“Dammit. Dammit,” I grumbled. “If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, please send someone. And try and get ahold of Vincent. I’m taking the walkie.”
“Will do.”
This was definitely karma’s doing for explicitly disregarding Vincent’s instructions to work with Sanders. I was going to. Just on my own terms. That didn’t mean I had control issues.
I headed to the back office and quickly traded my heels and blazer for the extra pair of galoshes and the massive poncho I kept on hand for this exact reason. Both had come in handy more than once. I left the side door and jogged to the trailhead. The grass squelched with every step and the rain was unrelenting. Little Creek had most likely become Rushing River already.
I could just make out the shape of two grown men heading back down the trail through the rain at a good clip. I let out a tense breath. At least we wouldn’t have to call search and rescue. Good Lord, was Jethro still a ranger? Last thing I wanted was to see him. I made my way toward the men just so I could chew their asses out for not paying attention to their surroundings. And not reading signs. And for making me get soaking wet.
As I slowed, the first man sprinted across the bridge. He grazed across like a skipping stone on a smooth lake. Recognition set in. It was the co-owner of Outside the Box, Skip. It was so confusing to see him here in this setting, it took me a minute to register. What was Skip doing in Green Valley? Had I offended Sanders so much that he left? Had he turned tail and run as soon as he heard I wasn’t going to …
No wait. Then that meant …
“Oh, you’re clucking kidding me.” I picked up my pace just in time to see the second man, definitely Sanders, start across the bridge. My feet slipped in the muddy bank as I halted abruptly on the deep slope.
His initial leap was as smooth as Skip’s had been, but a fraction of a second later, once he was already in the air, time suspended. It was like a scene fromFinal Destination: a few otherwise harmless events lined up in just the right way to set him up for disaster.
The flap of his poncho that caught the railing. The log that popped out of the water, slamming into his ankle. There was nothing I could do but gasp and wait for the dominoes to fall. And fall he did. One second he was vertical. The next he was horizontal.
I gasped and lunged forward.
I was going to kill him. As soon as he came out of this alive, I would kill him. I could picture him, laughing it off, saying he’d felt like a swim. I half ran, half slid down the hill that led to the bridge about ten yards away.
But when he didn’t immediately pop back up, it was clear something was wrong. I could just make out the shape of him—unmoving—under the dark, rushing water. Skip had already jumped back toward the bridge.
On the walkie-talkie I shouted for help. I didn’t have time to hear their response. I tucked it away and ran to Skip’s side.
Skip was gripping the railings, fighting the now knee-high current.
“His leg!” I shouted and pointed to the log that was now stuck between Sanders’ leg and the bridge.
Skip’s pale face shot to mine. If he was shocked to see me, there was no time to acknowledge it. He nodded and shouted back, “I’ll get his head.”
We moved into action. Skip somehow straddled the railings to get behind Sanders as I waded into the rushing water.
“Can you lift his torso out? I’ll try and unpin him,” I yelled.
Fear gripped my heart. In all my years at the Lodge, there had been a few emergencies and typically I slipped into action mode easily. Each time I was able to take the necessary actions with clarity, following established safety protocol without hesitation. This time hot fear sliced through me, filling my mind with panic. Why wasn’t he out of the water?Just sit up, Sanders.
My fear went icy.
Sanders was unconscious. Pale as a sheet, his blond hair plastered to his forehead and his mouth slack. No time to think. I felt around his legs. Sure enough the current was pushing the log directly into his ankle, lodging it at an angle.
“Can you pull him back?” I yelled.
Skip hefted Sanders under his armpits. His face was taut with focus and fear. I gripped the log to keep the weight off as he worked. The freezing water made my fingers clumsy but pure adrenaline gave me determination. Distantly I was aware of the rough knobs and bark cutting into my fingers. The water was leaking into my ears, my whole lower body submerging in the frigid water as I dropped to leverage my weight. I shook with fear or cold. I couldn’t be sure. None of it mattered. There was only getting his leg unpinned. My hands kept slipping. Getting a grip was near impossible. I had to angle my feet on the opposite railing and shove with all my upper-body strength.
As Skip shifted the weight, there was just enough wiggle room to push back the log from its stuck position. Instantly, the gushing stream shoved the log roughly past. It floated away like a crocodile down the river, none the wiser that it almost killed a man.
Without discussion, I grabbed Sanders’ ankles, as Skip hefted the bulk of his friend’s weight across the bridge. It was a struggle. Sanders’ unconscious body was heavy. My galoshes slipped with every step. I fell to my knees. Skip yelled something at me but I couldn’t hear him. There was only carrying Sanders up the hill and away from the water. Finally, we made it to a picnic table a few yards away. It was up a mound and under some thick pines protected from the worst of the rain, cocooning us in dry safety.
Skip and I hefted him onto the table. Every muscle in my body strained at the effort. As soon as his back was on the table, Skip checked his mouth for obstructions as I pressed my ear to his chest.
Why wasn’t he responding?
I climbed on top of him, straddling his body so I could leverage my full weight. I hammered on his chest. His face was so pale.
“Wake up, dammit!”
