Page 60 of One Last Promise

What was this man doing with her? Never mind the cave. Or the mud. Or the fact that they probably had no way out. What was he doing withher, with all her drama and trouble and?—

“I’m sorry, Moose.”

“You’re sorry?I’msorry.” He wrapped his arms around her.

And right then, she didn’t care why. . . . All she knew was that Moose was here.

And if Moose was here, maybe hope was too.

CHAPTER 6

At least it had stopped raining.

Moose sat with his back against the ledge—an eight-foot hangover that seemed like it had once been the bottom of the cave until the mudslide had broken off the rest.

He wanted to keep the memory of being swept under the rocks into the cauldron of the creek wedged there, forever away from his brain.

Not how he wanted to die, thank you.

Although, hypothermia wasn’t top of his list, either.

Tillie sat on the ledge next to him, her arms around Hazel, who wasn’t sopping wet, thank the Lord, but still shivered.

He himself fought a bone-deep chill. Too bad the pack had gone soaring off the edge. . . .

And it was a ridiculous thought, but the memory of the avalanche on the glacier reached out and tugged on him. Back in the belly of the whale.

The cave even smelled like a rank sea creature, the mud rife with an earthy, almost dead, scent. Water trickleddown the walls, and below, the churning river filled the cavern, almost deafening, a ringing in his ears.

Whatever message God might be trying to send, Moose was listening.

“I’m hungry, Mom,” said Hazel, tucking her knees up to herself. “And I’m cold.”

“I know, honey.” Tillie cast a look at Moose. “I could try to climb out.”

“The walls are concave and slippery, and even if you got to the top, the mudslide would send you back down.” He had caught Kip and now ran his hands through the puppy’s fur. The animal lay between his legs, filthy, but warm and sleeping.

Tillie shivered then, and oh, he wanted to put his arm around her. She’d clung to him after he’d ripped her out of the mouth of the current, so he edged closer to her, his leg against hers, and put his arm around her. “Reminds me of Navy boot camp.”

“Whatever. Your most difficult boot-camp experience was probably trying not to fall asleep in the chow line. Or doing the fifty required daily push-ups. Try running the Marines’ Crucible and then come talk to me.”

“The Crucible? I’ve heard of that. Is it as terrible as they make it sound?”

“Forty-five pounds of gear, not including my M16, forty-eight miles of marching, fifty-four hours with three MREs—mine were chicken a la king—and four hours of sleep. Not to mention the thirty-some warrior-readiness stations.”

“What are MREs?” Hazel said.

“Meals Rejected by Everyone,” Moose said, cutting in on Tillie’s response.

She looked over at him and held up a fist. He bumped it.

“I’ve heard about those Marine readiness stations.”

“Iron Maiden would love them—we crawl through barbed-wire trenches, cross logs on cables, climb over walls,transport pretend wounded over a battlefield, swing on ropes over a pit, and carry water and ammunition over every obstacle they can think of. . . .”

“Good training, then.”

“And it all ends with a massive pugil-stick bout, and that’s super fun when you’re dog tired.”

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