“Trigger,” I whispered.
He lifted a hand instantly, freezing us both.
“What do you see?” he asked, not turning.
I swallowed. “The rocks. Across the ravine. That section—see how it’s lighter?”
His gaze snapped to where I was looking.
“Wind shadow,” he murmured automatically.
“Maybe,” I said. “But look above it.”
He leaned slightly, adjusting his angle.
That’s when I saw his posture change—subtle, but unmistakable. Like a switch flipping.
“There,” I said softly. “Something’s been blocking the spray. Recently.”
Trigger’s jaw tightened.
A blind.
Not a full hide. Just enough cover to watch the ravine without leaving tracks in the water.
“They’re leapfrogging,” he said quietly. “One team pushing, one cutting ahead.”
My stomach dropped. “Which means—”
“They already know where we’re going,” he finished.
For the first time since we’d left the cabin, fear slid cold down my spine—not panic, but understanding. This wasn’t random searching.
This was a hunt.
Trigger shifted closer, his hand brushing mine—not by accident. Reassurance. Presence.
“You did good,” he said, low and firm. “You probably just saved us from walking straight into a choke point.”
My breath trembled. “So what now?”
His eyes hardened—not with anger, but resolve.
“Now,” he said, “we stop letting them dictate the pace.”
He glanced downstream, then up the steep embankment to our left—ugly terrain, thick brush, rockfall potential.
“Can you climb?” he asked.
I followed his gaze, then nodded. “Tell me where to put my feet.”
A flicker of something like pride crossed his face.
“Stay close,” he said. “And if I say freeze—”
“I freeze,” I finished.
He gave a single nod and moved first, hauling himself up the slope with controlled strength. When he reached back for me, I took his hand without hesitation.
