her, nodding toward the structure.
Sarah squints through the rain. "That's a cabin?"
I can't blame her skepticism. The place looks even more rundown than I remember. The small porch sags, boards are grayed with age and the single window cloudy with years of neglect. But the roof seems intact, and right now, that's all that matters.
"Don't judge a book by its cover," I say, maneuvering us toward it. "Or a cabin by its extreme rustic charm."
That earns me a small laugh, which I count as a victory.
We make our way up to the porch, the old boards creaking ominously under our weight. The door is secured with a simple latch, slightly warped from years of mountain weather. I shift Sarah gently to lean against the wall while I work the stiff mechanism.
"When's the last time you were here?" she asks, arms wrapped around herself against the chill.
"Ten years, maybe?" The latch finally gives way. "Rowan and I used it as a halfway point when we were marking new trails for the lodge." I test the door, finding it stuck from disuse and swollen wood. "Stand back."
I throw my shoulder against the weathered door, once, twice. On the third push, it gives way with a groan of protest. Stale air rushes out. It’s musty and thick with dust, but wonderfully dry.
"After you," I say, stepping aside.
Sarah peers into the dark interior. "You sure there aren't, I don't know, bears hibernating in there or something?"
"Wrong season for hibernation," I say with mock seriousness. "But I'll protect you from any non-hibernating wildlife."
I help her through the doorway into the cabin's single room. It's exactly as I remembered, if mustier. A simple space with rough-hewn log walls, a small stone fireplace on one end, and sparse furnishings. A narrow cot sits against one wall, covered in what was once a wool blanket, now gray with dust. A rickety table with a single chair occupies one corner, and a few shelves hold ancient cans and jars, their labels long faded.
"It's not much," I mutter, guiding Sarah toward the cot. "But it'll keep us dry."
She sinks onto the edge of the cot, wincing as she stretches out her injured leg. "Right now, not drowning in rain feels like luxury."
I glance around the cabin, taking in the sparse furnishings and years of dust. The rain hammers against the roof, a steady drumming that somehow makes the small space feel even more isolated from the outside world. Water drips from my hair, forming a small puddle at my feet.
Sarah's shivering hasn't let up. Her clothes are soaked through, her face still too pale. I need to check that ankle properly, get her warm, maybe start a fire.
But as I stand there, watching her attempt to wring water from her hair, I'm struck by the strangeness of being here. Alone with Sarah Miller in this forgotten cabin, miles from anyone else. I've guided countless people through these mountains, helped hikers in all sorts of predicaments, but this feels different.
Because it's her.
* * *
Sarah's teeth chatter as she tries to stop shivering, her hands rubbing up and down her arms in a futile attempt to generate warmth. The cot creaks beneath her weight, dust motes dancing in the air around her.
"Let me check that ankle," I say, crouching down in front of her.
She nods, extending her leg slightly. I carefully untie her hiking boot, easing it off as gently as possible. She still winces, a small hiss of pain escaping through clenched teeth.
"Sorry," I murmur, setting the boot aside.
Her sock is soaked through, the area around her ankle already swelling and turning an angry purple. I've seen enough sprains to know this one is bad. She won't be walking normally anytime soon.
"Not great, huh?" she asks, watching my face.
"It's definitely sprained," I confirm, gently probing the area. "But I don't think it's broken."
I glance toward the fireplace, hoping to find something to burn. Getting her warm is the priority now. Her lips still have that bluish tinge I don't like.
"I'm going to start a fire," I tell her, moving to the hearth.
There's a small pile of old kindling in a box beside the fireplace, but a quick search of the cabin reveals no actual firewood. A glance out the window confirms what I already know. Everything outside is thoroughly soaked by the downpour.
"No firewood," I say, frustration edging into my voice. "We could burn the chair, but..." I eye the rickety piece of furniture dubiously.
Sarah pulls her knees up to her chest, making herself smaller. "It's okay. I'm not that cold."
The lie is obvious in the tremor of her voice, the constant shivering. I scan the cabin, looking for anything that might help. I spot another wool blanket hanging from a hook near the door. It's dusty and probably hasn't been washed in years, but it's dry.
I grab it, giving it a sharp shake to dispel the worst of the dust. "Not exactly five-star accommodations," I say, draping it around her shoulders.
"Better than sitting in the rain," she replies, clutching the edges of the blanket and pulling it tight around herself.
I kneel in front of her again, returning my attention to her ankle. "I need to wrap this properly. I have a compression bandage in my pack."
As I dig through my backpack for the first aid kit, I'm acutely aware of her gaze following me. The cabin suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago. One small room, with barely ten feet between the cot and the opposite wall.
I find the elastic bandage and kneel before her again. "This will help with the swelling, but it's going to hurt while I wrap it."
She nods, steeling herself. "Do what you need to do."
I take her foot in my hands as gently as possible, cradling her heel in my palm. Her skin is cold and damp from the rain, but somehow the contact still feels like warmth spreading up my arms. I focus on the task, wrapping the bandage with practiced precision, trying not to notice how small her ankle looks in my hands or how she bits her lower lip when I hit a tender spot.
"You're good at this," she says softly.
"Lots of practice." I secure the end of the bandage. "Hazard of the job."
My fingers linger a moment too long against her skin. I should move away now. Check the windows for drafts, maybe, or see if there's anything useful in the ancient cans on the shelves.
But I don't move.
I look up to find her watching me, those warm brown eyes reflecting the dim gray light from the single window. There's something in her expression I've never seen before. Or maybe never allowed myself to see. Vulnerability, yes, but something else too. Something that makes my heart beat faster.
The rain hammers relentlessly against the roof, the sound amplified in the small space. A crack of thunder shakes the walls. But inside the cabin everything feels impossibly still.
I'm suddenly aware of how close we are. My hands still holding her ankle, her face just inches above mine as I kneel before her. I can see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the small scar at her temple from when she fell off her bike in sixth grade, the way her eyelashes clump together, still damp from the rain.
This is Sarah. Sarah Miller. The girl who's been selling me coffee and scones every Tuesday for years. My friend since childhood. Not someone I should be noticing like this.
I clear my throat and pull away, rising to my feet too quickly. "Keep that elevated," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
I move to the window, putting distance between us, staring out at the sheets of rain still pummeling the forest. But even with my back turned, I'm aware of her presence, of the sound of the blanket rustling as she adjusts her position on the cot, of her soft exhale as she settles.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes find their way back to her. Once. Twice. Each time, I force my gaze away, only for it to drift back moments later, drawn by some pull I don't want to analyze.
The third time, she catches me looking. Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us—a current I've never felt before with Sarah. Or maybe I have, but never let myself acknowledge it.
She doesn't look away. Neither do I.