Chapter 24

The drive home from the trailhead doesn’t faze me. My thoughts are occupied with a certain five-foot-something ginger-blonde pain in the ass. I pull my truck into the detached garage behind my house, collect my pack, and hop out, slamming the door behind me. While typing the code to close the door, a few flakes fall from the sky.

She better not be trying to summit with a storm coming in. I turned around to stop her and ensure she knew about the weather, but after her less-than-thrilled “Hi,” my pride got the better of me and I continued off the trail. Not to mention, her telling me to stay away from her when we bumped into each other on our run. I should have said something.

She’s hiked before, she should know the rules, and she’s not my responsibility anyway. She never was. She’s got a husband to worry about her.

Where is her husband anyway?

I unlock the back door of my fixer-upper and step into the kitchen, dropping my pack with a thud. While untying my boots, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out.

Xander

Just saw there’s some ugly shit moving in near Quell’s. Text me back so I know if I gotta delete your browser history and start planning your funeral. You wanted strippers, right?

Just got home, I got an early start. Yes, strippers. The good ones from Vegas.

Xander

Darlene from Hangers said she’d do it for half the price.

Sold.

My thoughts return to Scottie when I slide my phone back in my pocket. Is she still up there? I glance out the window, and more flurries fall. A mountain is the last place you wanna be during a storm. I check the time; she’s probably already turned around and is in her car.

Probably.

I dismiss the anxious thoughts and open the fridge to gather ingredients for a sandwich. After grabbing a butter knife, I twist off the mayo cap. She doesn’t know how the weather works in the Pacific Northwest mountains. I slam the knife on the counter and snatch my phone out of my pocket. Goddamn it.

Hey. Are you off the trail?

I finish assembling my sandwich. My gaze bounces back and forth between my meal and the phone screen, waiting to see it light up with a text notification. Each time I look, I’m met by my angry expression reflected in the dark screen.

Slapping a slice of bread on top, I take my plate of food and plop into a chair at the dining table. Still nothing. I take a bite and chew while waiting for her response, but it doesn’t come.

It’s been almost ten minutes since I first texted her. I lick a smudge of mayo from my thumb and unlock the phone again. She should have service if she’s off the mountain. Being worried about a woman I’m not responsible for is ruining my lunch. This is dumb. I tap the call icon next to her name, clearing my throat while I wait for the ring, but it goes straight to voicemail. After five seconds, I try again. Voicemail. Shit.

“Damn it, Scottie,” I grumble. “You better not be acting stupid.”

After turning the ringer on loud, I bring it with me into the bathroom and take a shower. While rinsing the shampoo out of my hair, it hits me that she might have my number blocked. Matt probably has her number. I finish getting clean and dry off, then tap his name to dial.

“Hey. This is gonna sound weird, but can you give Scottie a call and tell me if she picks up?” I pace back and forth until I find myself in the bare living room. I’m in the process of sanding down the antique wood floor and moved all the furniture into the home office last week.

He chuckles. “Is there a reason you’re not doing it yourself?”

“It goes to voicemail, but she might have my number blocked.” I sigh.

“Gotcha.” He’s disappointed. He probably assumes I did my usual fuckboy routine, but he can think whatever the hell he wants. “Yeah, gimme a sec. Call you back.”

I hang up and shake my head, then lean against the wall, staring out the large front windows as my anxiety creeps in. A minute later, the screen lights up with Matt’s name, and I swipe to answer before the phone has a chance to ring.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Goes to voicemail,” he says.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “’K… Thanks.”

Ending the call, I rub the back of my neck and groan, then throw on some sneakers and head out. My thumb is tapping the steering wheel in a steady staccato when I pull onto her street .

“Come on…. Be home. Be home. Let me see your piece of shit, rattletrap of a car sitting there so I can go home and quit this bullshit.”

After seeing her vehicle this morning, I was shocked it even made the drive from Sky Ridge to the trail’s entry point.

Any remaining hope plummets when the empty parking lot comes into view. I pound my fist on the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

The only way to know for sure is to go back to the trailhead and see if her car is still there. And if it is, then what? Do I go after her? My immediate response is a resounding Hell yes .

My gut instinct says she’s on the mountain, which means I can’t show up unprepared, and I need to move fast. She’s facing a serious punishment when I get her ass back down to Sky Ridge. Can't believe she’s making me go get her. There’s no telling what mess lies ahead of me, but my thoughts spiral with worst-case scenarios. What if she fell? Or crossed paths with a cougar? What if she’s lost and is wandering around miles off trail? I’d never find her.

My foot presses down on the accelerator. The tires on my truck squeal as I turn into my driveway and shift into park. After throwing open the back door to the house, I swap my shoes for boots and grab my pack, adding supplies for every situation I thought of on the way over. Crampons, space blanket, extra water bottles, and two handfuls of MREs. In addition, I fetch my ski patrol bag. It contains some miscellaneous survival gear, like a handwarmers, first aid kit, pocketknife, rope, and an avalanche shovel.

“Scottie, you better be in a such a fucked situation for me to be coming after you like this.” I grip the steering wheel as I approach the road to the trailhead, praying I don’t see her car. My neck cranes as I come around the bend, and my sight lands on her vehicle.

“Oh, fuck.”

She’s still up there.