That's when I hear it—a sound different from the rain and wind. Footsteps. Heavy and deliberate, coming closer.
Hope surges, quickly followed by fear. What if it's not help? What if it's something worse?
I fumble for my phone, turning on the flashlight with trembling fingers. The weak beam illuminates nothing but rain and trees.
"Hello?" My voice cracks. "Is someone there?"
The footsteps stop. Then resume, faster now, heading straight for me.
I push myself up against the tree trunk, heart hammering against my ribs. The flashlight beam catches movement, and suddenly there's a massive shadow stepping out of the trees.
For a wild moment, I think it's a bear.
But bears don't wear flannel.
The figure looming over me is unmistakably human, but barely. He's huge—at least six-four, with shoulders that block what little light remains in the sky. A thick beard covers the lower half of his face, and beneath the hood of his jacket, I can just make out eyes narrowed in what looks like annoyance.
"What the hell are you doing out here?" His voice is deep, rough, like he doesn't use it often.
Relief and wariness war within me. "I—I got lost. My ankle?—"
"You're three miles from the nearest trail." He cuts me off, crouching down to my level. In the dim light, I can see his face better now. He's younger than I first thought—mid-thirties maybe, with sharp eyes that miss nothing as they scan over me.
"I know," I admit, embarrassment heating my cheeks despite the cold. "I thought I was taking a shortcut."
He makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. "There's no shortcut through the northern ridge."
"I realize that now, thanks."
His eyes narrow further at my tone. "You got a name, princess?"
"Delilah Monroe," I say, bristling at the nickname. "But everyone calls me Lila."
"Caleb McKenna." He offers nothing else, just studies me with those intense eyes. "Can you walk?"
I try to stand and immediately collapse as my ankle gives out. His hands shoot out, catching me before I hit the ground. They're huge, calloused, and surprisingly gentle.
"That's a no," he says.
Before I can respond, he's scooping me up like I weigh nothing, one arm behind my back, the other under my knees.
"What are you doing?" I sputter, instinctively grabbing his shoulders.
"Getting you out of the rain before you die of exposure." His voice is matter-of-fact, like he's commenting on the weather. "My cabin's half a mile north."
"You live out here? In the middle of nowhere?"
"That's the point." He starts walking, his stride steady despite carrying my weight. The rain seems to bother him as much as my questions—which is to say, not at all.
I should be terrified. I'm literally in the arms of a stranger who looks like he stepped out of a horror movie about backwoods killers. But something about him—the careful way he holds me, avoiding my injured ankle, or maybe the annoyed but resigned expression on his face—tells me I'm safer with him than I was alone.
"Thank you," I say softly. "For finding me."
He grunts in response, eyes fixed ahead.
"How did you find me, anyway?" I ask. "Were you out hunting or something?"
"Heard you yelling. Was checking my trapline."
