"Okay, Uncle C." Sarah's voice was small but determined. "Sorry, Ms. Reed." She added, and I offered her a reassuring smile.
We began to climb.
Every step sent pain shooting through my ankle, but Cole absorbed most of the impact. His grip was sure, his pace adjusted perfectly to mine. He didn't rush. He didn't express frustration. He just moved with me, steady as bedrock.
The late evening sun, deep gold now, slanted through the trees and set the world on fire. From this slower pace, leaning against him as he guided me over the terrain, I found myself looking up at the top of the trees and the sky, suddenly, the mountain transformed.
I saw a spiderweb catching the light. Orange lichen growing on the north side of the rocks. The far peaks fading from dark to pale blue, one behind the other.
"Oh," I breathed, stopping despite the pain.
"What is it?" Cole's voice was concerned.
"It's beautiful." The words came out wondering, surprised. "It's so beautiful."
He followed my gaze to the view opening up through the trees. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It is."
Tears slipped down my cheeks, different from the panicked tears from earlier. These were grief and wonder mixed together, finally allowed to exist in the same moment.
"She loved this," I whispered. "Lily. She tried so hard to make me understand."
Cole's arm tightened around me. "Tell me about her."
So I did. As we climbed slowly, painfully, I talked. About Lily's impossible energy. Her habit of bringing home wounded animals. Her terrible singing voice that she deployed with complete confidence. The way she'd drag me out of bed to watch sunrises I never wanted to see.
"I always said no at first," I confessed. "I was too busy being responsible. Too scared something would go wrong." The old guilt rose, familiar and sharp. "The last time—the last time I saidno, it was to the hike that took her away. I begged her not to go alone. And she went anyway."
Cole was quiet for several steps, the only sounds were our careful footfalls and Sarah's occasional calls of encouragement from ahead.
"Rebecca," he began, his voice lower now, meant only for me. "She was the opposite. All adventure, all recklessness, until she got pregnant. Then she was just... terrified. Convinced she wouldn't be enough. Convinced she'd fail."
"What happened?"
"She died bringing Sarah into the world. Complications no one predicted." His countenance changed as he spoke. "Sometimes the thing that scares you most is the very thing that gives you everything. And takes it. All at once."
Two sisters. One who ran toward the wild, one who was terrified to create new life. Both gone. Leaving behind a man who understood survival but not tenderness, and a woman who understood nurturing but not risk.
"We're quite a pair," I said softly.
"Yeah." His voice was rough. "We are."
By the time we emerged into the clearing where his cabin stood, I was exhausted beyond words. The view from his ridge was staggering, endless shadowy peaks beneath a lavender and rose sky, the kind of beauty that made your chest ache.
"Oh, Cole," I breathed.
"Worth the climb?"
"Worth everything."
He helped me inside and lowered me carefully onto his worn sofa. The cabin was spare and functional; there were shelves of field guides, a massive stone fireplace, and everything in its practical place. But the window framed that impossible view, and suddenly I understood why he lived up here.
Without a word, he fetched a basin of cold water and a clean cloth. He knelt before me, bathing my swollen ankle with a gentleness that was bordering on a caress.
"You're good at this," I managed.
"Lots of practice. Wilderness first-aid comes with the territory."
He wrapped my ankle firmly with an elastic bandage, his movements efficient and sure. The cold and compression helped immediately.
