Gone Too Deep (10 page)

“No.” His finger left the road and made a loop, creating a half circle before ending up at the cabin.

She frowned. Although the map symbols confused her, the route he'd just indicated didn't make any sense. “Why that way? It seems a lot longer.”

He tapped the map at a point between their current location and the cabin. “Avalanche area.”

Her lungs compressed. After she'd tucked away the beacon in her coat pocket, she'd forgotten about that particular danger. “Avalanche? We could get buried in an avalanche?”

“Possibly. Not as likely if we go this way.” He pointed at the roundabout route.

“Not as likely? That means there's still a chance?”

He offered another one of his affirmative shrugs, not looking all that concerned about the thought of being buried under tons of snow. With a sigh, she closed her eyes.

“If Dad's not at the cabin, I'm going to kill him. Or I will if I'm not buried under a hundred feet of snow or eaten by a bear first.”

Something tickled her cheek, and she opened her eyes to see George's hand moving away from her face. She gave him a slightly startled look.

“Hair,” he explained, brushing his fingers against his thumb as if flicking away a stray strand.

“Oh.” She felt warmth and awkwardness cover her like a heavy blanket as she looked at him, stretched out next to her, so close she could easily touch him if her arms hadn't been bound to her sides. Closing her eyes again, she pretended he was a little farther away from her to reduce the temptation to close that tiny space separating them. “Good night.”

There was no response except for the rustling of fabric. She assumed that he was removing his outer layers, and her imagination supplied a full-color movie of what he probably looked like while stripping. She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed and tried to think about other things—anything except a half-naked George lying right next to her. Eventually, the sounds stopped, replaced by the clicking burr of his sleeping-bag zipper. The red glow behind her eyelids faded to black as he turned off the flashlights.

When it was quiet, drowsiness quickly overcame her. Her last thought before she slept was not of bears or avalanches or even her father. It was that tiny glimpse of George's bare stomach as he sweetly warmed her alcohol wipes.

She was flushed but smiling as she fell asleep.

* * *

Anderson could hear them breathing. Silly sheep, fast asleep.

As he circled the tent, close enough to stroke his hand across the outer surface, he thought of how easy it would be. George Holloway, the smug, self-righteous bastard, the great search and rescue tracker, wouldn't even see it coming. Anderson could take them both out before Holloway could even unzip his sleeping bag. Better yet, he'd do Baxter Price's daughter and make Holloway watch.

Anderson paused next to the tent entrance, sorely tempted. They'd followed the two all day, and the high-and-mighty Holloway hadn't had a clue. He'd been so focused on the hot piece of city tail that he wouldn't have even seen a mountain lion if it had jumped on him and started chewing on his head. Everyone thought Holloway was so great, but he didn't know shit.

His fingers twitched, wanting to reach for that tent flap. It wasn't time yet, though. The two had to serve their purpose, and then Anderson could have his fun.

“Anderson?” The wind quieted for a moment, allowing Wilson's distant whisper to echo through the night. Holloway's sleeping breaths stopped, alert stillness taking their place, and Anderson backed away soundlessly. Exasperation drew his brows together. Once again, his brother had ruined a perfectly good hunt.

Anderson slipped away as silently as he'd arrived, covering his tracks as he went. The obliging wind would erase the last hints of his presence.

It was okay. Anderson knew how to be patient. He'd get another chance at both Holloway and his city girl—maybe not tonight, but soon.

* * *

Her sleep was restless. The restriction of the mummy bag and the cold on her face kept nudging her into partial wakefulness. The sounds from outside the tent were both too quiet and too loud, giving her strange, half-alert dreams. At some point in the early morning hours, she wiggled over like an inchworm and curled against George's massive form. Tucking her face into the warm nook created by his shoulder and neck, she sighed with relief. With that last part of her finally warm, she fell asleep again and stayed unconscious until pinkish, early morning light filled the tent.

Her nighttime, half-asleep self hadn't felt self-conscious when she'd cuddled up to George. She'd just wanted to find a heat source. Her morning self, however, jolted awake at the realization that she'd taken over a slice of his sleeping pads and was plastered against him, their sleeping bags mashed together. Most embarrassing of all, though, was that her face was buried under his chin, her breath warming the skin of his neck.

By his stillness, she guessed he was already awake. Her plan to roll quietly away from her current position was therefore foiled. Instead, she inched far enough away so she could see his face.

“Good morning.”

She wasn't surprised when he didn't answer. Although he'd started speaking more, he still didn't bother with the nonessentials: pleases, thank-yous, hellos, good-byes, good nights, and good mornings. Studying his face, Ellie couldn't tell whether he was annoyed or indifferent.

“Sorry about getting so close.” She inched back again and slipped into the space between their sleeping pads. “My face was cold.”

His slight nod told her nothing. Since her bladder was becoming quite insistent, she decided to ignore her embarrassment and focus on getting through another day of hiking. She squirmed until her elbows were bent and her hands beneath her chin, so she could tug at the drawstring on her hood.

Before she managed to loosen it, George reached over and opened it. He then opened her zipper a small amount. “Get dressed in there.”

“Okay.” She slid one arm out of the sleeping bag to snatch her fleece layers and pull them in with her. Just that single contact with the outside air made her wince and wish she could stay in her cozy sleeping bag all day. Maybe George could pull her on a sled?

The mental image made her smile, which, in turn, made her realize how gummy and gross her teeth felt. “You wouldn't happen to have packed a toothbrush, would you?”

Under his beard, the corner of his mouth quirked up.

“Is that a yes? Honestly?” Her voice lit with relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought I'd have fuzzy teeth for the next week.”

Dressing in the sleeping bag was worse than undressing, and finally, annoyed and starting to sweat, she unzipped the bag and climbed out of it. When George gave her a reproving look, she just shrugged and pulled on her fleece pants over her long underwear.

She finished adding her layers as quickly as possible. Morning felt even colder than the night before, although it sounded like the wind had died. She remembered hearing it howling off and on during her frequent bouts of wakefulness. Digging out her gloves and the two stuff sacks, she hurried to pull out her boots. The cold was already seeping through the tarp and the tent floor into her socked feet, and she gratefully shoved her feet into the wonderfully warm boots.

Even when she was fully dressed, including gloves, she still felt chilled. The first thing she was going to do when she got home, she decided, was take a long, hot bath. The thought of it made her feel even colder, and she shivered.

George had been dressing right along with her, although he was much more efficient, especially when it came to putting things on in the confines of his sleeping bag. Not only was he dressed, but he'd rolled his sleeping bag and was working it into the compression sack.

“Leave that,” Ellie said, unzipping the entrance. “Right after I…uh, visit a tree, I'll get everything packed in here while you cook breakfast.” She hesitated. “It's not going to be reconstituted eggs and bacon, is it?”

That got an actual smile. “Oatmeal.”

“Good.” She sighed with relief. One gross meal in a pouch a day was plenty.

* * *

It was easier, Ellie found, to get the sleeping bag
out
of the compression sack than it was to get it back
in
. Growling, she fought the slick fabric.

“I'm cooking breakfast tomorrow morning,” she muttered. “George can pack.”

By the time she'd wrestled her sleeping bag into submission and rolled the mats, she knew George was probably waiting breakfast on her. Their tracks from the night before had filled in with blown snow, leaving just the faintest of trails for her to follow.

As she approached George, he held out a spork. His eyebrow was lifted quizzically, and she sighed as she accepted the utensil.

“Sorry.” Since he held the pan of oatmeal between them, she assumed they weren't getting separate bowls, so she just dug in. “That sleeping bag took forever to get into the tiny sack. It's a tricky devil.”

He snorted. Whether it was in agreement or in amusement at her incompetence, she wasn't sure. They ate in silence for a while, taking turns reaching into the pot for a sporkful. The oatmeal wasn't bad. She would've preferred it with milk, but he'd sweetened it with something and added pecans, so it was pretty tasty. It was a definite improvement over the previous meal.

As usual, she withdrew her spork before it was halfway gone, and George finished the oatmeal. Afterward, he cleaned the pan and sporks with melted snow, scrubbing at them with his fingers. He dried the few dishes with a small towel before stowing everything in their packs.

Eyeing the place where the food had hung overnight, she asked, “Any sign of bears?”

Although he kept his gaze on the cookstove he was packing, Ellie could tell he was trying not to smile as he shook his head. With a huff, she hoisted her pack onto her back and headed back to the tent.

While he amused himself by thinking about her fear of mauling and dismemberment, she'd get some more packing done.

Only an hour into the day's hiking, Ellie already felt wretched. Despite the Band-Aids and extra-tight lacing, her boots rubbed against the blisters. By the way they were already throbbing, she knew her feet would be raw by evening.

That morning, George had told her to store her avalanche beacon under her outermost layer, which had put her in a quandary. Her fleece didn't have pockets that zipped, and her long underwear had no pockets at all. After some dithering, she'd stored it in her bra, wincing as she'd tucked the cold device against her skin. It was the most secure place under her coat, but it definitely wasn't the most comfortable.

She wished she hadn't asked about their route the previous night. When George turned off the logging road, she followed reluctantly. It made it worse to know that they were taking such an indirect route, although she was aware that it was better than to risk walking through an area with a high likelihood of avalanches.

Her muscles were painfully stiff and sore from all of the unaccustomed exercise the day before. Even with George walking slowly, she was still falling behind. Every few minutes, she'd have to run a couple of strides to catch up with him. If she couldn't push her body to move faster, the weeklong trip was going to turn into double that.

“You are stronger than you think,” she mumbled under her breath, ignoring the way her body shrieked its opposition. “This doesn't hurt. This feels wonderful. I'm out in the beauty of nature. My feet are as light as air. What blisters?” She tried to think of more positive affirmations—not that they were really helping. In fact, the words used up some of her precious oxygen, and she didn't have any to spare. “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.” Ellie wasn't sure where she'd heard the last one, but she was pretty sure it hadn't been in her yoga class.

Focused on trying to convince herself how not miserable she was, she didn't notice George had stopped until she got a face full of the front of his coat. Taking a step back, she looked up to meet his gaze. If she had to take a guess, she would say his expression was a combination of bafflement and amusement.

“What?” she asked.

Shaking his head, he turned and started walking again. Now that they'd stopped, her legs refused to move again.

“George?” she called after him. He tipped his chin toward his shoulder, indicating that he was listening. “I'm sorry, but could we take a break? My legs aren't being very cooperative.”

He turned and returned to where she was standing, his hand immediately going to the trail mix pocket as he eyed her water bottle meaningfully. Although she wasn't thirsty, she pulled it out and took a drink, trying not to make a face at the energy powder's bitter tang that the cherry flavor did a poor job of masking.

Her expression must have given her away, because he grabbed another bottle off his pack and exchanged it with hers. When she took a drink, the taste—or lack of taste—of plain water made her smile.

“Thank you.”

With a nod of acknowledgment, George held out the bag of trail mix. “What color is your urine?”

Blinking, she tried to process the question. After the past hour of silence, he finally spoke to ask her about her pee? “Uh, what?”

“Your urine.” He enunciated clearly, as if it were her hearing that was the problem, and not the question. “What color is it?”

“Um…I didn't look at it.” Because she was a
normal
person.

He frowned. “Check next time.”

“Why?” she asked warily. Although quiet, he hadn't seemed like a freak, but she really didn't know the guy.

“It should be light or clear. If it's dark, you're dehydrated.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders lowered in relief. He wasn't a freak then—at least, not about pee. “Okay.” At the reminder, she took another long drink of water. When he extended the trail mix again, she tugged off a glove and took a handful.

“Are you sweating?”

Pausing a second, she took stock, but the fabric against her skin didn't feel damp as it had the day before. “Not that I can tell.” A thought occurred to her, and she grinned at him. “You asked this time instead of feeling me up!”

Above his beard, his cheeks grew ruddier, and Ellie felt bad about embarrassing him. She concentrated on the food in her hand.

Finishing her handful of trail mix, she pulled on her glove and took a final drink of water. Securing the bottle in its upside down position on her pack, she bit off a resigned sigh and tried to force some enthusiasm into her voice. “Ready?”

After eyeing her closely, he started walking. Ellie forced her concrete legs to follow. To distract herself, she looked around at the scenery. Even though they'd left the main forest service road, they were on a trail of some kind, judging by the clear sweep of snow in front of them. It was narrower than the road, though, with only about three feet of space between the bordering trees. She tried to imagine it in a couple of months, when the snow would be gone and everything—not just the pine trees—would be green. It was hard to see beyond the all-encompassing white.

Ellie tried to take a step, but something was holding down her foot. When she glanced at her boots, she saw that one snowshoe had landed on the edge of the other one, pinning it. She'd barely made the realization when another struck her—she was falling.

A grunt escaped when she landed, her hip and her hand hitting the ground next to the path first. Immediately, she started to slide down the incline, her body bumping off rocks as if she were a pinball. Ellie scrambled to grab something, anything that would keep her from tumbling farther down the slope. Her hand closed around a leafless bush, but its shallow roots released their grip on the soil, sending her slipping another few feet until a large boulder halted her downward slide.

Biting back a groan, she lay still for a moment, taking inventory of her body parts. Despite an overall ache, everything seemed to be functioning, so she carefully rolled onto her side. The worst part was the embarrassment. After all, she'd tripped over her own feet. George loomed over her, adding to the humiliation.

“I'm fine,” she said before he could ask. “For looking so fluffy and soft, though, snow is really freaking hard.” Shoving up into a sitting position, she untangled her snowshoes, giving the culprits an accusing stare.

“Wait.” His eyebrows knotted in concern, George went down onto one knee next to her and ran his hands over her, starting at her head and working down her arms and legs. Her attempt to make another I-am-not-a-horse objection came out as a croak, so she went silent as he finished his inspection. When he didn't find any broken bones or gushing wounds, he stood.

Ellie started to climb to her feet, afraid that her attempt to stand in snowshoes wasn't going to be a pretty sight, when George leaned down. Catching her under the arms, he gently hoisted her to her feet, stealing her breath for the second time in as many minutes. She made a startled sound and clutched at his forearms for balance. Once she'd gotten her bearings, she hurriedly released her grip, although a large part of her wanted to continue to hold on to him.

“Sorry…I mean, thank you.” Ellie wasn't sure why she was so flustered or why her skin felt so warm. “That was efficient. Quicker than me trying to stand up on my own, I mean.” Why was she babbling? For whatever reason, her mouth did not want to stay shut. “So, thank you. Um, again. Ready to go?”

Instead of releasing her, he gave her an assessing look, his eyes dropping to her snowshoes and back to her face as if checking once again for any broken or missing body parts. Ellie blushed, and her heart beat faster, even though she doubted that he'd be able to make out even a suggestion of her shape under her multiple bulky layers of clothes. When he apparently didn't see anything out of place, he removed his hands slowly, almost reluctantly, and turned to lead the way back up the slope to the trail.

With some personal space reestablished, Ellie was able to breathe again—well, as much as she
could
breathe in the thin air. She fell in behind George, alternating between watching her feet so she didn't trip herself a second time and stealing quick glances at his back. Since he kept looking over his shoulder to check on her, he caught her eyeballing him a few times. When that happened, she couldn't stop herself from ducking her head to focus on her snowshoes.

She couldn't figure out why she was behaving like a preteen girl with a crush for the first time in her life—including when she'd
actually
been a preteen girl. It was probably a good thing George was so quiet, so he couldn't comment on how silly she was acting. Tilting her head, she eyed his back as she thought. Maybe it was because he was her lifeline in an unfamiliar, dangerous situation. Or perhaps his well-honed survival skills struck a chord with her inner cavewoman. At that moment, he turned to check on her again, and she looked away, pretending to study an evergreen tree squatting next to the trail. As soon as she saw in her peripheral vision that he'd faced forward, she resumed her study of his ridiculously broad back.

Her growing crush on George wasn't
that
surprising, really. He was a good-looking guy. The few glimpses she'd had of his body had been positive…very, very positive. Sure, he was quiet, but he was also strong and smart and very patient. It was like he was a different species from Dylan and the last few guys she'd dated. She tried to picture George in skinny jeans and had to smother a giggle. Despite her efforts, he must have heard, since he glanced back at her. Her gaze dropped to her snowshoes.

Her musings about what made George so attractive kept her going until her stomach pinged with hunger.

“George?”

He immediately stopped and turned, making her wonder if he was still jumpy because of her fall.

“Snack break?” she asked with a smile, and he reached for a pocket on his pack.

When she looked around, she made a face. There were no rocks, downed logs, or other sure-to-be-uncomfortable seats available, so she resigned herself to standing. She noticed that the trees around them were bare and blackened. Even the evergreens were stripped of their needles.

“What happened?” she asked, gesturing at the skeletal remains of the forest. “Was there a forest fire?”

His grunt was affirmative. George presented her with jerky this time, so that was different.

“Wow.” The burned areas stretched farther than she could see. “It must have been huge. Was it lightning that started it, or a campfire or something?”

“Arson.”

Her gaze snapped back to his face. “Arson? Really?”

“Yes. Eat.”

After taking a bite, she chewed thoughtfully. “Is this beef?”

“Venison.”

“Oh.” She chewed some more…and then even more. After only one bite, her jaw was already getting sore. Feeling a little dumb, she asked, “That's deer, right?”

After giving her a cautious look, he lifted his chin slightly in the barest of nods.

Unable to interpret his expression, she asked, “What?”

“Didn't want to upset you.”

Her eyebrows squished together in a puzzled frown. “Why would it upset me? Oh, because it's deer? Bambi and all?” She eyed the dried meat in her hand, but then shrugged. “As long as I don't have to look into its big, innocent eyes and pull the trigger, I'm okay with eating it. Same with cows or chickens.” Frowning, she looked up at George. “Does that make me a hypocrite?”

He seemed to consider this seriously before he answered. “No. I think it makes you typical of most people nowadays.”

“That doesn't seem much better.” Tired of chewing, she handed the remainder of her jerky to George and reached for her water bottle. Although it was heavy enough to be half-full, nothing came out when she tipped it back. Puzzled, she peered into the wide mouth.

“It's frozen.” George handed her one of his bottles. When she took a drink, the not-quite-right cherry flavor hit her tongue. Grimacing, she swallowed. “Sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault,” she said, forcing down another drink. “It's just the laws of nature, I guess. I'll live. It is colder now, then? I thought it was, but then I figured I was just being a whiner.”

He frowned at the sky. Gray clouds had covered the brilliant blue from earlier that morning.

“Think it's going to snow?” She shivered at the thought as she recapped the water bottle. When she tried to hand it back to him, George refused to take it, removing the frozen bottle off her pack instead.

“Yes.”

It took her a minute to realize he was answering her question. “Like, a few snowflakes, or the storm of the century?”

He shrugged, but his expression was concerned.

Feeling bad about slowing their pace, Ellie stowed her water bottle where the frozen one had been and moved quickly toward a stand of trees. “I'll be right back, and then we can go. I'll be faster from now on, I promise.”

“You're doing fine.”

She made a face over her shoulder at him. “No, I've been limping along like a three-legged camel. I'll do better.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried behind one of the thicker trees.

“Check the color of your urine,” he called after her, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Again with the pee-color thing?” she muttered, although too softly for him to hear. Once she was done and had all her bottom layers pulled to her waist, she did look and was dismayed to see it wasn't clear or even pale yellow. George was definitely going to increase his nagging about drinking nasty cherry-flavored water. Even though he didn't say much, his chiding looks were worth a thousand words.

With a sigh, she turned…and then stopped abruptly. A moose stood a short distance from her.

Ellie could hardly believe what she was seeing. It was the most enormous animal she'd ever seen outside of a zoo. It towered over her, at least a couple of feet taller than her at the shoulder. It wasn't just tall—it was bulky, with a broad body and a wide, heavy head topped with small but thick antlers. Her muscles froze as her thoughts galloped in the most unhelpful way. It shouldn't have been scary. After all, it was just a moose, not anything with claws or fangs.