Gone Too Deep (17 page)

“Seventeen.”

Scrambling over a pile of rocks that had worked loose from the sheer cliff above, she gave a wary glance upward, wondering if she should add “possible rock slides” to her list of worries. “Seventeen is still a kid.”

“Not for me.”

It was easy to picture George as a serious, quiet teenager, old beyond his years. “Did you stay by yourself, then? After your dad died, I mean.”

He gave a single nod of his head. For some reason, the thought of a young George alone in that cabin in the woods made her sad.

“What did you do to make money?” Once again, she was probably being nosy and rude, but he didn't seem to mind answering her questions, and she was dying of curiosity. His upbringing was a world away from her apartment-dwelling childhood in Chicago.

“Same as what I do now. I don't buy a lot, so I don't need much money. I do some plowing in the winter, construction in the summer, and”—he sent a sly glance her way—“occasionally babysit tourists in the mountains.”

For some reason, that stung. “If you've done this before, why didn't you want to take me?”

His face went serious, even a little anxious. “I was teasing. I meant just you. Sorry. I'm not good at jokes.”

As her hurt feelings dissolved, she felt a little silly. “No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so touchy.” She hoped her overreaction wouldn't kill any future hints of humor in him. “And what are you talking about, not being good at jokes? You're funny.”

Although he didn't say anything, his expression lightened. After a minute, he said, “Knock, knock.”

Ellie burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the rocky slopes and echoing back to them. “See? You're plenty funny.”

* * *

They didn't take a break for several hours. Ellie could tell they both felt the same urgency pushing them. As they zigzagged their way up the south-facing slope, she was grateful for the scarcity of snow. With only one pair of snowshoes between the two of them, deep snow would've slowed down their pace to a snaillike slog.

When they finally paused for water and trail mix, the sun was high in the sky, and Ellie was sweating enough to shed her fleece middle layer and tie it around her waist. Just a short time after their break, George stopped again.

“What is it?”

His answer was a silent lift of his chin at something behind her. She whirled around so fast that she almost toppled over, and George put a steadying hand on her shoulder. A gorgeous view spread out in front of them, white snow dappled with patches of evergreens. It was beautiful, and Ellie forgot about the gun and the two men and even her father for a minute as she absorbed it.

“No wonder people do this kind of thing for fun,” she breathed, turning to look at George. He was watching her and smiling, and she grinned back at him, covering his hand on her shoulder with her own. As their gazes met and clung, Ellie realized she'd rather look at George than even the beautiful vista in front of them. The thought flustered her, and she broke their too-intense eye contact.

The moment over too soon, they turned their backs to the amazing view and resumed their fast pace. Ellie hadn't panted for breath as much since that first day of hiking, but she pushed through the discomfort and ignored her desire to dawdle.

Once they started descending the north side of the slope, though, they were forced to slow dramatically. There was a hard crust on top of the snow, which helped keep their boots on the surface of the drifts, but it tended to send them sliding, especially when they were going downhill.

Ellie eyed a smooth section in front of them that cut between the trees like a groomed ski slope. “Can we just sit and sled down that?”

His face was tense as he shook his head. “Terrain trap.”

“What?” The smooth snow looked innocent to her.

“An avalanche could follow that. It's a natural chute.”

“Oh.” She eyed the slope that had suddenly taken on an ominous quality.

“We'll cross here, one at a time. You go first.”

Although she would've preferred to stick together, the clear section wasn't that wide, and she trusted that George knew the best way to keep them safe. She started to cross, keeping her gaze on a pine tree directly across from them. Knowing that she was crossing a possible avalanche path made it hard to keep her feet moving. With each step, she worried that it would be the one to bring all the snow on the mountain down on them.

When she neared her goal tree, she had the opposite problem—she wanted to run to safety. Ellie forced herself to take measured steps and not fling herself at the evergreen and wrap her arms around the trunk. Finally, she reached it. As a compromise between the logical and hysterical parts of her brain, she closed her hand around a sturdy branch, leaning casually against it to hide her tight grip.

George had started across the clear slope, and it was almost harder to watch him than it had been to do the walk herself. They both had their personal beacons, but, since he had the pack that held the shovel and probe, she wouldn't have any tools to rescue him. Watching him cross, she felt a fierce determination fire inside her. If she had to dig him out with her bare hands, she would do it. She'd dig up the whole mountain if she had to, but she wouldn't stop until he was free.

Crossing the last few feet that separated them, George gave her a curious glance.

“What's that look?” he asked.

“Nothing.” He'd think she was an overly attached potential stalker if she told him what she'd been thinking, so she adopted a casual tone. “I can carry the pack for a while.”

Despite her attempt at sounding nonchalant, he shot her a sharp look. “No.”

Frustrated, she resisted stomping her foot in a childish show of temper. With her luck, it would trigger an avalanche, and she still didn't have the shovel if George was buried. “Fine.”

He sent her an unexpected grin. “Thank you.”

With great effort, she held her scowl, even in the face of his rare, contagious smile. “If you were really grateful, you'd let me carry the shovel—I mean, the pack.”

“No. Let's go.”

Grumbling under her breath, she followed him into the trees.

George didn't like it. The obvious warning signs weren't there. He couldn't see any evidence of previous avalanches, there were no shooting cracks, and the snow didn't sound hollow under his boots. It had been more than twenty-four hours since the last snowfall, and there weren't any rolling snowballs—that he'd seen, at least.

Still, the temperature was climbing, and his gut was churning, despite the lack of warning signs. He wanted to dig a hole to check the layers of snow, but they couldn't stop for that long just based on his bad feeling. Even though he feared a possible avalanche, the two men who'd attacked them were the greater threat.

This jumpy, tense state of worry was unfamiliar. Blowing out a breath, he shook out his arms, trying to recover his usual calm wariness. It wasn't there, though, and he knew the reason why. It was the woman a couple of steps behind him, the one who was singing under her breath. Somehow, keeping her safe had become the ultimate priority, and any possible threat to her made him come unglued.

To distract himself, he glanced at her. “Are you singing?”

Her eyes widened, reminding him of his first look at her face and how much she'd reminded him of a china doll. “Sorry.” It came out as a loud whisper. “Could that start an avalanche?”

Turning back to face the front so he didn't walk headfirst into a tree, he couldn't hold back a quick grin. She was just so darn
cute
. “No. You could yodel, and it still wouldn't trigger it.”

She laughed, and he felt proud that he was the cause of it. “I promise not to yodel. For so many reasons, there will be no yodeling.”

That made him smile again. George didn't think he'd ever smiled as much in his life as he had over the last three days. Considering that they'd been robbed at gunpoint, during which he'd been shot, that was pretty impressive.

“I'm singing to distract myself. It's kind of like whistling in the dark. You know, to prove I'm not afraid.”

He indulged himself by looking at her again. It seemed that each time he did, she was prettier. Now that he knew how she felt pressed against him, it added another dimension to how he saw her. The night before had been torture, but wonderful, too. The memory of her hand idly stroking his chest before she fell asleep flashed through his mind, and he whipped his head around before she could see the completely smitten look on his face.

When he heard her singing softly start again, he smiled. She had a nice voice—nothing fancy, but sweet and true. It helped to relax him, too. Once again, he found himself looking over his shoulder at her. The trees had thinned, and sunlight picked up the red and gold accents in her dark brown hair. Her cheeks were pink from exertion and probably a little sunburned. She smiled when she caught him looking, and his lungs suddenly felt like a bull elk was standing on his chest. No one had ever made him feel anything like she did, and he'd only known her for four days.

Then the ground shifted beneath him, and she was gone.

George lunged to grab her, but it was too late. In the midst of his absolute panic, his training kicked in. Resisting the urge to chase after her, to let the slide carry him toward her, he grabbed at a pine tree with both hands as he passed it. The branch in his right hand ripped free of the trunk, but the left one held, and he stopped with a shoulder-wrenching jerk.

He grabbed at the tree again with his right hand. This time, the branch he caught was sturdy. As soon as he was secure, his eyes searched for Ellie; he saw a flash of her bright red coat before she disappeared into the white mass of snow again.

“No, no, no, no, no!” When he realized he was yelling the same word over and over, he clamped his mouth shut and concentrated on watching where she'd last disappeared.

The analytical part of his brain that terror couldn't smother was telling him that it was a small slide. Ellie had been right on top of it, though, and now it was on top of her. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard. His breathing was strange, fast and shallow, and he forced his lungs to slow.

He knew the snow had to settle before he could go after her. Getting himself buried along with her would just kill them both. Still, waiting was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life.

As soon as the slide ended, he ran, pulling out his avalanche transceiver from his inner coat pocket as he did so. As he turned it to “Receive,” he glanced down at it and lost his balance. George twisted into the fall, holding the beacon out of harm's way, and landed on his belly. Skidding down the slope like a penguin, he refocused on the spot where he'd last seen Ellie.

When he was almost parallel to the place he'd glimpsed that flash of red, George flipped so his feet were downhill, and used his boots to stop his slide. Snow fanned into the air in front of him as he slowed. Using his remaining momentum, he pushed to his feet, running almost before he was upright.

As he neared the point where Ellie had disappeared, he forced himself to slow slightly. He knew he needed to be methodical to find her. There was no group of rescuers to help. It was all on him, and running around in a panic was not going to help. If he didn't find her and get her out within fifteen minutes, her chances of survival would drop dramatically.

Moving downhill, he made a zigzag pattern, his eyes looking for any sign of her. He listened, as well, but heard only the faint moan of the wind. His gaze flickered to the locator beacon, frantic to see that first arrow, that first distance on the digital display.

When it beeped, his initial thought was that it was his imagination, but the arrow flashed onto the display, along with a thirty-two. Unable to help himself, he broke into a jog, following the arrow and glancing at the screen repeatedly, watching the distance between them shrink from thirty-two meters to two.

“El!” he shouted, but his heart was beating too loudly in his ears to hear a response, if there was one. Quickly unfastening the pack, he let it fall to the ground and unzipped it with shaking hands. He pulled out the shovel first and then the probe. Moving the transceiver in a cross shape, he pinpointed the spot within a half meter.

The probe slid easily into the snow on his first try, so he moved out about ten inches and made a circle around the original spot. With each fruitless plunge of the probe, his terror fought to break free of his tight mental grip, but he fought it back. On his second concentric circle, his third attempt sunk the probe in only two feet before stopping. He'd found her. A muffled sound came from underneath the snow, and his breath escaped him in a relieved exhale that was very close to a sob.

“El! Ellie!” Dropping to his knees, he shouted at the snow, “I'm getting you out, El!” Leaving the probe in place and shoving the transceiver into his coat pocket, he moved to the downhill side and started digging. George chopped at the hard-packed snow and flung it behind him as fast as he could, but it felt like it was taking forever. The clock in his head ticked, counting down those precious fifteen minutes.

After digging down about three feet, he dug sideways toward the probe. A spot of red showed through the snow, and his heart jumped in his chest, hope spreading through him. He shoveled with renewed determination, although he was careful not to hurt her. When her back was exposed enough that he could tell which direction she was positioned, he moved to uncover her head. Once her airway was clear, then he could concentrate on freeing the rest of her.

As soon as he was close, he dug with his hands, clawing the snow away from her head. Her arms must have come in front of her face before she'd been buried, creating a pocket of air in front of her mouth and nose. When he saw her face, his muscles wanted to go limp in relief, but he fought it. It wasn't time to collapse yet.

She tried to twist her head toward him as soon as he uncovered it, but he held her still with a gentle, gloved hand.

“Wait, El. Don't move until I get you clear.” She must have heard and understood because, except for shivering, she didn't move again until he'd uncovered the rest of her body. Grabbing two handfuls of the back of her coat, George supported her neck as he turned her onto her back and dragged her out of the hole.

Once she was free, she tried to push herself to a seated position, but he urged her back.

“Let me check first.” Her eyes were huge in her pale face, but she didn't seem to have a head injury. He ran his hand over her arms and legs, feeling through the multiple layers of fabric for any breaks or signs of pain. Unzipping her coat, he quickly ran his hands over her ribs and belly, watching her expression closely as he did so. Although he was certified as a first responder, his medical knowledge was limited to the ABCs—airway, breathing, and circulation. He could give CPR, apply compression to stop bleeding, and rig up a splint. If anything was wrong with her internally, though, he was useless. “Anything hurt?”

“No.”

Her shivering was getting worse, and he zipped her coat to her chin. As pale as she was, he worried that she was in shock. He rotated her body so he could prop her feet onto the pile of snow he'd created. Grabbing the sleeping bag off the pack, he unrolled it and laid it over her.

“No, George.” She stuttered a little, thanks to her chattering teeth. “It'll get wet. I'm okay. I just need to get up and move.”

Although every instinct was shouting at him to keep her still and covered, he knew they weren't in a safe place. Unlike when he was on a search and rescue call, help wasn't on its way. Flight for Life wasn't going to magically appear overhead. It was up to just the two of them to get to safety, and having her lie on the snow at the base of a recent avalanche was not the way to do it.

With a reluctant nod, he moved her legs out of their elevated position and helped her sit. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Despite her resolute nod, he frowned as he eyed her face. She was still shaking and too pale, her normally pink cheeks pasty. He was so involved in checking her color that her hands on his cheeks startled him. She'd lost a glove, and her bare hand was freezing against his skin. “George. I'm okay. Help me up?”

He did, albeit unhappily, wishing he could just teleport her to a hospital. Once she was standing, he wasn't able to release his grip on her arms.

“How far to the cabin?” Her voice was shaking a little less now, and he only felt an occasional vibration shudder through her.

“We can make camp at the base of that ridge.” He jerked his chin toward the area he meant, not wanting to let go of her in order to point. “There's an overhang that'll make a good shelter.”

“George.” She looked at him steadily. Her color was a little better. She'd lost that blue tinge under her skin. “We're going to the cabin.”

“It's too far.” His fingers tightened, and he had to consciously loosen them before he hurt her arms. Where had this resolute Ellie come from? She was usually good about following orders, at least as far as hiking and camping were concerned.

“How far?”

“Four hours, if we move fast.” And he didn't want her moving at all right then.

“Come on, then.” She tugged loose of his hold, and he forced his hands to release her. “Let's pack and go.”

Ellie bent, swaying a little, and reached for the shovel, but George hurried to grab it.

“Fine,” he growled. “I'll pack. You sit.” He walked toward her so she was forced to back up toward the snow pile, and then he helped her ease down so she was sitting on it. Once she was in place, he hurried to finish packing, knowing he had just a short window before she would insist on helping.

In addition to the glove, she'd also lost the fleece around her waist, and her hat was full of snow, so he dug out a pair of gloves, her last extra hat, and a fuzzy top, and handed them to her. She must have been cold, because she lost no time in stripping off her coat to pull on the additional layer. George tried very hard not to look at her during the few seconds she wore only the thin underlayer. Mentally calling himself a pervert, he forced his gaze away from her and concentrated on packing.

In the short time it took to stow the probe, shovel, and sleeping bag, he had an idea. He unstrapped the snowshoes from the pack and then headed over to where Ellie was waiting. After helping her to stand again, he eased the backpack over her shoulders. Although she looked a little surprised, she let him buckle the straps around her torso to secure the pack.

Shoving his feet into the snowshoe bindings and tightening them, George turned back to Ellie, who was eyeing him curiously. Apparently, she hadn't figured out the plan yet. He moved in front of her and turned his back, crouching a little.

“Uh…what are you doing?” she asked, her voice uncertain.

“Piggyback,” he said over his shoulder. “Get on.”

There was a short silence. “You're not going to carry me.”

“Yes.” He tried to keep the impatience out of his tone, but he was pretty certain he failed. “I am. Get on.”

“I'm not going to become a literal burden.”

“El.” Twisting around, he gave her an even look. “You're wasting time.”

After another pause, she made a wordless sound of frustration, and then her body pressed against his back. With a grunt of satisfaction, George stood and hoisted her off the ground. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his shoulders. Despite her weight—which seemed fairly insignificant at the moment, even including the pack—she felt wonderful against him. Although he was pretty sure it was his imagination, since there were six layers of clothes between them, he thought he could feel the thud of her heartbeat against his own ribs.

With a final check to make sure she was ready, George started to run.