Page 17 of Pushed to the Peak

I rub my aching chest for a moment, then get the hell back to work.

There are a few grumbles when I shoo the regulars from their booth, but no one really puts up a fight. Sure, they don’t want to jog home in the rain, but judging by how the storm’s building up speed, it’s only going to get worse as the night goes on. Better to make a break for it now.

“Go,” I tell Jana when her fiance Stig bursts through the bar doorway eight minutes later, soaked through and breathing hard. Christ, he must have sprinted down the mountain trails to reach here in time, mud splattering his legs and wind whipping his blond hair, and I nod at the guy with newfound respect. He barely looks at me, too fixated on Jana.

I get that. I’d sprint to Marigold too, if I ever thought she was in danger.

With Jana gone and the regulars ushered out into the driving rain, I close up the bar in record time. My chest tightens as I work, my whole body tensed with adrenaline, and every time lightning flashes outside, I grit my back teeth and move faster.

No time, no time.

When I step outside and turn to lock the bar door, the wind shoves so hard I stagger three steps to the left. Have to lean my body weight into it to get near the door again, fumbling the key into the lock.

Holy shit. This is going to be a big one.

Thunder crashes over the mountainside, rattling my bones.

The grass is sodden as I run for the treeline, mud sucking at my boots and slowing my steps. The trees ahead moan and bend in the wind, trunks creaking, branches whipping, and I cover my head with one arm as I plunge into the forest.

Static crackles in the air, even here in the darkness under the canopy, and it smells like a mixture of rain and smoke. Partway up the trail to my cabin, I pass the smoldering remains of a tree, freshly split in two by lightning. Scorched earth surrounds its base, with even the carpet of dried pine needles turned to ash.

Fire.

It’s soaking wet tonight, with rain seeping through the canopy, but I pause and stamp on the smoking pine needles just in case. The last thing Starlight Ridge needs is a fire.

Only once I’m completely satisfied that there are no sparks left on the forest floor do I turn back to the trail and keep jogging. Marigold. Is she okay? Is she scared?

A quarter mile out from the cabin, I hit the steepest slope, my thighs burning as I push myself not to lose any speed. Need to get back to her. Need to see that she’s safe with my own eyes. Except it’s dark beneath the trees, and each flash of lightning blinds me all over again, stopping my eyes from adjusting to the gloom—so I crash into a small body without warning.

“Oh!”

My arms react before my brain does, snatching the person to my chest before they hit the ground. Guess my body already understands what my reason is sluggishly putting together, because it knows this form, that soft voice, these trembling hands gripping my soaked shirt. Knows them better than anything.

“Marigold?”

She’s shivering, wet through. “There—there you are,” she pants, clinging onto me for dear life. “I was worried about you in the storm.”

She was worried about me? So she came out looking for me, putting herself in danger? My gut plummets, and I grab Marigold’s hand to start dragging her back up the winding trail to the cabin.

“Never,” I grit out, following the path by memory rather than eyesight, “do this again. Never put yourself in danger like this. Fuck.”

My artist is silent behind me, letting herself be dragged home.

Thunder rumbles, vibrating the earth beneath our feet, and I tug her faster. Marigold huffs and mutters something behind me, but she strides faster to keep up.

Don’t care if I’m pissing her off right now. Need to get her back in the cabin. Need her safe.

The lights of the cabin send a wave of relief crashing over me—but I move even faster, hustling Marigold through the trees, over the packed dirt, and up the steps to the deck. The string lights I wound around the deck rail at the beginning of summer are lashing in the wind, their little bulbs still glowing heroically.

“Come on.” Less gentle than I should be in my worry, I push Marigold toward the door. She actually pauses to kick off her muddy boots first—so I snarl and lift her against my chest, carrying her inside the cabin like an unruly child and slamming the door against the wind.

I’m being an ass, and I know I am.

But I can’t think straight until the door’s locked behind us and Marigold is safe inside the cabin once more. Then I set her rigid body down, my heart hammering against my ribs.

As soon as I let her go, Marigold gets the hell away from me, kicking her muddy boots off by the wall. And I know she’s mad, because she’s moving jerkily and she won’t look my way, but I can’t bring myself to be sorry. Not yet. Not with the wind moaning outside and thunder rumbling louder than a heavenly drum roll.

“It’s not safe,” I say at last, toeing my own boots off. They’re caked in mud and dead leaves, and yeah, this’ll be a bitch to clean tomorrow, but it’s worth it to have Marigold safe from the storm. “You can’t just go out in bad weather like that. Not in the mountains.”

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