Page 8 of Mountain Summons

Lena shifted on the hard ground, the pain in her ankle bringing her back from the pleasant daydream. She wanted to go back. She wanted to go anywhere, except for this cold, wet overhang.

The darker it got outside, the more her fear grew. She’d placed her red scarf outside the overhang, held together by two fist-sized rocks, in an attempt to call attention to her location. But as evening fell, the scarf became less and less visible, even from her location just a few feet away. She wasn’t sure it’d be visible at all from higher up.

Which meant nobody would find her—assuming somebody was even looking. She prayed her father had returned home early, for once, and noticed her missing. If so, he would be out looking for her already. She had to believe he and his teams would come for her.

Outside her damp hiding spot, the rain continued to fall. It hadn’t let on for an instant. She’d left her half-empty waterbottle propped outside the overhang, collecting water. It was now half-full, which meant she could cross thirst off the list of things she was likely to die from.Cross thirst off. Move hypothermia to the top of the list.

She was really cold. Cold and wet. Not a good combination. She huddled inside her rain jacket, wishing she’d thought to pack a warmer layer. Her clothes and supplies were barely enough for a day hike. She couldn’t spend the night out here.

Lena felt like a fool. She, of all people, should have known better. She’d grown up in these mountains. She knew how fast the weather could turn, how a minor miscalculation—a wrong turn, a storm rolling in quicker than expected—could turn deadly. She wasn’t a reckless tourist chasing Instagram photos; she was someone who had spent her childhood on these trails, who had learned caution from her mother, who had watched her father risk his life to rescue people who’d made foolish mistakes. And nowshewas the fool.

Her fingers curled into fists against the damp fabric of her jacket. She shivered violently, unable to stop the deep tremors wracking her body. Hypothermia wasn’t just a word in a survival dictionary. It was something she could feel creeping into her limbs, dulling her mind. Making her sluggish.

She couldn’t give into it. She needed to stay alert.

With effort, she shifted, pulling her legs up closer to her body, trying to conserve what little warmth she had left. The movement sent a sharp jolt of pain up her leg, radiating from her ankle like fire, but at least that kept her distracted, kept her from slipping into exhaustion.

She fished in the outside pocket of her backpack for the power bar she’d stuffed inside. She wasn’t hungry, but maybe chewing would keep her awake. Shehadto stay awake. Shehadto stay focused.

Her fingers brushed against something hard at the bottom of the pocket, and she suddenly remembered—the whistle. Her breath hitched as she fumbled it out, the metal cold against her lips. She blew out. Three sharp blasts. Pause. Then three more.

She waited, her ears straining against the sounds of rain and the distant hum of the river below. Nothing.

She tried again. Three shrill bursts, cutting through the quiet.

Again, silence.

A lump formed in her throat.Don’t panic. Maybe people were searching, just in the wrong place. But somebody would find her. They had to.

She looked outside her hiding place. The scarf she’d placed was hardly visible anymore. Maybe in the morning, if she could get her strength back, she could try moving it higher up.

Morning.

The word felt impossibly far away.

She thought of Tristan again, not just his hands this time, but his voice. Steady, self-assured, teasing. She remembered the way he’d looked at her—like he saw her, and liked what he saw. She thought of that single kiss they’d shared, of the way his fingers had skimmed her waist, the heat of his palm at the small of her back. She wished, more than anything, that she’d been braver that night. That she’d saidyeswhen she’d had the chance to say it.

6

Tristan

Outside, the wind howled. Tristan’s fingers drummed against the cyclic control, his jaw tight as he guided the Choucas74 through the worsening storm. Rain fell on the windshield in relentless sheets, and the visibility was shit.

The radio crackled. “Anything?” That was the colonel’s voice. Tristan was still half-surprised Beau and Damien had managed to convince the man to stay back in the office.

Tristan exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip. “Not yet.”

His spotlight swept over ridges and rocky outcroppings, cutting stark white into the storm-blackened landscape, but there was no way they were going to see anything from this high up, and it was too risky to keep flying in this weather.

“I can’t get us any closer,” Tristan told Beau, who was sitting beside him.

“This is good,” Beau said, looking down at the ground below. “Put her down. We’ll split up and comb this side of the col. Katwill drop Damien’s team off and they will do the same on the other side.”

Tristan nodded, scanning the terrain below. His heart hammered in his chest, harder than he wanted to admit.

Lena—Madeleine, he reminded himself—was down there. Somewhere.

“You okay, Tristan?” Beau asked. His team leader knew him well.

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