I wait until his footsteps fade north, then signal Ghost to hold perimeter. Old dog settles into a crouch that blends him into the dark. If that man comes back, I'll know about it.
I go over the edge of the ravine slow, testing every handhold. Twelve feet down on loose rock in the dark, carrying a rifle, knowing I'm on a clock. My knees aren't what they were at thirty. I don't think about it. Just move.
I reach her and crouch.
She's breathing. Shallow but steady. Pulse at her throat is fast and thready, which tracks with how long she's probably been down here. Skin cold. Temple scraped up bad, blood dried down the side of her face. Left ankle twisted under her at an angle ankles aren't supposed to make. Ribs where I can see under the torn edge of her vest look bruised to hell.
I run my hands over her carefully. No obvious breaks beyond the ankle. No spinal compromise I can feel.
"Ma'am."
Her eyes don't open.
"Can you hear me?"
A breath. A flutter of lashes. Nothing else.
I unclip a canvas pouch from my pack and pull out the emergency blanket. Wrap her. Check her pack, because if that man is looking for something specific, I need to know what he's going to come back for.
Her pack is half open. A Pelican case inside, scraped up from the fall but intact. Rock samples in labeled bags. A field notebook bound in waxed canvas. Camera with a telephoto lens. Compass that looks older than she is, brass, well-used.
Nobody sends a man with a rifle after a geologist unless she found something she wasn't supposed to find.
I zip her pack tight and sling it over my own shoulder. Then I reach down and slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. She's solid. Strong legs. I lift her against my chest and brace for the climb.
Her head rolls against my collarbone. She makes a sound. Not a word, just a breath of protest, like her body knows it's being moved and doesn't like it.
"I got you."
I don't know if it registers. Don't care. I keep talking in a low voice because sometimes people hold on when they've got something to hold onto, even if it's just sound.
"You're safe. You're with me. I'm getting you out."
The climb back up is slower than the climb down. Every handhold has to hold both of us. I feel my left knee scream when I haul us over the lip, and I ignore it. Ghost materializes at my side the second my boot hits the trail, ears up, asking.
"North," I murmur. "Stay close."
We move. Fast as I can with her in my arms. I take a low route back to the truck, one that keeps us off the ridgeline, one that puts rock between us and anyone who might be looking down from above.
Halfway there, she stirs.
Her hand comes up, fingers catching in the front of my jacket. Not a grab. A curl. Like she's anchoring herself.
"Not safe," she whispers.
"I know."
Her eyes crack open. Dark brown. Unfocused. Find mine through the dim gray of a mountain coming awake.
"They're looking for it."
"For what?"
She tries to shake her head. Winces. Gives up.
"Notebook. Pack. Don't..."
"It's with me. It's safe. You're safe."
