And friends most certainly didn’t spy on each other. Which wasn’t exactly what Quill was doing Owen’s first day back on the job after several days spent on the couch recovering from what had turned out to be a nasty cold. Owen had insisted that he was well enough to resume trash duty and his other responsibilities. Since it was a clear, crisp Saturday with perfect cross-country skiing weather, which brought out the tourists in droves, Quill had been in need of the help, but he also wanted to make sure Owen didn’t overdo it. Hence the checking in on him midday, taking a thermos full of hot tea and the snowmachine to the lower parking lot where Owen was working.
But as it turned out, he shouldn’t have bothered as he found Owen laughing and joking with a trio of male tourists carrying skis, no trace of his cold in sight. No sign of his melancholy over the breakup either, Owen’s face relaxed and easy as he chatted with the group, all of whom appeared around his age or slightly younger. Quill wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said, but he knew flirting when he saw it, and the tourist closest to Owen was definitely flirting with him. Lots of little touches on the arm, deliberate eye contact, too-loud laughter at whatever Owen was saying, and leaning in like Owen was the most interesting guy in the world.
A growl escaped Quill’s throat. He’d parked beyond Owen’s line of sight, over by some scrubby trees and near Owen’s own snowmachine. It wasn’t as if Owen knew he was there, and if Quill were smart, he’d drive on, pretend he hadn’t seen, leave Owen to his socializing. He was a single adult, free to flirt with whomever he wanted. But knowing that didn’t help Quill one bit, didn’t help this roiling black mood, toxic stew of jealousy and longing. The other two guys had to be a couple or at least intimate friends—arms around each other, lots of casual touching. Owen said something that made the taller of the two pull the other to him, a clear he’s-mine signal.
What if... Quill tried to imagine being that guy, the one who was all possessive. Would it really be that hard? Hell, he might not even have to touch him. Owen was indeed a social guy, but Quill didn’t doubt that he could be loyal too. There was a universe, one where they were a couple, and Quill could walk over there, stand close enough to glower at Mr. Flirty. Maybe he’d hand Owen his tea, and he would smile, the same way he’d smiled for weeks when Quill had shown up unexpectedly, and he’d make Quill’s point that Owen was taken for him without Quill even needing to say a word. If they were a couple. Which they weren’t. Which meant that Owen was free to flirt away and that Quill had no right to do a damn thing about it.
Right as Quill was about to leave, Owen turned and their eyes met. Quill schooled his expression to remain neutral, but the prickle running up the back of his spine said he probably wasn’t doing that good of a job. Owen said something to the guys before heading across the parking lot toward Quill.
“Let us know if you get off later,” the flirty one called after Owen, who didn’t reply but did turn and wave.
“What’s up?” he asked Quill, still smiling from his conversation with the group, good mood almost palpable and pushing Quill’s that much further into the black.
“It’s nothing,” Quill mumbled, embarrassment making his head itchy under his hat as he fished out the thermos. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t relapsing. Brought you some tea. But you seem...well.”
“I’m better.” Owen’s eyes flashed with something Quill couldn’t quite name as he took the thermos. Too tender for irritation but too edgy for gratitude either.
“You need some time off tonight?” Quill tried to keep his voice casual. Across the lot, the tourists headed for one of the trailheads, leaving him and Owen the only people amid the assorted vehicles. Returning to work would be the better idea, but somehow he couldn’t make himself leave, couldn’t stop the question from leaving his lips.
“Why? You got opinions on how I spend my time?”
Yes. “No.”
“Liar.” Shaking his head, Owen released a world-weary sigh. “They’re tourists from California. I don’t know them, but we had a nice chat about favorite Bay Area haunts. They invited me to get a drink with them later.”
“That’s...good.” Quill forced the words out. This was the start of being a friend, not lover, of making sure Owen got the future Quill so firmly believed he deserved. “I know you’ve been lonely. Jonesing for more of a social scene. Doubt there’s anything too pressing keeping you here.”
“There could be.” Owen’s dark eyes sharpened, twin diamond-tipped drill bits boring their way past Quill’s every defense. “Tell me not to go. Stop lying to us both.”
“I...” The denial was right there, each syllable ready to go. He knew how to be commanding, did it often enough with rowdy teens and rule breakers. He knew the exact pitch and tone to strike to tell Owen to go out with the tourists. But nothing came out.
“I see.” Voice hardening, Owen looked away.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Quill admitted in a rush, words tumbling out with zero permission from his brain. “I don’t know how to be your friend. I don’t know how to watch you move on. I don’t know how to watch guys flirt with you and not want to rip their arms off. I don’t know how to be alone with you and not want to kiss you. I don’t know how to stop wishing...”
“Quill.” Owen reached for him then, and Quill went willingly, too foolish and overwrought to pull back. It wasn’t simply jealousy at work here. Something deeper was happening, emotions he hadn’t even known he was capable of welling up. How had he ever thought he could let Owen go? Even through his many layers of clothing, Owen’s firm grip on his upper arms felt so damn good. Necessary. Grounding. He saw now with stark clarity what Owen had been trying to show him. New words rose up, ones he wasn’t going to be able to keep down—
Trill. Trill. Trill. The purposefully obnoxious loud ring tone he’d assigned to emergency services made him jump, pulling away from Owen so that he could answer the call. And what he heard replaced all his hurt and uncertainty with cold, steely reality where the job had to come first, before everything, including Owen and this conversation.
“There’s reports of avalanche activity in the backcountry,” he told Owen in clipped tones. “Ski party involvement. Reports of two skiers missing. Avalanche response team assembling and emergency services on the way, but I’ve got to go. Got to get my gear and try to reach the area via snowmachine. Probably going to need to ski in the last part.”
“I’m coming with you.” Owen was already swinging onto his snowmachine.
“Too dangerous. The avalanche forecast center is rating today a considerable risk in the mid to upper elevations. And you’re still coming off an illness.”
“I’ve had training. By you. You need all the help you can get. Come on. Isn’t it time you start trusting me?”
The question hit on so many levels that Quill’s ears rang, and he had to take a breath to steady himself. Trust. Trust Owen. Was that really all he needed to do? For all of it. Professionally. Romantically. Emotionally. But there was zero time for that kind of self-reflection. No time for life reevaluation. Every second mattered here, and he needed to not dither. There would be plenty of time later to figure out how to make sense of all those emotions he’d felt moments earlier, the sudden realization that he couldn’t live without Owen, that no way could he let him go. Later. He’d find the words later. Find a way forward. But first, he had to do his damn job.
His heart clattered with fear and his gut churned with doubts, no easy answers. However, he couldn’t deny Owen’s logic. He was another trained adult, and he’d proven himself over and over to be capable in emergencies.
“Let’s go.” He managed to deliver the order with confidence he didn’t feel. This wasn’t the time for uncertainty. He had to take charge of the situation, trust that he was doing the right thing letting Owen come even as dread mounted. He had to believe his experience would be enough to see them both through.
* * *
Owen hardly saw Quill allowing him to come as a victory. It was practical necessity, and wearing down the most stubborn ranger on the planet to get him to accept help and make him believe in Owen were nice side benefits, but the situation was far too dire for any celebration. Or any reflection on their earlier conversation. Quill’s jealousy had been both maddening and reassuring, and Owen had been so damn sure that they were on the cusp of a breakthrough when Quill’s phone had gone off. Now, though, that emergency had to take priority. Everything else could wait.
“Test it.” Quill handed Owen an avalanche beacon to clip on the inside of his parka. They’d used them before for going up to the mid-elevations where the risks markedly increased, but each part of their rushed prep right then felt weighty, precious seconds ticking away.
Luckily they’d both already been dressed for the weather, which saved them time as they gathered skis and the equipment they might need, including first-aid equipment and airbags, which could be deployed in the event of an avalanche. More rescuers were on the way, but he and Quill would likely be first on the scene.
“It was probably a soft slab avalanche. Report is that after several runs without incident, a skier triggered it coming out of a gully and crossing a convex slope. We’ll want to be especially cautious about another human-triggered event, but the risk of natural avalanches is also high, so we’ll want to be careful about checking the snowpack. We’ve got some wind to contend with too.”
“I’ll be alert,” Owen promised as they headed out on the snowmobiles. “You can trust me to listen this time.” He could admit that he hadn’t always done the best job of that—not on the roof when they’d been arguing nor in other situations when he’d let his own initiative take over. But if he wanted Quill to trust him—on multiple levels—he had to trust Quill too. He wasn’t going to take stupid risks and endanger them both.
Once they were underway, there was no more conversation as the roar of the machines filled the air, and it took all his concentration to follow Quill through the uneven terrain. Partway to the site, they were joined by two other snowmobiles, and judging by Quill’s sharp nod, they were part of the avalanche response team, an impression that was confirmed when they finally stopped to switch to skis. Quill greeted the two older men who’d joined them, and after briefly introducing them as two seasoned avalanche specialists, he asked them if they had a situation update.
“One skier triggered their airbag and was located. Still at the scene. Probable leg injuries. As of last update, there’s another skier unaccounted for.”
“Damn.” Quill’s mouth narrowed, and Owen knew only too well how he’d carry the loss if they couldn’t save the second skier. It was a stark reminder of the dangers lurking in the backcountry.
Both avalanche response team members were fast skiers, and Owen put some leg muscle into keeping up. Even though he’d seemed on the mend that morning, his damn cold had sapped some of his stamina, and he had to work to not give in to a coughing fit.
The sun shone brightly overhead, soft blue skies, and acres upon acres of pristine white snow around them in gently rolling waves. Ahead of them, a few faint dots glimmered.
“Is that the site?” Owen asked as Quill fished out binoculars.
“Yup. Looks like we’ve got four or five people on the scene. And I don’t like the angle of that slope at all.”
“Yup. Poor terrain selection.” The older of the two avalanche specialists shook his head. Quill had mentioned that he was a retired EMT and longtime backcountry skier and sledder. “Getting the victims to stable terrain where we can get a chopper in needs to be the priority, as well as keeping everyone else in the party safe.”
“We’ll want to keep tight count of numbers at all times,” the other rescuer added. “More help is good, but it also raises the already high risk of human-triggered avalanche events.”
The two of them plus Quill hashed out a plan for search management as they approached the cluster of people. Quill in his element was always a sight to see—the way all his experience and caution served him well and the way others clearly respected his expertise. The man could be so reserved about some things that it was easy to forget sometimes how damn good he was at his job. The three men talked in avalanche lingo that Owen didn’t quite follow, but he tried to keep up best he could.
Once they reached the site, the former EMT guy went right to where the first victim lay, leaving Quill and the other man to manage the rescue efforts underway to locate the second skier. They were fast approaching a critical time juncture where the odds of survival were rapidly decreasing by the second. Would-be rescuers fanned out, working close to the surface, probing for any signs of the skier’s beacon before digging. Owen stuck close to Quill, following his orders.
“Gotta find likely surface catchment areas,” Quill explained as he stepped back, surveying the scene again.
“I’ve got something!” yelled a female skier down the incline from them, and Owen started toward her, but Quill’s arm shot out.
“We need to go down one at a time on the incline here. This isn’t stable snow. Have to be very careful as we dig.”
Owen nodded. “You first.”
Carefully, far slower than Owen would have moved, Quill made his way to where the woman was already digging. Crouching low, he signaled to Owen to wait.
“I’ve got a boot. Oh my God. I’ve got a boot!” the woman screamed. Owen instinctively took another step, then remembered his promise to Quill that he’d listen and forced himself to wait while Quill dug furiously.
“I’ve got him.” Quill and the woman uncovered an unmoving human form. Quill bent close, checking for vitals, and Owen’s own breath almost froze in his lungs, waiting for Quill’s assessments. “Owen! I’ve got a pulse. Tell the others then check on the ETA of the chopper.”
“Got it.” Moving away from them, Owen shouted for the others. He was too far though, and no heads swiveled, the wind swallowing his shout. Moving the way Quill had shown him, he made his way farther away from Quill and the victim.
“They found him alive!” Owen called as he got closer. Three heads turned, and immediately people started scrambling toward Quill. Owen still needed to check on the chopper as he’d promised. He had to cross a gully to get to the higher ground where the first victim and the other rescuers were. They’d traversed it once already, and he tried to mimic Quill’s caution as he stepped forward.
“Fuck.” The first step landed him waist-deep in soft snow, not the hard snowpack he’d expected. Hell. This wasn’t good. He needed out of this gully and fast. He heard shouts, but wasn’t sure whether they were directed at him or not because he couldn’t make out words. No matter. He needed out. He scrambled best he could. Almost. Almost—
Crack.
The sound made his head swivel, right as above him on the gully, snow trembled, and then before he could even fully register what was happening, a wall of snow barreled toward him, coming down the gully. Fuck. He wasn’t freed enough, wasn’t going to be able to get out of the way.
Training. Training. Training.
He hit the button for his airbag, but he was already moving, swept forward. Had it worked? He couldn’t tell, time itself accelerating, distorting his reality. His arms came up, shielding his face, trying to do what Quill had talked about, create an air pocket.
He hit something, pain radiating down his shoulder and arm, but he was still moving, no time to register the hurt.
It’s the ride down that kills.
Fuck. His airbag and beacon could work, and this could still be it, the end. Cancer hadn’t done it, but a single misstep was going to be his downfall, and the stark terror racing through his body was far worse than anything he’d experienced sitting in his oncologist’s office.
He’d gotten a second chance to do...what precisely? As the snow rained over him, Quill’s face flashed in his mind. H
ad he been so focused on securing a future with Quill that he’d sacrificed the present? Precious days they could have had, lost to argument. And now Quill would never know the true depth of Owen’s feelings.
Fucking hell. Quill. He was going to blame himself for this forever.
Not your fault. Owen tried to beam the message out into the universe as he finally came to a stop, hands still in front of his face. He was alive, but he couldn’t move, not even his pinky finger, and darkness was rapidly closing in on his consciousness. Quill. His whole being strained one more time before everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Quill almost didn’t hear the shouts. All his attention was focused on the second victim, a male skier in his twenties, who was unconscious but alive with a thready pulse. Ross, one of the avalanche specialists who’d arrived with them, was helping him get the victim ready to move, and a few others loitered around them. But then one of the onlookers shouted, and Quill’s head whipped around in time to see Owen, who appeared caught in a gully, get eaten up by a narrow wave of snow hurtling down the dip. One millisecond Owen was there and the next he was gone, nothing but snow where he’d stood, Owen swept to God knew where.
“Owen!” The pointless yell escaped Quill’s chest.
“Stay with this one,” Ross ordered, already moving toward the gully, others behind him.
The last thing Quill wanted to do was follow the command, every cell in his body straining to rush over there, get to Owen. But there was no chance to argue that he should be the one to go, leaving him with the god-awful choice of abandoning his victim or abandoning Owen, who needed him. Never had he wanted to save someone more. Whole body trembling, he needed to be over there, joining the others frantically digging and looking for a signal from Owen’s beacon. The shouts back and forth between searchers told him nothing, and equal parts hope and terror clawed at Quill’s insides.
Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts) Page 23