This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.
He and Meg had given up hope of finding Liam and Nimue once darkness fell. They’d argued for finding shelter, resuming the search at first light. But Teague had refused to even considerit, pleading with that desperate edge that made saying no impossible.
Searching in the dark had seemed pointless.
A miracle.That’s what it had been. Somehow they’d spotted a light flickering across the canyon. SOS.
And then shouting as they responded with the same light.
Sound played tricks in the canyon, echoing off walls, making distance impossible to judge. But they’d pushed harder, finally found them.
Discovered the tragedy.
Nimue, pale, barely breathing, purple bruising spreading over her side.
Teague had pressed the sat phone to his ear, free hand covering the other, calling in a medevac.
He’d turned to Meg for medical interpretation, but his earlier suspicions from the trail had materialized as he watched color drain from her face in the LED lantern’s glow.
He didn’t know much about medicine, but he knew panic attacks. Knew PTSD. Knew more about both than anyone should have to.
He’d grabbed her shoulders, forced her to meet his eyes. “Meg. Focus on me. You can do this. I believe in you. Nimue needs you.”
She’d nodded. And a sort of rote response had taken over. She’d dropped beside Nimue, and after a moment, her movements had become calculated, routine.
Meg had started an IV then and administered a shot of morphine, and somehow by the time the chopper arrived, Nimue was still alive.
Even Noah had felt stripped and a little haunted by the close call.
But now…Meg wasn’t herself.
Footsteps on stone brought him back to the present. Teague appeared around the corner, held out two bottles of water without a word, then vanished as quickly as he’d come.
The guy might be a mind reader. He had certainly known that Liam was in trouble.
“Can you drink something?” Noah cracked the seal on the plastic bottle and handed it to Meg.
She managed a few sips. Not nearly enough.
She settled back against his chest, tremors still running through her frame. He smoothed her hair back from her face. “You did good. You know that, right?”
“I don’t know if it was enough.”
The look in her eyes—he’d seen it in his own mirror too many times to count.
“You did everything you could. The rest is up to God now.”
Hypocrite.The words tasted like ash as they left his mouth. He’d wanted to punch people who’d said similar things to him after Mary died. Where had God been then?
Though honestly, he didn’t blame God for Mary’s death. He blamed himself.
“I couldn’t save my father.”
The words came out haunted, her eyes fixed on something in the darkness he couldn’t see.
There it was. The key to understanding what was really happening inside her head.
But dissecting psychological trauma on a cold rock in the middle of nowhere wasn’t the answer. She needed comfort right now, not analysis.