Page 9 of Rescued In The Storm

"It's not much," I mutter, guiding Sarah toward the cot. "But it'll keep us dry."

She sinks onto the edge of the cot, wincing as she stretches out her injured leg. "Right now, not drowning in rain feels like luxury."

I glance around the cabin, taking in the sparse furnishings and years of dust. The rain hammers against the roof, a steady drumming that somehow makes the small space feel even more isolated from the outside world. Water drips from my hair, forming a small puddle at my feet.

Sarah's shivering hasn't let up. Her clothes are soaked through, her face still too pale. I need to check that ankle properly, get her warm, maybe start a fire.

But as I stand there, watching her attempt to wring water from her hair, I'm struck by the strangeness of being here. Alone with Sarah Miller in this forgotten cabin, miles from anyone else. I've guided countless people through these mountains, helped hikers in all sorts of predicaments, but this feels different.

Because it's her.

* * *

Sarah's teeth chatter as she tries to stop shivering, her hands rubbing up and down her arms in a futile attempt to generate warmth. The cot creaks beneath her weight, dust motes dancing in the air around her.

"Let me check that ankle," I say, crouching down in front of her.

She nods, extending her leg slightly. I carefully untie her hiking boot, easing it off as gently as possible. She still winces, a small hiss of pain escaping through clenched teeth.

"Sorry," I murmur, setting the boot aside.

Her sock is soaked through, the area around her ankle already swelling and turning an angry purple. I've seen enough sprains to know this one is bad. She won't be walking normally anytime soon.

"Not great, huh?" she asks, watching my face.

"It's definitely sprained," I confirm, gently probing the area. "But I don't think it's broken."

I glance toward the fireplace, hoping to find something to burn. Getting her warm is the priority now. Her lips still have that bluish tinge I don't like.

"I'm going to start a fire," I tell her, moving to the hearth.

There's a small pile of old kindling in a box beside the fireplace, but a quick search of the cabin reveals no actual firewood. A glance out the window confirms what I already know. Everything outside is thoroughly soaked by the downpour.

"No firewood," I say, frustration edging into my voice. "We could burn the chair, but..." I eye the rickety piece of furniture dubiously.

Sarah pulls her knees up to her chest, making herself smaller. "It's okay. I'm not that cold."

The lie is obvious in the tremor of her voice, the constant shivering. I scan the cabin, looking for anything that might help. I spot another wool blanket hanging from a hook near the door. It's dusty and probably hasn't been washed in years, but it's dry.

I grab it, giving it a sharp shake to dispel the worst of the dust. "Not exactly five-star accommodations," I say, draping it around her shoulders.

"Better than sitting in the rain," she replies, clutching the edges of the blanket and pulling it tight around herself.

I kneel in front of her again, returning my attention to her ankle. "I need to wrap this properly. I have a compression bandage in my pack."

As I dig through my backpack for the first aid kit, I'm acutely aware of her gaze following me. The cabin suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago. One small room, with barely ten feet between the cot and the opposite wall.

I find the elastic bandage and kneel before her again. "This will help with the swelling, but it's going to hurt while I wrap it."

She nods, steeling herself. "Do what you need to do."

I take her foot in my hands as gently as possible, cradling her heel in my palm. Her skin is cold and damp from the rain, but somehow the contact still feels like warmth spreading up my arms. I focus on the task, wrapping the bandage with practiced precision, trying not to notice how small her ankle looks in my hands or how she bits her lower lip when I hit a tender spot.

"You're good at this," she says softly.

"Lots of practice." I secure the end of the bandage. "Hazard of the job."

My fingers linger a moment too long against her skin. I should move away now. Check the windows for drafts, maybe, or see if there's anything useful in the ancient cans on the shelves.

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