Page 21

“Hold on, little bird.”

The water is cold at my knees, colder at my thighs, pulling at me the whole way across. I go slowly: plant my foot, test the ground, shift my weight. Plant, test, shift. She doesn’t say a word. I can feel her heart beating against my back, fast but steady, and I count every beat.

On the far side, I don’t put her down.

“You can put me down,” she says. “I can hop.”

“It’s a mile.”

“I can hop a mile.”

“You can try,” I say. “But I won’t let you.”

She rests her cheek on my shoulder and leaves it there.

I’ve carried plenty of people out of danger. None ever leaned on me like they felt this safe.

I slow down, just a little. I tell myself it’s for the footing.

The fire tower stands on a rise above the creek, with steel legs, switchback stairs, and a small wooden cab forty feet up. There are sixty-two steps. I take them all with Wren on my back, while the rain comes in sideways.

Inside, the cab is a single room with windows on every side, all silver with rain. There’s a woodstove with a stack of split wood, a cot with a wool blanket, a lantern, a cupboard with basic supplies, and a two-way radio.

I set Wren down on the cot. Then I shut the door against the wind and lean my back against it, and for a second, I just breathe.

We made it. She’s safe.

I shrug out of my soaked jacket and hang it on the hook. Then I grab the radio and key it. “Station, this is Ashford.”

Prue’s voice crackles back. “Holt! Thank God. Where are you?”

“Fire tower. Sounds like a slide took out the north trail. The creek’s over the crossing. Nicholls is with me. She’s got a scrape on her shin, but she’s fine. We’re staying put until the water drops.”

“Copy. Stay dry, you two. I’ll call you at first light.”

I hang up the radio, then kneel at the stove and build a fire—kindling, split logs, a match. It catches on the second try. Heat rolls off the iron, and I hold my hands out to it, thawing my fingers.

“There’s food in the cupboard,” I say over my shoulder. “Crackers, peanut butter, cans of soup.”

“Romantic.”

I spin to tell her to come warm up, then lose track of my words.

She’s standing by the cot with her back to me, peeling her soaked shirt off over her head. I see a black bra strap, a long line of pale skin, and her wet purple hair stuck to her shoulder blades.

I turn away and stare at the stove.

“I need to check that bandage,” I say, my voice sounding like I’m calling in a road closure.

“You need to get out of that shirt,” she says. “You just waded through a river.”

“After.”

I get my kit and kneel in front of the cot. She sits on the edge in her bra and torn pants, with the wool blanket around her shoulders. I keep my eyes on her shin. The scrape is clean, with no heat. I rinse it again and put on a fresh dressing. The whole time, I can feel her watching me.

“Holt?”

“Hm.”