Page 4 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

A searing pain explodes in my left shoulder as I slam against something solid—a tree or a rock. The impact knocks what little air I had from my lungs.

The roar is deafening, then suddenly muffled as the avalanche slows and I'm dragged deeper. The pressure increases around me, squeezing my chest, making it impossible to expand my lungs. I'm being buried alive.

In some detached part of my brain, I remember the training: Make an air pocket. Keep one hand in front of your face. Don't panic.

But my body isn't listening to my brain anymore. Everything hurts. I can't move. The snow is setting like cement around me.

With my last bit of strength, I manage to bring my right hand up near my face, creating a tiny space—a pathetic bubble of air that might give me a few more minutes of life.

Darkness. Cold. Silence.

This is how I die. Not in a blaze of glory on a competition run with cameras rolling, but alone in the wilderness because I was too stupid, too reckless, too desperate for a thrill.

As the oxygen in my little pocket depletes, my mind drifts. I see my parents' faces when I told them I was skipping college to pursue Olympic dreams. My coach's expression when my knee exploded during qualifiers. The look on Carlson's face this afternoon when he warned me to stay in bounds.

Should have gone for hot chocolate.Stupid, stupid girl.

The edges of consciousness begin to blur. Is this what dying feels like? It's almost peaceful now. The pain is fading. I'm floating.

Wait. What's that sound?

Something above me. Faint. Rhythmic. Scratching?

A bark. Definitely a bark. Am I hallucinating?

More scratching, more urgent now. Voices, muffled by layers of snow.

"...here! Aspen's got something!"

The pressure around my chest lessens slightly. They're digging. Someone is actually digging for me.

I try to move, to call out, but nothing works. My lungs burn. My vision, what little there is in the pitch blackness, sparkles with tiny dots of light.

The sounds grow closer. Frantic digging. More barking.

Suddenly, a rush of cold air hits my face. Light—painful, beautiful light—floods my tiny prison as snow is cleared away from my head.

Strong hands work quickly to free my upper body. I cough weakly, sucking in precious oxygen that tastes better than anything I've ever experienced.

"I've got you. Stay with me." The voice is deep, authoritative. A man's voice.

As they lift me partially out of my icy grave, I force my eyes open. Through a haze of pain and confusion, I see him—a bearded face, weathered by sun and wind. Eyes the color of a winter sky—intense, focused, concerned. Older than me, maybe late thirties or early forties, with streaks of silver at his temples that somehow make him look distinguished rather than old.

Even in my barely conscious state, something stirs inside me—an unexpected flutter that has nothing to do with my injuries. There's something about him—something in those eyes that sees right through me.

"You're safe now," he says, but there's no warmth in his voice. He seems almost disappointed in me.

I try to thank him, to apologize, to say anything, but the words won't come. The world spins violently, darkness creeping in from the edges.

The last thing I register before consciousness slips away is his arms around me, solid and secure, lifting me from the snow. Anddespite everything—the pain, the fear, the stupidity that got me here—I feel an inexplicable sense of rightness in those arms.

Then nothing but darkness claims me.

four

Jade

Iwaketothesound of crackling wood and the scent of pine. For a blissful moment, I think I'm back in my childhood bedroom at my parents' cabin in Banff. Then the pain hits—a symphony of agony with every part of my body playing a different section. My shoulder screams loudest, followed by a throbbing chorus from my ribs and a persistent drumbeat in my skull.

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