by Lia Riley
A slash appears across his forehead. “Forgot most Americans don’t like smoking.”
I downgrade my internal terror ranking from “Alarmed” to “Aggravated.” This guy doesn’t appear to be a threat except to my sanity and lungs. “Can’t speak for my entire nation, but it makes me sick.”
I readjust my backpack straps—the weight is giving me neck pain—and eye the low-slung clouds spreading across the sky like a deep-set bruise. “The weather looks like it might turn bad. We should probably—”
“We need a selfie. Capture the moment!” Diedrick wraps a wiry arm around my shoulders and his skullet tickles the side of my cheek. No judgment on the male-pattern baldness, but what is the point of growing out all that scraggly hair in back? And why does his breath reek of old sausage? I hold my own while he procures a small digital camera from his neon fanny pack.
“One, two, three, Gouda!”
I force a good-natured “cheese,” because for all my tough talk, my default setting is still to grin and bear whatever comes my way. All I need to do is keep that act up for a few more miles. There will be unsuspecting hikers at the next refugio to foist this guy on. No doubt Diedrick would glom on to another group if given the right opportunity.
Yes. Perfect.
I might be well mannered, but inside I’m a passively evil genius.
Out of nowhere, Diedrick rams his tongue at my face. I duck, and he ends up violating my nostrils.
“Jesus, what are you—”
“Gotcha!” he crows while I lurch back, wiping my face with undisguised disgust. He frowns at the viewfinder. “Oh no. The setting was on video. I demand a redo!”
I glance around, desperate for a suitable threat, before zeroing in on his tiny man shorts. “Stop. Hold it right there.” My hiking boots are heavy-duty. I could scro-tack, cause his testicles real and painful harm. “Listen good and hard, buddy.” Buddy? Seriously? That’s the best I’ve got? “Forget this. I’m hiking ahead on my own. You have a watch? Yes, good. Stay put and don’t you dare budge for the next ten minutes if you ever want to reproduce.”
There we go. That’s how it’s done.
He steps away uncertainly, and an unfamiliar power surge heats my chest. Who knew speaking your mind could feel so damn good? I need to do this more often. I spin on my heel and resist the urge to throw my arms in a victory V. Brett said I never shared my opinions, kept too much to myself, and hid behind asking other people questions.
Maybe that’s how wimpy old-school Auden rolled. Well, I’ve found my voice, and it’s loud, proud, and—ouch! I trip on a boulder and kick a rock to my shin. A weathered sign to the left of the trail reads VALLE DEL FRANCES in faded white paint.
A carved arrow points to a faint footpath, and scratched beneath it is 2.8 MILES/4.5KM. Hmm, not too far. Deviating from my route wasn’t even a question until ten minutes ago. But following the guidebook-recommended itineraries word for word is how I’ve always lived—doing the expected, obeying the rules.
That’s not how this trip came about. That’s not what my big adventure in South America is supposed to be.
I reach out and trace the arrow. How many thousands of miles did I fly to find a big story, something that would make my future boss at Outsider magazine sit up and take notice, think, Wow, here’s a girl with potential? Plus, I have to prove Harper wrong, that I have what it takes to be bold. I pull out the guidebook from my backpack’s side pocket and reread the brief description. There’s not much written about Valle del Frances, only that it’s a popular side route with a backcountry campground. Maybe there’s some bonus material here to pad out my profile piece.
But backcountry campground? That means drop toilets. Ew. Not even sinks.
Saying I want to be more adventurous is a whole other kettle of fish to actually choosing adventure. A detour represents an unknown. There’s no warm bed. There’s no hut full stop. But if I’m going to spend time at La Aguja’s rustic climbing camp, I might as well get comfortable with tent living sooner rather than later.
I tip my weight forward, then waffle back. Forward, then back.
Aw, hell, I have hand sanitizer. What can go wrong?
Sucking in a deep breath, I step off the main path.
5
AUDEN
The trail rises steadily uphill. Granite walls tower imposingly as wind whips loose hair into my eyes. My lungs burn, emitting a high-pitched whistle on the exhalations. Only a matter of time before the wheezing spreads to my inhalations. A cloudy gloom conceals the mountaintops, and the temperature is dropping, bad news for someone whose asthma can be exacerbated by cold. Every book or article on Patagonia stresses the weather can be notoriously wild and unpredictable.
Breathe, just breathe. Stupid Diedrick and his stupid-ass cancer sticks.
I unsling my pack to grab Albuterol from the top pouch. A wall of water unleashes from the heavens, soaking through my fleece and Capilene long underwear. I shake the inhaler, suck in a few puffs, unable to savor the relief in my urgency to dig out my balled-up rain gear before I am soaked to the bone.
“Shitballs,” I mutter, thrusting my arms into my Gore-Tex jacket. If I put my head down and don’t dawdle, I’ll reach the campground within the hour. Too bad boot-deep mud, or falling, three separate times, each more miserable than the last, didn’t factor into my calculations.
At last I stumble into the campground’s clearing. Who am I kidding, setting out on my own like this? Stupid and irresponsible. I shiver so hard my teeth sound like miniature maracas. The place is deserted except for a yellow tent up the hill, nestled beside a large boulder sheltering it from the storm’s brunt.
Inside are probably dry, contented hikers, sipping hot cocoa and congratulating themselves that they aren’t in my sodden boots.
OK, OK. Focus. Everything is going to be OK.
No, it’s not. I’m big-time screwed.
Looks like wanting to be a badass future employee for Outsider magazine is better in theory than in practice. It’s all fun and games until someone has an asthma attack next to a glacier during a torrential downpour.
Why didn’t I apply to work for Better Homes and Gardens instead? Articles like “Ten Tips for Growing Perfect Roses” or “How to Brew the Perfect Cup of Sun Tea” have a certain appeal right about now.
I heave my backpack square into a puddle; there is nowhere dry to set it down. Frozen fingers make opening the buckles a trick, same with digging through my tight-packed belongings. There it is. The tent I borrowed from Dad. I haven’t set it up yet, but how hard can it be? I mop rain from my eyes, crouch, untie the bag, and peer inside. Fear scuttles around my stomach like a tarantula. Something doesn’t look right.
Where’s the main pole?
There’s a strange sound. It takes a second before I realize it’s coming from my own throat, a low keen, just this side of panic. It’s hard to know where the rain stops and my tears begin. I scrub a hand over my face and blink a few times before turning the backpack upside down. Out tumbles a clothing stuff sack, a travel-sized bottle of shampoo and body wash combo, a food bag, a thirty-two-ounce stainless-steel water bottle, a moleskin notebook, an orange nylon first aid kit, a quick-dry pack towel, matches in a ziplock bag, a flashlight, and a down sleeping bag. The tent’s two smaller poles are there and that’s it. There’s nothing else. I stand, pace back and forth, giving dread ample amounts of time to settle in, get comfortable.
“Son of a bitch,” I gasp, punching my fist into my upper thigh. It doesn’t hurt, barely feels like anything. I’m either weak or cold, or weak and cold. Neither is an optimum situation.
I’m the naïve idiot who didn’t open up the tent bag and check that all the pieces were present before leaving. I wiggle my toes. Numb. As soon as I ceased hiking, the cold started to leach into my bones. A thunderclap ricochets off the mountains, and a few seconds later, lightning spears a cliff face, illuminating the gear strewn at my feet.
I muffle a shriek and paw through the contents th
ree times before accepting the obvious. The main pole is definitely missing, and with this wheeze, there’s no way in hell I’ll manage a three-hour hike back to the refugio. My only viable option is to go to the yellow tent and ask for help from a total stranger.
Relentless rain runs down the back of my neck, between my shoulder blades, to pool in my bra strap.
I cram my wet gear back into my pack, grab my high-powered lithium flashlight, and trudge up the escarpment, chewing the inside of my cheek.
I pause two feet from the entrance—whoever’s inside might not take kindly to a scared, winded American barging into their personal space—and cup my hands to my mouth. “Hello, um, excuse me? Hola? Discúlpeme?” If they don’t speak English or Spanish, things are going to get lost in translation pretty quick.
No answer. The dull pain in my chest intensifies. I pinch the bridge of my nose, taking the deepest breath allowable by my defective airways. Are they sleeping? All this shivering can’t be a good sign. I need to get warm, pronto. No other viable option but to yell. I clear my throat and project my voice into a shouty rasp. “Sorry. I don’t mean to bother you, but—”
“What do you want?” A guy—not a very happy one by the sound of it—growls from inside.
“Sorry?” I bend closer to the nylon to hear above the deluge.
“What. Do. You. Want?”
My unwilling savior has a testy accent and a worse attitude. British maybe? No one does disdain like the English. Under normal circumstances, I’d swoon. I’m such a sucker for Mr. Darcy fantasies, but this isn’t Pemberley. It’s the Patagonian wilderness.
I lurch backward and trip over a tent peg. The flashlight slips from my grasp and hits the ground, shining on a coiled rope topped by a helmet. A mountaineer. Wonderful. He’s not exactly going to roll out the welcome mat for my inept ass, and I’m the type of girl who hates asking for help carrying groceries to the car. But what’s the alternative? Hypothermic death in a bog?
The tent unzips. My thoughts are jumbled, but there’s enough common sense left remaining to not fall to my knees and praise Jesus, Mary, and all the angels.
The diffuse light reveals the guy inside rising to his knees. Too dark to make out a face, especially when his headlamp burns my retinas. He seems very big, very shirtless, and very alone.
My nails cut into my palms, but no feeling remains in my hands. This damsel-in-distress business sucks. “My tent, see. It’s short a pole, and I can’t set it up. Can I…? Can I…?” Out with it, like ripping off a bandage. Strange my mouth can be so dry when the rest of me is drenched. I have to get inside that tent. “May I come in? Please. I don’t know what else to do.” I have nothing left to say. My social skills toolbox is empty.
A few seconds tick by. “Can’t leave you out there.” He sounds disappointed by the fact. “Come in, then, but those muddy boots need to stay in the vestibule.”
I step forward unsteadily, half wishing I could see him better, get a good look at the situation, and half not caring. At least I’m going to have shelter, and surviving is worth dealing with the uncomfortable situation. As I bend to unlace my boots, the glow from his headlamp reveals carved abs and low-slung pants barely hanging on to narrow hips. My throat constricts. Looks like tonight will be spent between a rock and a hard place.
6
RHYS
The girl hovers outside the tent, her cheeks and lips bleached bloodless. I blink groggily, stomach knotted, the aftereffects of my restless nap. A gust of wind whooshes through the entrance, and my skin prickles to gooseflesh. Is this lost ghost hallucinatory proof I’ve finally gone and cracked it? Unthinkable anyone would venture this far into the valley alone, under such wild conditions, but as she crawls inside, her kneecap crushes my little finger.
Aye, fuck, she’s real enough.
“Oh, sorry. I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?” She slurs a little, sounds as if she can’t draw enough air into her lungs. The last thing I need is the distraction of a sick stranger. Unbreakable concentration doesn’t simply happen on the mountain. It’s honed through a long-term commitment to reducing disruptions and narrowing focus.
I shift to one side, trying to maintain a semblance of personal space. She does the same, and our bodies collide, shoulder to shoulder, nose to nose. A wet tendril escapes her braid and skims my neck. Rainwater perfumes her hair. Deep inside my chest, something breaks free, a loose rock clattering to the pit of my stomach. I spring back, thigh muscles taut.
What the hell? The physical response catches me unawares. I’m not used to feeling much these days, and the sensation prickles in the pins-and-needles way a limb has after falling asleep for too long.
The girl tugs off her beanie and peers from under bold slashing brows. Despite the fact that her features are drawn, her eyes shine in my torchlight, echoing the bottomless blue of a deep crevasse. I hold her gaze for the briefest of instants before zipping the entrance shut, sealing us both inside.
It’s been pouring for a fair few hours, and the girl’s demonstrating a lack of coordination, one of the first symptoms of hypothermia. “You have a problem,” I say flatly, drawing my brows together.
She tucks her chin to her chest, struggling to close her fingers around her rain jacket’s zipper. As she works herself free of the Gore-Tex, it becomes apparent she’s soaked to the bone.
I inwardly curse while setting my jaw. No easy way to say this. If she doesn’t raise her core body temperature, things could go downhill fast. Clumsiness will give way to lethargy, confusion, loss of consciousness, and even death. “You need to strip.”
Her gaze narrows to suspicious slits. She’s not going to take this well.
Too bad. We’re not at a tea party. It’s cold and damp outside, and hypothermia is nothing to fuck around with.
“Get your kit off.” I sit back on my heels.
She scuttles with surprising speed, crab-like, to the entrance, leaving damp sock imprints across my mat, knocking about my gear. “Stay back.” She lifts a bare foot, as if warding me off. “If you come closer—” A cough rattles away the rest of her sentence.
I don’t move a muscle. Mum drilled sexual harassment threats into me and Cameron when our voices broke.
If I ever catch so much as a whisper on the wind that my sons did anything untoward to a lass, I’ll be having your beebaws for breakfast. Her warning came without a trace of humor. Mum isn’t the joking sort.
Anyway, it didn’t matter. We never found getting consent a particular challenge.
“Am no’ trying to…” For one fucking second wouldn’t it be grand to be viewed as a good guy? “Staying in those saturated clothes is bloody dangerous.”
She doubles over with a great wet cough, her lungs crackling audibly over the lashing rain.
Sod it. “Are you traveling with anyone? Someone who might be looking for you?”
“No.” She braces her head in her hands. “If you’re a serial killer, consider me a belated Christmas surprise.” She glances up, pupils nearly eclipsing her irises. “You’re not, though, are you?”
“What’s today? Tuesday, is it?”
She frowns. “Um, I think so?”
“Monday is my preferred murder day,” I answer dryly.
Her strangled choke might be a dry laugh under better conditions.
“Lucky me.” She squeezes her eyes tight.
Poor lass doesn’t know I’m the antithesis of a lucky charm. I move closer, tug her jacket free from her arms. She tries to assist and makes everything twice as difficult. My fingers graze the flat plane of her lower abdomen. “Please. Stop wiggling,” I say through clenched teeth as a jolt of warmth spreads up my arm.
I fold her jacket in the corner, and a cursory check of her belongings confirms my suspicions. Her backpack is soaked through, all clothing varying degrees of damp.
“Off with your shirt.”
She halts. Is it going to be like this with every article of clothing? Hell if I am going to waste time arguing about her modest
y. I’d rather take a running fuck at a rolling doughnut.
“Go on, then,” I say with impatience. “There is no’ time for shyness, ken? Besides, you’re not the first lass I’ve ever seen undressed.” I reach into my dry bag and tug out a thermal shirt, resisting the urge to give it a self-conscious sniff. I make a point to only wear merino wool in the field—the natural fibers resist odor—but still, I’ve been away from a functioning washing machine for weeks. All my clothes are subjected to stream dunkings, dried on sun-warmed rocks, and will have to do. “Change to this.” I fist it over.
“Fine.” She rips off her top.
I square my gaze on my lap, but not before catching a glimpse of pink bra and a tattoo on her lower belly, a half-blown dandelion disappearing into her waistband. Not that I should be noticing any of that. Or have this frisson of awareness slam through my guts. This isn’t the time or the place to start taking an interest in the opposite sex again.
“What’s your name?” she whispers through chattering teeth, more hoarse than I’d like.
I’m not a celebrity. Still, my name circulated through most major news outlets and starred in more than a few magazine features. Outside the climbing world, I’ve been recognized, and never favorably. “Rhys,” I mutter. “Rhys MacAskill.” And brace.
She frowns slightly. “Really?”
Fine hairs bristle at the base of my neck. Here we go. “Aye, that’s my name, true enough.”
She shakes her head. “On the trail earlier today, I met this Dutch guy, and he…” Much can be said with a sigh. Hers is eloquent. A proper Scot’s sigh. “Never mind all that. I’m Auden. Auden Woods.”
“As in the poet?”
“Yes.” She blinks, her gaze curious. “No one ever knows that.”
I give a small shrug. “Good name.”
“Thanks.” Her smile is wry even as her breathing is a trifle labored. “Normally, I tell it to a guy before letting him strip me.”