Chapter 27
Steph
Drawing herself into a tight ball, Steph listened hard for any sign of what was happening. Jack had been seen, at least. She refused to consider the alternative.
She checked the beacon. No new messages. The last update sat there unchanged. Rescuers were still coming. Still too far away. Jack needed help now.
Her heart was pounding too hard, pulsing through her body and making it difficult to think. She closed her eyes and breathed out through her nose.
Jack had told her to run, to find a place to hide, send the message, and wait.
She’d done all of it. And for what? For Jack to get himself captured? Shot?
Her nose burned, and her eyes filled with tears.
Now she was sitting alone, straining to hear what was happening out there.
Jack was willing to sacrifice himself to keep her safe. She loved that about him. And she hated it.
The poachers were dangerous. They’d already proven that. Men like that didn’t leave problems behind. Jack knew it. That’s why he sent her away.
He’d made his choice. She was making hers.
He might be the one.
She hadn’t let herself think about that until now.
She’d been managing it, keeping it at arm’s length, telling herself it was the situation and the dark and the hours of moving through the wilderness together.
Then it was running for their lives, hand in hand, huddling together in the crevice, so close she could barely breathe.
And the kiss. The kiss held a lifetime of promises in a matter of seconds.
But that was only part of it. She’d been doing this since the gear swap, since the Jingle Run, since he stood next to her in the dark and read the terrain the same way she did and didn’t need to be told what to do next.
Maybe even from the moment he yanked her out of the path of that out-of-control sedan.
Steph had spent years building a life that was full and purposeful and genuinely hers, and she’d done it in part by being careful about who she let matter.
The last few years, she’d focused on her programs at the college and on her races and planning for her own future. She’d learned the difference between being careful and being afraid, and somewhere in the last several hours, she’d crossed a line she’d been trying to deny.
She’d been telling herself the clock was her biggest problem.
The biological clock, the career clock, the window she felt closing on the life she’d always pictured.
She’d let that noise fill the space where clearer thinking ought to live.
She’d looked at Chris and seen the picture of what she wanted and told herself the picture was close enough.
It wasn’t.
Jack was not a picture. He was the actual thing, the version she hadn’t been willing to admit she was looking for, and she’d spent months keeping him in the category of “obstacle” because that was easier than what the alternative meant.
She thought about the morning Jack pulled her out of the path of that car on Grand Avenue.
At the time, she hadn’t known who he was.
She’d taken him in and noticed his height and broad shoulders, and how handsome he was and how he had a face she wanted to get to know.
Even then, there was something about him.
Something that drew her to him.
But then she heard his name and hated that she hadn’t recognized him. She should have; she’d seen his picture often enough. She should’ve known immediately he was Jack Swisher, the man who was destroying her dreams.
The one . . . yes.
Jack was out there now. With poachers willing to kill in order to keep making money, and she was hiding in a pile of deadfall, willing to let Jack die.
No, I’m not. I’m not willing to let him die so I can live.
She reached for the beacon. Still nothing new. They were out of time. Waiting was no longer an option.
Her best hope was the poachers didn’t know the area like she did. That maybe she could find a way to sneak up on them. Chances were good, they’d be watching for her, which would make it even more dangerous.
She needed a plan.
Charging in blind was not an option. She needed to move carefully, use the terrain, stay in the trees, and see what she was dealing with first. Steph had the bear spray. It might help up close. Her backpack held a pocketknife and a multi-tool, standard gear she never went without.
The phrase “don’t bring a knife to a gunfight” came to mind and brought a small smile to her lips. How about bear spray? Is there a phrase for using that against a rifle?
Bear spray had a range of about thirty feet if the wind was right. Against a man who wasn’t expecting it, she might stand a chance. At the very least, it’d blind him and buy her enough time to get Jack out.
He might already be dead. The unwanted thought floated to the surface. No, he’s fine. We’ll both be fine.
Now was the time for action, not fear. Stay low. Stay quiet. Use what she had and find Jack. That was the plan.
Not a very good plan, but it was better than nothing.
Steph closed her eyes and tried to visualize the area.
She knew where the camp was and where the meadow was.
Is there anything in the sled I can use?
Each of the individual bags was carefully packed to mimic what she would need to complete The Frozen Divide, not to fight back against poachers who were holding her boyfriend hostage.
Boyfriend? She shook her head. Where did that come from?
Back to the bags. What could she use that she had in her sled?
Mostly comfort items. Nothing that would change their situation. Still, her mind kept circling back to the spare pair of wool socks tucked in her bag. They would feel amazing, enough to make everything seem a little better, but the crusty ones she had on would have to suffice.
She had meant to change them after their break, before heading back to the lodge. That plan vanished when they heard the snowmobile and decided to investigate.
Wrong. They didn’t decide. Jack wanted to head back and let someone know about it once they were safe. Steph had insisted they check it out. She had been the one to put them in danger.
Steph tucked the beacon back in her breast pocket and pulled her mittens on.
She flexed her hands twice, working circulation back into her fingers.
Her hips ached, and her legs were stiff from the cold.
She moved each joint through its range deliberately, the way she did before a race started when the temperature was low and the body needed convincing.
Her students came to mind. Every class, the lesson was the same, varied so they would learn it.
Clear thinking under pressure was a skill, not a personality trait.
Something built through practice until it appears when needed.
That belief had been forged over years of hard miles and even harder conditions.
She was going to need all of it.