Chapter 002 Joel
I can hear her struggling through the drifts, her breathing already ragged as she tries to match my pace. Every step she takes comes with a sound—a grunt of effort, the scratch of nylon brushing against pine boughs, the muttered curse when her boot sinks deeper than she expected.
She’s fighting the terrain instead of working with it. That kind of energy expenditure burns through reserves fast.
But she’s following. That’s something.
The storm is building faster than the forecast predicted. The wind cuts through the trees with increasing violence, stripping the branches and sending snow swirling in dense, blinding sheets. Visibility has dropped to maybe twenty feet. What started as gentle flurries an hour ago has evolved into a legitimate whiteout.
"Watch the root there," I call back. I don’t turn around. I hear her stumble, the scuff of a boot catching wood, but she recovers without a word.
Most civilians would be whining by now. They’d complain about the cold, the pace, the fact that they can’t feel their toes. But she just pushes forward, her camera bag clutched against her chest like it’s more precious than her own life.
Stubborn. And foolish as hell for wandering this far into the backcountry alone.
A gust of wind strong enough to shake the massive pines hits us head-on. I hear her sharp intake of breath as the icy air cuts through her layers. I stop and turn, finding her hunched against the blast, snow already accumulating in the dark waves of her hair.
"You still with me?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. The wind tears the words away, forcing me to shout.
She looks up at me through snowflake-dusted lashes. Her cheeks are flushed high with cold, her lips pale. "I’m fine."
Liar.
She’s already shivering. We’ve only been walking for ten minutes, but the adrenaline dump from the initial scare is wearing off, leaving her vulnerable to the temperature drop. Still, there’s a glint of determination in her eyes that makes me respect her a little more than I want to.
"Stay close," I order, turning back to the trail. "Visibility’s going to get worse."
The path I know by heart is becoming treacherous. Snow has filled in the natural depressions and smoothed over the rocks that usually mark safe footing. I navigate by memory and instinct, reading the subtle shape of the land beneath the white blanket. She doesn’t have those advantages. Every step she takes is a gamble.
I hear her slip and catch herself, hear the sharp huff of breath that escapes when she regains her balance. The tactical part of my brain catalogs her every movement. She’s favoring her right leg slightly. She’s pushing herself harder than her conditioning allows, and her body is starting to protest.
The wind shifts direction, driving snow directly into our faces. I squint against the stinging flakes, feeling them melt against my skin and immediately freeze again. Behind me, she gasps as the full force of it hits her.
"Jesus," she mutters.
I catch the note of real fear creeping into her voice. Good. Fear keeps you alert. Fear keeps you moving. Overconfidence kills people out here faster than hypothermia.
We crest a small rise. I pause to let her close the gap. She emerges from the swirling snow like a ghost, her face pale except for those wind-burned cheeks, her breath coming in sharp white puffs. Snow clings to her coat, her scarf, the curve of her hips where the fabric pulls tight.
"How much further?" she asks. She has to yell to be heard over the roar of the pines.
"Half a mile." I study her face, looking for signs of shock. There’s a fine tremor in her hands that isn’t just from gripping her camera. "Can you make it?"
The question seems to offend her. Her spine straightens, and for a moment the exhaustion disappears from her expression, replaced by pure grit.
"I can make it."
I almost smile. But the wind chooses that moment to unleash another vicious gust that nearly knocks her sideways.
Reflex takes over. I step forward and catch her arm, hauling her back to center. I steady her against my body to keep her upright.
The contact is electric. Even through our layers of heavy clothing, she feels warm and soft and alive. For a split second, the storm recedes. The cold, the danger, the need for shelter—it all fades behind the immediate sensory input of her body pressed against my side.
"Thanks," she breathes. I can feel the warmth of her words against my neck.
I should let go. I should step back and put distance between us before this attraction I’m fighting gets any claws in me. Instead, I find myself adjusting her scarf, pulling it higher around her throat where the wind has loosened it.
"Stay closer," I tell her. My voice is gravel. "The trail gets narrow up ahead."
We push forward into the teeth of the storm. The snow is coming down so hard now that I can barely see the familiar landmarks I use to navigate. The old lightning-split oak that marks the halfway point appears out of the white like a specter, its bare branches reaching toward us like gnarled fingers.
"Stay right behind me," I call back. "Don’t deviate from my path."
Every few steps I listen for her. The whisper of her movement through the snow. The occasional soft sound she makes when she has to push through a particularly deep drift.
The trail dips downward here, following the curve of a frozen creek bed. In good weather, it’s an easy walk. In this storm, with ice hidden under fresh powder and the wind trying to push us off balance, it’s a broken ankle waiting to happen.
I take each step carefully, testing the ground before committing my full weight. Behind me, she mimics my movements with surprising grace for someone who clearly doesn’t belong out here. She’s learning. Adapting. That’s smarter than I expected.
My boot slides slightly on a hidden patch.
"There’s ice under the snow here," I warn. "Watch your—"
The warning comes too late.
I hear her foot hit the same slick spot. I hear the sharp cry of alarm as she goes down hard.
I spin around. She’s on her hands and knees in the snow, her camera flung to one side, dark hair spilling from beneath her wool hat.
"Shit."
I’m beside her in two strides, my hands on her shoulders before she can try to get up on her own. "You hurt?"
She pushes herself up to sitting, wincing as she tests her weight on her left wrist. Snow clings to her coat, her jeans, the side of her face where she hit the ground.
"I’m okay," she says, but her voice shakes. "Just bruised my pride more than anything."
I help her to her feet, my hands spanning her waist as I lift her easily from the snow. For a moment she’s pressed against me again, helpless and soft, and I have to force myself to step back before I do something stupid. Like pull her closer.
"Can you walk?" I ask, scanning her for signs of real injury.
She takes a tentative step, then another. "Yeah. I’m fine."
Her eyes dart to the snow a few feet away. Her face crumples. "My camera."
The lens cap has popped off. Snow is already beginning to accumulate on the exposed glass. I retrieve it for her, brushing off the powder with a gloved thumb and checking for cracks. The body seems intact, though I can’t speak for the electronics inside.
"Looks okay," I say, handing it back. "But we need to get it dried off."
She takes it from me with hands that are definitely trembling now, cradling the device against her chest like an infant. "Thank you."
The wind howls through the trees above us, shaking loose more snow and ice. A branch cracks somewhere in the distance, the sound sharp as a gunshot. The storm is getting worse by the minute. We’re still ten minutes out.
"We need to move," I tell her. "Can you make it the rest of the way?"
She looks up at me through snow-crusted lashes. Her dark eyes are fierce despite the exhaustion I can read in every line of her body.
"I said I’m fine."
I turn back toward the trail. "Stay close. We’re almost there."
The last stretch is the worst. Snow whips horizontally through the trees, stinging any exposed skin like sandblast. It’s nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. I keep my head down, trusting my feet to find the path, listening for the woman behind me to make sure she hasn’t fallen again.
When the dark outline of the cabin finally emerges from the swirling white, I hear her sob. It’s a small, wet sound of relief that the wind almost swallows.
"There," I say, pointing through the storm. "That’s home."
She looks up at the rustic structure. For the first time since I found her trespassing on my land, she smiles.
"It’s beautiful," she breathes.
The porch steps are already buried under drifting snow. I have to kick through the powder to clear a path to the door. Behind me, she stumbles slightly as she tries to climb the steps. Her legs are done.
Without thinking, I reach back to steady her.
This time, when my hand closes around her arm, I don’t let go.