In the Clear

by Tamara Morgan

  Chapter Eight

  “Owens, help pack up the snowmobile, and then you’ll go out with the eastbound search party.”

  Fletcher nodded, accepting his relatively tame assignment without demur. The eastbound route was flat and accessible—the bunny hill of mountain rescues, and the least likely to yield the missing snowshoer, as there were several lookouts along the way where she could have stopped for help.

  But Fletcher wasn’t a medic or a helicopter pilot, and he rarely took on a leadership role, which left him a regular in foot-bound searches. His part wasn’t flashy, and it was far from the heroic face the media put on him, but someone had to make up the numbers. Someone had to be the reliable face in the crowd.

  “You guys better set out soon. The storm is picking up, and we only have a few hours of daylight left. The daughter indicated that Martha has some wilderness training, so look for any signs of fire, flares, or other clues. Stay in teams of four, and we report back here at eighteen hundred hours. Got it?” Newman, the Unit Leader and a man with one of those huge, motorcycle mustaches that made him stern and commanding even when he smiled, wasn’t the type to mince words. He’d been in charge for as long as Fletcher had been participating in the group, and his command was a starting bell for action.

  They moved out.

  “Where’s your news crew this time?” joked a woman in a red parka as they broke from the team and prepared to load up their packs. Once a nurse, Lisa was now a stay-at-home mom whose search and rescue work came second only to her kids. With curly hair that sprang from her head in all directions and a wicked sense of humor, she’d always been one of the few bright spots in these situations. “I can’t tell you how many of the single parents in my playgroup have asked for an introduction to the Internet Hero. Men and women,” she added knowingly.

  “I hate that picture.”

  Lisa laughed and helped him hoist a first aid kit onto the back of one of the snowmobiles. “You can tell me all about it on the search. Maybe you can even sign a few autographs for me to hand out at birthday parties.”

  Fletcher offered to run through the checklist to see if they had everything loaded up while Lisa added an underlayer to her jacket. She, a volunteer firefighter named Ace who looked and acted at least two decades younger than his fifty years, and a local climber named Max would be accompanying him on foot along the eastbound route. They always moved in teams of four. Newman liked nice, round numbers.

  Fletcher was elbow deep in flashlights and spare batteries when the shout came from behind the trailers.

  “We need a medic over here! Where’s Lisa?”

  Both Fletcher and Lisa looked up at the same time, sharing a glance. Although he only saw this woman a few weeks out of every year when all was done and tallied up, they’d spent enough time in situations like these to move without speaking. Lisa brushed off her pants and trotted to the scene while Fletcher grabbed a white box marked with a bold red cross.

  And then he stopped, the first aid kit hitting the snow with a muted thump. He wanted to rub his eyes like a little boy, hoping to wipe the horrors away, but a paralyzing fear overtook him. That couldn’t be Lexie—not his Lexie, not that very limp woman being carted out of the storage trailer.

  Except it was. Of course it was.

  “Fletcher, move.” Lisa pushed him gently out of the way and dropped to Lexie’s side, doing all the normal things like checking her pulse and assessing her for injury. Still Fletcher didn’t move, unable to do anything more than take in the chalky white pallor of that normally animated face.

  His own was probably just as pale, but he would have gladly leeched every drop of blood from his body and bathed her in it if it meant she’d be okay.

  Lexie groaned and thrashed, coming to life with all the fervor one could hope for in a situation like this, and Fletcher realized just how creepy that last thought had been. Creepy, yet true.

  “Fletcher,” she said, recognizing him. All eyes turned his way. In his stupor, he’d somehow failed to notice that the entire team was gathered around them, concern knitting every brow into a tapestry.

  “You know this woman?” Lisa asked.

  He nodded. “She’s my . . . ” Friend? Fantasy? Nothing but a what-if dream? “Lexie,” he finished lamely.

  Lisa’s expression shifted, softening as she assessed the pair of them with her quick, efficient eyes. “Well, your Lexie has quite the contusion on her head. Let me guess, darling—stood up too fast in that trailer, didn’t you? Done it myself plenty of times.”

  Lexie nodded gingerly and struggled to sit up. Ace lifted an arm to brace her, but Fletcher’s body finally decided it could, in fact, move of its own accord, and he practically shoved the larger man out of his way.

  “Chill, Fletcher,” Ace said. In an effort to retain his long-lost youth, Ace wore his steely hair in long dreads that emitted the scent of patchouli every time he moved his head. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ve got excellent dilation, honey.”

  “She’s not your honey.”

  “But I have excellent dilation,” Lexie murmured.

  Jokes were a good sign, even though Fletcher suspected Lexie would laugh her way to the guillotine. He slipped an arm behind her back and helped her up. “I thought you left already,” he said. Fear sharpened his voice, and it came out like an accusation—one Lexie obviously felt when she cringed and pulled away.

  “I did,” she protested. “But you dropped something and I came to give it back.”

  Stripping off her winter gloves, Lisa replaced them with latex and began prodding at the crown of Lexie’s head. Before Fletcher had a chance to ask her what she was talking about, she winced.

  “It’s fine. Just a bump.” Lexie sounded miserable. “My skull is crafted of iron. Just ask Fletcher.”

  “I’ve seen worse, that’s for sure.” Lisa checked her watch. “We need to get going, but the mother in me hates to abandon her like this. Want me to take her to Newman?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lexie said, near tears now. “Please go find that missing woman. Don’t slow down on my account. I don’t think I could stand it.”

  “Is she safe to go home?” he asked, worried. The snow itself wasn’t falling hard, but a fierce wind had picked up, causing dangerous drifts of snow to obscure their vision and create havoc on the roads.

  “I wouldn’t risk it, but you know how nervous I get driving in winter.”

  “I’m fine—I promise. This happens a lot more than you might think.”

  Lisa raised a brow. “Lots of head injuries? Then you should definitely stay off the roads and come with us instead.”

  Lexie felt around the top of her head, seemingly satisfied with the outcome. “Is that an option?” she asked anxiously. “I’d love to help out if I can. I’m a super fast walker and I follow directions well. Fletcher won’t mind.”

  “Fletcher minds,” he protested. Fletcher minds very much. The fear of his first rescue was nothing compared to the heart-pounding dread he felt for Lexie. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her.

  But he was useless against her eyes batting at him from underneath her fur-lined hood. Snow caught in the long lashes, and she blinked faster before she finally got a twitch in one eye. “I can help, I swear.” She sprang to her feet, as if to prove her physical fitness, and even Fletcher had to admit she looked none the worse for wear.

  Lisa caught Fletcher’s eye. “It’s not the worst idea I’ve heard all day. At least I can keep an eye on her if she’s with us.” Her pause was weighted with meaning. “The alternative is to leave her here with Jason.”

  Lexie straightened her shoulders. “Was he the guy with the dimples? I swear, it’s so unfair when they’re wasted on a man. What I couldn’t do with a pair of those in my cheeks.”

  “You’re effective enough as you are,” Fletcher muttered. When Lexie sent a questioning gaze his way, he covered his slip by pulling her roughly to him. With a quick and assessing glance, he confirmed that h
er head injury was probably nothing. Lexie was tough. She usually cut out her own stitches to avoid having to return to the doctor, and she’d once walked for four days on a broken ankle before she finally gave in and got x-rays.

  “Fine,” he said wearily, lifting a hand when Lexie let out a squeal and a hop. “But you tell me the instant you feel lightheaded or dizzy. You stay within my line of sight at all times. And you find a better pair of boots.”

  She looked down at her boots, which, though fine for city wear, would be soaked through in the mountains within a half hour. “Consider it done.”

  # # #

  “No one ever mentioned how hard it would be to pee in the woods.” Lexie struggled to pull her clothes back into place—on one leg, hovering over a rock, frozen in places she didn’t care to mention. “It sounds like the guys are done already. Couldn’t they write their names in the snow or something, to make it take longer?”

  From the other side of the tree, Lisa laughed. “I doubt any of them are that dexterous.”

  They emerged from their impromptu outhouse with a relatively low level of awkwardness, and Lexie stood quietly while Lisa assessed the bump on her head and examined her pupils.

  Really, she was fine. She hadn’t been unconscious for all that long, and suspected it had more to do with shock than bodily injury in the first place. She was like a fainting goat that way. When startled, her body preferred to turn off and let her deal with the mortification of it later.

  “Still feel okay?”

  “I feel great,” Lexie promised. Then, realizing how that sounded, she shook her head. “I mean, I feel fine under the circumstances. It’s pretty awful to use the word great in this context, huh?”

  Lisa shrugged and began crunching through the snow to return to the trail. “You’d be surprised. Most of the team has a pretty raunchy sense of humor, but it’s one of those things that comes with the territory. If we didn’t laugh, we’d cry. At least with laughter, our spirits and energy levels stay high. Helps with the search.”

  Lexie could see where that might come in handy. As she emerged from the copse of trees that had provided a barrier for the necessary—if unpleasant—task of relieving themselves, she caught sight of Fletcher’s stoic profile and allowed herself to indulge in a quick-pulsed, high-energy moment of her own.

  She might be wearing the same neon yellow vest the rest of the search team had on, and she’d been able to match their pace as they wound through the forest looking for signs of the lost woman, but there was no way she could do this long-term. It was grim work. Knowing that Fletcher had been doing this for six years—never once boasting or bragging, never once complaining of the toll it had to take on him—it was like looking at a totally different person.

  Although, if this was who he’d been all along, quietly struggling to overcome his fears, relying only on himself and succeeding, maybe he’d been the same all along. Maybe she was the one who was different.

  “You okay to keep going?” he asked as she approached. “Max says we’ll keep on this trail for about another hour before we swing back.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He didn’t look as though he believed her, but the only other option was to head back as a team—and that was something none of them wanted, Lexie especially. According to the group, the woman they were searching for had gone snowshoeing with a group of friends, all of whom had failed to take note of the Trail Closed sign when they started out for a morning trek. Only slightly experienced at the activity, they’d made it as far as about two miles before deciding to turn back. Because the other four people were younger and in better shape, they’d gotten too far ahead. And by the time one of them noticed Martha was gone, her footsteps trailing off onto a path that disappeared into the freshly fallen snow, there was no sign of her.

  It sounded awful, being cold, alone, lost. She hoped the other search party was faring better.

  “What happens if we don’t find her before dark?” Lexie asked as they picked up the pace and began moving through the snow again. She followed directly behind Ace, stepping into his deep footprints to conserve her energy.

  “Newman will probably send a few night parties out, get some spotlights going. And we’ll pick up first thing tomorrow with a bigger search team. If we’re lucky, Steady Pete will be out tomorrow to lend a hand.”

  “Steady Pete?”

  “Helicopter pilot,” Max provided from the front of the line. “One of the best.”

  “Does everyone get a nickname?” Lexie asked. “What’s yours, Fletcher?”

  “We call him Cucumber,” Lisa said, casting a quick look over her shoulder.

  “You do?” Lexie’s eyes grew wide, and she couldn’t help peeking at Fletcher to see if it was true. Quietly bringing up the rear, never more than a foot behind her, his mouth was set in a firm line. And, Lord help her, she might have snuck a look at his groin. It wasn’t like she could see anything through his snowpants, but what other part of a man resembled a long, crisp treat?

  “As in cool as a,” Lisa added with a laugh.

  Oh. That made sense, too.

  “Ace is already a nickname,” Fletcher said. It was hard to tell from his windswept, gravelly tone if he’d noticed her appraisal or not. “In fact, I’m not sure any of us know his real name.”

  “And you never will,” Ace called back. “All anyone needs to know is there’s always an Ace in the hole. Always.”

  Lexie wrinkled her nose. “Ew. Please tell me that doesn’t work on anyone.”

  Ace puffed up considerably. “Don’t write me off yet. I haven’t even started to warm up.”

  The banter continued as long as they kept moving eastward. Then, about an hour later, when they’d gone as far as they could before they had to be back to the basecamp, they turned around and the camaraderie stopped, an unspoken declaration of their defeat. She now found herself falling into Fletcher’s footsteps, wide and long and determined. Even though she was supposed to be searching the forest around them, looking for clues or signs of activity, she focused on each footprint, on the swish of Fletcher’s movements as he kept them moving forward.

  “So what happens now?” she asked as they approached the parking lot. The activity around them was subdued, the mood somber. The other two search parties hadn’t found the woman, either.

  “Now I check in with Newman.”

  “And me?” she asked, her voice small.

  “You should head back home.”

  Disappointment curled in Lexie’s throat as she fought a strong reaction to cry. “That’s it? You said that higher search numbers were better.”

  He inclined his head in an assent, but his words disagreed. “It’s one thing to be out here in daylight, when you’re constantly moving around to stay warm, but night searches can get pretty rough.”

  Too rough for you, he didn’t have to say.

  “If you don’t feel up to driving, we can use the satellite phone to call Sean to come get you,” Fletcher added.

  “What? Sean? No. Not him.”

  “Why not?”

  She thought about it for a moment. With hundreds of reasons to choose from, it was difficult to settle for just one. “He’ll judge me,” she finally said. “And don’t you dare look at me like that. You know how he gets when I’ve done one of my screw-ups—I can always tell when the lecture is coming. He gets that uppity look in his face and starts brushing at his imaginary lint.”

  “He does brush at imaginary lint a lot, doesn’t he?”

  She giggled. She knew she couldn’t be the only person to notice that personal weakness affected her brother like a bad case of dandruff. “And he does that I’m disappointed in you nod.”

  “The one where his chin goes up higher each time?”

  “Exactly that one. Though I can’t imagine he gets disappointed in you the same way he gets disappointed in me. You must have been paying attention when I’m around.”

  “Lexie.” Despite the cold, the air between them filled wi
th a sudden swelling of nothing at all. “I always pay attention when you’re around.”

  Her lungs swelled with nothing at all, too. It was a vortex of sensation over here—and all she could think was she’d never felt so alive before.

  The moment cracked open with the sound of Max’s low voice calling them to action. “Newman’s ready to send us out on the next search, Fletcher. You coming?”

  “I’ll be right there.” Fletcher took her hand and gave it a squeeze, their gloves stealing all the intimacy of the gesture. “You should head home, Lexie. Thank you for helping today, but it’s only going to get colder the longer you wait. And tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. You love Christmas Eve.”

  Lexie took a look over the site and bit her lip. She knew it was silly, to want to remain out here where the only thing saving them all from freezing to death were a few subzero temperature sleeping bags and heavy Gortex tents, but she couldn’t help it. She’d rather be here—with Fletcher—than singing carols at her parents’ house and worrying the whole time whether or not he was okay.

  With a resigned sigh, she turned to leave, shoving her hands deep in her pockets, her head bent low to avoid the stinging pellets of icy wind that were turning her tears into icicles.

  “Oh, hey. I forgot to give you this.” She pulled out the compass that had been sitting deep in her pocket, forgotten, this whole time. In a move that was far more practiced than she cared to admit, she held it aloft, wiping her upper arm against her eyes in the process. No tears, and no indication they’d ever been there. See? She was good at some things.

  The compass chain dangled from her fingertips, but rather than take it with a pretense of gratefulness, Fletcher stared at her, uncomprehending.

  She wiggled it a little. “It’s the whole reason I’m here,” she explained. “You know, creeping into unmarked trailers and knocking myself out? It’s your father’s compass, right?”