Page 13 of Double Exposure

He’s already shrugging on the parka and looking around for his gloves. Even as a kid he was always losing them.

“No. Listen. If you get caught in this and I’m a no-show too, there’ll be a search party by morning.” Brock and Codie’s disappearance had us all convinced they were dead. I don’t think our mother could go through that again, so soon.

“I can get to the south side of the range to Moonrise Meadow. Ross can land there.”

“Not if this storm stays like this.”

“I’ve been in worse,” he says and then his tone changes from cavalier to serious and he lowers his voice. “Ross could get her out of here by six tonight at the latest. She needs to see a doctor. Brock could even do it.”

“Again, not if this storm keeps up,” I say. I don’t want to ask my brother. He’s just started flying again after three years. PTSD from being a pilot in Afghanistan kept him out of the cockpit for a long time.

“Then first thing in the morning. It’s supposed to stop snowing by four am,” says Ryan, unwrapping the brownie Codie gave us. He takes four bites as we talk and it vanishes.

“We have no radio here. How do I know you made it home?”

Ryan grins around the brownie and slaps my shoulder. “You gotta have some faith, man. It’s a seven-mile ski run, mostly flat. I’ll make it back home in an hour and a half.” He swallows and grins again.

I look at my younger brother. The one who always wears his independence like a badge of honor. “You got phone coverage?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean I will. I got the radio.” He raises it in front of me as proof. “There's just no service here.” Then the tables turn and he’s going through a checklist for me. “There's firewood out the back porch. It's all dried and stacked under a tarp.” He pauses. “But be careful, there’s a shit pile of traps out there too. Old ones, right next to the wood pile.”

“The sky’s looking awfully rough,” I say. “If there's no helicopter by five, I'm going to assume no one’s coming because of the storm.”

Ryan nods. “That sounds about right.”

I don’t know how to get him to listen to me. “The thing is, there's no other way for me to get a hold of you. So listen,” I said quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder, “I need you to promise me that you're going to be safe, and that you're not going to take any risks. You're not going to do what you did on that mountain and try to out-ski an avalanche or whatever. You just go directly to where you've got radio coverage, radio in your location and nearest trail and then get to headquarters.”

His “I know, I know,” doesn’t translate well as a promise. He must have seen the need for one in my face. He drops a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take care of myself. I’ll be good. I won’t take any chances.”

I suddenly feel bad I made him say this out loud. “Listen—you are our lifeline and—”

“Yeah, no I got it. We’re good.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” he nods.

I make sure he’s loaded with the extra mylar sheeting, three of my carb bars, and that his clothes are as dry as they can be before he leaves. I fill his flask with hot water.

Five minutes later he’s gone.

I tell myself Ryan is a twenty-six-year-old man who grew up in the Rockies, and basically learn to ski almost before he could walk. He’ll be fine.

He has to be.

As I set the kettle back on the stove, Jade stirs, dragging an arm across her face, resting the crook of her elbow over her nose, shielding her eyes.

Then she lowers her arm and struggles to push the layer of blankets away. I move over to her and kneel again.

“Shh, just sleep, sleep,” I try to tell her, gently pushing her back down. I want to stroke her hair, but don’t dare. Not without her permission. Her body shivers again and her hands, small, brown, beautiful, grasp at the covers. Her skin is flawless, pore less, her ears perfect crescents, eyebrows exquisitely arched. She’s wearing no make-up—her face is sensitive, beckoning, a mix of beauty and intensity.

This is why I don’t touch her now without permission. My groin burns with something I have not felt in a long time. It feels wrong to touch her, like stealing something without her knowing.

Suddenly, she half sits, propped on one elbow, swinging her gaze at me, covers clutched to her chest. Her face is flush, her eyes, bloodshot. She’s still disoriented but there’s a sudden urgency in her voice.

“Where am I?”

“You need to lie down,” I say, trying to get her to relax. Another violent wave of shaking wracks her body.

“No—no,” she chatters. There’s fear in her face.

Fear. It breaks my heart.

“Jade, you have to stay under the covers,” I say. “Remember me? I’m Carter Weston. I dug you out. I’m here to help you.”

I try to keep the blankets over her but she keeps pushing them away. Her gaze darts from the woodstove, to me, to the sofa and then around the room, as if trying to recover from a nightmare. But she does relax into the covers again.

Her upper lip is damp with sweat. “Where’s my father?” she whispers.