“There’s rope in my pack,” he murmured. “If you can rig it for leverage...”
She was already moving.
The pack lay a few feet away, and she reached it swiftly, rifling through the contents until she found the coil of thick rope. She looped it securely around the trunk, then braced herself and warned, “I’m going to pull on the count of three.”
Nic nodded and clenched his jaw.
“One... two—”
She pulled hard. The rope groaned. Snow showered from above. With a crunch and a shudder, the branch rolled slightly—then shifted off his shoulder and down to his hips.
He cried out, the pressure flaring like a fresh wound. Still trapped—but not crushed. That was something.
The woman returned to his side. “That’s the best I can do. It’s caught where the tree’s still anchored. Unless you’ve been hiding a saw in that pack of yours...”
Nic gave a strained breath. “I’m full of surprises,” he murmured. “Though not that one. Would you mind—before I try to crawl—splinting my arm? Pretty sure it’s broken.”
Her eyes lit with sudden determination. “I can do that! I had to splint a goat once.”
He blinked at her, then let out a weary laugh. “In that case, I’ve clearly been rescued by the right woman.”
His savior eventually unearthed his knife and knelt beside him, slicing carefully through the sleeves of his coat and shirt. The cold bit at his exposed skin, but he barely noticed.
“I see a lot of bruising,” she said, peering at his arm, “but you’re lucky—no protruding bone.”
Nic gave a huff that was half a laugh, half a pained breath. “Ah yes, luck. My ever-faithful companion.”
She selected a slender branch, held it beside his arm, and traced a finger along the swelling. “I think the break is about here... This will hurt. You ready?”
“How did the goat respond to this part?” he rasped.
“It tried to bite me.”
“Well, I promise to behave like a gentleman.” He forced a grin, though his jaw was clenched so tight it felt fused.
She bound the makeshift splint with clean efficiency—tearing a strip from his shirt, cinching it tight, knotting linen around the branch with practiced tension. Each tug sent lightning bolts through his shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted iron.
When she finished, he slumped in relief, heart thudding like a war drum.
She touched his shoulder lightly. “You’re very pale. I can try to dig you out a bit, make it easier.”
“I am forever in your debt,” he murmured, wincing, “You’ll be in my ballads, I swear it.”
He gestured weakly toward his pack. She retrieved his spade and began carving away the compacted snow around his waist. The ice was stubborn, set firm as stone, but she chipped steadily through it.
“I’m Nic, by the way.”
“Jasmin. From Stargazer Creek.”
“No—really? So am I. Only ten miles past the ridge.”
Jasmin gritted her teeth and drove the spade into another chunk of ice. “Well, Nic of Ten Miles Past the Ridge, it is very nice to meet you—though I wouldn’t recommend this method of introduction.”
He gave a breathless laugh. “You mean collapsing under a tree isn’t the most dashing way to win someone’s attention?”
“Oh, it’s unforgettable,” she said with a grin. “Especially the part where you packed a full survival kit. Do you end up beneath trees often, or is this a seasonal habit?”
Nic chuckled despite the pain. “Only when I want to make a dramatic entrance.”
