Page 8 of Rescued In The Storm

Even injured and stranded in a thunderstorm, she's got spark. I can't help smiling, though worry gnaws at my gut. We're making progress, but too slowly. The temperature is dropping, and Sarah's shivering has gotten worse over the past ten minutes. Her jeans and light jacket are soaked through, and the rain shows no signs of letting up.

She stumbles slightly on a slick patch of mud, a small cry escaping her lips as her injured ankle takes weight. I tighten my grip around her waist, nearly lifting her off the ground.

"Sorry," she whispers, her fingers digging into my shoulder.

"Don't apologize." I scan the trail ahead, trying to get my bearings through the sheets of rain. We're at least two miles from the trailhead where I left my truck, and at this rate, it would take hours to get there. Hours Sarah doesn't have in her condition.

We need shelter. Somewhere to get dry, to properly examine her ankle, to wait out the worst of the storm.

And then it hits me.

"The Johnson cabin," I murmur, memories surfacing of exploring these woods with my brothers years ago.

"What?" Sarah looks up at me, rain streaming down her face.

"There's an old hunting cabin not far from here. The Johnson family used it for generations before they sold the land to the forest service. Liam, Declan, Rowan, and I used to explore it when we were kids." I adjust my grip on her waist, taking more of her weight. "It's rough, but it's shelter."

"How far?"

"Quarter mile, maybe less. Just off the main trail." I look down at her, studying her face. "Can you make it that far?"

She nods, a determined set to her jaw that I've seen countless times over the years. When she entered her first baking competition at sixteen. When she took over the bakery after her mom got sick. When she insisted on catering Kathryn and Nolan's wedding despite having the flu. Sarah Miller doesn't give up easily.

"Lead the way, mountain man."

I guide us off the main trail onto a narrower path, nearly invisible now with overgrowth and rain. The going is slower here, the terrain more challenging. I'm practically carrying her at points, her arm tight around my shoulders, my arm firm around her waist.

"Almost there," I encourage her as we navigate a particularly rough section. "Hold on."

She's trembling against me, whether from cold or pain or both, I can't tell. Her normally rosy cheeks are pale, lips taking on a bluish tinge that sets off alarm bells in my head. I need to get her warm, and soon.

Then, through the curtain of rain, I spot the weathered outline of the cabin, half-hidden by pines and nearly reclaimed by the forest. Relief surges through me.

"There it is," I tell her, nodding toward the structure.

Sarah squints through the rain. "That's a cabin?"

I can't blame her skepticism. The place looks even more rundown than I remember. The small porch sags, boards are grayed with age and the single window cloudy with years of neglect. But the roof seems intact, and right now, that's all that matters.

"Don't judge a book by its cover," I say, maneuvering us toward it. "Or a cabin by its extreme rustic charm."

That earns me a small laugh, which I count as a victory.

We make our way up to the porch, the old boards creaking ominously under our weight. The door is secured with a simple latch, slightly warped from years of mountain weather. I shift Sarah gently to lean against the wall while I work the stiff mechanism.

"When's the last time you were here?" she asks, arms wrapped around herself against the chill.

"Ten years, maybe?" The latch finally gives way. "Rowan and I used it as a halfway point when we were marking new trails for the lodge." I test the door, finding it stuck from disuse and swollen wood. "Stand back."

I throw my shoulder against the weathered door, once, twice. On the third push, it gives way with a groan of protest. Stale air rushes out. It’s musty and thick with dust, but wonderfully dry.

"After you," I say, stepping aside.

Sarah peers into the dark interior. "You sure there aren't, I don't know, bears hibernating in there or something?"

"Wrong season for hibernation," I say with mock seriousness. "But I'll protect you from any non-hibernating wildlife."

I help her through the doorway into the cabin's single room. It's exactly as I remembered, if mustier. A simple space with rough-hewn log walls, a small stone fireplace on one end, and sparse furnishings. A narrow cot sits against one wall, covered in what was once a wool blanket, now gray with dust. A rickety table with a single chair occupies one corner, and a few shelves hold ancient cans and jars, their labels long faded.

---