Chapter 7
Abe caught Daphne too late.
Her body went limp in his arms. Her head hit the edge of the fence with a sickening thud that echoed through his body. “Daphne!”
He dropped to his knees, one arm cradling her shoulders, the other cupping her skull. Blood slicked her hair just above the ear. Her lips were parted, skin flushed and burning despite the cold.
“No. No—no, no. Dammit!”
He scooped her up. Her limbs were weightless, boneless, her head lolling against his shoulder. Her skin was hot and damp with fever, but he could feel the tremors of chills. Guilt hit like a gut punch. She’d only come out looking for him because he’d been sulking like a wounded animal in the barn.
He carried her inside, ignoring the wet snow his boots tracked across the floor, and lowered her gently onto the couch. “Sweetheart. Look at me. Please.”
Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips moved, but no words came.
Her pulse was too fast. Skin flushed. Breathing shallow. Fever.
Shit.
It was probably an adrenal crash, exacerbated by dehydration, given how little she’d been eating and drinking. He should’ve made her stop training. He should’ve paid attention. He should’ve done more.
The bedroom door creaked open. Damian stood there, pale and swaying slightly, a plaid blanket wrapped over his shoulders.
His jaw was bruised, his mouth set in a grim line.
His shirt and jeans were damp and clung to his frame.
Even with the sloped shoulder and gash at his temple, the Mosby fire burned in his eyes.
Sharper now. More grounded, like their father’s.
So much so that Abe was shocked he’d never noticed it in all the years they spent growing up together.
He rose. “She collapsed. Hit her head on the railing.”
Damian’s gaze moved from Daphne’s flushed face to Abe’s shaking hands, wet with melting snow and panic.
He nodded once, then shifted—and winced.
Abe’s gut clenched. “Your shoulder’s out.”
Damian blinked.
“Come here.” Abe’s voice roughened. “I’ll fix it.”
He tucked the blanket around Daphne, then guided Damian to the edge of the coffee table. Daphne whimpered but didn’t wake.
“This is going to hurt a lot,” Abe warned, crouching beside him. “Like hell’s devil dogs are chewing your balls off.”
Damian’s brows lifted, but he gave a faint smirk and his gaze held steady.
Abe braced the arm, angled it low, and gave a swift, practiced jerk.
The pop was loud. Damian hissed through clenched teeth but didn’t cry out. Sweat dotted his brow.
“I’ll be right back.” Abe sprinted to the bedroom, grabbed one of Uncle Gage’s old flannel shirts, and returned. He fashioned a makeshift sling, slipping Damian’s arm through the folded fabric and tying it behind his neck. “Not perfect, but it’ll hold till help comes.”
He steadied Damian, then stepped back. “You okay?”
A short nod.
“Good. I need your help.”
Abe turned to the hallway closet, shoved aside a stack of batteries, and hauled out a dusty tackle box. Inside sat the old HAM radio Gage insisted they keep, long after the world moved on to cell towers and satellite links.
Abe hadn’t touched it in years. “I hope this thing works. And pray that the antenna’s not buried under a snowdrift.”
He set it on the counter. Damian pushed past him, one-handed, and flipped it open. His long fingers moved as if by memory, flicking latches, twisting dials. His knuckles were raw. His hand shook, but his touch stayed steady.
“You know how?”
Damian grunted and hit the power. A red light blinked on. Static burst through the kitchen.
Abe blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Damian adjusted the frequency, then paused. He pulled the mic toward him... then held it out to Abe.
Right. Since the accident, Damian hadn’t spoken a word.
Abe took the mic. “Mosby Cabin Fourteen. Medical emergency. One female, early thirties, possible adrenal crash, head injury, unconscious. One male, dislocated shoulder, possible concussion. No power. No cell signal. Requesting immediate assistance. Over.”
Only static replied.
He tried again. Nothing.
Damian disappeared into the tackle box again, found an old Maglite, and limped onto the porch. Through the open doorway, Abe saw him lift the flashlight to the tree line and begin to flash:
Three short. Three long. Three short. S-O-S.
Of course. Morse code. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
He tried the SAT phone again while Damian’s light pulsed rhythmically through the storm. His half-brother—half-lost, half-forgotten—was doing what family did. Showing up.
Daphne stirred, and Abe rushed to her side.
“Hey, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
Her eyes fluttered open. Unfocused at first. Then they found his face… and beyond him, to Damian on the porch.
“You two...” she whispered. “You’re here.”
“We’re here,” Abe said. “Both of us.”
A faint, feverish smile tugged at her lips. “Don’t hate each other.”
Abe swallowed hard.
Damian turned from the window and met Abe’s eyes. A beat passed.
“No,” Abe said quietly. “We don’t.”
Daphne’s hand found his. “I want to stay. Here. With you. I want to perform. Freelance. Teach. Not company work.”
Abe kissed her palm. “Then that’s what you’ll do.”
Damian came inside, shut the door, and sank down, against the wall until his ass hit the floor. His breathing was ragged, face pale, hands trembling.
“You okay?” Abe asked Damian.
A faint nod.
Abe clutched the SAT phone and sat beside him. For a long moment, they said nothing. Just the three of them and the hum of the radio, the soft hush of snow outside.
“Thanks,” Abe said finally.
Damian gave the smallest nod.
Abe leaned his head back, eyes closed, the weight of everything pressing and lifting at once. They were broken, but at least they were broken together. And maybe that was enough.
The SAT phone chirped.
He answered, “Hello?”
“Abe! Thank God.” Ben, Abe’s older brother, had a voice that sounded rough with worry. “We got your beacon. There’s a chopper in the air now. Visibility’s crap, but you should hear them soon.”
Relief crashed through Abe. “Daphne’s stable. Damian’s with me. Alive, but hurt.”
A pause. Just breath on the line.
“I’m glad you found him,” Ben said. “I’ll tell the authorities. We’ll call off the search.”
Damian moved to the armchair near Daphne’s head. He didn’t speak, but he’d heard.
“We’re gonna be okay,” Abe said, voice thick. A promise to Ben. And to Damian. And to Daphne.
“Damn right you are,” Ben replied. “Hold tight. Help’s almost there.”
The line went dead.
Abe set the phone down, rested his head against the wall, and closed his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, outside, a faint whup-whup-whup pulsed through the air.
He sprang for the door.
Damian stood beside him, swaying but steady.
A spotlight cut through the fog, sweeping the treetops before locking on to the clearing beside the cabin.
Daphne stirred, and Abe rushed to her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “Help’s here, sweetheart. Hang on.”
Damian crossed the room, shaky but determined, and helped lift her upright. Together, they guided her to the door.
Red and navy jackets cut through the snow, coming toward the cabin. Two medics carried a stretcher. One jogged ahead.
“Female, thirty,” Abe said. “Head wound. Suspected adrenal crash.”
“Got her.” The medic scooped Daphne up and hurried down the steps. “Storm’s worsening. We’ve gotta move.”
Another medic paused at Damian’s side. “Can you walk?”
Damian nodded.
Abe sprinted back into the house to grab their things. The power hadn’t come on, but it didn’t matter. Light had returned. They were going to be okay.
Onboard the helicopter, wind roaring and morning breaking around them, Damian nudged Abe’s shoulder. Just a small, silent tap.
Abe met his gaze. Gave him a nod.
No words were necessary because they were brothers.
Above the storm, with the world waking beneath them, Abe let himself believe that this wasn’t the end of his future with Daphne… it was the beginning.