“You came after me? Alone?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Told the crew I was turning in early,grabbed a light, and waited until they were distracted. Then I headed out.”
I stare at her. “You left camp by yourself. In unfamiliar terrain. At dusk.”
Her brow lifts, calm and unbothered. “Says the guy who free-climbed with a bleeding arm and no backup?”
That earns a breath of something like a laugh. It hurts. But it’s worth it.
“Camp is about an hour from here,” she says, stepping under my arm to support my weight.
“Too far,” I mutter. “There’s a shallow cave about a quarter mile ahead. Used it once during a storm. It'll do.”
“Then that’s where we’re going,” she says. “Once we get there, I’m checking that arm.”
The conviction in her voice doesn’t surprise me—not anymore. This isn’t the same city woman who stepped off the seaplane a week ago, wide-eyed and unsure. This is someone who has found her footing in these mountains—and perhaps in herself. As we make our slow way toward the promised shelter, I realize something has shifted. We trust each other now, the respect moving in both directions. And whatever else is building—that unnamed pull that drove me across Raven’s Spine with single-minded determination—that, too, seems to have only deepened despite my injury. Or maybe because of it.
The cave, when we reach it, is more an overhang than a true cavern, but it's dry and sheltered enough to give us a place to rest. Lena helps me sit with my back against the rock wall, then sets about gathering material for a small fire.
“You make that look effortless,” I observe as she arranges kindling with ease.
“I've had plenty of practice on this trip,” she says, striking a match. “Though I admit, doing it while worried about your arm makes my hands shake.”
The fire catches, throwing warm light acrossher features. In this moment—miles from civilization, blood seeping through my bandage, pain throbbing with every heartbeat—I'm struck by a simple truth, I don't want this journey to end. Not the expedition—that was always temporary. But this connection with Lena. This unexpected partnership that is both new and somehow familiar—like coming home to a place I didn't know I'd been missing.
Crystal Creek’s financial problems haven’t disappeared. The uncertainty of what happens when this expedition ends still looms. But as Lena kneels beside me to unwrap the bandage, her hands gentle, one thing becomes clear amid all the questions. Whatever comes next, I’m not letting Lena Kensington walk out of my life. Some trails, once taken, change your map forever.
Chapter Eighteen
LENA
The small firethat I built casts dancing shadows across the cave walls as I unwrap Finn’s blood-soaked bandage. The gash on his forearm runs deep, angry red against his tanned skin. He doesn’t flinch as I examine it, but the pallor of his face betrays his exhaustion and pain.
“This needs stitches,” I say, turning his arm to assess the full extent of the damage.
“Not equipped for that out here.” His voice is strained, heavy with fatigue, and fear, cold and sharp, clenches my stomach. He’s trying to downplay it, but he’s hurt, badly. “We’ll see about that,” I say, more to myself than to him, already rummaging through the first aid kit. Finn, being an experienced guide, carries a decent medical kit. Among the supplies, I find a roll of medical tape. This is exactly what I need.
“Maybe not stitches, but we can improvise,” I tell him, pulling out the tape and some gauze pads.
“What are you doing?” Finn asks, watching as I tear several strips of the tape.
“Making butterfly closures,” I explain. “They won’t be as good as stitches, but they’ll help hold the wound together until we can get you proper medical attention.”
Finn raises an eyebrow. “Where’d you learn bush medicine?”
“Believe it or not, from a failed TV pilot.” If he only knew. Failed pilot, yes, but the hours in that ER weren’t fake. Some things stick, even when you try to forget the role. I smile as I work, cleaning the wound with water from his canteen. “I played an ER nurse for three episodes before the network pulled the plug. Spent two weeks shadowing real trauma nurses for research.”
“Hollywood training comes in handy after all,” he says, watching me work with a mixture of pain and curiosity.
“They made us learn procedures for authenticity.” I press the edges of the wound together, then apply the first improvised butterfly strip. “Though I never thought I’d be using it in a real emergency, especially in a cave.”
Once I’ve closed the wound with the tape strips, I decide to add another element to the treatment. “Let me add something my grandmother taught me.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the small bundle of yarrow I’d gathered during our hike the day before. The leaves and flowers are wilted now, but Gram always said that didn’t matter much for their effectiveness. I select a few of the limp leaves and rub them between my fingers. Despite their withered state, the bruised leaves release their distinctive earthy scent.
Finn watches with interest as I work. “Yarrow,” he says, recognizing it. “Good choice.”
“My grandmother swore by it for cuts and scrapes.” I place the bruised, lifeless leaves against the skin around the edges of the wound, careful to avoid the butterfly closures. “It’s not as fresh as I’d like, but it should help with infection.”
“Old-timers up here call it soldier’s woundwort,” Finn says, the pain in his eyes briefly giving way to curiosity. “Your grandmother knew her stuff.”
