Page 80 of A Rebel's Shot

“What?” She jerked away, her eyes wide with fear.

“We need that radio.”

“We don’t even know if it works.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

“True. But if it works, we’re rescued today.” He peered over the edge of the ravine, swallowed at what had to be an eighty-foot drop, then with determination, he turned to his gear. “It’s worth finding out.”

“Not if you plummet to your death.” She dashed around him and stood in his path.

“Come on, Skeet.” He cupped her pale cheek, forcing confidence into his voice he didn’t feel. “What did I say yesterday about having a little faith in me?”

She grabbed his hand and held it to her. “I trust you’ll keep me safe, but we don’t even have the gear for you to go down.”

“We have a rope and sturdy trees.” He shrugged. “That’s all we need.”

He stepped into her and pecked her lips. When he went to move away, she fisted the front of his shirt in her hands and kissed him like he was going off to war orsomething.

Fire and desperation flared from her touch, scorching a path along his veins and into his core. He speared his hands into her hair, anchoring her to him, not that she needed any help with that.

The fear that had rooted in his gut when his plane went down bloomed into torment. Every moment they remained in the wild was the possibility he’d lose her.

Alaska didn’t care if they lived or died.

In fact, everything about the Brooks Range threatened their survival.

Getting to that radio meant Merritt lived.

So, he’d scale the mountain like a Dall sheep.

He loosened his hands and slowed the kiss. When he pulled away, he cupped the back of her neck, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her throat.

“It’ll be easier if you help.”

She swallowed so hard he felt it against his thumbs. “Okay.”

“All you have to do is hold the rope to keep the tension.”

She nodded and bit her bottom lip. “I can do that.”

He quickly kissed her and winked. “Let’s get to it.”

He marched to the gear, snatching the rope from the pile and pushing away the wish for more gear. Wishing never changed outcomes.

Action did.

Tiikâan’s hands moved with practiced efficiency as he began fashioning a makeshift harness from the rope. The fibers bit into his skin as he looped the cord around his waist, the familiar motions doing little to calm the storm of anxiety brewing in his chest.

“What are you doing?” Merritt asked, her voice tight with worry.

“Creating a hasty harness. It’ll distribute my weight and give you a better anchor point for belaying.”

He wrapped the rope around his thighs, forming crude leg loops. The setup was far from ideal, but it would have to do. As he worked, he could feel Merritt’s eyes on him, her concern palpable in the tense silence.

Tying off the final knot, Tiikâan gave the harness an experimental tug. It held firm, and he allowed himself a small nod of satisfaction. It wasn’t pretty, but it would keep him from plummeting to his death—hopefully.

“Okay,” he said, turning to Merritt. “Now for the belay system.”

He moved to a sturdy-looking tree near the ravine’s edge, the rope trailing behind him like a lifeline. With deft movements, he secured one end of the rope to the tree’s base, using a figure-eight follow-through knot that would hold even under his full weight.

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