Page 2

Chapter

Two

ROSCOE

C lick.

My heart races at the sound of the empty chamber.

Lucky bastard.

I scrub my face with my hand, leaning back against the rough tree bark of the massive lodgepole pine I sit under. On the march to the tree, I emptied my revolver, five bullets falling consecutively into the thick brush of the forest floor as I walked, heedless of their final destination. Spinning the cylinder and locking it into place without looking, I took my seat, commencing the grim game of Russian Roulette.

One click…

And my hands tremble. A single tear slides down my cheek. Everything would be so much easier if I hadn’t lived.

If I hadn’t been the lone survivor…

Today marks the sixth anniversary of the roadside bombing and ambush that killed my comrades and left me with more than forty percent of my body severely burned. I spent months in the hospital for skin grafts, ruminating over how fate fucked us.

Lone survivor…

Those words come with a heaviness I can’t carry, a weight I haven’t been able to bear since returning home from overseas deployment after endless months in hospitals getting pieced back together.

I can’t tell anyone what actually happened to my squad. Not even my comrades’ wives because they don’t have the clearance for that. And they don’t really want to know.

I should get this over with. Be done for good, but some part of me clings to hope and finding meaning in my life. My poor mother’s words fill my head, “Time heals all wounds.” She’s getting older these days, looking for the comfort of family close to care for her. Fortunately, she has my three younger sisters.

“God, why have you done this to me?” I scream into the void.

Silence greets me. The kind of fucking silence that makes my brain grind out what needs to happen.

The lone survivor needs to not survive…

And yet, I sit with my back pressed in the rough bark of the tree, unmoving like a fucking coward … unable to act, incapable of getting my mind off the action I should take. Two hot rivers deluge my cheeks, escaping from the permanent fissures in my soul.

The men I served with had families. They had every reason to live. Unlike me. I’ve made a shitty mess of my post-deployment existence, hiding from the world in Northern Idaho’s wildest woods. My only companions are grizzlies and bull moose that do everything except what the fuck they should do when they cross my path— finish me off.

“What do you want from me, God? Why keep me here in this unending torture?” I shake my head, fully aware of how insane I sound, ranting to the wind. But I have no one else to talk to. I’ve made it that way to protect those I love most from the pain I cause. Monumental amounts of pain because I can’t move on. What happened in the AOR haunts every inch of my existence. Ironically, the most healed part of me is my IED-scarred and savaged back and legs.

But even that’s not a part of the official narrative because we weren’t where we were “supposed” to be, carrying out orders never “officially” given. The blood and guts and sacrifice were as fucking official as it gets, though … from the smell of burning flesh to the death rattle in my comrades’ throats and their glassy-eyed stares.

At least I lived long enough and made enough proper financial decisions to provide for the immediate families of the eight comrades in my squad. I’ve done so for the past four years, supplementing the death benefits they receive with additional funds to make their existences more livable. I have arrangements in my will for continued support as long as the lucky investments fueling them hold out.

Long after I’m gone…

My eyes fixate on the ATV I drove, headed in the most remote, isolated direction I know until it ran out of gas. The only trace of humanity is an old forest service road that’s been in disuse for years.

I wipe the back of my hand over my wet cheeks, remembering photos of the flag-draped line of my comrades’ coffins. I should have attended their funerals. Instead, I lay face down in a hospital bed, enduring excruciating surgeries and unraveling mentally.

Hours pass, and early afternoon sets in. I haven’t moved an inch since my first and only piss-poor attempt. Maybe I don’t want to off myself after all. But I don’t know what to live for, either. A frigid April breeze blasts my face, announcing a coming blizzard.

Screaming at the sky, I challenge, “If you want me to live so badly, give me a fucking reason!”

I swallow loudly, simultaneously waiting for something epic and fully convinced miracles and divine interventions don’t happen to men like me.

“Fucking silence,” I rant, shaking my head and looking at my shaking hands some more. “Fucking silence.” I laugh into that silence, sounding like a madman.

Suddenly, a high-pitched cry, throbbing with urgency, shatters the atmosphere, arresting my attention … too clear and distinct to deny. A female scream.

What the fuck?

Jumping to my feet, I crouch by the tree, straining my ears until I hear it again, louder and headed in my direction…a visceral howl of terror.

Boom! A gunshot shatters the fragile quiet of the woods, bouncing off large boulders and tree trunks and reflecting back in increasingly faint echoes. The crack of an AR-15. Without thinking, I flip the cylinder of my revolver open, index the sole bullet, close it, and cock my gun. As I retread my earlier path, my eyes rove toward the bushes where I scattered the remaining rounds, finding one, which I load. Another scream compels me forward, unwilling to waste another second.

As I approach silently, the soundscape tells a story of fright and desperation—heavy breathing, whimpers, cries, breaking twigs, and thudding footfalls. I have the advantage, stealthy in my approach. Behind the cover of trees, I scan the valley, spotting a curly-haired man dressed in black and carrying the AR-15. Well ahead of him, I spy shimmers of blonde hair in the threading strands of afternoon sunlight yet to be gobbled by dark storm clouds.

A woman sprints into the water, evading the man hunting her. Immediately, the current sweeps her off her feet, steamrolling her downriver. Unseasonably warm temperatures and snow melt prior to today’s blizzard mean the river is swollen and deadly. If she can survive the initial ride and the frigid temperature, however, the extra water’s cushion may save her in a tumble over the falls. After that, there’s nothing but hell to pay…

The man raises his weapon as the current drags her under. Each time her head bobs up, enveloped in a swirl of whitewater, he struggles for a clean shot. His actions tell me everything I need to know about this lowlife.

I line him up in my sight, my finger tightens on the trigger, and my forearm flexes. But at the last second, he disappears behind a thicket of trees. And urgent, new priorities steer my course away from this game of cat and mouse.

The woman.

I race the river toward the falls, the golden-haired woman’s final destination, relying on agility I’ve honed through years of freerunning and forest parkour. Her odds of surviving a drop over Breakneck Falls are forty-sixty, thanks to current water levels. She may get lucky. Either way, I’ll be there when she bubbles back to the surface.

Fighting to catch my breath and surveying the angry water in the pool beneath the chutes, I wait, taut for action. Suddenly, a golden head bobs above the swirl, accompanied by skin as white as the snow falling around me.

Seizing a large branch, I skim the surface of the water, giving her something to hold onto. Weak from fighting the river and the intense cold of the water, she struggles against the twisting currents. I’m tempted to follow her into the rapids.

But I must maintain my body temperature to warm her up if this rescue proves successful. Her body slams into the branch as she twists and twirls in the torrent, her arms tangling with the lifeline. She flutters, like laundry on the line, caught in the ferocity of a tornado, as I pull the branch towards me.

“Don’t let go!” I scream, inching her closer and closer until I seize slick, icy fingers and a handful of wet clothing, heaving against the current. But her grasp has no strength, and the mossy, slippery rock I balance on denies me grip and stability. Pulling her towards me, I lose my balance, dragged into the swirl of ferocious white. Heart-stopping cold greets me, numbing my limbs and making my lungs strain for air. I fight to keep my mouth above water as she slides back into the river’s chaos.

Motherfucker!

Gripping her around her shoulders, I struggle against the current siphoning us towards the rapids of the pool. Each stroke and kick drags us back further, the maelstrom greedy for two victims.

Digging deep, I surge forward with a great burst of energy, kicking us free. Edging out of the current, I navigate towards calmer waters, but the respite remains fleeting. She gasps and chokes as I fight toward the riverbank.

Suddenly, the water hastens. Is this struggle all in vain? The thought crests in my mind as we slam sickeningly against a large, root-encrusted boulder. My legs tangle in roots beneath the water’s surface, the current racing so fast that I could end up with broken legs if I’m not careful.

Leveraging my legs and summoning brute force, I shove the woman halfway up onto the boulder above us. She feebly grasps at the slippery surface, her strength waning. From the waist down, she remains precariously caught in the torrential water.

Resolve slams into me hard. This woman will survive…no matter what it fucking takes. I dig deep, summoning intestinal fortitude.

“Don’t let go!” I command between chattering teeth and fast-paced breathing.

Her eyes look wide and wild, the direness of the moment etched in them. One wrong move, one misplaced grip, and we’ll both be swept to our deaths. Because I refuse to live without saving her.

Her arms tremble, her grip weak. She’s past chattering teeth, her body sinking into hypothermia. Tangling my legs more tightly in the roots, I grunt, shoving her ass up onto the rocks where she lies on her belly, quivering and sputtering.

I will myself out of the water onto the rock next to her, our faces two inches apart. I register with dull horror her glassy, unblinking stare, ivory skin, and powder-blue lips. But the faint warmth of her breath hits my icy cheek. There’s still hope.

Adrenaline floods me as I drag myself to my knees, grabbing the woman and hoisting her over my shoulder with a loud grunt. She chokes and struggles, a great gulp of cold water escaping her lungs. Summoning the Ranger’s relentless drive to survive, I rise to my feet.

This woman must live. Fortunately, I know these woods thoroughly. I’ve scouted the falls countless times. Balancing over boulders and between tangled brush, I climb towards a clandestine cave behind the water. I found it a few years ago, likely the only human—perhaps apart from Native Americans—aware of it.

The powerful curtains of the cascade engulf us to the right, the air cool and breezy nearest its edge, as I squint my way into the tall, wide, cavern. Our only illumination is the muted sunlight threading through the translucence of the water. I retreat as far back as we can, away from the dampness of the falls, hunching as the ceiling drops towards the inner wall. Piles of white deer bones glow in one corner. A large predator hunkers down here—likely a mountain lion. I prop the woman seated against a boulder, straining to catch my breath.

Pushing her forward, I slap her back hard a couple of times to stimulate her lungs. The rough handling brings her forward onto her hands, spluttering and hacking to clear her lungs.

“Cough it all out,” I order.

She complies, her whole body trembling until she sits back against the boulder, her head lolling to the side.

The ambient temperature of the cave warms me after the river’s icy depths. In the shimmering sunlight penetrating the cascades, I note her symmetrical, oval face, generous, pale lips, and big, innocent eyes framed by thick, long lashes and well-kept, light brown eyebrows.

“We’ve got to get you out of your wet clothes.” She raises her hands, making the motions, but her fingers don’t work. So, I unceremoniously strip off her sopping black sweatshirt, matching jogging pants, and socks, leaning her back against the boulder in a lacy pale pink camisole and matching panties.

Her eyes widen, horror glazing over as I efficiently undress to my boxer briefs, my teeth chattering. Without hesitation, I sit cross-legged, pulling her into my arms to straddle my lap. I don’t know any better way to deliver my heat to her while simultaneously shielding her body from the cave’s stone-cold floor.

“Fuck!” Her icy skin freezes my warming flesh as I press her curvy frame firmly against mine. My mind races. She’s so fucking cold. I could end up hypothermic, too.

Survival mode kicks in, and I develop a game plan as the howling wind announces the blizzard, blowing in fast and hard. At least, it should buy us a reprieve from pursuit by the man with the rifle. Relief washes over me as her teeth begin to chatter again, and she shivers uncontrollably in my arms, great tremors gripping her.

I whisper comforting words in her ear to calm her, rocking her in my arms until she relaxes, snuggling tightly against me. My heart leaps into my throat as I nuzzle against her neck, smelling faint traces of a floral scent. Lilacs and roses.

My grandparents had a towering bush next to their rose garden that exploded in purple blooms every spring. I had completely forgotten the memory until this moment. Nostalgia codifies what I feel with this woman in my lap, my arms jealously encircling her. The sense I’ve come home. What the fuck does it mean?

“You’re safe with me,” I murmur next to her ear.

She jerkily nods, threading her fingers into my hair and beard and resting her cheek against my chest as her breathing slows. My heart expands at the weak gesture despite internal remonstrances not to feel what I’m feeling for this woman.