"What?" Ali raised her arms and looked herself over. True enough, a line of crimson blood trickled from her knee and down her leg as it mingled with the water dripping from the rest of her body. "Oh. I hadn't even noticed. It's nothing."

Pursing his lips, Hank scoffed and—to Ali's surprise—turned around and climbed back out of the cave. She watched as he fought the storm and retraced his steps to his mount before returning with a saddlebag in hand. He took off his long coat and offered it to her. "Here."

She didn't want to appear ungrateful, but being known as the girl who needed saving wasn't her goal. With her arms still crossed, Ali rubbed the goose bumps on her cold skin. "Thanks, but you can keep it," she grumbled.

He shook the coat loose before stepping closer and draping it over her shoulders. "My clothes are dry, and I don't need to be worrying about you catching hypothermia. Now, will you sit down?"

With his warm breath grazing her face, Ali looked away to avoid staring at his stubble and protectively drew the lapels of the duster together. "Why?" she asked with suspicion.

Stepping back and removing his gloves, Hank opened the saddlebag and took out a packet emblazoned with a large red cross. Ali frowned at the first aid kit. It was complete overkill. "I don't want—"

"Yeah. I know. You don't want or need my help. I get it. But if I bring you back late and bloodied, my . . ." He paused before clearing his throat. "Well, Liz will definitely bust my chops for it. So let's just agree that I'm here to cover my ass and graciously accept it. Can you do that?"

Ali gritted her teeth. Well, then. If it was all about him, how could she refuse? Plus, she couldn't let his girlfriend—the most likely word he'd self-censored with reference to Pebble Creek's owner—be disappointed.

With a huff, she reluctantly nodded. Sitting with her back against the wall, Ali winced as Hank cleaned her knee with iodine. The movements were brusque, but deliberate as his warm hands touched her clammy skin and gently rubbed the antiseptic towelette over the shallow wound. There was one good thing about his doting, though. At least now she had an unobstructed view of his face—an opportunity she gladly took to study it.

He was perhaps a few years older than her, but certainly no more than mid-thirties. Like in the bar, the light was too dim to tell the exact color of his hair; it looked similar to her own, somewhere between cocoa brown and coal black. His skin was lighter than hers though, surprising for someone who probably spent a lot of his time in the sun for his job. A short layer of scruff darkened his jawline, which was taut—a state she seemed to be encountering quite a lot.

While his deep focus on even the mundane task of patching her up was admirable, Ali searched his lips for a hint of that sly smile she'd briefly seen before. It had changed his whole appearance from rugged cowboy to playful gentleman, and she was intrigued by the dichotomy. When he finished covering the superficial wound with a large adhesive bandage, she inwardly lamented the end to his attentions.

"We'd better get going." Hank stood and offered his hand. "I've already called in that I found you, but they'll be wondering what's taking so long."

Ali put her fingers into his grip and pulled herself up. "Shouldn't we wait it out? It's pretty rough out there," she said, glancing past him at the relentless downpour.

"There's no telling if the storm will pass before sundown." He released her hand and pulled his gloves back on before throwing the saddlebag over his shoulder. "The descent won't be easy, but I've done it in worse. It should only take twenty minutes if we're lucky."

Hank jumped off the ledge, waiting for Ali below. As she climbed down to join him, the duster wrapped around her leg, and she stumbled into his arms.

"Sorry," she instinctively mumbled, steadying herself against his chest. It was the second time in their brief acquaintance this had happened, and pretty soon, he'd think she was doing it on purpose or something.

But unlike before in the bar when he seemed just as surprised as she'd been, this time Hank caught her. And not only were his hands tightly wrapped around her waist, but he also didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to let go. Lifting her gaze, Ali was just about to thank him for the assistance when she looked into his eyes and lost the ability to speak.

Never in her life had she felt such intimacy with a man as she did in that exact moment. There was an aura of comfort and safety that just radiated off his being. Her growing physical attraction to him was also undeniable, making the whole thing feel even more ridiculous.

Ali didn't believe in love at first sight, and she was too mature to allow lust to take over her feelings like this. Yet three days ago she hadn't even laid eyes on him, and now she was standing in the pouring rain, cradled in Hank's arms, and imagining what his lips would feel like on hers . . ..

"Are you okay?" asked Hank, infuriatingly unbothered by the situation.

Still lost for words, Ali nodded and pushed herself out of his grip. Following him to the tethered horse in the downpour took her full attention, so she was unprepared for Hank's plan when they finally got to the agitated horse.

"Hop on," he said, nodding toward the saddle as he held the bridle. The stallion had his ears drawn back and was already nervously shifting from foot to foot, but when lightning struck directly overhead with a huge boom, he reared onto his hind legs.

"Whoa." Hank stepped back while keeping a firm grip on the bridle.

Ali wasn't so calm as she struggled to pace her breathing. Even as the frequency of her gasps increased, she felt as though she wasn't getting enough air.

"Hurry before he freaks again," Hank urged, but she shook her head.

"I thought . . . I thought we were going on foot." She teetered on the verge of fainting and crying. She wanted to get on. It was only reasonable. Yet her body refused. "There's only one horse—"

"We don't have time for this. Do you need a boost?" His expression was stern as he squinted through the rain cascading down the rim of his hat.

Ali searched his eyes for a gleam of sympathy. "I'm sorry, but I can't," she said, her voice cracking through the whisper.

"Why the hell not?" he asked with unmasked frustration. "Just scoot up as far as you can, and I'll lead from behind."

In spite of the protection of the coat, she began to tremble. Snippets of memories flashed in her brain as she relived what she'd been trying so desperately to forget for the last few weeks. She could smell the sweet leather polish she'd used to prep Seneca's tack with Robert by her side and taste the grit in her mouth while she took the first half of the obstacle course with ease, but the visions became overwhelming as she remembered what she'd felt on that fateful afternoon.

Exhilaration at the reckless approach of the obstacle. Helplessness at the sudden realization of not being able to stop. Terror at the impending consequences of the inevitable crash. Consequences she was now living with. Consequences she had no control over. Consequences that were still completely her fault.

"I . . . I'm deathly afraid . . . of riding horses," she stammered. "Have been my entire life."

Hank looked down at his boots and kicked the mud. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. Shaking his head, he appeared to be having some type of internal debate before raising his eyes again. "I guess we're walking, then."

He untied the horse and led it out from under the trees. Relieved he hadn't forced the issue, Ali bumbled beside him as she tried to keep up in the ankle-deep muck. Glancing at Hank's face, she saw his lips were pulled into a hard line and his gaze focused squarely on the washed-out path ahead.

He was undeniably angry, and he had every right to be. And that was from knowing only half the truth. It was bad enough she'd ignored warnings not to venture into the mountains before the storm, but if Hank found out she was lying about why she couldn't get on the horse, he'd probably saddle up and leave her to fend for herself.

But how would he understand her recent aversion to horses when she couldn't even explain it to herself?

Ali groaned and balled her fists, the fingers of her right hand digging uncomfortably into the fiberglass cast. Distracted, she misplaced her foot and tripped again on the oversized duster.

"Wait. Stop," she pleaded as she removed the garment. "I can't walk in this. Take it."

Instead of doing as she asked, he unbuttoned his shirt. Peeling off the wet flannel, he handed it over in exchange for the jacket. "It won't keep you dry, but at least it's long-sleeved." This left him in just jeans and a white T-shirt that stuck to every inch of his muscular upper body. When he noticed Ali staring, he explained, "In case of flying debris."

Perplexed that he had the foresight to even think of such a thing, Ali silently slipped on the shirt and continued the trek back to Pebble Creek. She had no idea how long it actually took, but she was numb by the time they reached the lodge's stables. Like a lighthouse calling wayward ships back into port, the glow from its windows signaled the safe end to their journey.

Met by a pacing Liz, who looked ten years older from worry, Ali didn't have a chance to either thank or apologize to the man responsible for getting her back down the mountain. As Hank set to tending to his horse while Liz ushered her toward the main building, Ali felt more alone than ever.