In the quiet while she breathed, she couldn’t help remembering the four of them at the top of the run. “I shouldn’t have let us ski that slope,” she said, her breath shaky.
The doctor flipped his stethoscope around his neck and crossed his arms. “Tell me why you think so,” he said.
Cassidy shrugged. She couldn’t describe the haunting sensation she had experienced before they set off from the top. He would think she was nuts.
He gave her a satisfied smile. “Well, I don’t see any injuries.”
Cassidy hopped down from the table.
“But if you experience any pain, tingling, numbness, headaches, anything like that, please get seen right away.”
“Okay,” she said.
He pulled a pamphlet from his clipboard, and handed it to her.
Cassidy read the cover: Surviving Trauma. “What’s this for?” she asked, unable to keep the distaste from her voice.
Dr. Harris shuffled his feet. “It’s not uncommon for people who have survived a traumatic event to suffer emotional disturbances.”
Cassidy glanced at the pamphlet again. It showed a woman sitting at a park bench, bent over and clearly distressed while another person tried to console her. “Thanks,” she managed, slipping it into her vest pocket.
A knock sounded on the door and a tech wheeled Pete into the room. Relief flooded her at seeing him again, but his face looked so drawn and battered that she had to force herself to smile so as not to alarm him. The fact that he was still dressed in the hospital gown with a blanket covering his torso and legs did nothing to settle her simmering anxiety.
“Not one but two broken ribs,” he said, grinning. Mark’s makeshift splint on his wrist had been replaced by a neoprene brace. “This one might need surgery,” he said, his smile more of a grimace now. “I’m supposed to see a specialist after the swelling goes down.”
This was not good news—Pete depended on his wrists and hands to write.
Dr. Harris pulled up the X-rays on the room’s computer screen, the rib fractures clearly visible. He talked them through the treatment—basically rest, and no coughing, laughing, lifting or vigorous exercise for six weeks—and prescribed a painkiller. He gave them the name of an orthopedic surgeon in Seattle and said to call tomorrow for an appointment. “Because of your profession, it’s worth getting a second opinion.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Pete said with a pained smile.
“You two take care of each other,” Dr. Harris said before stepping out of the room.
Pete needed Cassidy’s help to get dressed, and even then, she still hurt him. As she was pulling on his shirt, he flashed her a grin. “The doc didn’t say ‘no sex.’” He glanced at the door. “Whaddya say?”
Cassidy frowned. “How can you think about sex at a time like this?” She eyed the door and its tiny window, wondering if they were being watched.
She helped him step into his thermal ski pants but let him pull them up the rest of the way. She couldn’t risk exciting him any more than he somehow already was.
“Hey, I almost died today. What better way to celebrate life than to make sweet love to you right now?”
“You’re serious,” Cassidy said, pausing to look at his battered face.
“No,” he said, and the playful look faded. “But Cassidy?” he asked, taking her hands.
“What?” A nervous tingle bounced through her gut.
“Thank you for getting me out of there.” His eyes turned glassy and grave. “I could hear you, you know. Not right away, but I could hear you up there telling everyone to be careful, and I could hear the shovels.” He took a shaky breath and his top lip quivered. “I was so scared, Cass,” he said. “It was so dark in there.” He pulled her close and she hugged him, but softly so as not to hurt him. “I love you, Cassidy Kincaid,” he said. “I love you so much.”
Cassidy closed her eyes and a sob shook loose. I love you, Cassidy Kincaid. He had said those exact words to her that very morning. She put her head on his shoulder and cried.
Cassidy woke the next morning after tossing and turning for most of the night. After an awkward goodbye to Mark and Tara outside the hospital ER the night before, Cassidy had driven Pete to Casa de Rocas and helped him get settled. While listening to him drop off to sleep, images of the day had played in her head like a slide show: the climb beneath blue skies, the joking and lighthearted banter, digging the pit, Pete’s kiss before her descent, the crack of the slide letting loose, her own scream.
Of course it was her fault—she was the most experienced skier in the group. But what could she have said to stop them? The evidence pointed to the layers being safe. The block test held. But she had felt something—just a feeling, nothing concrete—that she had ignored. If the slide hadn’t happened, the feeling would be forgotten. She imagined such an outcome, the four of them completing laps on that ridge all morning, then skiing out together, exhausted and happy. Instead, Pete had nearly died. What if the others had been buried, too? I should have known better. The thought had kept her awake for hours.
Cassidy made a pot of coffee and took her laptop to the picnic table. An hour flew by as she dove into her inbox, though she found herself getting distracted instead of ticking off the items on her to-do list.
A groan from her room pulled her from her thoughts, and she rushed in to find Pete propped up on an elbow, the sheets wrapped around him.
“You okay?” Cassidy asked. She eyed the bottle of painkillers on her desk.
He blinked at her and slowly pushed his way to sitting. He sighed. “I was having this dream,” he said, sounding exhausted.
Cassidy paused, waiting. Her dreams hadn’t been pleasant, either.
“God, this hurts,” he said,
