Page 7 of Rescued In The Storm

"I'm going to carry you back to the trail," he says, zipping the kit away. "Then we'll get you down to safety."

"You can't carry me up that," I protest, looking at the steep slope.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s not quite a smile, but something close. "Watch me."

Before I can argue further, he's positioning himself beside me. "Arms around my neck."

I hesitate, suddenly aware of how close we are, of the rain dripping from his dark hair, of how his eyes never leave my face.

"Sarah." My name is both a command and a plea.

I loop my arms around his neck, and in one fluid motion, he lifts me. The movement sends a jolt of pain through my ankle, and I bury my face against his shoulder to muffle a gasp.

"Sorry," he murmurs, his breath warm against my rain-chilled skin.

I'm acutely aware of his strength as he shifts me in his arms, finding the best hold before turning to face the slope. My fingers grip the wet fabric of his jacket, and I can feel the solid muscle beneath, the steady beat of his heart against my side.

"Ready?" he asks.

No, I think. I'm not ready for this. Not ready for being this close to him, for the strange intimacy of being carried in his arms, for the confusion swirling inside me alongside relief and pain.

"Yes," I say instead.

The ascent is a blur of sensation—Connor's careful but determined movement up the slope, one secure foothold at a time; the strain evident in his breathing but never in his hold on me; the momentary shelter of his body against the worst of the storm. He mutters under his breath as we climb—something about reckless hikers and stubborn bakers—but his arms never falter.

When we reach the trail, he carefully sets me down, keeping one arm firmly around my waist for support.

"That was the hard part," he says, though I can hear the effort in his voice that belies the claim. "Think you can walk if I help you?"

I test my injured ankle, putting just a hint of weight on it. Pain shoots up my leg, but it's bearable. Barely.

"I think so," I say, gritting my teeth. "Just... slowly."

Connor shifts to my side, wrapping one strong arm around my waist while guiding my arm across his shoulders. His height makes the position a bit awkward, but he adjusts, bending slightly to accommodate me.

"Lean on me," he instructs. "And tell me if you need to stop."

We begin our slow journey down the trail, each step a careful negotiation. The rain continues to pelt us, turning the path into a muddy obstacle course. Connor is solid beside me, taking most of my weight, his body heat a stark contrast to my rain-chilled skin.

"Connor," I begin, not even sure what I want to say. Thank you? I'm sorry? Why did you come looking for me?

He glances down, raindrops clinging to his eyelashes, and something in his expression makes my words die in my throat. There's relief, yes, and the remnants of frustration. But there's something else. An intensity, a focused concern that seems deeper than the situation warrants.

For a moment, Connor Callahan is looking at me like I matter. Like I'm not just his Tuesday morning coffee stop or his friend from school or the town baker. Like I'm someone he couldn't bear to lose.

It's gone almost as quickly as it appeared, his expression shifting back to determined focus.

"Save your energy," he says. "We've got a ways to go yet."

ChapterFour

Connor

The rain hammers down relentlessly, turning the narrow trail into a muddy river. Sarah's weight against my side grows heavier with each step, her face paler than I've ever seen it. The brave front she's putting on isn't fooling either of us. Every time she puts even a hint of weight on that ankle, I feel her body tense against mine.

"You doing okay?" I ask, my voice nearly lost in the steady drumming of rain on leaves.

"Never better," she says through gritted teeth. "Isn't this how everyone spends their Thursday mornings?"

---