“I gathered that when gravity and I had a disagreement.”
Something flickered at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But it was quickly extinguished.
“I live about a quarter mile up the ridge,” he said. “I can carry you.”
My brain short-circuited. “You can—what?”
“Carry you.”
“You don’t have to. If you can just help me get a signal, I can call?—”
“No signal up here. Not for another mile.” He straightened, already having made a decision. “My place has a landline. We’ll call from there.”
Before I could protest further, he slung my pack over one shoulder and bent to lift me. One arm under my knees. One at my back. And just—picked me up like I weighed nothing.
My hands shot to his shoulders on instinct, fingers curling into the canvas of his jacket. He was solid under my palms. Warm. He smelled like clean air, woodsmoke, and something distinctly masculine.
“I’m Brooklyn,” I blurted, because if a giant mountain man is carrying you into the woods, introductions feel relevant.
He started climbing. “Ridge.”
“Your name is Ridge,” I repeated. “And you live on a ridge.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s some strong branding.”
This time, the smile almost made it all the way.
He climbed like he’d been born on an incline. My ankle throbbed with each step, but his gait was steady enough that the pain stayed manageable. My awareness of his body—his strength, the easy way he handled my weight—was significantly less manageable.
Through the trees, a gravel road appeared. Beyond it, a cabin. Not a cozy vacation rental with string lights and a hot tub. A real cabin. Timber and stone. Tin roof. A porch wrapping around two sides. Firewood stacked in precise rows. A workshop off to one side with tools lined up in silent formation. Everything about it said solitude. Intention. A man who had chosen this.
He carried me up the steps and through the front door, setting me carefully on a worn leather couch. Inside was spare.Clean. A woodstove. Built-in shelves crammed with books. A cast-iron skillet cooling on the stove. One mug in the drying rack. One of everything, I was guessing.
Ridge disappeared down a hallway and returned with a first-aid kit, an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel, and a pillow he slid under my ankle without being asked. “Hold that,” he said, handing me the ice pack.
He knelt in front of me and began wrapping my ankle with an ACE bandage. His movements were efficient.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
“A few times.”
“Secret paramedic life?”
“Ran an outfitting company.” A pause. “People get hurt.”
Something settled into his expression when he said it. Something heavier than it should have been.
I watched him while he worked. The beard. The quiet. The cabin that felt less like a home built toward something and more like one retreated into.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “For carrying me. And for this.”
He finished the wrap and sat back on his heels. Our eyes met, and for just a flicker of a second, something raw moved through his gaze. Like gratitude surprised him.
He stood, crossed to the kitchen, and came back with a cordless phone. “Call whoever you need,” he said, then disappeared back through the doorway.
But my pulse had shifted.