Chapter 2 – Joel
The woman behind me is too damn soft for this wilderness.
I can hear her struggling through the snow, her breathing already labored as she tries to keep up with my pace.
Each step she takes is accompanied by a small sound—a grunt of effort, the whisper of her coat brushing against branches, the occasional muttered curse when she sinks deeper than expected.
She's fighting the terrain instead of working with it, and it's going to wear her out fast.
But she's following. That's something, at least.
The storm is building faster than I anticipated, and the last thing I need is her collapsing from exhaustion before we reach shelter. The wind cuts through the trees with increasing violence, sending snow swirling in dense sheets that reduce visibility to maybe twenty feet.
What started as gentle flurries an hour ago is now a legitimate blizzard in the making.
"Watch the root there," I call back without turning around, hearing her stumble slightly behind me.
She recovers without complaint, which surprises me. Most civilians would be whining by now—about the cold, the pace, the fact that they can't feel their fingers. But she just pushes forward, her camera clutched against her chest like it's more precious than her own safety.
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, and 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 her hair.
"You still with me?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, but concern makes me sound harsher, not gentler.
She looks up at me through snowflake-dusted lashes, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. "I'm fine."
Liar.
She's already shivering, and we've only been walking for ten minutes. But there's a 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 already becoming treacherous.
Snow has filled in the natural depressions and hidden the rocks that usually mark safe footing.
I navigate by memory and instinct, reading the shape of the land beneath the white blanket, but 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 catalogues her every movement, her breathing pattern, the way she's favoring her right leg slightly now.
She's pushing herself harder than she should, and her body is starting to protest.
The wind shifts direction, driving snow directly into our faces now. I squint against the stinging flakes, feeling them melt against my skin and immediately freeze again. Behind me, I hear her gasp as the full force of it hits her.
"Jesus," she mutters, and I catch the note of real fear creeping into her voice.
Good. Fear will keep her alert, keep her moving. Overconfidence kills people out here faster than hypothermia.
We crest a small rise, and I pause to let her catch up.
She emerges from the swirling snow like a ghost, her face pale except for those pink cheeks, her breath coming in sharp puffs that are immediately torn away by the wind.
Snow clings to her coat, her scarf, the curve of her hips where the fabric pulls tight.
"How much further?" she asks, having to raise her voice over the wind.
"Half a mile." I study her face, looking for signs that she's reaching her limit. Her lips are starting to lose color, and 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 determination.
"I can make it."
I almost smile, but the wind chooses that moment to unleash another vicious gust that nearly knocks her sideways. Without thinking, I step forward and catch her arm, steadying her against my body.
The contact is electric, even through our layers of clothing. She's warm and soft and alive, and for a split second I forget about the storm, forget about getting to shelter, forget about everything except the way she fits against my side.
"Thanks," she breathes, and I can feel her words against my neck where her face is turned up toward mine.
I should let go. Should step back and put distance between us before this attraction I'm fighting gets any stronger. 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 rough. "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 hear her breathing, 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 snow and the wind trying to push us off balance, it's treacherous as hell.
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, which is smarter than I expected.
"There's ice under the snow here," I warn, feeling my boot slide slightly on a hidden patch. "Watch your—"
The warning comes too late. I hear her foot hit the same slick spot, hear her sharp cry of alarm as she goes down hard. I spin around to find her 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 slightly 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 slightly. "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, her body soft and warm despite the cold, 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 camera lies in the snow a few feet away, and I watch her face crumple slightly as she sees it. The lens cap has come off, and snow is already beginning to accumulate on the exposed glass.
"My camera," she whispers.
I retrieve it for her, brushing off the snow and checking for obvious damage. The body seems intact, though I can't speak to the electronics. "Looks okay. But we need to get it dried off."
She takes it from me with hands that are definitely trembling now, cradling it against her chest. "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, and we're still ten minutes from the cabin.
"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 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 and making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
When the dark outline of my cabin finally emerges from the swirling snow, I actually hear her sob with relief.
"There," I say, pointing through the storm. "That's home."
She looks up at the rustic structure and for the first time since I found her, she smiles.
"It's beautiful," she breathes.
The porch steps are already buried under drifting snow, and I have to kick through it to clear a path to the door. Behind me, she stumbles slightly as she climbs the steps, and without thinking, I reach back to steady her.
This time, when my hand closes around her arm, I don't let go.