“What did you mean earlier, when you said my sister was right about me?” I ask, almost in a whisper.
He hesitates a moment, then lifts his eyes to mine again. “She said you’re the strongest person I’ll ever meet.”
My breath catches as I’m swept into a riptide of love and longing for my sister. It swirls and churns with fledgling pride for myself and gratitude for Forrest’s willingness to change his mind about me.
“Which is why,” he continues, “you’re going to keep your ankle in this bucket, so it doesn’t swell up and make a bad situation even worse. I feel fucking awful enough as it is.” His voice is tense with regret, and in his worried eyes, every slippery step he navigated and every minute of anxiety he masked for me is suddenly laid bare.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, surprised by how quickly the need to reassure him tumbles out of me. “What you did to get me back down… it was right out of a novel. I haven’t even said thank you.”
Forrest cuts off my gratitude with a shake of his head. He’s staring at me not like I’m an inconvenience but like we’ve gone through something together. The sort of calamity that bonds you to someone. And with the slightest upward slide of his warm hand, he silently tells me what he won’t say out loud. That he’d do it all again to keep me safe. That maybe he’d do it all again just to keep touching me. And all at once, I can’t help feeling like more than just another guest to him.
“Forrest—” I say, my voice low.
The dense fans of his lashes drop and flutter twice at the sound of his name cloaked in wanting instead of barbs. His hand stills as he opens his mouth to speak. But he’s interrupted as the walkie-talkie he’s been communicating with Jo on beeps loudly. His hand leaps off my thigh like it bit him, and he stands abruptly. As he backs away, I can practically see his brain stampCLASSIFIEDon whatever he was about to say and shred it for good measure. Jo’s voice is loud and staticky in the quiet cabin when she says, “Did you make it back yet?”
Forrest pulls a hand down his face, looking as flustered as I feel. “Don’t take your ankle out of that bucket, Margot,” he warns like he’s reading my mind. Before I can even pretend that wasn’t my next move (it absolutely was, damn him), he hits the talk button on his radio. “We made it back, and I’ve got her in my cabin. Her ankle isn’t broken, but she’s got a pretty good sprain.”
The troubled look that crosses his face as he says this guilts me into keeping my mostly numb foot in the bucket. A few seconds later, a light on the walkie flashes, and Jo’s voice comes crackling in. “That’s great news! Glad you made it back safely. Oh—hold on. Ollie wants to say something.”
There’s a sound of rustling static and then, “Margot, are you there? It’s Ollie.”
Looking like he’d rather throw the walkie out the window than give it to me, Forrest reluctantly holds it close enough for me and hits the speak button.
“Hey, Ollie, I’m here,” I say.
“Margot, I amsosorry I didn’t come back for you,” comes Ollie’s repentant voice. “I just kept getting distracted, and the boulders were so epic—”
Not as epic as that eye roll,I think, stealing the walkie out of Forrest’s hand while his eyes are aimed at the ceiling beams.
“It’s okay. Forrest got me down safely, and it’s just a sprain,” I say, looking up at him again.
“Well, I’m still sorry, and I promise I won’t—”
“Okay, okay,” Jo’s voice interrupts. “Forrest, we’re about to eat dinner here. Are you and Margot on your way?”
Forrest takes the walkie back from me and looks away. “No. She’s still icing her ankle, and I’ve got food here. I’ll make sure she eats.”
“Okay, then,” Jo says with far more chipperness than when she spoke to Ollie. “Have a good night together. Over.”
Forrest puts the walkie down, and in the renewed silence, my stomach feels like a pancake that’s been flipped but missed the pan on the way down. We’re alone in a snowy cabin, and I can’t help feeling like I stepped right out of one trope and into another.
My stomach grumbles, and the corner of Forrest’s mouth lifts. “Fish sound okay?”
I sigh. Knowing him, he probably caught the fish in question with his bare hands while navigating raging rapids on his way to save an injured otter. If I had any sense of self-preservation, I’d demand to be taken to my cabin immediately.
But I’m starving, hurt, and half-frozen, so what comes out instead is “Fish sounds great.”
He nods, and then—as though he’s making doubly sure to obey Romance Law—he rolls up his sleeves before heading to the kitchen. As I drag my eyes away from him, I have the thought that if there is any mercy in this cold, cruel world, he’ll be a terrible cook.
But obviously, the world could give two otter shits about mercy. Obviously, Forresthasn’tbeen on dish duty while Jo and Trapper churn out the five-star meals I’ve eaten every night in the lodge. Obviously, in addition to his advanced medical degrees, Dr. Forrest Wakefield, Carrier of Women Down Mountains, has also found time to attend culinary school and earn several James Beard Awards.
Neither of us speaks during the meal—we’re both too famished and awkward after our accidental glimpse beyond the blinders we keep up around each other. But the fire he started provides soothing background noise to our food shoveling, and when I come up for air, he’s already done, studying me like I’m a snag in his research.
“That was amazing,” I say to break the silence. “I have no idea what it was, but all other fish are dead to me now.”
A corner of his mouth turns up, and he looks down at his empty plate. I breathe. “It was halibut, and that’s just a five-hour hike talking. Chef Boyardee would’ve tasted just as good.”
“I somehow doubt Mr. Boyardee would have poached his halibut in brown butter,” I say, narrowing my eyes. It’s not a compliment. It’s an accusation. “Where the hell did you learn to cook like this?”
