“You’re a freakin’ mountain goat! But I can’t . . .” His mouth closed. He stared at her so hard it took the breath from her lungs. “But I can’t watch someone I . . .” He swallowed. “Someone I care about die in front of my eyes. Not again.”
Oh. Right.
No wonder the guy was panicking. And maybe it wasn’t just Afghanistan but also watching his family be swept away that had fractured him. PTSD didn’t always happen in war.
He looked away from her, and his eyes ringed red, his body trembling as if he might be trying not to let out another feral shout.
Keep him talking. “How did you get me down?”
“I lowered you.” His voice was tight, as if trying to keep it from shaking.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
He looked away.
Closed his eyes.
Then he leaned over, and another crazy sound came out of his mouth, almost a moan, but deeper. As if torn from his soul.
“Ry?”
“I’m so sorry, Jen. I told you I’d rescue you, and—”
“You’re blaming yourself? How is any of this your fault?” She wanted to sit up, to grab him, to make him look at her. Instead, she reached out for his jacket sleeve with her good hand. “This is my fault. I should have waited—”
“What?” He jerked away and stared at her as if she’d struck him. “You’re amazing, Jenny. If you can’t make it over that cornice— No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yeah, I did. First rule in climbing—calm down. Take your time. Don’t crazily lunge for something.” She shook her head. “Listen. Can you put my arm back in the socket? I can try again.”
“Have you lost your mind?” His eyes were dark, unyielding. “There’s no way you’re going back on that wall. Sheesh. Are you trying to kill me?”
She recoiled. “Actually, no. I’m trying to save our lives.”
His lips tightened into a bud of frustration and he pulled off his hat.
His dark hair was rucked up, snarled. He ran his arm across his sweaty brow.
His desperation shook her to her bones.
He refused to look at her. “I should have listened to you. Climbed up to High Camp. Instead, I thought I could get you down, and—”
“Stop.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed through. “Just stop. This is not your fault. You’re not the one who . . . who destroys people’s lives with her stupid decisions.”
He started to argue, but she couldn’t stop. She’d broken this man in so many ways, and there he sat, blaming himself.
Not anymore. “I’m the reason you’re stuck. I’m the reason you have a broken knee. I’m the reason you won’t leave Alaska. I’m the reason your entire life blew apart.”
His expression had morphed into a sort of confused horror, and aw shoot, they might die down here. And she couldn’t bear to let it happen without him knowing the truth.
Answers. This poor man deserved answers.
He deserved peace.
“I wasn’t a journalist in Afghanistan, Orion.” Overhead, snow kicked down into the crevasse. She glanced up, hoping the cornice wasn’t about to come down on them, even if it seemed the right finale to her epic mistakes. “I was a CIA profiler. And I’m the one who believed the Taliban informant.”
His chest was rising and falling, but even as he stared at her, he was shaking his head.
“Yeah,” she said, pushing herself up to a sitting position.
He let go of her.
“I was there to profile our informants, help root out the reliable ones . . . and the ones most likely to lie to us.”
He swallowed, but he’d stopped shaking his head.
“I know I should have told you the truth—I . . . well, for security reasons . . .”
“I get it.”
She wanted to wince at the cool rasp of his voice.
“So, you were . . . you knew the intel about the Taliban stronghold.” His green eyes didn’t leave hers.
She nodded. “I knew Azzumi, the informant. He was working with one of our agents, and my job was to observe him, profile, and vet his information.”
Orion didn’t move. She fought a shiver, probably her body going into shock. She wanted to say something, but . . . well, what could he do? He was as hurt as she was, and her confession just might be sending him into shock.
They were both going to die down here. Now, at least he could die with the answers he longed for.
“He was ten years old, and he spoke English, and he seemed . . . well, he was well educated, liked Americans, and I just didn’t believe a ten-year-old kid could have that much guile. My head said he was telling the truth.”
But not her heart. Her heart had a check—but she feared her feelings for Orion—and her fear that he could get hurt—had compromised her thinking. Kept her from thinking clearly. So she prayed that she was right. That she hadn’t sent the man she was falling in love with to his death.
Her throat thickened. “I went to Afghanistan because I wanted to save lives. I ended up killing two SEALS, two PJs, and . . . well, two good men were captured and tortured by the Taliban.”
Orion said nothing. Just sat on the ice, his chest rising and falling.
She looked away, her body shaking.
Silence fell between them, and with it, the cascade of snow, dribbling down into the crevasse.
She didn’t look up.
What did she expect? That he would forgive her? Sheesh, she didn’t even forgive herself.
“Is that why you changed your name?”
She looked at him. His eyes had turned to ice, his tone brusque.
“I wanted to start over.”
“Mmmhmm.”
Nothing he could have said would have hurt her more than his quiet, deep-throated noise that told her the brutal truth.
Some people just didn’t get to start over.
Her best hope was to keep running.
She closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Orion. Please, for—”
“Look out!”
Orion’s body slammed over her, and in a second she was pinned down, his arms bracketing her, his face next to hers.
Snow cascaded down over them, slamming into their ledge. She screamed, grabbed his jacket. Closed her eyes. Buried her face in his chest.
And she was a fool because she simply stole the moment for herself, holding on to this man one last time. Giving over her heart to him, even if he didn’t want it. Because this man—this wounded, loyal, courageous man couldn’t help but rescue her, even when she didn’t deserve it.
The snowfall ceased to a dribble, and Orion eased back. His eyes fell to hers, held there. His mouth opened—
“Orion!”
The voice from above jerked them both, and Orion’s breath shuddered out as he looked up.
She too saw it, a man, dangling from a harness over the cornice, free rappelling down on a line. The end of the rope hit the ledge beside them.
“Ham!” Orion’s voice ripped out of him, so much emotion in it, Jenny knew he’d been grieving.
“Get back! The top is pretty loose.”
Orion hooked his arm around her and wrestled her back toward the wall to stay away from falling debris.
Ham landed next to them, and Jenny wanted to weep. He looked beat-up, exhausted, but his blue eyes shone. “Wow, you guys are hard to find. We were flying over the icefall and got a blip on our avalanche beacon. Just for a moment. Then, it vanished. And we weren’t sure . . .” He unclipped from his line but stayed on belay and toggled his radio.