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Her thighs burned and her foot hurt, which was a nice distraction from how deeply her heart was aching. She pushed herself, aware of him coming up behind her. She didn’t want to slow him down and kind of wanted to outrun him. She wanted to outrun this whole awful situation.
Her boot skidded on her next clumsily placed step. The needles on the ground were wet and really slippery.
“Careful,” Trystan said behind her.
Shut up, Trystan. It was never helpful to tell someone to be careful after the fact. Didn’t he know that?
She clasped a sapling, which was covered in wet moss and slime.Ugh.Now her hand was caked with muck. The cold penetrated her palm and radiated into her arm. Why had she ever bought into Trystan’s false advertising that nature was so freaking wonderful, anyway? It was cold and hard and inhospitable.
Not unlike him, she thought uncharitably. And why was he so close behind her?
She reached for the next overhanging branch, which was dry and brittle, and took a high step, trying to stay well ahead of him.
That’s when her back boot slid out from under her, sending her into an ungainly splits. The branch she grasped snapped, she lost her balance, and slid down the bank.
*
“Cloe!”
Trystan’s heart came straight out his throat as he watched her tumble fifteen feet down the bank and fetch up against a fallen log.
On his back, Storm jerked awake and began to cry.
“It’s all right,” he lied, reaching back to pat his sister’s leg while he searched for a safe way to get down the slippery hill to Cloe. “Are you okay?” he called to her. “Stay still. Take stock.”
Cloe ignored that advice and sat up, looking dazed as she tried to get her bearings. “I’m fine.”
“Did you bump your head? Any injuries?”
“No, I just feel really stupid.” She looked with disgust at her filthy palms.
“Storm, shush,” he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as he could when his hair was on end and his pulse was pounding so loud it deafened him. “Don’t feel stupid. I’m glad you’re okay. Can you get back up here by yourself or…?” He looked for some footholds to get down to her.
“I can do it.” She started to stand, then cried, “Ow!” as she crumpled.
“What happened?”
She looked up at him with an expression of shocked helplessness. “My ankle.”
“All right, I’ll—”Shit.He looked for a place to leave Storm, but this was all wet, sloped gully. “You’ve got the rescue rope in your pack. There should be something with the emergency tent.” He started to unhook the baby carrier.
“No, I can climb up. I’ll just…” She began to crawl.
By the time she was close enough for him to lean his hand down to help, her jacket was coated in mud and needles. Her jeans were soaked and stained on the knees.
He clasped her forearm and dragged her up onto the path, then steadied her.
She clung to his sleeves as she found her balance on one foot. Now that she was close enough, he could see the gloss of distress in her eyes and the tension of pain around her mouth.
“Just your ankle?” He touched her chin so he could look at the scratch on her cheek.
For one second, he felt the heat that always seemed to happen when they touched. Sometimes it was a gentle kindling warmth, like sunshine. Other times a sharp flare of pure lightning.
Today, she jerked her chin away from his touch and brushed at the scratch. “Something smacked me.”
“Don’t get it dirty.” He caught her hand the way he would with Storm.
Cloe shook him off and glared at him with persecution.
