But would Brady survive the night in the cold?
The bluish tinge around Brady’s lips signaled hypothermia.
First things first. He checked Brady’s vitals and immobilized Brady’s neck with a brace from his emergency treatment kit. Unfortunately, the only one he carried was an adult size, which meant time wasted remodeling it using his knife and pliers. Then, moving as fast as he dared and with as much care as possible, he worked his bright orange bivvy sack under Brady’s body and pulled it snugly around his face. The sack was designed to block the penetrating cold from the ground and counter the effect of wind chill. Since it was adult-size, too, Flynn folded the excess under Brady to add another layer of protection from the cold, damp ground.
The paper-thin material would reflect up to ninety percent of Brady’s body heat back to him. As chilled as the boy was this might not be enough to turn the tide of hypothermia, but it was the best Flynn could do until he got a fire going.
Every stick and log Flynn picked up was wet. Hopefully, the emergency fire starter he carried would help dry the smaller twigs enough to build up a solid base.
Rather than risk moving Brady to a more level spot, Flynn decided to build a shelter around him, incorporating the wall of granite behind them and the net of branches overhead. Using the light of his headlamp to free up his hands, Flynn climbed a low limb and snagged Brady’s backpack. He let it drop to the ground then finished stretching the tarp, fighting a steadily growing wind that tried to snatch the fabric out of his numb fingers.
No rain yet but he could taste it.
They needed his fire to be solidly going before the storm hit. He squatted beside the ring of rocks he’d built, gradually adding bigger twigs and branches, ignoring the occasional raindrop. He looked at his worthless radio, hoping his crew made it back to camp safely.
If I could get word to them that I found Brady, they’d all sleep a little easier, he thought.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Brady’s bag. His phone.
He stretched to grab the nylon strap and pull it to him. A check of inventory showed him the crappy child’s sleeping bag Kat had mentioned.
Still. Another layer and maybe a sense of home if he wakes up.
A map.
Nice try, kid. But you forgot a compass. And some basic training on how to use one.
“You got turned around, didn’t you, Brady?” he asked the unresponsive child. “That happens to adults, too.”
Did he feel silly talking to an unconscious child? Yes, but one of his early mentors had stressed the importance of communicating everything that was happening to the victim. “We don’t know enough about the human brain to understand how much people hear or retain while unconscious. I prefer to err on the side of infinite possibility,” the man had preached.
So, Flynn talked while he checked out the rest of Brady’s possessions: one of those modern comic books—he couldn’t remember what they were called, a single mitten, a hand-crocheted scarf that felt very soft and warm. He immediately carried it to Brady and gently wrapped it around the brace, winding it about the boy’s ears and head and tucking the ends into the bivvy sack.
Half a dozen empty granola bar wrappers, along with some tiny metallic-looking balls that he figured out were leftover Hershey kisses wrappers.
“You’ve got a sweet tooth, don’t you, kiddo? Me, too. I’ve got some really good chocolate in my bag when you wake up. And instant soup. I’ll get some water boiling on my camp stove in a few minutes. That’ll warm you from the inside out, if you can sit up and eat.”
Wishful thinking.
Flynn studied Brady’s face across the fire. Was it the color from the flames or did he look a little less ashen? The latter, he hoped.
Returning to his mission, Flynn turned the bag upside down and shook it. A pencil with a broken tip, a very tiny pocketknife and the last thing Flynn expected to see—a blister pack walkie-talkie. The kind Santa brought kids for Christmas. He turned it over and saw a set of initials that didn’t match Brady’s. “His friend Robby,” Flynn guessed.
His hands shook with impatience as he tested the power knob. He doubted the unit would have the strength to reach beyond the canyon walls—and the battery level showed one bar. Had Brady tried to use it?
He depressed the button to reach the channel his crew had been using.
“Flynn to base, come in.”
A loud, ear-piercing static made him grimace, but he kept trying. “Rescue 1 to base. Come in.”
Just as he was about to give up, a woman’s voice came across the airwaves—in bits and pieces. “Fl…you…safe? Find…”
Kat. She must have moved from the Marietta office to the mobile unit at the zip line. Emotions built in his chest. As long as he kept his brain compartmentalized he could do his job without picturing what she was going through. But just that hint of agony in her voice nearly did him in.
“Kat. I have Brady. Repeat. Brady is alive. Stable but not conscious. Repeat unconscious.” Stable was a reach, but he didn’t appear to be getting any worse.
“Where…storm…riders here…shelter…”
The line went dead. He got up and walked to the edge of the shelter, not willing to leave Brady. He tried every channel until the unit died, it’s rechargeable battery dead.
“Damn,” he muttered. He returned the walkie-talkie to the side pocket of his backpack and zipped it tight.
He surmised from her words that the horse troop had returned safely and the storm was coming so he should seek shelter. If he were more familiar with the territory, he would have known if there were any hunters’ cabins in close proximity. But he didn’t, so this was going to have to do. He’d survived worse. Alone. Never with a banged-up little boy.
Brady chose that moment to moan. The sound struck fear and brought hope…in equal portions.
“Brady,” Flynn said, covering the distance between them on his hands and knees, impervious to the sharp stones. “How are you doing, buddy? Stay still, if you can. Try not to move.”
Brady’s hands went to his neck. “What happened? Where am I?”
Typical post-trauma questions.
Flynn laid the back of his hand against Brady’s forehead. He had a thermometer in his medical kit, but so far, the boy appeared fever-free. “You fell from a ledge. Pretty high up. Do you remember going over the edge? Did you lose your footing?”
Brady started to shake his head, but Flynn stopped him, holding his head still. “Just answer yes or no until we’re sure you didn’t injure your spine, okay?”
“Do I need an X-ray?”
Flynn held back a smile. Little boys liked technology. “For sure. Maybe even an MRI or a CT-scan.”
Wow, Brady mouthed. “My mom’s not going to like that. Those are expensive.”
“Moms don’t care about the cost when their little boy’s health is on the line. Believe me, that is the last thing on your mother’s mind at the moment.”
Flynn watched comprehension work its way over the boy’s face. His voice trembled but no tears sprouted in his eyes when he asked, “Can I talk to her?”
“Sorry. My walkie-talkie died. But I was able to let her know I’d found you. That we’re safe for the night.” A gust of wind whipped the tarp and sent tiny pellets that were neither rain nor snow and, yet, both, zinging into the fire. Flynn prayed it wouldn’t go out, but, at least, he had his tiny stove in reserve.
“I…I…wanna…go…home.”
That’s when the tears started, followed by convulsive sobs. Flynn stretched out on the cold damp ground beside the crying child and wrapped him in a cautious hug. He had to fight every bit of instinct that said, “Pull him into your arms and cradle him.”
Too bad the last time Flynn went with his gut, a lady wound up dead.
“It’s going to be okay, Brady. I’ve been camping all my life. My dad used to bring my brother and me to Montana every summer. We hiked all over these mountains. I think that’s the reason I became a wilderness
firefighter and EMT.”
The truth of that statement shocked him. He’d dismissed the importance of his father’s influence on his life with just as much conviction as Ryker had celebrated it. But, if not for his father, Flynn would never have known the beauty and peace of fly-fishing in a cold Montana stream.
Mom took them to art galleries, the ballet, and city-kind of expos. She hated bugs, the sun, and the openness her husband was determined to share with their sons. So, what profession did Flynn turn to after his dad died and his new stepfather more or less pulled the financial rug out from under Flynn’s sophomore-in-college feet? Firefighter for the National Park Service.
“Am I going to be okay?” Brady asked.
“Yes,” Flynn said with conviction. “Can you feel your toes?”
Brady started to nod but froze at Flynn’s stern look. “Uh-huh.”
“Good. Let me get my first-aid kit and really check you out.”
Five minutes later, after determining the boy didn’t have a fever, that Brady’s grip was strong and uniform on both sides of his body, all ten toes wiggled when prompted, and his pupils reacted normally to the beam of Flynn’s pocket flashlight, Flynn told him, “I think your neck is okay and you don’t appear to have a concussion. But we have to watch out for a slow bleed inside your brain. Do you want to sit up? Slowly.”
Flynn made him sit for five minutes before removing the brace. He waited another five minutes before helping him to a dark spot at the rear of the shelter to take a leak. Flynn counted their blessings that aside from cuts and scrapes and a banged-up elbow, which was swollen and very tender, Brady appeared to be in remarkably fine shape.
But the true test of what was happening inside Brady’s cranium would come tonight. Flynn would have to wake him often to check his pupils. Not that there was a whole hell of a lot he could do if the fall led to swelling or a bleed.
Once they were seated at the fire again, Flynn activated a cold compress and wrapped Brady’s arm, configuring a makeshift sling from the adult one in his kit. “I have to put together a second emergency pack,” he said. “One with kid-size stuff in it.”
“I’m hungry.”
Flynn primed the stove and hit the lighter. He used the last of the water from his bottle and added a dehydrated package that would create a delicious, hearty stew in minutes. “Keep an eye on this while I fill up our water bottles.”
“You’re not supposed to drink the water in the streams. It might have microbes,” Brady said.
Flynn grinned and pulled out a pen-like object. “Water purifier. Watch and prepare to be amazed.”
For the next hour or so, they ate, fed the fire, and watched the rain drip off the edge of the tarp. Flynn kept an eye on Brady for any signs of a concussion, but like most kids Flynn had met over the years in traumatic situations, the boy seemed resilient, interested in what was happening around him and only a little afraid. Either that or he masked his fear well. Maybe even better than Flynn.
When Flynn walked to the stream for water, he’d spotted ice forming along the banks. They were not going to have a cozy, comfortable night, but he’d do what he could to keep them safe and sound. He started by unrolling his one-person tent. It would be a tight fit, but, now that Brady could move, they’d have a little more shelter.
“How’d you find me?” Brady asked, watching Flynn pop the curved poles into place.
“I didn’t. The Zabrinskis did. Bob spotted your backpack in the tree. Mia was with him, and Paul and Austen led a group on horseback looking for you. It was a family effort.”
Brady’s eyes went wide. “But they don’t like me.”
Flynn paused to look at him. “Apparently, they do. Maybe you didn’t give them time to process that bomb you dropped on them. When the call went out that you were missing, they jumped to help find you without hesitation. That’s what kind of people they are.”
Brady didn’t answer, but Flynn could tell by the furrows on his forehead he was thinking, processing. He looked so much like his mother at that moment, Flynn wanted to laugh. Or hug him. Or both.
I could love this kid, he realized. Not that that was going to happen. Not with Kat poised to run.
“Okay, pal,” Flynn said, squatting beside Brady. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. It’s getting cold. We might even see a little snow in the morning. You weren’t prepared to spend the night at this elevation, which means this is going to be a long and miserable eight hours.”
Brady gulped loudly.
“But you’re strong and you don’t give up, right?”
He nodded uneasily.
“Me, neither. We’re going to hunker down together in my tent. You’re going to be in your sleeping bag in the bivvy sack. You should be toasty warm. If the storm clears in the morning, we’ll get a fire going and, once the spotter plane sees the smoke, the SAR crew will be on their way to us. Can you handle that?”
Brady’s nod was a little shaky, but Flynn attributed that to fear, not a concussion. He hoped.
Time would tell.
*
“How are you doing?”
Kat would have stooped down, picked up a mitten-full of snow and tossed it at the back of the man who asked the question—for the third time in less than twenty minutes—if she weren’t out of breath and ready to drop.
Snow. Good Lord. Everybody told her late spring storms in Montana were not uncommon. Sometimes they left snow on the mountains. But why did it have to be this storm, this mountain, when her child was out in the elements, lost and hurt?
Her toes were numb. Her cheeks felt chafed from the icy breeze hitting her head on. She hadn’t slept a wink all night. But she wasn’t about to give up.
“I’m good thanks,” she said breathlessly.
Justin Oberman stopped and turned around. He didn’t say, “I told you so.” She gave him credit for that.
She put her hands on her waist, thankful she wasn’t carrying a pack the size of a small imported sports car as Flynn’s friend was. “I wasn’t expecting the snow to be so sticky,” she said in her defense.
“It’s a drag. I know. But it’ll be gone in a couple of hours if the sun comes out.”
She looked at the high, thin clouds. “Unless the next storm hits, first.”
“Exactly. That’s why we need to hustle. But from the location Mia gave us, their camp shouldn’t be far ahead.”
Mia and Bob Zabrinski had been in the air at first light, retracing their path to the area where they’d seen the hint of red the night before. That sighting may well have saved her son’s life. She’d never in a million years be able to thank this family for all that they’d done for her. Unless she and Brady went back to Texas—sooner rather than later, thereby removing any reminder of Bob’s possible infidelity. She could do that. Even if it meant leaving Flynn.
Kat hauled in a deep breath of icy oxygen. “I used to do all kinds of outdoor sports before Brady was born. I guess I underestimated how rugged this terrain was going to be.”
“I’m sure Brady did, too.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not accusatory.
“You must think I’m a terrible mom to lose her kid like this.”
“You must think I’m a terrible boss not to notice an underage kid on my job site.”
“He’s tall for his age.”
“Not that tall.”
She nodded, conceding the point. “Okay. We’re even.”
He gave a whistle and made the universal carry-on sign to the other four volunteers, who waited a few yards ahead of them. The foursome included Jeff and Kermit from her department’s paramedic group.
She felt so grateful for the concern everyone had shown. The outreach from the town nearly brought her to tears every time she thought about it. Although no one would take credit for the effort, Kat felt certain Sarah Zabrinski was running the show.
Kat’s throat tightened with emotion. The more Kat saw of Sarah in action, the more envious she was of the legitimate Zabrinski children. Sarah was the mother
Kat used to fantasize about.
When Mom would leave Kat waiting at the curb after soccer practice until some parent or school administrator tracked Mom down—“Oh, dear, was it my day to pick her up?” Mom would cry—, Sarah was probably loading up her kids and half a dozen friends.
Kat craved that closeness so much, she probably over-protected, “hover-mothered” her own child. Even though a part of her knew Brady made impulsive decisions, which were often based on deep thought and research, he didn’t have the maturity to factor in cause and effect. And he sorely lacked the ability to empathize with people he loved—even her.
She knew he was going to be sorry he’d worried her, but only superficially. He’d try to understand, but she doubted he’d truly get it.
She pushed the thought from her head. She loved her son the way he was—challenges and all. Nobody would ever get that, but that was okay, too. She didn’t expect to have a perfect life. She wasn’t looking to fall in love and get married again. She wouldn’t put that kind of pressure and expectation on someone who wasn’t Brady’s biological father. Hell, even the man who could claim that connection didn’t have the empathy and patience Brady needed. How could she expect someone without a genetic horse in the race to give a damn?
You can’t. So stop thinking about Flynn Bensen.
They’d had some fun. She got her three-year sexual fix. Twice. Heck, maybe that meant she was good to go for six more years.
A shout cut into her pathetic ramblings.
“Over here.”
She recognized that voice. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
“Flynn,” she cried. She stumbled toward the sound and nearly did a header over a rock.
“Whoa.” Justin lunged sideways to halt her fall. “We don’t want any more casualties. Follow in my trail.”
She did as instructed even though every instinct urged her to race toward the two figures slowly shuffling forward. Brady barely looked up. He seemed glued to the side of the big man who had one hand firmly gripping the boy’s shoulder. The lead rescuers reached them several minutes before Justin and Kat got there. The paramedics were on their knees, shoulder-to-shoulder, talking to Brady, checking him over.
Montana Hero Page 18
