Chapter 3
Alex
Well done, you idiot.
The second her cheeks went from pink to red, I should have backed off.
She looked as if she’d been dropped into a quiz show she never applied for, and there I was, tossing in a cheeky line like a prize muppet.
Most people would have batted it straight back.
She didn’t. The way her shoulders tucked in, the way her gaze dipped to the counter… she clearly wasn’t comfortable.
And yet I still said it. Brilliant.
I clear my throat and try again, behaving like an actual adult.
“Right. Before I make an even bigger fool of myself… I’m Alex.
Alex Harris. And this is Phil Webb.” I lift the mountain-shaped donation tin.
“We’re with Fellside Mountain Rescue. We were hoping you might take one of our collection boxes for the counter. ”
The blonde studies my outstretched hand as though she’s deciding whether handshakes are still socially acceptable, then gives it the quickest, lightest shake in recorded history. “Um… sure. By the till is fine.”
Her voice is soft. Careful. Shy.
Her friend behind the counter is anything but. “Thank goodness someone here has functional vocal cords,” she says brightly. “I’m Christina. And this blushing goddess,” she nods at the blonde, who looks ready to retreat into a flower display, “is Emma.”
Emma shoots her a glare sharp enough to fell a small tree. “Ex friend.”
I can’t help the grin. “Nice to meet you both.”
Emma’s expression flickers. A tiny shift, like she’s weighing me up. Something in her face softens, just a fraction.
“You’re Estelle’s granddaughter, aren’t you?” I say gently. “My gran knows her. They used to trade Victoria sponge and complain about parking on market days.”
Emma’s eyes lift to mine in surprise. “Oh. Yes. That sounds like Nana.”
The tension in her shoulders loosens a little. Not much, but enough that something warm nudges my chest. Absolutely great timing, given I'm trying to look competent and not like a man who imprints on strangers.
Christina, leans on the counter. “So, Alex… where do the local men hide? Purely for scientific research.”
Emma emits a strangled little noise.
I pretend not to notice. Not because I think it will help, but because the idea of her looking for other men sends an entirely unreasonable spark of jealousy through me.
Ridiculous. I’ve known her for ten seconds and yet here I am, ready to tell her that most guys in the village are knobheads.
It’s her shyness, her gentleness that’s thrown me off balance more than anything.
“The Unicorn,” I suggest. “Behind the square. Locals, pints, gossip, rugby.”
Christina brightens. “Rugby, you say? Will your shy friend here be there too?”
She directs an openly appreciative look at Phil.
Phil turns scarlet. “Um… maybe.”
I nearly laugh. “We’re heading there this afternoon to watch the match.”
Christina claps her hands. “Perfect. We’ll come after we close the shop.”
Emma looks horrified. “Christina!”
“What?” Christina says innocently. “We don’t want the village thinking we’re some great mystery or a pair of hermits.”
Emma goes pink. I look away before my staring becomes obvious.
I’m about to reassure her she doesn’t have to come if she'd rather avoid social torture—
Both my phone and Phil’s buzz at the same time.
We pull them out. One glance is enough.
“Callout,” Phil says.
“Rescue mission,” I clarify.
Christina straightens. Emma’s eyes widen, something that looks like worry flickering across her face.
I shove my phone back in my pocket. “We might not make it to the Unicorn later. Depends how long this takes.”
“Oh,” Christina says softly.
“But we’ll be there tomorrow,” I add. “Match on again. Same place, same time.”
I’m technically speaking to Christina, but the words are aimed squarely at Emma.
I turn to her properly. She’s gripping the counter, cheeks flushed, eyes uncertain but open in a way that makes me want to do something to reassure her. And for one absurd second, right in the middle of an emergency, I want to reach across and steady her hand.
Instead, I offer a small smile. “I hope I’ll see you there, Emma.”
Her breath catches. “Right. Yes. Maybe.”
“Maybe’s good,” I say.
Then Phil and I push out into the sun, boots hitting pavement, minds already snapping into rescue mode.
More details about the rescue hit my phone screen as Phil and I sprint across the car park towards the rescue centre.
FMR Control Room
Two climbers stuck on Striding Edge.
One with a potentially broken ankle.
Both panicking. Storm front rolling in.
Striding Edge in poor visibility. Brilliant. My favourite sort of Friday. I should have known that the nice weather won’t last long. It never does.
Tommy is already outside the FMR centre handing out radios like complimentary mints. Given the difficulty of this rescue, I’m not surprised to see that two other units were called in.
Just as I store my backpack in one of the FMT vehicles, Chris roars into the car park in his massive American-style pickup, the kind with the open flatbed at the back, big enough to haul a whole lot of hay around.
Rob tumbles out of the passenger side, still trying to zip his rucksack, a foil blanket hanging out like a misplaced flag.
Nick arrives shortly after, all purposeful stride and barely hidden excitement. He lives for this. He’ll deny it, but we all know it.
“Clouds are thick as soup,” Tommy reports, clicking his radio on. “Casualties are around the mid-point on the ridge. Woman’s uninjured but at risk of hypothermia. Man’s likely got a fracture. They can’t move.”
Phil’s jaw tightens. “Striding Edge is exposed today.”
“You don’t say,” Chris mutters.
We gear up fast. Radios. Helmets. Ropes. Harnesses. Everything gets stored in the boots of our two vehicles. The stretcher goes on the roof rack. Everything is a routine we could complete blindfolded and we’re in the vehicles within minutes.
The clouds are no longer grey but almost black as we climb the access track. The fells loom dark and shapeless, the wind sweeping hard enough to rattle the windows. Phil taps his leg, the same way he always does before a technical rescue. Not nerves — focus. He becomes a different man out here.
When we reach the drop-off point, daylight feels thin, almost fragile.
Tommy takes command instantly. “Alex and Phil, you’re lead. Chris and Rob anchor. Nick and I set up top-line support and manage radio.”
Nick’s eyes flick to mine, competitive as always, but he nods. When the chips are down, he’s steady.
We move out along the ridge, single file. Boots feeling the rock, hands hovering close for balance. The clouds hang low, sometimes clearing enough to reveal the long drop on either side, sometimes closing in until the ridge is nothing more than a shadow under our feet.
“Feels like we’re walking across a knife edge,” Rob mutters behind us.
Chris grunts. “Save the poetry, Wordsworth.”
A faint cry echoes through the mist.
Phil stops dead. “There. Hear that?”
We listen. Another cry, strained and tremulous.
We follow the sound until two shapes emerge. A man huddled against the ridge, face grey with pain. A woman gripping the rock so tightly her knuckles have gone white.
“We’re from Fellside Mountain Rescue,” I call. My voice always drops on rescues, gentler, steadier. “You’re safe now.”
The woman sobs with relief. “We couldn’t move. I looked down. I froze.”
“Then don’t look down,” I say gently. “Just keep your eyes on me.”
Phil slides down beside the injured man. “I’m Phil. Mind if I take a look at your ankle?”
“It hurts,” the man manages.
“Hurting is fine. We can work with hurting,” Phil says, voice soothing, hands steady. He palpates carefully. “You’ve done a good job not making it worse.”
Phil is always brilliant under pressure. One of the reasons I trust him with my life.
I turn to the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Beth.”
“Beth, you’re doing really great. We’re going to move you first. My team’s setting up ropes.”
Above us, Tommy and Nick are already working in sync, unwinding rope, securing anchors to the ridge. Nick’s movements are clean, efficient, confident.
“Top line ready,” Nick calls.
I clip Beth into a harness, keeping my voice calm. “You’re going to step back with me, inch by inch. I’ve got you. And the rope’s got both of us.”
She nods, still trembling.
Phil looks up from the casualty. “Fracture likely. Stable for now. He can’t weight-bear at all.”
Tommy nods. “We’ll need the stretcher.”
Rob and Chris unpack and assemble it in record time. The metal clicks echo across the ridge.
Beth moves with me slowly, step by shaky step, until we reach a wider ledge. She bursts into tears as soon as her feet touch safer ground.
“You’re all right,” I reassure her. “You’re off the ridge now.”
Nick approaches with a blanket. “Here.” He’s gentle with her. A decent side of him he pretends doesn’t exist.
“On my count,” Phil calls. “Three, two, one, lift.” Back on the narrow ridge, Phil and Chris get the injured climber into the stretcher. Every movement coordinated.
Chris takes the back, Phil the front, Tommy stabilises the side, and Rob helps guide the stretcher up to the safer section.
Once the casualty is secured, Chris gives a nod. “All right. Let’s get him down.”
The descent is slow, methodical. Rain is coming from every direction by now but our communication stays constant.
“Step down.”
“Hold.”
“Shift right.”
“Steady.”
Nobody snaps. Nobody panics. Six men moving like one unit. This is where we’re strongest. On the fells. Relying on instinct, training and each other.
By the time we reach the vehicles, the storm has lifted just enough to let some light through the thick layer of clouds. Beth clings to her partner’s hand, gratitude and shock flickering across both their faces.
The team hands over the stretcher to another unit who loads it in the back of their Range Rover.
“He’ll be all right now,” Chris tells Beth. “Ambulance’ll meet you at the bottom.” She nods quietly before climbing into the Range Rover with her partner.
Tommy claps my shoulder. “Good work.”
Nick smirks. “Even Rob didn’t fall off anything. Must be our lucky day.”
Rob snorts. “One day I’ll push you off something.”
I shake my head. Same chaos. Same rhythm. My lads. My found family. And in this moment this even includes Nick.