Chapter 33

DAY 2

Light pours through the shutter slats, and I lift my head off my pillow, confused why I’m waking up in a fire tower. Then I remember the events from the night prior. Fuck.

A soft sigh from the woman pressed against my chest has me tightening my grip on her and dragging her closer. It’s stupid, but up here, she’s not somebody’s wife—she’s Scottie. And we’re back in Oregon, before she lied, before shit hit the fan and we broke whatever we had into a million pieces. Dropping my cheek back to the pillow, I close my eyes, already wishing I could take back some of the things I said.

There was some shouting last night. The pent-up anger I harbored came out in an explosion when she yelled at me after I returned with water. God, that was an expedition. My muscles are already sore from all the bushwacking I did to get to the small river stream. A couple spots had me nervous I wouldn’t make it back. Then, as soon as I got in the door, she snapped—and so did I. We fought like cats and dogs. She had me fired up, and I let her know. That’s not usually in my nature, as I don’t care enough to fight with most women.

Then there was the whole squirrel incident. A small smile plays on my lips. She wasn’t about to take an ounce of shit from me yesterday, but that was yesterday, and this is today.

First priority is keeping the fire stoked. I barely slept last night, having to get up and make sure the fire didn’t go out. It’s already time to add another log. Carefully, I roll her away from me and climb over her small figure.

My bare feet hit the frigid floor, and a chill shoots up my spine. Upon closer inspection, I realize there’s still a small flame burning. Interesting . She must have gotten up during the few hours I slept and put a couple logs on the fire. I appreciate that. I add more and close the door on the stove, adjusting the damper to slow the burn and prolong our wood supply. The metal squeaks, and I wince, hoping she doesn’t awaken yet. Her brain needs rest after the hit she took. As delicately as I can, I squeeze behind her again, careful to not startle her. Then I pull her into me for no other purpose than to use her body heat to warm me up. It’s chilly as fuck outside of this bed.

Closing my eyes, I rest my chin on top of her head and breathe her in. There’s something grounding about this woman. She’s like that cozy light under the microwave after coming home to a dark house. She brings me comfort.

Normally, I’d be pacing trying to figure out our exit strategy, but I’m content to lay here and let my mind race from bed. Last night, I tried to send a text to Xander and King, letting them know where we are. It’ll probably be a couple days before anyone even knows I’m missing. After all, I told Xander I had returned safely. This would be the last place he’d look. Nobody will be at the trailhead to see our vehicles because no one in their right mind would hike Quell’s during a snowstorm. Hell, the park service has probably closed the gates on the entrance. It’s not uncommon for people to ditch vehicles at trailhead lots, so it’s not like a ranger will spot it and suspect anything other than a couple of cars left behind.

Someone will notice when Scottie doesn’t show up for work—although, if this is her first day off in a stretch, it could be days before that happens.

I turned off my phone to conserve the battery. I'll try to send a message again later. Doubt I’ll have any more luck with the way the wind is whipping up around the lookout. It’s even louder this morning than it was last night.

We have food, water, and shelter for about a week. There are a few dead trees I spotted that look dry enough to burn, eventually we’ll run out of firewood and need more for the stove. I do some mental math to figure out approximately how many logs we’re burning an hour and how soon my ass needs to get outside to chop more. The lookout has two levels. The top is living quarters; the base, which is only accessible from outside, contains tool storage. I estimate we’ll run out of wood by midday tomorrow.

As far as a rescue goes, it’s not like I can just call in air support. It doesn’t work like it does in the movies, and even if I could, there’s no way they could fly in this weather. We got ourselves up here, we’re set on supplies, so we just have to wait it out, then get our asses back down when this bitch of a storm blows over. Unfortunately, it doesn’t sound like she’s letting up anytime soon.

Scottie stirs in my arms, and I release my hold on her despite myself. She pops up from the pillow, and presses a palm to her forehead. Then lies back down again.

“Oh, man.”

“How’s your head?” I ask.

“No complaints yet,” she says, her voice raspy with sleep. I smirk. I remember that voice from Oregon, after a night of phenomenal sex and trying to muffle her moans. The fact she’s making jokes is reassuring. Unfortunately, it also makes my cock twitch, because I can confirm her statement. Our sensual night of snuggling and sex was something I’ll never forget. It was exhilarating.

I clear my throat and back up against the wall before she feels my dick press into her from behind.

“Mild headache, but it’s better than yesterday. Just feel hungover…”

I hum in agreement.

“Sounds like the storm is raising hell out there. Are we gonna be okay?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Your confidence is inspiring,” she says, words oozing with irritation.

There she goes plucking my nerves again. Grumbling, I add, “What do you want? A guarantee? We’re stuck on a mountain in a blizzard, the trail is blocked off, and you’ve got a head injury. We are barely okay as it is.” I’ve been in life-threatening situations too many times, and sometimes, they don’t work out. Especially considering we need to find a new path down, and the snow makes any bushwacking even more treacherous and conditions ripe for storm slab avalanches.

She rips the blanket off, bringing with it a cold draft, and swings her legs over the side to stand. “Jesus, read the room.”

I wrench the covers back over me. “Who was it that was talking about strokes and seizures last night? I’m just being realistic. We need to be honest with ourselves here.”

It’s a fact of life. Some call it cynicism, but I’d rather expect the worst. At least then I’m not blindsided when luck goes south. That doesn’t mean I won’t fight like hell for our survival, but I can’t handle the crippling depression of losing someone unexpectedly. Preparation is everything.

“Well, honestly , I have to pee. Really bad.”

I roll over, facing the wall and close my eyes. “There’s an outhouse. Might need a shovel to get to it. Have fun. I’m going back to sleep.” I barely slept last night.

That’s nothing new. It’s been years since I slept well, but this situation isn’t helping the constant agitation and anxiety clinging to my thoughts. My doctor has thrown around the word complex post-traumatic stress a few times, which basically means my brain is fucked, and there’s nothing I can do about it… other than avoid alcohol and drugs—which is useless advice. If my mind is busted, I’m not going to deal with it sober.

“Good. Maybe it’ll fix your attitude,” she says.

I crane my neck to see her wiggling into her hiking pants and tugging her thick socks on. The fire crackles in the stove, and she holds her hands up to warm them. I ball up the pillow under my head, close my eyes, and sigh. “You talk a lotta shit, you know that, Prescott?”

I wish I could blame her for putting us in this situation, but to be fair, falling rocks are the one thing you can’t prepare for. You can have all the right gear, have all the right experience, but if a rock or rolling log chooses to come down in your path, there’s nothing you can do but meet your maker. It’s a miracle she wasn’t hit by another rock when she was knocked unconscious.

Daylight pours into the room when she opens the door. Truthfully, she’s lucky she’s not dead. She punctuates that thought by yanking the door closed as hard as she can when she exits the lookout. The wind puts up a fight, but she gets her message across, it bears all the angst of a door slam. This is her brand of bullshit. She saunters into my life peacefully and storms out, leaving a path of destruction in her wake—in like a lamb, out like a lion. Scottie gets under my skin like no other.

After a few minutes, she comes clomping back inside. I turn over to see snow clinging to her pants, confirming it’s thigh-deep on her. She carried a pile of snow in just by walking through the door.

I sit upright .

“Scottie, you brought half the fucking mountaintop in here. Keep that shit outside, yeah?”

She raises her eyebrows and blinks at me, then throws her arms out to the side. “I see your attitude is still here… It’s a whiteout out there, by the way! The catwalk is covered, I knocked a bunch off the side, but it’s a mess. It sticks to everything.”

Sticky snow means it’s wet, which means it will be an even bigger pain in the ass to hike through, and we’re at a higher risk for avalanches, depending on how it’s packed.

“I was so excited to experience my first real snow,” she murmurs.

“Enjoy your morning stroll through winter wonderland, did you?” Her face blooms red and I close my eyes. The corner of my mouth turns up with a smug grin. She shuffles around the room, and I crack open one eyelid, watching her strip her outer layer, and the neck of the sweater stretches, revealing the edge of a bruise. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

I shut my eyes and fall asleep to the sound of her setting more logs next to the fire.

I’m back to that day. Seeing Garrett Macomb crushed and lifeless. Then Xander’s expression when I had to tell him his father was dead.

Protocol is to alert authorities so they can contact next of kin, but Xander needed to hear it from someone who knew and loved his dad. Garrett was our supe, and he became like a father to me after my own dad passed .

I choke as I attempt to comfort my best friend, but he’s like a statue. He doesn’t react. His face is coated with dirt and soot, and clear eyes search mine for hope. Hope that I’m wrong, that I’m mistaken, that his dad is still alive. I have nothing to offer him except hurt and the worst day of his life.

Xander fades away, and the vision of Garrett takes his place.

My eyes brim with tears, and my throat tightens. The utter panic and dread threaten to drown me. I inhale, but the air doesn’t reach my lungs. It tastes like ash. I’m held hostage, forced to relive the incident like it’s happening for the first time. Guilt, fear, and fury battle inside me. I’m powerless, unable to breathe as I’m crushed by the overwhelming weight of utter misery. My heart thrashes in my chest, and the pounding fills my ears until it’s the only sound I hear.

I’m sleeping.

Another nightmare I can’t wake from. No matter how much I try to move, my arms and legs have been filled with lead, holding me down while I’m doomed to experience every second in excruciating detail. I’m trapped. Paralyzed by my broken mind.

Warmth rushes over my body, and I jerk awake. I thrust my eyes open, replacing the images of his charred flesh with the interior of the lookout. Scottie’s arm is draped over my side, and she threads her fingers with mine. For the first time, I’m able to come up for air, gasping like I’m breaking the water’s surface after being held under. My chest heaves, and I sense the sweat across my forehead. Fuck. “It’s not real,” she says.

I swallow, gulping in more oxygen. I wish she was right, but it is real. It already happened. Her cheek presses to my back, and for the second time, she helps me through a panic attack, giving me a safe space to release the tension in my muscles. Her gentle touch is soothing, keeping me in the present.

“Concentrate on your breathing. I’m still with you.”

I squeeze her hand in mine, thankful to not be alone.