Page 36 of Love Under Snowfall

Nothing.

Not a shift. Not even a little twitch.

“Help!” he shrieked as he continued to shovel and push the snow that pinned him in place. The cold stuck like tiny blades jabbing into his gloveless palms. He ignored the pain. All that mattered was getting to her. Someone had to be coming along soon. Surely, Johnny would notice they hadn’t joined the group and come looking. “Help!”

Benjamin heard a soft noise—a whimper—coming from Francesca as she finally began to stir.

“I’m coming. Stay there,” he rushed out through the haze of panic. “Francesca, hold still. I don’t know how badly you’re hurt.”

Benjamin had cleared enough snow from his hips and legs that he should have been able to pull free, yet the massive snowshoes kept him anchored in the frigid heft. He pulled, yanked, engaged every muscle he had to pry himself loose. Rumbles of frustration erupted from his mouth in a string ofsharp expletives as he strained. The snowshoes weren’t going to give, not unless he spent another ten minutes clearing the packed snow from around them.

The broad metal frames had to go.

He tunneled his bare hands into the snow, no longer feeling the cold. His fingertips felt thick with numbness as he fumbled them blindly over the clips that strapped over his winter boots.

“Come on,” he bellowed, thumb slipping against the plastic that remained firmly clamped. “Comethe fuckon!”

The click of the bindings giving way nearly brought tears to Benjamin’s eyes. The second followed suit as he hooked his short nails on the edge and pulled. He wiggled his boots out and soon climbed clear of the snow well he’d been stuck in.

His eyes flew to Francesca as he crawled across the plush snow. He sank with every shift, limbs screaming in protest as he ambled to her. She was still laying on her side, mumbling and moaning lightly under her breath. The closer he got, the more he could see the damage from the hit she'd taken. Blood speckled the snow. A red smear glistened where she’d collided with the solid granite, and a stream trickled down her forehead and along her cheekbone. Gone was the rosy wash of exertion and surprised arousal from their kiss. Left behind was a startlingly pallid hue.

“Ouch,” she groaned, lifting a hand to her forehead. She pulled back her fingers and spied the blood then groaned once more, letting her eyes fall shut.

“Francesca.” Her name ripped from Benjamin’s throat as though he were being tortured. He scanned the recesses of his memories for what to do. In years past, he’d hardly found it necessary to keep up with his first aid certification and cursed himself for the egregious error. She would know what to do if the roles were reversed. If she were anything like her brother, she’d be up on all the latest wilderness survival methods. “Francesca? Canyou talk?”

“Benjamin?” she croaked through dry lips. “Dafuck happened?”

She was cursing, that’s good!

“You fell and hit your head on a rock. Can you move? Wait!Shouldyou move? Shit, I don’t remember how any of this works.”

“Don't you know first aid?” Her groan miraculously contained a hint of scorn amidst her tight words.

“I haven’t taken it since college with Johnny,” he rushed out.What a fool.How could he have been so shortsighted?

“Fantastic.” She tried to push up to a sitting position but could barely lift herself without sinking elbow-deep into the snow. She settled on her side, arms curled in front of her chest.

Benjamin was useless.

What was he supposed to do? She was bleeding from a gash on her head, but he’d heard that head wounds tended to bleed more profusely than the rest of the body, even if they were minor. But wouldn’t that mean she was losing blood faster despite the potentially minimal severity of the wound? Should he ensure she stays still? Should he be putting pressure on her cut? Should he even touch her at all? He looked up to where they had been hiking minutes before. She tumbled nearly fifty feet. The snow that had broken off in sheets during both descents revealed just how steep of an embankment they’d have to climb to get back out. It would be impossible in even the most ideal circumstances.

One thing at a time.

“Francesca,” he huffed through a wave of nausea. “Sweetheart, you have to tell me what to do.”

She cracked her eyes and peered over at him.

“Weird. I liked it better when you were calling me Miss Miller,” she grumbled then cursed softly and raised a hand to her head.

“Shall we keep the snark to a minimum until we’re back on solid ground?” His efforts to add humor to his words took everything he had. “Tell me how to help you.”

“Remove my pack.”

“Right.” She unclipped the chest buckle, and he carefully removed the straps from her shoulders. Soon, the pack was separated from her body and sitting in his lap. “Now what?”

“There’s a first aid kit. You need gauze, tape, scissors.”

He pulled the red canvas bag from the main compartment and located the necessary items.

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