She needed a second person.
Of course.
The one resource she had spent years convincing herself she did not need.
A sound came from the trees.
She froze.
Branch break.
Then another.
Heavy steps.
Not deer.
Too deliberate.
The mountain man appeared between two giant trunks carrying a maul over one shoulder.
Tall.
Broad.
A beard dark with rain.
Brown work shirt.
Heavy boots.
A slight limp in his left leg.
He stopped immediately.
His eyes moved from her face to the disturbed ground.
Then to the scattered herbs.
Then back.
He understood.
“Don’t move.”
The woman almost laughed from relief.
Instead her voice broke.
“I noticed.”
The mountain man lowered the maul.
Uncoiled rope from his shoulder.
His eyes traced the bog carefully.
He tested the edge with the maul handle.
The wood sank nearly a foot.
He muttered something she did not hear.
Then looked at her.
“Name?”
She hesitated.
Why did that matter?
Then understood.
A name gave a trapped person something to answer to.
“Call me the healer.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That what your mother named you?”
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
“No.”
“Then give me something shorter.”
She told him.
He repeated it once.
Then:
“Listen carefully.”
She nodded.
“I’m going to throw you the rope.”
“No.”
The mountain man stopped.
“What?”
“Not around my waist.”
He stared.
“Lady, I wasn’t planning to decorate you with it.”
“If you pull me straight toward you, you’ll deepen the suction.”
“I've pulled livestock out of bogs.”
“I’m not livestock.”
His mouth tightened.
“Could’ve fooled me with the arguing.”
She glared.
Good.
Anger reduced panic.
He knew it.
Maybe that was why he had provoked her.
He tossed one end of the rope.
It landed near her hand.
She caught it.
“Loop it under your arms.”
“No.”
“Woman.”
“Listen.”
“I’m listening to someone chest-deep in mud telling the dry man how rescue works.”
“And I’m listening to a man standing on soil already beginning to flex beneath his boots.”
The mountain man looked down.
The ground near his left foot had darkened.
He moved backward immediately.
The woman continued.
“Straight-line pulling is wrong.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
She looked toward the fallen redwood.
“That log.”
“The one twelve feet away?”
“Yes.”
“It weighs more than both of us.”
“Exactly.”
He stared.
She could see him trying to decide whether fear had damaged her mind.
She spoke faster.
“Run your rope around the narrow section near the root flare.”
He looked at the log.
“Then?”
“Bring both ends toward me.”
“Then what?”
“We use it as a pivot.”
He stopped.
Not because he understood.
Because he was beginning to.
“You want a redirect.”
“Yes.”
“Change the pull angle.”
“Yes.”
“Less upward?”