Chapter 109 Rescued
Sierra waved her arms wildly, a desperate scream trapped in her throat came pouring ut as the search plane finished its turn and came north, then pivoted in a graceful, devastating arc. For a heartbeat, nothing, only the thin, biting wind and the pounding of her own blood in her ears. Then, like a miracle carved from frost and hope, the plane reappeared, lower this time, so low she could make out the pilot’s silhouette in the cockpit.
He tipped a wing.
One of the crew at the rear window raised a hand.
They’d seen her.
Tears froze on her cheeks before they could fall.
She dropped to her knees, not from weakness, but from the sudden, overwhelming release of tension, like a bowstring snapping. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her body shuddering under the weight of everything, the cold, the grief, the fear. But beneath it all, a fragile warmth spread through her chest. Help was on its way.
She didn’t try to stand. She stayed in the clearing, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the plane circle once in confirmation before veering west, likely communicating her position.
Twenty minutes passed like an eternity. Each second carried the echo of Julian’s words begging her not to leave him to die alone. She thought back to when his hand had been warm in hers, when it seemed a whole new and exciting world was opening up to her. She remembered the confident tone of his voice, the sparkle of something just beyond belief in his eyes. But all of that had changed. He had become possessive and controlling, using his wealth and charm as a weapon to keep her under his thumb. Staying with him, as the Scotsman had directed, had become a burden she was struggling to bear, and then he’d changed dramatically. In that moment, she knew that she was nothing more than one of his servants, ordered to do his bidding without asking questions and without complaint. Now, her chains had been broken, but she didn’t feel free.
Finally, a distant thumping split the air, a helicopter, louder than the fixed-wing plane and able to reach her in the clearing. It emerged from behind a jagged ridge, a dark dragonfly against the snow-capped mountains. It hovered briefly, then descended with a controlled grace into the clearing, kicking up a storm of powder and pine needles.
A man in a bright orange rescue suit jumped out, followed by a woman, both moving with practiced efficiency. Reached her quickly, wrapping her in a thermal blanket before helping her to her feet. Her legs trembled, but she remained upright.
“Are you injured?” the woman asked, scanning her with sharp, trained eyes.
Sierra nodded and touched her head. “Hit it when we went down. And… I’m exhausted. But I can walk.”
The man spoke into the microphone of his headset. “We’ve got one survivor, late twenties, female. Possible concussion, hypothermia. No other signs of injury. She’s lucid.”
They helped her into the back of the chopper, strapping her in securely. As the rotors lifted them into the sky, Sierra looked down one last time at the clearing. Her eyes searched the mountainside for the shattered fuselage, but she couldn’t make it out. She thought of Julian, still wrapped in the Mylar blanket, alone in the snow.
The woman leaned in. “Was anyone else with you? Mister Rossi?”
Sierra swallowed. Her voice, when it came, was raw but steady. “Yes. Julian Rossi. He… he didn’t make it. He was badly hurt. I tried…” Her throat tightened. “I did what I could. But he died this morning.”
The rescuers exchanged a glance. The woman squeezed her shoulder.
Sierra closed her eyes, leaning into the vibration of the machine, the warmth of the cabin a surreal comfort after the endless cold.
They flew east, following the contours of the valley until the rugged wilderness gave way to scattered ranches, then the outskirts of Buena Vista. The hospital was small but efficient. She was examined, stitched up, given fluids, and painkillers. The doctor insisted she stay overnight for observation and concussion protocol. She didn’t argue.
Alone in the room, the adrenaline drained away, leaving only a hollow ache.
She stared at the phone by her bed. She knew five numbers by heart. She could call Cody at the ranch. He’d be frantic. The last thing he needed was to hear she’d been in a plane crash. She couldn’t be the reason he unraveled again.
She could call Sylvia. Her fingers hovered over the buttons on the phone. Images of Sylvia and Ryder together in the booth at the Dusty Spoon went through her mind. She loved and trusted Sylvia, but the idea of hearing Sylvia’s voice in that moment filled her with a confusing mix of longing and bitterness. She couldn’t do that to herself.
Chloe would be a great option, but she was in London, and Sierra wasn’t exactly sure how to dial the Sterling, Quinn & Spencer branch office in London.
While she was trying to figure out who she could call, the text message slithered into her mind again, cold and insistent:
If you survive this, go to the ranch. I’ll come to you there.
It came from an unknown number, but she was certain it had come from the Scotsman. Always in the shadows. Always with his veiled threats. He wanted her near Julian, near him, manipulating the strings from afar. If she went to the ranch, who would be waiting? Julian’s spy? The Scotsman? Or something worse?
No. Not yet.
Her fingers moved almost of their own accord, dialing William Sterling.
The phone rang twice before he answered in the firm voice that always provided her with a measure of assurance. “Sierra! How’s Arizona?”
“William,” she whispered, and then she couldn’t speak. A sob tore from her chest, raw and unfiltered.
“Sierra… God. What’s happened? Are you okay?”
She pulled herself together with effort. “I was with Julian. The jet crashed. In the Rockies, east of Aspen. I… I’m in Buena Vista. They’re keeping me overnight for observation and concussion protocol.”
“Crashed?” His voice sharpened. “How bad are you injured?”
“Julian’s dead, William.” Her voice broke. “He was injured… I couldn’t save him.”
A long silence. Then, quietly: “Are you alone?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to be. I can’t…” Her breath hitched. “I need to come home. I need to get back to my apartment in Manhattan.”
“Say no more,” William said, already in command. “I’ll have a plane ready. I’ll come with it. You’re not facing this alone.”
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“I’ll be there before morning. Just hold on, Sierra. You’ve been so strong. Just hold on.”
She disconnected, the phone slipping from her fingers.
And then she fell apart.
Curled on the hospital bed, clutching one of the pillows she’d used to prop up her head, she wept, great, shuddering sobs that shook her entire body. She cried for her father, for Julian, for the life she’d tried to build with Julian that had felt hollow from the start. She cried for Ryder, for the love they’d lost, and for Sylvia, for a friendship in the balance due to betrayal. She cried for the girl she used to be, the one who walked into Sterling, Quinn & Spencer every morning, her stilettos clicking on the marble floors and her tailored skirt swishing, confident, in control.
Where had that girl gone?
Was she still there, buried under snow and sorrow?
And as the tears finally slowed, one thought cut through the grief like a blade:
The text had ordered her to go back to the ranch if she survived.
Would the person who sent it, probably the Scotsman, know that she had survived the crash?
Julian’s death wasn’t an accident.
Someone had wanted him dead, but they were willing to eliminate her in the process, if need be.
If you survive this. What kind of statement is that?
Why would she go to the ranch to meet whoever it was?
The Scotsman would know if she survived. He had a way of knowing everything.
“Fine,” she concluded. “Then let him find me.”