Read Online Smoky Mountain Setup by Paula Graves - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paula Graves
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underfoot, was turning out to be a grueling test of endurance. She had nearly fallen once already, and as she neared the halfway point of their hike, she heard the sound of a hard thud and a guttural curse behind her, turning in time to see Landry slide almost ten feet back down the mountain on his side, the travois he was pulling tumbling with him.
She reached for the end of the contraption, where she’d strapped the poles together, and caught it before it went over the side of the trail, keeping a sharp eye on Landry as he struggled out from beneath the travois and regained his footing. As he crawled back up the mountain, she held out her gloved hand to him, and he grasped it with a grim smile of gratitude.
“Clearly, I don’t have any pack-mule DNA in my ancestry,” he muttered as he joined her near a clump of boulders.
She shrugged her backpack off her shoulders and settled on one of the smoother rocks. “Let’s rest a minute. Rehydrate and warm up.” She pulled out a thermos of warm broth she’d stowed in the backpack before they’d left the cabin that morning.
Landry settled on the boulder beside her, retrieving his own flask. They drank in silence for a few moments before he closed the flask and put it back in his pack. “How much farther?”
She looked at him and saw with alarm that he was wiping blood from the side of his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Rising quickly, she eased his hands away to get a better look at the injury. It was a nasty scrape that started in the middle of his cheek and went into his hairline, disappearing under his black ski cap.
“It’s just a scratch,” he protested.
“It’s bleeding like crazy,” she growled, grabbing her backpack to find the compact first-aid kit she’d put inside.
“Seriously, it’s a scratch. My head’s not even hurting.” He winced when she pressed an antiseptic pad against the scrape.
“The travois is obliterating our tracks, for the most part, but if you’re leaving a blood trail, I’m not sure the snow we’re supposed to get tonight is going to be enough to hide it.”
He closed his eyes. “And we’re about to spend the night in a cave.”
“We’re not unprepared.”
He opened his eyes, giving her a curious look. “When did you learn all this doomsday prep stuff, anyway?”
“I was born with survival skills,” she murmured, mopping up the blood from his face. The scrape continued oozing, but it wasn’t as bad as the bleeding had made it look. She tucked the used wipe into a disposal bag and shoved it back in the pack, then made quick work of applying adhesive bandages along the length of the scrape. “All better.”
He caught her hand as she was about to let it drop away from his face, pressing her palm against the day’s growth of beard scruff on his jaw. Dimples flirted with his cheeks. “But do I still have my boyish good looks?”
He was flirting with her, the beast. And worse, she was falling for it, hard. Damn his charming hide.
She tugged her hand free of his grasp and picked up the first-aid kit. “You’re assuming you ever had boyish good looks.”
He put his hand over his heart, feigning injury.
She put the first-aid kit in the backpack and swung it up on her shoulders. “We should get moving again if we want to reach Parson’s Chair before nightfall.”
She didn’t wait for him to gather his things before she started hiking up the trail again. Behind her, she heard the sounds of his scrambling to catch up, and she took a little pity on him, slowing her pace until he had.
“You’ve developed a cold side.” His voice drifted to her on the icy wind.
“I’ve always had a cold side.”
As the trail widened, he moved up until he was walking side by side with her. “Not like this. Is it because of me? Because I’m not worth it.”
She slanted a look at him and saw he was serious. “Trust me when I say you are only a single line on a lifelong list of reasons not to let myself be vulnerable
She reached for the end of the contraption, where she’d strapped the poles together, and caught it before it went over the side of the trail, keeping a sharp eye on Landry as he struggled out from beneath the travois and regained his footing. As he crawled back up the mountain, she held out her gloved hand to him, and he grasped it with a grim smile of gratitude.
“Clearly, I don’t have any pack-mule DNA in my ancestry,” he muttered as he joined her near a clump of boulders.
She shrugged her backpack off her shoulders and settled on one of the smoother rocks. “Let’s rest a minute. Rehydrate and warm up.” She pulled out a thermos of warm broth she’d stowed in the backpack before they’d left the cabin that morning.
Landry settled on the boulder beside her, retrieving his own flask. They drank in silence for a few moments before he closed the flask and put it back in his pack. “How much farther?”
She looked at him and saw with alarm that he was wiping blood from the side of his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Rising quickly, she eased his hands away to get a better look at the injury. It was a nasty scrape that started in the middle of his cheek and went into his hairline, disappearing under his black ski cap.
“It’s just a scratch,” he protested.
“It’s bleeding like crazy,” she growled, grabbing her backpack to find the compact first-aid kit she’d put inside.
“Seriously, it’s a scratch. My head’s not even hurting.” He winced when she pressed an antiseptic pad against the scrape.
“The travois is obliterating our tracks, for the most part, but if you’re leaving a blood trail, I’m not sure the snow we’re supposed to get tonight is going to be enough to hide it.”
He closed his eyes. “And we’re about to spend the night in a cave.”
“We’re not unprepared.”
He opened his eyes, giving her a curious look. “When did you learn all this doomsday prep stuff, anyway?”
“I was born with survival skills,” she murmured, mopping up the blood from his face. The scrape continued oozing, but it wasn’t as bad as the bleeding had made it look. She tucked the used wipe into a disposal bag and shoved it back in the pack, then made quick work of applying adhesive bandages along the length of the scrape. “All better.”
He caught her hand as she was about to let it drop away from his face, pressing her palm against the day’s growth of beard scruff on his jaw. Dimples flirted with his cheeks. “But do I still have my boyish good looks?”
He was flirting with her, the beast. And worse, she was falling for it, hard. Damn his charming hide.
She tugged her hand free of his grasp and picked up the first-aid kit. “You’re assuming you ever had boyish good looks.”
He put his hand over his heart, feigning injury.
She put the first-aid kit in the backpack and swung it up on her shoulders. “We should get moving again if we want to reach Parson’s Chair before nightfall.”
She didn’t wait for him to gather his things before she started hiking up the trail again. Behind her, she heard the sounds of his scrambling to catch up, and she took a little pity on him, slowing her pace until he had.
“You’ve developed a cold side.” His voice drifted to her on the icy wind.
“I’ve always had a cold side.”
As the trail widened, he moved up until he was walking side by side with her. “Not like this. Is it because of me? Because I’m not worth it.”
She slanted a look at him and saw he was serious. “Trust me when I say you are only a single line on a lifelong list of reasons not to let myself be vulnerable
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