Page 34 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Stale air rushes to meet us, heavy with dust and abandonment. The cabin looks like it’s been vacant for months, but it’s shelter. It’s salvation.
The bed frame protests beneath her weight as I lay her down with utmost care. “Bailey?” Her only response is something unintelligible about cookie crumbs in navigation systems.
I take inventory of our surroundings. One room, sparse but solid. Cast-iron stove squats in the corner, chimney pipedisappears into the ceiling. Single bed pushed against the far wall, its quilt faded but clean. Basic shelter, but it’s enough.
My boots leave melting imprints on the wooden floor as I check the cupboards. First aid, heat, water—survival essentials hard-wired into me through years of hiking. Dust covers everything, undisturbed until this moment. This place hasn’t known human presence for a significant time.
“Your five-star accommodation awaits,” I tell Bailey, my voice sounding strange in the cabin’s quiet. If she were awake, she’d have something cute to say about room service or thread counts.
The silence unnerves me. After hours of her endless commentary, this quiet feels wrong. Just wind whistling through weathered logs and her shallow breathing.
Never thought I’d miss someone talking about the comparative merits of Denver versus Miami snow globes. Yet here I am, straining to hear her voice.
Focus. Medical attention first. Existential crisis later.
The cabin’s first aid supplies are rudimentary but usable. Bandages, antiseptic, scissors. No pain medication, which will become problematic when she wakes. I need to assess her injury.
Her face appears ghostly pale, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold. The leg needs immediate attention, but...
“Bailey, if you wake up while I’m removing your clothes, please remember you’re injured before you attempt to kill me.”
No response. Not even a snow globe fact. Just the steady rise and fall of her chest, and that ridiculous Vegas trinket still clutched in her hand.
I unwind the Hermès silk from the branches of our makeshift splint. Twelve hundred dollars of artisanalcraftsmanship sacrificed to medical necessity. Father would experience cardiac arrest at the sight.
I unlace her boot, trying to be as gentle as possible. The moment I ease it off, she moans. A sound of such raw pain that I nearly stop altogether. Her eyes remain closed, but her face contorts, body tensing even in unconsciousness. The swelling is far worse than I expected. Her ankle is twice its normal size.
With the boot removed, the extent of the injury becomes clearer—and more alarming. The swelling doesn’t stop at her ankle but continues up her calf, disappearing beneath her jeans. I need to see the full damage.
“This is purely medical,” I tell her unconscious form as I reach for her waistband. “Just so we’re clear.”
I ease her jeans down with meticulous care, sliding them over her hips, down her thighs, watching her face for any sign of additional pain. She must have endured excruciating pain during our trek, yet she never stopped making jokes.
Medical training in wilderness survival only goes so far. I’m no doctor. The mottled skin stretches tight with swelling, angry purple-blue spreading from ankle to mid-calf. I don’t know if something’s broken, torn, or worse.
All I can do is bandage it. Just basic first aid and hope it’s enough.
“Bailey,” I say, though I know she can’t hear me. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
My fingers tremble as I apply antiseptic to visible abrasions. Superficial compared to whatever damage lies beneath. I wrap the bandage, trying to provide compression without restricting circulation. Not enough.
Nothing to help her when she wakes to what will undoubtedly be excruciating pain. Useless. I’m useless.
“Wake up,” I say with an edge of desperation. “Bailey, please wake up.”
Her only response is shallow breathing.
This is beyond my capabilities. Beyond my control. The realization sits like ice in my stomach. Sebastian Lockhart, CEO, Harvard MBA, a man with contingency plans for his contingency plans, reduced to waiting while a woman I barely know might be seriously injured beyond my capacity to help.
I check her pulse again. Still steady. Small mercies.
“I need you to be okay,” I tell her. “I need you to wake up and make inappropriate jokes about my hiking gear or the thread count of these sheets or whatever ridiculous observation crosses your mind.”
Nothing. Just the wind howling outside and her soft, even breathing.
Sitting here watching her won’t help either of us. She needs warmth. Food. Practical necessities I can provide.
The cabin’s blankets smell musty but provide adequate warmth. I tuck one around her, careful not to disturb her death grip on Vegas. Her breathing steadies, face softening in sleep.
