Page 4 of Wild Peak

“No. Just sprained.”

She lets out a shaky sigh of relief, then stiffens up and whips her head round like she’s just remembered where she is. Near the top of a mountain, with a freshly sprained ankle and no easy way down. Every hiker’s nightmare scenario.

“I’m guessing Mountain Rescue won’t scramble the chopper for a sprained ankle.” Brooke’s joking, keeping her tone light, but anxiety thrums beneath her words. All those years, we tried to coax her out for a day hike, telling her it would be fun, and now this happens. Poor girl.

“They won’t need to.” Placing her boot gently back on the ground, I brush my hands on my jeans before pushing to my feet. The landscape falls away in all directions: mountains and valleys, forests and lakes. The cool breeze tugs at my hair as I offer a hand.

Brooke looks doubtful, but she takes my hand without question. Something warm glows in my chest at that, like I’ve shaved off a piece of the sun and laid it inside my rib cage.

She still trusts me. After all this time.

“My cabin isn’t far from here.” Brooke lets me tug her to her feet, hopping to keep her weight off her bad ankle. I move quickly, wrapping one arm around her waist and pressing her into my side.

For balance.

Obviously.

And if her arm looping behind to grip my shoulder makes my insides quake with pleasure? If the scent of her hair makes my breath catch and my skin flush hot? Those are secondary effects that can’t be avoided.

“I’ll get you there, Brookeworm. I’ll take care of you, I promise. And after that, I’ll get you safely back to town. Scout’s honor.”

And I swear: I will keep my hands off my best friend’s little sister.

Even if being around her is the best I’ve felt in years.

Three

Brooke

Today has been so tumultuous, such a wild maelstrom of emotions, and I cannot freaking believe it’s only early afternoon. It feels likeyearssince I laced up my stiff new boots this morning, foolishly hoping that my normal socks would protect me from blisters. Years since I chowed down on a hot bowl of oatmeal, peering through my kitchen window at the mountainside looming over the town. Puffing myself up to be brave.

Surely that was a whole different person who shrugged on her backpack and locked her apartment door behind her, then set off into the crisp, sunny morning. Surely I can’t have done all this in one day: hiked up my first mountain, saw my childhood crush for the first time in years, and sprained my ankle so badly that I can barely limp back down the trail.

“Ouch. Ow.”

Even with Hunter supporting most of my weight, each step makes hot pain flare up my leg. I keep hissing and grimacing down at the rocky dirt, trying and failing not to make a scene.

“That’s it, Brookeworm. You’re doing so good.”

Even after all this time, Hunter’s old nickname for me makes my heart flip-flop in my chest. I press my lips together as a bird swoops low between the trees ahead of us. Its small feathery body zips effortlessly between branches, a flash of vivid red.

Just one more step.

And another one.

And another one.

I can do this if I don’t think about the whole journey ahead.

“You know,” I say, desperate to distract myself, “I could never figure out whether that was a cute pet name or a mean one.Brookeworm.”

Hunter’s arm tightens around my waist. “What?” He sounds aghast. “Of course it wasn’t mean.”

“It has ‘worm’ in it.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“And it was always a running joke.Iwas a running joke. Brookeworm, the girl with her nose stuck in a book. The only girl in town who never did sports or went hiking in the mountains. Even if the nickname wasn’t mean, I was always so out of place, you know? It took me forever to pluck up the courage to get out on this hike.”

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