“I did give it up,” I say, hoping my curt answer will deter her line of questioning. But what she says next is the last thing I see coming.
“I get it.”
I look at her, tracing the classic line of her profile with my eyes while she concentrates on securing her hiking poles. “You do?”
She lifts a shoulder. “My sister, Savannah—the one who wrote the letters you’re holding hostage—she’s not well. Or at least she’s not well a lot of the time. She lives with me, and I take care of her.” She suddenly frowns like she doesn’t want to admit her next words, even to herself. “And if she lived in fuckingAlaska,I guess I’d have to live here too.”
My mind loops back to the day Margot arrived and she learned (falsely) that there’s no Internet at North Star Lodge. How she whined that she needed to keep in touch with her sister, who has a serious condition. Guilt sends a rash of heat up my spine. I’d assumed she was lying her ass off to get what she wanted because, as we’ve established, I’m a judgmental prick. I glance at her and vow to tell her about the Internet access—shitty as it is—as soon as we’re back. Meanwhile, I’ll deal with the revelation that this woman, who upon first impression seemed completely trite and unrelatable, is probably the one person in a thousand-mile radius who might understand what I’m going through.
“It doesn’t feel like a choice,” I reply.
She catches my eye for a moment and then shakes her head, a quiet exhale clouding her rosy face. “No. It doesn’t.”
“Do you mind telling me her condition?” I ask.
Margot’s eyes sharpen. “I guess that depends. Are you one of those doctors who don’t take autoimmune diseases seriously?”
My eyebrows jump. “Why wouldn’t I take them seriously? They’re extremely well documented.”
She makes a sound of derision. “Go tell that to every asshole who told us Savannah’s symptoms were ‘psychosomatic’ during appointments she barely had the strength to sit through.”
I register surprise as anger on behalf of a person I’ve never met fills my stomach with battery acid. After a moment, I manage to speak. “I’m sorry she—and you—had to tolerate that. Skepticism of poorly understood conditions is an unfortunate defense mechanism in the medical community. It doesn’t mean that what she’s suffering from is any less real than a more easily quantified illness.”
Margot is mid-nod when her pole slips on ice. My arm shoots out to steady her, and this time she grabs on to it. Even through the layers of her mittens and my coat, the pressure of her hand sends unwelcome ripples of awareness through me. “Thanks,” she says as she lets go and starts walking again. “And thanks for not being another dismissive doctor.”
“Of course,” I say, clearing my throat. Then, “Why don’t you go ahead? The trail’s getting too narrow for both of us.” She hikes ahead with a last fleeting look at me, boots crunching on the packed snow, and for the rest of the increasingly difficult trail, the only conversation between us is about where to place poles and feet. As we ascend, the temperature drops and the trees become sparse. Margot struggles with her footing, but with every new boulder, she seems to become more determined to get to the top. Which, after two painstaking hours that leave even my thighs burning, we finally reach.
“Oh my God,” she half gasps, half cries as she crests the last boulder to the summit. She stumbles forward on legs that wobble like a newborn fawn’s as I climb up next. She looks around despondently as she walks through the trees to the huge jut of rock that serves as the hike’s summit. “What the hell was the point of climbing up here? It all looks exactly the same as—”
And then she makes it past the tree line and sees it. A vista of epic proportions, with unfathomable miles of wilderness stretching before us. Her jaw drops slowly as awe renders her speechless. And then, with timing that simply can’t be planned, an enormous bald eagle launches itself from the treetops belowus, stretching its six-foot wingspan to fly down toward the snaking river. She gasps and takes a step back.
“This is—” she starts, shaking her head.
“Pretty incredible, huh?” I say softly. Even after growing up here, I find it impossible to take the grandeur of this place for granted.
A disbelieving smile pulls across her face. She shakes her head again. “I can’t believe I made it. I fucking did it.”
“You fucking did it, Margot,” I agree, unable to stop my own smile from spreading.
She turns to look at me with windburned cheeks, a halo of wispy golden hair that’s escaped her ponytail, and amber eyes that practically glow with pride. She’s so beautiful in this moment—sweaty and exhausted and victorious—that I almost forget all my rules. About my blanket ban on guests or, frankly, anyone I find this captivating. Her sister’s words come back to me—she’s the strongest, most selfless person you’ll ever meet—and somehow don’t feel as implausible as they did yesterday. But the possibility that they might be true makes keeping my distance from her even more crucial.The reward isn’t worth the risk,I repeat to myself like a talisman against her.Not worth the risk.
“So where’s the chairlift back down the mountain?” she says, clearing her throat and looking around like it’s hidden in the bushes.
I fight the smile stretched across my idiotic face. “Going down is easier. Come on. We need to get moving if we’re going to make it back before dark. We’re running behind as it is.”
Her brow furrows at my grumpier tone, and she lowers her phone after taking several selfies I shamefully wish I could see. “Speaking of being behind, where’s the rest of the group? Shouldn’t we have seen them coming down?”
“They must have gone down the outer ridge,” I say, pointingmy pole to another small break in the tree line. “It’s a longer trail but less steep.”
“Then I guess that’s our path,” she says, looking over her shoulder at me as she moves toward the break. And then, in a moment so fast I barely see how it happens, she’s on the ground, hiking poles splayed and a cry ripping from her.
Fuck. Fear grips me by the throat, and I run over to where she’s sitting up and clutching her ankle.
“It’s broken,” she says through gritted teeth. “I just knew it. I’m going to die up here! I’m going to be an eagle snack!”
“We don’t know it’s broken,” I say with forced calm while practically ripping my backpack apart to find the first-aid kit. “Can you move it?”
She turns her tear-streaked face to glare up at me. “Does it fucking look like I can move it, Forrest? Itoldyou I shouldn’t have done this hike!”
