"Weather reports don't mean much up here." His attention snaps back to me, those piercing eyes taking in my inadequate winter gear, my exposed position, the way I'm already starting to shiver as the temperature plummets. "Conditions can change in minutes."
A particularly strong gust nearly knocks me off balance, and without thinking, I take a step closer to him. The moment I do, something shifts in his expression. His jaw tightens, and I catch the way his hands flex at his sides.
"How far did you come?" he asks, his voice dropping to a rumble that I feel in my chest.
I bite my lip, suddenly aware of how far I've wandered from my car. I'd been following game trails and my own instincts, chasing the perfect shot without paying attention to direction or distance. The forest stretches endlessly in every direction I look, a maze of snow-covered pines that all seem identical now.
"Maybe three miles?" I venture, though even as I say it, I know it's probably more.
"Try six." The wind gusts again, stronger this time, and several branches creak ominously overhead. A shower of snow and ice crystals rains down on us, stinging my face. "In good weather, that's a hard hike. In a whiteout, it's suicide."
Fear spikes through me, cold and sharp. I look around at the towering trees, trying to orient myself, but everything looks the same. Snow-covered pines stretching in every direction, broken only by the rushing waterfall that now seems more ominous than beautiful.
The temperature has dropped so dramatically that my fingers are going numb despite being tucked against my camera.
"I can make it," I say, though my voice wavers with uncertainty. "I'm stronger than I look."
His eyes drop to my curves, lingering on the way my winter coat hugs my hips. The assessment is thorough, almost clinical, but there's heat underneath it that makes my breath catch. When his gaze returns to my face, something predatory flickers in those steel-gray depths.
"Strength won't help you if you can't see two feet in front of you."
As if to punctuate his words, another powerful gust tears through the trees, sending a cascade of snow and broken twigs raining down around us. The sound is like a warning, branchesgroaning under the weight of accumulating ice, the distant crack of wood giving way somewhere deeper in the forest.
I stumble as the wind hits me, and suddenly his hand is there, gripping my elbow through my coat.
He steadies me without effort, his body a solid wall of warmth and muscle that blocks the worst of the wind.
"Easy," he murmurs, and the low rumble of his voice does something to my insides.
For a moment we stand frozen like that—his hand on my arm, my body pressed close enough to his that I can feel the heat radiating from him through our layers of clothing. The scent of woodsmoke clings to his coat, mixed with something clean and masculine that makes my head spin.
Then the moment shatters as a nearby branch gives way with a sharp crack, crashing down into the snow less than ten feet from where we stand.
"Jesus," I breathe, jerking back, my heart hammering against my ribs.
His hand doesn't release my arm. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, anchoring me in place. "We need to move. Now."
The authority in his voice brooks no argument.
"There's a cabin," he says, his eyes scanning the treeline with precision. "Not far. You'll wait out the storm there."
It's not a suggestion. The way he says it makes it clear that arguing would be pointless—and potentially dangerous. The wind is howling through the pines now, a continuous roar that drowns out the sound of the waterfall. Snow swirls around usin blinding sheets, and I can already feel myself losing track of which direction we came from.
"I don't even know your name," I whisper, having to raise my voice over the growing storm.
"Joel." He shoulders a pack I hadn't noticed before, his movements economical and purposeful. Every gesture speaks of training, discipline, survival. "And you're coming with me."
My camera suddenly feels heavy in my hands. I look back at the waterfall, at the perfect shot I'll never get to finish, then at Joel's implacable face. The wind is getting stronger with each passing moment, and snow is beginning to fall so heavily that the far shore of the stream has already disappeared into a white haze.
Another branch crashes down behind us, closer this time.
"Okay," I breathe, surprising myself with how easily the word comes. "Okay, I'll come with you."
He turns without another word, expecting me to follow, and after one last glance at the frozen waterfall that's already being swallowed by the storm, I do.
My legs shake as I struggle through the deepening snow in his wake, but it's not entirely from exertion or cold.
The storm closes around us like a living thing.
