Chapter 2 – Joel
The woman behind me is too damn soft for this wilderness.
I can hear her struggling through the snow, her breathing already labored as she tries to keep up with my pace. Each step she takes is accompanied by a small sound—a grunt of effort, the whisper of her coat brushing against branches, the occasional muttered curse when she sinks deeper than expected.
She's fighting the terrain instead of working with it, and it's going to wear her out fast.
But she's following. That's something, at least.
The storm is building faster than I anticipated, and the last thing I need is her collapsing from exhaustion before we reach shelter. The wind cuts through the trees with increasing violence, sending snow swirling in dense sheets that reduce visibility to maybe twenty feet.
What started as gentle flurries an hour ago is now a legitimate blizzard in the making.
"Watch the root there," I call back without turning around, hearing her stumble slightly behind me.
She recovers without complaint, which surprises me. Most civilians would be whining by now—about the cold, the pace, the fact that they can't feel their fingers. But she just pushes forward, her camera clutched against her chest like it's more precious than her own safety.
Stubborn. And foolish as hell for wandering this far into the backcountry alone.
A gust of wind strong enough to shake the massive pines hits us head-on, and I hear her sharp intake of breath as the icy air cuts through her layers. I stop and turn, finding her hunched against the blast, snow already accumulating in her hair.
"You still with me?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, but concern makes me sound harsher, not gentler.
She looks up at me through snowflake-dusted lashes, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. "I'm fine."
Liar.
She's already shivering, and we've only been walking for ten minutes. But there's a determination in her eyes that makes me respect her a little more than I want to.
"Stay close," I order, turning back to the trail. "Visibility's going to get worse."
The path I know by heart is already becoming treacherous. Snow has filled in the natural depressions and hidden the rocks that usually mark safe footing. I navigate by memory and instinct, reading the shape of the land beneath the white blanket, but she doesn't have those advantages. Every step she takes is a gamble.
I hear her slip and catch herself, hear the sharp huff of breath that escapes when she regains her balance. The tactical part of my brain catalogues her every movement, her breathing pattern, the way she's favoring her right leg slightly now. She's pushing herself harder than she should, and her body is starting to protest.
The wind shifts direction, driving snow directly into our faces now. I squint against the stinging flakes, feeling them melt against my skin and immediately freeze again. Behind me, I hear her gasp as the full force of it hits her.
"Jesus," she mutters, and I catch the note of real fear creeping into her voice.
Good. Fear will keep her alert, keep her moving. Overconfidence kills people out here faster than hypothermia.
We crest a small rise, and I pause to let her catch up. She emerges from the swirling snow like a ghost, her face pale except for those pink cheeks, her breath coming in sharp puffs that are immediately torn away by the wind. Snow clings to her coat, her scarf, the curve of her hips where the fabric pulls tight.
"How much further?" she asks, having to raise her voice over the wind.
"Half a mile." I study her face, looking for signs that she's reaching her limit. Her lips are starting to lose color, and there's a fine tremor in her hands that isn't just from gripping her camera. "Can you make it?"
The question seems to offend her. Her spine straightens, and for a moment the exhaustion disappears from her expression, replaced by pure determination.
"I can make it."
I almost smile, but the wind chooses that moment to unleash another vicious gust that nearly knocks her sideways. Without thinking, I step forward and catch her arm, steadying her against my body.
The contact is electric, even through our layers of clothing. She's warm and soft and alive, and for a split second I forget about the storm, forget about getting to shelter, forget about everything except the way she fits against my side.
"Thanks," she breathes, and I can feel her words against my neck where her face is turned up toward mine.
I should let go. Should step back and put distance between us before this attraction I'm fighting gets any stronger. Instead, I find myself adjusting her scarf, pulling it higher around her throat where the wind has loosened it.
