The Weight of Want #2
She pushed damp blonde curls away from her face as she knelt beside him. Young—twenty, maybe younger—with a face still rosy from the cold. Her eyes swept over the fallen limb.
“Half the tree’s come down on you,” she murmured. “I need to move it.”
“I leave my fate in your capable hands,” he said, a touch of theatrical resignation in his voice.
The truth, he didn’t have the strength to move so much as a finger.
His arm was a blaze of pain, and the cold was seeping in deeper by the second.
If he let his eyes close, he feared they wouldn’t open again.
She disappeared behind him, her footsteps crunching softly. Branches trembled above, dislodging a fresh flurry of snow as she pulled and strained. Wood creaked. Twigs snapped.
Nothing moved.
“Do you live nearby?” he called hoarsely. “Could you fetch help?”
She returned to view, panting, brushing snow from her coat. “Not far,” she said, “but my husband’s gone for the season, and my nearest neighbor lives half a day’s walk. I don’t think you’ll fare well if I leave you like this.”
Unfortunately, she was right. His left arm was little more than fire and ice, and the rest of his body was fading fast. Still, his wits clung to one last strand of purpose.
“There’s rope in my pack,” he murmured. “If you can rig it for leverage...”
She was already moving.
The pack lay a few feet away, and she reached it swiftly, rifling through the contents until she found the coil of thick rope. She looped it securely around the trunk, then braced herself and warned, “I’m going to pull on the count of three.”
Nic nodded and clenched his jaw.
“One... two—”
She pulled hard. The rope groaned. Snow showered from above. With a crunch and a shudder, the branch rolled slightly—then shifted off his shoulder and down to his hips.
He cried out, the pressure flaring like a fresh wound. Still trapped—but not crushed. That was something.
The woman returned to his side. “That’s the best I can do. It’s caught where the tree’s still anchored. Unless you’ve been hiding a saw in that pack of yours...”
Nic gave a strained breath. “I’m full of surprises,” he murmured. “Though not that one. Would you mind—before I try to crawl—splinting my arm? Pretty sure it’s broken.”
Her eyes lit with sudden determination. “I can do that! I had to splint a goat once.”
He blinked at her, then let out a weary laugh. “In that case, I’ve clearly been rescued by the right woman.”
His savior eventually unearthed his knife and knelt beside him, slicing carefully through the sleeves of his coat and shirt. The cold bit at his exposed skin, but he barely noticed.
“I see a lot of bruising,” she said, peering at his arm, “but you’re lucky—no protruding bone.”
Nic gave a huff that was half a laugh, half a pained breath. “Ah yes, luck. My ever-faithful companion.”
She selected a slender branch, held it beside his arm, and traced a finger along the swelling. “I think the break is about here... This will hurt. You ready?”
“How did the goat respond to this part?” he rasped.
“It tried to bite me.”
“Well, I promise to behave like a gentleman.” He forced a grin, though his jaw was clenched so tight it felt fused.
She bound the makeshift splint with clean efficiency—tearing a strip from his shirt, cinching it tight, knotting linen around the branch with practiced tension. Each tug sent lightning bolts through his shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted iron.
When she finished, he slumped in relief, heart thudding like a war drum.
She touched his shoulder lightly. “You’re very pale. I can try to dig you out a bit, make it easier.”
“I am forever in your debt,” he murmured, wincing, “You’ll be in my ballads, I swear it.”
He gestured weakly toward his pack. She retrieved his spade and began carving away the compacted snow around his waist. The ice was stubborn, set firm as stone, but she chipped steadily through it.
“I’m Nic, by the way.”
“Jasmin. From Stargazer Creek.”
“No—really? So am I. Only ten miles past the ridge.”
Jasmin gritted her teeth and drove the spade into another chunk of ice. “Well, Nic of Ten Miles Past the Ridge, it is very nice to meet you—though I wouldn’t recommend this method of introduction.”
He gave a breathless laugh. “You mean collapsing under a tree isn’t the most dashing way to win someone’s attention?”
“Oh, it’s unforgettable,” she said with a grin. “Especially the part where you packed a full survival kit. Do you end up beneath trees often, or is this a seasonal habit?”
Nic chuckled despite the pain. “Only when I want to make a dramatic entrance.”
They chatted in short bursts as she worked. He told her of the crabs at the Singing Cove, the waterfall of fire, the cold and starvation. She nodded and listened, offering the occasional bemused hum.
Eventually, he felt his hips shift—the snow yielding around him at last. Jasmin dropped the spade and took his good hand as he struggled to crawl free. With her tugging and his flailing, they managed to haul him out.
He collapsed in the snow, panting, but Jasmin crouched beside him and shook her head. “No time for napping. Let’s get you warm.”
She slung his pack over her shoulder and let him brace against her as they set off. Nic leaned heavily on her delicate frame concealed beneath a heavy coat, but Jasmin bore the weight like a soldier.
“Remind me,” he muttered between shallow breaths, “to send your goat a thank-you letter.”
She laughed, and it echoed through the frost-laced trees like the first true bell of spring.
Moonlight was slanting through the windowpane when Nic finally stirred.
The fire snapped softly nearby, casting flickers of gold across the wooden walls.
Swaddled in blankets, he cautiously wiggled his fingers and toes.
Everything seemed more or less intact—achy, yes, but accounted for. A promising start.
He blinked at the room. Cozy. Warm. Unmistakably not the underside of a tree.
In an armchair beside the hearth, Jasmin sat reading, oblivious to his awakened state.
Her hair was pinned back, revealing the fine curve of her neck and the concentration etched into her brow.
A patchwork quilt was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, hands peeking out just far enough to hold the book.
A wayward curl fell forward, and when she brushed it back behind her ear, her gaze met his.
She smiled, closed the book, and stood—letting the quilt slide off. “Well, you look better.”
He gave her a grin. “I graduated from nearly dead to vaguely functional, thanks to you.”
Heat crept into his cheeks, though whether it was her smile or the proximity to the fire, he couldn’t say. “How long was I out?”
“A few hours. You were snoring by the time I stoked the fire.”
“Charming,” he muttered. “Add that to the list of ways I impress strangers.”
She poured a cup of tea and set it carefully into his hands. “You must be starving. Can you eat?”
“Unless the alternative is chewing my own arm, yes. Though I must admit, only one of them is currently up for the task.”
Jasmin vanished into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a tray so heavenly he nearly wept: fresh bread, thick slices of ham, and a cup of warm goat’s milk that smelled faintly of the field. He tore in with little regard for dignity.
“I didn’t realize a tree could knock the hunger out of me and put it right back in,” he said around a mouthful of salted ham. “Truly a versatile foe.”
She laughed and refilled his mug. “It’s a good thing I was out late feeding the goats. If not, you’d have been snowed in and snacked on by a pack of wolves.”
Nic raised his mug with solemn ceremony. “To the goats. Unsung heroes of woodland rescue.”
Their mugs clinked gently, and for the first time in days, Nic didn’t feel like a man trying to outrun the weight of the world. Just a man with a splinted arm, a mouthful of buttered bread, and a very good story.
In the morning, Jasmin saddled her old mule and delivered Nic safely to his parents’ front steps.
He thanked her profusely. His mother outdid him—pressing gratitude into her hands along with several jars of fresh preserves.
But even with all the words and tokens, it didn’t feel like enough to repay what Jasmin had done.
River arrived shortly after for a house call. His diagnosis was swift and thorough. Nic had a fracture in both his arm and shoulder, and was now under firm orders to stay in bed, eat well, and avoid solo wilderness adventures for the foreseeable future.
In the quiet days that followed, Nic found his thoughts often returning to Jasmin.
If she hadn’t been out tending to her goats.
.. if he’d taken a different trail, paused a moment longer, stopped at another part of the stream—just a minute’s difference, and their paths might never have crossed.
The realization sat heavily in his chest.
He might have died beneath that tree.
Before long, Nic could manage short walks around the yard.
He had grown used to the rhythm of visitors—Collin and Aries bringing news from the village square, Dragonfly smuggling in crumbly sweetbread, Hadria laughing too loudly at his more exaggerated tales.
He told them everything: the sunsets, the turkey in the brambles.
But he didn’t tell them about the dreams or the stone figurine or the way his soul had ached in the silence.
He saved those for someone else. Someone who had not yet come.
So when he saw Helen, walking up the path with a crimson shawl wound tight around her shoulders and her hair wind-tousled, he didn’t think. He bolted, wincing as his shoulder protested, but he ran anyway—awkwardly, unevenly, half-limping—until she was in his arms.
She smelled like the hearth and lavender soap. He kissed her. Twice. Then pulled back, scowling.
“Why in all the skies did it take you so long?”
She looked down, her smile small and unsure. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”