She stares at me, arms crossed. “You know, in Hollywood, we have these amazing inventions called porters. They carry things and don’t make sarcastic comments.”
“In Alaska, we call those bears. They carry things too, but mostly into their caves to eat later.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Are you saying you’re the bear in this scenario?”
“I’m saying porter service includes attitude in these parts.”
Elliott approaches, clipboard in hand as always. “Are we ready to move out? We’ve lost a full day of filming.”
“We’re ready,” I confirm, glancing at Lena. “Like I said, we take it slow today.”
She nods, a grateful expression on her face, though I can see determination in the set of her jaw. Typical. Even injured, she’s pushing herself harder than necessary.
The trail leading away from the cabin winds through dense forest before descending toward Crystal Creek—not the same one that runs behind my lodge but named for the same quality of usually-clear waters. Today, it runs muddy and swift.
Carlos eyes the rushing water. “Was it like this before?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s risen since we crossed it a few days ago.” The simple log bridge we built still spans the creek, but water now laps at its underside. What had been a gentle stream is now a churning current, swollen with runoff from higher elevations. “Snowmelt and yesterday’s rain,” I explain. “All that water works its way down from the mountains.”
Elliott frowns at the torrent. “Is it safe to cross?”
I weigh our options. Going around would add at least a day, maybe more, with this terrain. The logslookstable enough. It’s a risk, but losing another day is a bigger one for the production, and for getting Lena’s ankle properly looked at, eventually. “We’ll go one at a time,” I decide. “Step where I step and use the guide rope.”
I secure a rope across the makeshift bridge—three sturdy logs lashed side by side—and demonstrate the crossing, stepping on the center log while keeping one hand on the guide rope. On the other side, I tie off the rope to a tree and signalfor the first crew member to follow. One by one, they make their way across.
As I help the next person over, I notice two of the cameramen moving into position—clearly intent on filming the rest of the crossings from both sides.
Lena watches, her jaw set with determination, though there’s a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. When her turn comes, she moves with surprising grace despite her injury, testing each step before committing her weight.
“Not bad for someone who showed up in Alaska wearing designer heels,” I say when she reaches my side. “Those logs are a long way from the red carpet.”
“The red carpet is a glorified log with better lighting,” she replies, brushing dirt from her palms. “And I walked it in six-inch stilettos after three glasses of champagne. This was practically a sidewalk.”
“Ah, yes, the natural predators of Hollywood—champagne flutes and paparazzi.”
“Don’t forget directors with wandering hands,” she adds under her breath. “I’m full of surprises,” she continues, her eyes meeting mine. “Most of which aren’t in my IMDB profile.”
I turn to watch Carlos cross, the last in our group. His camera equipment is distributed between a large backpack and a waterproof case he clutches to his chest. The creek has risen in the time it took everyone to cross, water now splashing over the logs in places.
“Be careful with your footing,” I call as he steps onto the first log. He moves slowly, the heavy pack affecting his balance. Halfway across, he adjusts the case he carries, his attention divided between his equipment and the treacherous footing.
“Carlos, focus on crossing first, equipment second,” I call, not liking how the logs bob under his weight.
“Almost there,” he replies, eyes still on his case rather than his feet.
“Eyes forward, Carlos,” I say, my voice firmer. “The equipment can be replaced. You can’t.”
His head snaps up, but the movement throws off his already precarious balance. His right foot slips on the wet bark, arms windmilling as he fights to stay upright. The heavy pack shifts, pushing him off-center.
“Drop the case!” I shout, moving toward the bank. But Carlos clutches it tighter, unwilling to sacrifice his expensive equipment.
With a startled cry, he topples sideways into the rushing water, the case still clutched in his hands.Damn it!
“Carlos!” Lena shouts, already moving, a blur of motion toward the bank before I can even bark out a warning for her to stay put.
The current sweeps him downstream, the weight of his equipment pulling him under momentarily before he surfaces, sputtering and gasping. He keeps the camera case above water with one arm while thrashing with the other.
“Drop the case and swim to the edge!” I yell, running along the bank. But the shoreline quickly grows steeper, the rocks slicker from the recent rain. I can’t get close enough to reach him.
