MY HIKING BOOTS crunched on the forest floor as I made my way down the side of the mountain, surrounded by towering emerald trees. Sunset was in two hours, and it had been pouring since noon. My boots were still dry, my raincoat had held up, and the wet forest smelled earthy and fresh and incredible, but my hands were frozen and all I could think about was sinking into a hot bath as soon as I got home.
Another day in the forest with no trace of the flower. Disappointment rose up my throat but I shoved it down. I paused for a break, pulling my map out of my pack. While I sipped water, I studied the route back to my car. Another hour of hiking. I traced my thumb over the route—down the mountainside, over a creek, through a sloped, rocky area, and then around the base of the mountain to where I had parked at the end of the old logging road.
At the top right corner of my map, I had taped an image of the flower. My stomach twinged as I stared at it, and I remembered what my advisor had said yesterday.
I had the whole summer to find it, I told myself.
I made my way down the side of the mountain, balancing against a nearby tree on a slippery section.
An entire summer out here, hiking among the trees, breathing in the fresh air with blue sky stretching overhead. The corners of my mouth ticked up, picturing the family of beavers I had spotted last year. Maybe they’d return to the same spot. Even though I worked for my dad’s bar back in town, the forest was where I belonged. It was where I spent most of my free time as a kid and teenager, and now that I was wrapping up my PhD, it was where I’d spend my career.
I hiked around a group of big trees and picked my way down the side of a hill that led to the creek, but the second it came into view, I stopped short.
“Shit,” I muttered, brows creasing.
Two weeks ago, it was a creek, a little trickle of water down the mountain. Today, the water rushed, fast and loud. If it wasn’t raining, I would have heard the river up higher in the mountain. I couldn’t even see the rocks I had used last time to step through the creek.
It had been pouring rain for a week, I realized, closing my eyes at the rookie mistake. I should have known it would affect water levels.
I weighed my options, climbing down the slope to get a better look at the river. Water roared over the rocks. I pictured myself slipping and hitting my head. Getting swept away, unconscious. Best case, I got through the river soaking wet and had an hour to hike, shivering. I’d be risking hypothermia.
No fucking way was I getting into that river.
I glanced downstream. If the river split further down, it might be safe for me to cross. I chewed my lip. There was no guarantee that would happen, and I had no idea how far I’d have to follow the river. I didn’t have service out here, and although I had enough food and water for tonight, I wasn’t prepared to spend a couple days out here.
The sun was starting to set, and the sky was dimming quickly. There was another route back to the car that would take about four hours. Hiking in the dark was both dangerous and miserable, so my best option was to wait out the night here and hike back at sunrise.
In my head, I heard the rules we had been taught in school for spending time out in the back country.
Bring extra water, food, and socks. Tell someone your route and your expected return time. Always give yourself enough time to get home.
My pack was stocked and Sadie knew my itinerary, but I should have known better about the stream. I ignored the frustration in my gut as I pulled out the tarp in my pack and strung it up to keep the rain off me.
THREE HOURS LATER, rain tapped on my tarp as I shivered and tried to fall asleep. I didn’t bother trying to light a fire—the wet wood wouldn’t light.
A rhythmic beating noise cut through the sound of the rain and I frowned, lifting my head to listen.
The noise got louder.
“Oh, fuck,” I whispered, eyes going wide.
Not again.
The beat of a helicopter grew louder as it approached and I closed my eyes, frustrated. I was supposed to check in with Sadie when I got back to my car, and when I didn’t, she did what she told me she would do.
She called Search and Rescue.
Through the trees and rain, I watched the helicopter land in a clearing about two hundred feet away. I fought the urge to turn off my lamp and hide, and began untying my tarp.
An ugly chill wavered through me. Being rescued like this added to the feeling of incompetence that already rested on my shoulders every day.
Headlamps bobbed through the trees as the responders approached. I folded my tarp into a square and was shoving it into my bag when I turned and—
My stomach dropped through to the core of the earth.
Finn Rhodes stood tall, decked out in his emergency responder gear, wearing a cocky, wicked grin. His gray eyes met mine, and every muscle in my body tensed.
“Hey, Liv.”
