Page 3 of Ex-Military Biker’s Bride

My boot goes out from under me and I clutch at the air.

One hip comes down hard first. Then I fall onto my back, with rocks going past my head and the sky at a crazy angle, until a deadfall stops me hard enough to make me cry out. I lie there as large raindrops fall and trail across my face like tears. Luckily my camera bag is still strapped across my chest and I didn’t crush it. Both of my arms appear to be working.

It’s my left ankle that’s the problem. Pain radiates up my leg and there’s a weird, hot pulse against the top of my boot.

I debate whether or not to take the boot off, then decide against it. If I take it off, I might never get it back on if my ankle swells.

Below me, somewhere in the gathering dusk, water rushes past. That damn creek is between me and the road, and I'm not crossing it tonight with my ankle like this.

Back when I started as an investigative journalist, my mentor gave me one rule for undercover jobs: don’t be so stupid that you walk into somewhere you can’t get out of on your own. Today, I broke it. There were big clouds across the mountains while I still had my lens on the cabins; I stayed way too long, because vehicles kept arriving and I wanted to get a photo of the plates.

And I did, but that counts for nothing if I die up here.

The first thing I have to do is get warm. I drag myself to a rocky outcrop where I can shelter from the rain. I have a kit in my backpack. It takes me multiple tries, but I get a small fire going and I hunch over them, a space blanket around my shoulders, and feed it the driest sticks I can find.

In the far distance, the lights from the Lodge are glowing in the fading light. All those suited-up VIPs with money to burn. Somebody down there is having a wonderful weekend.

I gulp down the rising feeling of panic in my throat and try to work out what my options are.

My cell phone is working; I could make an emergency call. But there’s one big problem with that; search and rescue on this land will be coordinated through the Lodge. The instant I put out a call, Rotmere is going to know where I am. The exec assistant who just happens to be trespassing on their private road, with a camera full of photos.

I’m sure they’d come get me and they’d be more than efficient. A warm blanket, brandy, immediate medical care. But then in a week or so I'd be an item somebody had dealt with.

Nancy, my editor, is too far away to be useful, and she doesn’t like to get too involved in the ‘bones of the story,’ as she calls it.

The rain thins for a minute. Out below me, the abandoned landing strip is grown over at its edges with a windsock still hanging off the pole like an abandoned party balloon.

I get the phone out of my bag. There's a thread of signal up here, although my battery is starting to run low.

I stare at the card in my wallet, gone soft at the corners from handling. Charter line. Day or night, somebody picks up. Lucky.

Six weeks of thinking about the pilot and the way he looked at me when he leaned over my rental car. Big hands. A slow grin that transformed his handsome, scarred face. His deep voice lighting up my core through the headset. I’ve done some digging on him and he works shifts flying planes and helicopters for Rotmere.

The pilot was the one who warned me not to go up to the Lodge on my own.

And I did anyway.

I take a deep breath before I dial the number. I’ve never been good at asking for help; but what choice do I have?

A woman picks up on the second ring.

“Charter, this is Maria.”

“I need you to call one of your pilots for me.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected.

Keys clicking, somewhere. “Okay. Are you in trouble?”

“Yes. I’ve hurt my ankle. I’m under shelter with a fire, but…”

“Do you want me to call it in? Because I can have somebody…”

"No." Too fast. I press my eyes shut. “No. Please. Just him. His name is Lucky. These are my co-ordinates.” I read them out to her.

“Honey,” she says, her voice a little kinder. “What did you do?”

“Tell him it's the woman from the Lodge run. The one who read his clipboard. Lily.”

“Uh… you read his clipboard?”