Chapter 7 #3
She hadn’t been worried about super Xander out there with his wings and amazing rescues. Did she think Teague was less competent?
“We’ll be fine.” He turned toward the office without looking back.
He had to get over his crush. Fast. Like yesterday.
Because as much as she intrigued him, the girl had walls higher than the canyon itself.
She couldn’t believe she’d been given the choice and actually still chose to go back to the cave.
In a rainstorm no less.
Meg’s boots sank into the muddy trail, making sucking sounds with each step. Each step a deliberate effort against the rain-slicked earth. The storm that battered the Grand Canyon was finally letting up.
Slightly. Barely. Not enough to matter.
Rain always brought out the deep reds and golds of the rocks around them—saturated, vivid—but she didn’t dare look up to enjoy it. At this speed, every step had to be placed with precision. One wrong move and she’d be sliding downhill.
The last thing she needed right now was to slip. To be the liability.
The wind shifted. Drove the rain under her hood and down her neck—cold fingers of water tracing her spine.
Meg tugged her rain-soaked coat tighter.
It was supposed to be waterproof, but after walking for two hours in a downpour, rain had found a way to penetrate it at several spots.
She wiped back the hair clinging to the side of her face and repressed a shiver.
The farther down in the canyon they went, the warmer it got, but the Tapeats caves were only two thousand feet below the rim, so the added ten degrees kept her hands from freezing, but it wasn’t enough to relieve the chill that the rain brought.
Noah led the group, seemingly unaffected by the weather. His broad shoulders cutting through the storm like he was built for this.
Had she really just blabbed all of that to him earlier in the lounge? About Jude? About her father? She’d never shared about Jude with anyone but her therapist—that locked box she’d kept sealed for years.
And the bit about her father—she’d never admitted as much out loud.
Ever.
But somehow, while opening up, something had released in her. A pressure valve turning. Her chest had felt lighter. As if a knot had loosened after years of being tied so tight it made it hard to breathe at times.
She’d carried that weight for so long. Part of her believed that if she was honest with anyone, they would confirm her worst fear: She wasn’t fit to be a doctor.
But Noah hadn’t done that. His steady gaze—those deep-brown eyes that saw straight through her. His hand on hers—warm, solid. He hadn’t judged or pushed. Hadn’t offered platitudes.
He’d just listened.
For the first time in years, she felt seen. Not as the medic who froze or the woman who panicked, but as Meg.
Just Meg. Broken pieces and all.
And after all she’d shared—every ugly truth, every failure—he still wanted her to stay.
He hadn’t said it. Nope. He’d told her he supported her going to Pennsylvania. That he understood. That he wanted what was best for her.
But one thing she’d learned after two years of friendship was his tells. The tic in his jaw. The way his thumb rubbed over where his ring once sat. He only did those things when he was…well, maybe not lying, but definitely not being transparent.
She used to think it was when he thought of Mary. But now she suspected it was more than that. Now she wondered if those tells showed up when he was holding back what he really wanted.
And despite his words that she should go, she’d put money on the fact that he wanted her to stay.
He just wouldn’t admit it. Couldn’t risk it. Still too afraid of loss.
Which had always been their problem. Both of them too scared to reach for what they wanted.
So maybe Pennsylvania was the answer. A lab job. Controlled. Safe. Predictable.
But if it was the answer, then why did the thought of a sterile lab feel like a failure? Like giving up? Like dying slowly instead of living messily?
Noah’s words bounced back. You get joy from helping people.
She couldn’t deny it.
The memory of stitching Nimue’s hand—watching the wound close. Checking Noah’s back—her fingers finding the problem. Comforting that little girl with the split head—drying tears, making fear manageable. It filled her with a sense of purpose like nothing else.
Maybe Pennsylvania was running, not healing. Just a different kind of hiding.
But what about the times she froze? Panicked? How did she reconcile the moments of joy with the fear?
“Watch your step here.” Noah’s voice cut through the rain’s roar. He pointed to a section of trail where the path narrowed, eroded by runoff.
Meg tightened her grip on her shoulder straps. Her boots slipped slightly—her heart lurching—but found purchase. She was keeping up. Her legs strong despite the mud.
Noah glanced back. His eyes met hers briefly. No doubt checking her anxiety level.
She nodded. Signaling she was fine.
Her heart steadied. No tightness. No racing pulse. No tunnel vision.
Not yet.
She was managing. Her focus on each step. Each breath.
The group reached a sharp bend. Noah stopped abruptly, raised a hand—the universal signal for danger.
When he didn’t move, Meg peered past his tall frame.
The trail ahead was eighty percent gone. Wiped out by a mudslide leaving a gaping scar of loose dirt and rock—and six inches of ledge to connect where it picked up twenty feet ahead.
Just six inches before the canyon dropped steeply below. A two-hundred-foot plunge.
Noah stepped forward, testing the edge with his boot.
It held for a moment. Then crumbled. Gave way like sugar.
He lurched back. Steadied himself on a nearby boulder, arms windmilling.
Meg’s stomach clenched. Her hand shot out, grabbed his arm.
Noah wiped the rain from his face. “Any other ideas?”
“There is another route approaching from the west, but that means backtracking all the way to the station first.” Liam pulled out his water bottle. Downed a gulp.
Teague crouched, studying the laminated map. “There’s a path farther down. It’s longer, drops us into a wash that is no doubt full right now, but it’ll get us to the caves in under an hour.”
“Oh goodie. I love crossing washes in storms.” Liam’s voice was deadpan. “But crossing a wash is better than falling. Let’s move.”
Meg turned. Followed Liam, who was now in front as they backtracked. If possible, his pace was even more brutal than Noah’s.