3. Shepherd #2
Something flickered across her face. Embarrassment, maybe. Or irritation. “I didn't fall. I...” She paused, reassessing. “Okay. I fell.”
“You were hypothermic and exhausted. Falling seems like a reasonable response to those conditions.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It's supposed to be accurate.”
She studied me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. I got the sense that she was trying to categorize me, to figure out which box I fit into and therefore how to handle me. I recognized the impulse. I did the same thing to everyone I met.
“You said your ankle is wrapped,” she said slowly. “And that I'm warm. Which means someone took off my clothes.”
Ah. There it was.
“You were soaking wet and frozen nearly to the point of cardiac risk. Removing your wet clothing was medically necessary to prevent you from dying.” I kept my voice matter-of-fact, refusing to be embarrassed about something that had been done to save her life.
“Calder did most of it. He was a smokejumper before he came here.
He's done cold water rescues before. He and Bo made sure to get you warm before you could lose any of your extremities to frostbite.”
“Calder.” She repeated the name like she was filing it away. “And there's a Bo, too. Wes said three alphas.”
“Bo is asleep. Or possibly prowling the perimeter. It's hard to tell with him sometimes.”
“Three alphas.” She said it again, and this time there was something else in her voice. Not quite fear, but something adjacent to it. Wariness. The kind of caution that came from experience. “And I'm alone here. With no clothes. And no way to leave.”
I understood what she wasn't saying. What she was too smart to say out loud, in case we were the kind of alphas who would take her assessment as opportunity rather than accusation.
“You're not in danger from us.” I said it simply, without emphasis, because emphasis would have made it sound like I was trying to convince her.
“I won't pretend to know what experiences have taught you to be cautious around alphas, but whatever they were, we're not that.
We didn't bring you inside and save your life so that we could harm you.”
“People don't usually announce their intentions to harm,” she pointed out. “That would be stupid.”
“True.” I couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at my mouth.
Even half-frozen and completely vulnerable, she was arguing with me.
“But consider the evidence. You've been unconscious for hours.
If we intended harm, we've had ample opportunity. Instead, we warmed you, treated your ankle, and waited for you to wake up so we could have this conversation.”
She was quiet for a moment, processing that. I could almost see her mind working, weighing probabilities, assessing risk. Whoever she was, she wasn't someone who made decisions emotionally. She thought things through.
“Fine,” she said eventually. “I'm not saying I trust you. But I'm saying I don't think you're going to murder me in my sleep.”
“That's remarkably generous of you.”
“Don't push it.” She started to sit up, and immediately winced, her hand going to her side. “Ow. Everything hurts.”
“You walked through a blizzard on a badly sprained ankle while suffering from hypothermia. I'd be concerned if you weren't in pain.”
“Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner needs work?”
“Frequently.”
That earned me another sharp look, but there was something else there too.
Something that might have been amusement, quickly suppressed.
She pushed herself upright despite the pain, and I saw her take stock of her situation with methodical precision.
The blankets wrapped around her. The bandage visible around her ankle.
The borrowed shirt that was much too large for her frame, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips.
“I need to...” She trailed off, looking around the room. “Is there a bathroom?”
“Down the hall, second door on the left. But you shouldn't put weight on that ankle yet.”
“I'm not going to let you carry me to the bathroom.”
“I wasn't planning to offer. There's a walking stick by the door that should help. Bo uses it sometimes when he comes back from long treks.”
She considered that, then nodded once. A concession that clearly cost her. I retrieved the walking stick and handed it over, then stepped back to give her space as she levered herself to her feet.
The first attempt didn't go well. She got halfway up before her ankle buckled and she nearly went down, catching herself on the arm of the chair at the last second. Her jaw clenched tight, and I saw her breathing through the pain with the kind of focus that suggested she'd had practice at it.
“Take your time,” I said. “The bathroom isn't going anywhere.”
“Neither am I, apparently.” But she tried again, and this time she made it upright. She stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, the walking stick clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Then she took a step. Another. Slow and halting and clearly agonizing, but moving.
I watched her make her way across the room, ready to catch her if she fell but not hovering. She didn't seem like someone who would appreciate hovering. The bathroom door closed behind her, and I heard the lock click into place.
I used the time to add more wood to the fire and put water on for tea. When she emerged ten minutes later, moving slightly more steadily, I had a steaming cup waiting.
“It's just peppermint,” I said, holding it out. “Good for settling the stomach after trauma. No sugar, but I can add some if you prefer it sweet.”
She took the cup and wrapped her hands around it, and I saw some of the tension ease from her shoulders as the warmth seeped into her fingers. “This is fine. Thank you.”
She made her way back to the nest of blankets by the fire, lowering herself down with the careful movements of someone who knew exactly how much everything was going to hurt. I settled back into my chair and gave her a moment to drink, to gather herself, to decide how much she wanted to share.
“Noa,” she said finally, not looking at me. “My name. I realized I never told you.”
“Noa.” I let the name settle, finding its shape. “It suits you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing complicated. Just that some names fit their owners and some don't. Yours fits.”
She gave me another one of those assessing looks, like she was trying to figure out if I was being genuine or mocking her. I let her look. I had nothing to hide.
“So,” she said after a moment. “How long am I stuck here?”
“That depends on the storm and your ankle.
The storm could last another day or two.
The roads will be impassable longer than that, probably a week or more.
Your ankle needs rest and elevation and time to heal.
If it's just a sprain, you might be able to walk on it in a few days.
If there's a fracture...” I spread my hands. “Longer.”
“I don't have days.” But even as she said it, I could see her accepting the reality. She was stuck. We all were. “I have work. Research data that needs to be submitted. A job that expects me to show up.”
“None of that matters if you're dead.” I said it gently, but I didn't soften the truth. “You very nearly died tonight, Noa. If you'd missed this cabin, if you'd wandered for another hour in that storm... we wouldn't be having this conversation.”
She was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. The flames reflected in her amber eyes, turning them to gold.
“I lost my pack,” she said finally. “In the creek. The ice broke and it went in and I couldn't...” She stopped, swallowed. “Everything was in that pack. My phone, my radio, my emergency beacon. All my supplies. Everything.”
“That explains why you arrived with nothing but wet clothes and a compass.”
“I almost went in after it.” Her voice was flat, recounting fact rather than emotion.
“The water wasn't that deep. I probably could have grabbed it. But I was already so cold, and I knew if I got any wetter...” She shook her head.
“I let it go. I let it sink. And then I walked the rest of the way here with nothing.”
“That was the right choice.”
“Was it?” She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something crack behind those sharp eyes. “Because right now it feels like the worst choice I've ever made. Everything I need is at the bottom of that creek, and I'm stuck here with no way to contact anyone, no supplies, no...”
She stopped herself. Pressed her lips together. I watched her rebuild her walls in real time, brick by brick, until the vulnerability was hidden again behind a facade of irritation.
“Anyway,” she said briskly. “It doesn't matter. I'm alive. That's what matters.”
“It is.” I agreed. “But that doesn't mean you're not allowed to be upset about what you lost.”
She gave me a strange look. “You're not like most alphas I've met.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn't necessarily meant as one.”
“I'll take it as one anyway.”
Something shifted in her expression. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. The faintest crack in the armor she wore so tightly.
The fire crackled between us. Outside, the storm continued its assault on the walls and windows. Inside, the cabin was warm and quiet and filled with the smell of woodsmoke and peppermint tea.
“You should sleep,” I said eventually. “Your body has been through significant trauma. Rest is the best thing for it.”
“I've been unconscious for eight hours. I'm not tired.”
“Being unconscious isn't the same as sleeping. Your brain was offline, not resting. True sleep is different.” I stood and retrieved a book from the stack on the nearby table. One of my favorites, worn soft from rereading. “Here. If you won't sleep, at least rest. This might help pass the time.”
She took the book and looked at the cover. Raised an eyebrow.
“Ecology of the Appalachian Mountains?”
“It's more interesting than it sounds. The chapter on black bear behavior is particularly well-researched.”
Something flickered in her eyes at that. Recognition, maybe. Or professional interest.
“I'm a wildlife conservation tech,” she said slowly. “I've been tracking a black bear in this area for six months. F-23. Notched ear, two cubs.”
“I know that bear.” I smiled slightly. “She dens about half a mile from here. We've been neighbors for three years now.”
Noa stared at me for a long moment. Then she looked down at the book in her hands, and I saw her grip tighten on the cover.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For the tea. And the book. And for...” She gestured vaguely at herself, at the blankets, at the fire. “Everything.”
“You're welcome.” I moved toward the doorway that led to the rest of the cabin. “I'll be in the next room if you need anything. Try to rest. Tomorrow will be complicated enough without adding sleep deprivation to your list of challenges.”
I left her there, curled in the blankets with the book open in her lap, and retreated to my reading nook. But I didn't read. I sat in the darkness and listened to the storm and thought about the omega in our living room.
She was going to be trouble. I could feel it already, that particular tension that came from proximity to someone who mattered. After four years of careful isolation, of watching without engaging, of keeping everyone at a safe analytical distance... I could feel the walls starting to crack.
She was stubborn and sharp and entirely too observant. She was alone and vulnerable and refusing to admit either of those things. She was exactly the kind of person I would have gone out of my way to avoid, back when I was smart enough to protect myself from caring.
But she was here now. And the storm wasn't stopping. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounded uncomfortably like Maya whispered that maybe this time, I could do better.
Maybe this time, I could actually see.