Search and Rescue by April Wilson

Chapter 5

Hannah McIntyre

I wake sometime the next morning to find myself buried under a small mound of fresh snow, and it’s still coming down. Even with daylight, visibility is so bad I can’t even see the opposite side of the ravine, or the top. The poachers could be up there right this minute searching for me, and I wouldn’t even know it. I guess the blizzard is a blessing in disguise. If the weather was clear, they’d probably spot me in no time.

First things first… hydration. I won’t stand a chance under these conditions if I become dehydrated. After drinking more of my precious supply of water, I eat another protein bar. Water and protein should sustain me for a while. And if I run out of water, I can always try to melt some snow.

It’s time to take stock of my injuries, even though there’s not a much I can do about them.

I shake off the thermal blanket and snow to inspect my injured ankle. I roll up my left pant leg and unbuckle my boot. I open all the buckles as wide as they’ll go, stretch the boot open, and finally grit my teeth and pull it off. The pain is like shards of glass digging into my ankle bones.

Gingerly, an inch at a time, I remove my sock. The flesh around my ankle is swollen and horribly discolored. The swelling is so bad I know I won’t be able to get the boot back on again. I remember that there’s a spare pair of warm socks in my pack, so I pull them out and carefully tug them over my foot. I can only hope that’s enough covering to ward off frostbite. I shove my boot into my backpack for safe keeping.

From what I can see of my right bicep, it appears to be a graze—the bullet cut right through the outside of my arm, tearing open the skin, which is ragged and torn. Dried blood is caked on my sleeve, but the bleeding seems to have stopped. The wound is hot and throbbing, though, which isn’t good. It’s uncovered and liable to get infected.

There’s a goose egg on the right side of my skull and cuts on my face, but there’s not really anything I can do about those either.

My next order of business is to empty my bladder, which is letting me know that it’s full to bursting. By holding onto the sturdy tree branches around me, I manage to haul myself up onto my good foot, unfasten my cargo pants, and shove them and my underwear down to my ankles. I do the best I can to squat, using a thick root protruding from the ravine wall to support myself so I can pee without soiling my clothes.

I finally succeed and manage to redress myself. Then I grab my pack and, using a sturdy stick as a cane, I manage to hobble a few yards down the ravine to find a clean spot to rest.

The ravine is pretty narrow, not more than thirty feet wide. Both sides are practically vertical. I estimate I fell about twenty feet, my descent slowed by densely packed tree limbs. I know there’s a spot about a mile and a half down the ravine where it levels out into a valley. There’s a hunter’s shack in that valley, where I can take shelter until the storm passes. Still, without my satellite phone or a working cell phone, I have no way of summoning help.

But first things first—I need shelter. Not just from the weather, but from the poachers, who might come back any moment now that it’s daylight.

I don my backpack, then use my handy walking stick as a makeshift crutch. After just one tentative step, even with the aid of a crutch, the pain is horrendous. I can’t put any weight on my left foot. When I try, it’s all I can do to keep from screaming. I try another step, but it’s useless, so I drop back down onto the ground and crawl beneath an overhang of thick, tangled roots to find shelter again.

At the moment, it’s quiet up above the ravine.

Do I think they’ve given up?

No, not for a second.

I expect them to resume their search as soon as there’s a break in the weather. I need to get off this damn mountain, and preferably not in a body bag.

* * *

My ankle continues to swell. I do what I can to elevate my foot, hoping that might help.

The throbbing of the bullet graze on my right bicep has intensified, which I assume means infection has set in. I probably need antibiotics. My head is pounding, but from the blow to my noggin or from the lack of caffeine, I don’t know. It could be either.

I’d kill for a large coffee.

I hate sitting here feeling sorry for myself, but there’s not much I can do right now.

I need help.

And if Maggie notified my brother, then I know help is coming.

Thinking about Shane reminds me of Killian, of course. Seeing him this past week was hard. He put himself out there, admitting that he had feelings for me, and I shut him down.

I’m sorry, Killian. It’s not you. It’s me.

What a cliché. And it hurt like hell to say that to him. He was hurting, too. I could see it. But I can’t ask him to give up everything—his career, his job—for me. And there’s no way in hell I can move back to Chicago. My life is here, in the wide-open wilderness, not in a manufactured city of towering skyscrapers, hundreds of miles of asphalt, and over two-and-a-half million people crammed into just over two hundred square miles.

I can’t go back there—not to live anyway. And I can’t ask him to give up everything for me. We were doomed from the start, and I made the tough decision—I said no. He deserves better. But god, what I wouldn’t give to have him here with me now.

As I try moving my right arm, the fire burns something fierce. I peer down at the wound, where a bullet tore through the fleshy part of my bicep, missing the bone. I can see the red striation of shredded muscle. I try to flex my arm, but the pain is unbearable.

The sound of falling rock and dirt off in the distance catches my attention. I freeze and listen intently. It could be anything… animal, human. There are mountain lions in this area, as well as brown bears, bobcats, and coyotes, even wolves. There are hikers, as well, and poachers. But I doubt hikers would be out in this weather. No, they’d have more sense than that. I suppose I should’ve had more sense than to come out right before a storm was due. But I never dreamed I’d still be up on this mountain almost twenty-four hours later.

Finally, I hear voices—male voices. And they sound like they’re coming from the rim on the opposite side of the ravine. Their voices are too indistinct for me to identify. It could possibly be a rescue team, which would certainly be preferable to the alternative, which is that the poachers have returned to finish the job.

I do what I can to camouflage myself behind some roots and rocks. Then I cover myself up with the thermal blanket and pile some of the freshly fallen snow onto me.

Killian.

I can almost hear his deep, resonant voice in my head—his sexy Cajun drawl. “What the hell trouble have you gotten yourself into, love?”

I lean my head back and close my eyes, indulging for a moment in the mental image in my head—a tall, muscular man with dark hair and eyes, sun-kissed brown skin, and strong tattooed arms.

I’m struck by how much I wish things could have been different between us. “I’m sorry, Killian.”

Lethargy takes me over, and I can barely keep my eyes open. As snowflakes fall on my cheeks, they melt instantly and water runs down my face in little rivulets. I touch my good hand to my face, to my cheeks and forehead.

Shit.

I’m outside in a blizzard, and yet I’m burning up.

Fever.

Infection has definitely set in.