Page 43 of The Bombshell and the Bodyguard
I was through chasing Wilder Lowe.
After about an hour and a half, he said, “We’re on the final descent now, maybe a half hour from the house. But stay right with me. We’re coming up on the dangerous part of the path.”
Suddenly, his feet stopped moving, and I pitched forward, tripping over one of them, losing my grip on his shirt, and falling to the ground. I was fine, but Wilder let out a grunt of pain.
“Are you all right? What happened?” I scooted over to him.
“I tripped on something. My boot’s stuck.” He grimaced, holding his leg and looking around. “It’s a root. I didn’t even notice it.”
He frowned at the gnarled root in the path and attempted to pull his boot free. “Ow. Dammit. It’s wedged in there good, and my leg’s at a bad angle. Help me get my pack off, would you?”
I stood and pried the backpack from Wilder’s shoulders. Wow, it was heavy. He’d hiked all the way to the waterfall and back carrying this?
Setting it on the ground next to him, I asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Find my utility knife—it’s in the left pocket.”
I found the knife and handed it to him. Wilder gripped the heavy multi-tool and pulled out a serrated blade that looked wickedly sharp.
Gritting his teeth and growling, he used it to saw through the root at the point where it emerged from the ground. Finally the pressure on his boot lessened, and he was able to extract his foot from the natural trap.
As soon as it was free, Wilder attempted to stand. He immediately collapsed to the ground again.
Lying back on the muddy path, he closed his eyes against the rain pounding his face. His chest rose and fell in rapid, harsh breaths. He looked nauseous.
I crawled close to him, peering down at his contorted expression of pain. “Are you okay? Are you about to faint? Are you going to throw up?”
Folding his arm over his eyes, he let out a long breath. “No. I’m not going to faint. I’m not going to vomit from a twisted knee. I just need to rest a minute before I try to put weight on it again.”
“Rest?” I looked around at the jungle “Here?”
“I’m sorry. I know you’re wet and miserable.”
“No—I mean, yes,” I sputtered. “I am, but it’s fine. I mean,pleasedon’t apologize. This is all my fault.”
Wilder shook his head. “It’s my fault for taking a chance with the weather. I knew this storm was coming in today. I thought we could get there and back before it hit. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What we have to concern ourselves with now is what comes next.”
“Right.” I nodded rapidly. “So… what is that?”
“You’re gonna have to help me get back to the house… unless you’d like to spend the night out here. I’ve got a pop-up tent in my bag. Always carry it just in case.”
Somewhere over our heads, a loud screech pierced the continuous clatter of rainfall on leaves. It was followed by a clap of thunder.
“Um, no thank you. I’d much prefer to sleep in my nice, comfortable bed—I meanyournice, comfortable bed that you were so kind to let me sleep in.”
“Well then I’m gonna need a hand up—and I may have to lean on you to walk. We’re not that far from the house now, maybe half a mile.”
“Sure. Of course. Just tell me what to do.”
Wilder told me how to brace myself then, pressing his uninjured foot into the ground, he gripped the hand I offered and pulled himself to standing.
“Good job.” He sounded a bit winded from the effort. Or maybe it was the pain. That made more sense.
It occurred to me I’d never seen him in any sort of weakened state before. Back in high school he was famous for never missing a game, for walking off any injuries with a stoic expression and an appreciative hand raised to the crowd when they cheered his return to the field.
He’d seemed god-like to the sports fans who followed his career—and to me.
But now… now he seemed completely human. Vulnerable. It did something to me. There was literal pain around my heart.
