Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

“Beau,” I scream.

He doesn’t move.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.” I don’t know how to get to him without falling the same way he did. And even if I get down there, how will I lift him back up? “Hold on, just hold on.”

“You called me Beau,” he says, his voice strained.

“Oh thank God you’re alive.” My heart is beating out of my chest. “I thought you died.”

He gives an uneven laugh. “It would probably feel better than this.”

“I’m coming down there!”

“Don’t you dare. I’ll fucking throttle you. Go find Paige, and get her back inside.”

I bite my lip, uncertain. Maybe I should find Paige. She’s small and defenseless. At least Beau seems conscious right now. And relatively stable. Despite the slope, he’s probably not going to roll down like it’s a grassy hill. Except what if he has internal bleeding? He might be delirious. He might be dying. “No, I’m not leaving you here. Paige is probably off somewhere painting a rock she found. Or maybe she even got back into bed.”

He swears extensively. I’m pretty sure I hear some words that have to do with boats and sailing and fish mixed in there, the old Maine vernacular running true. He puts a hand to his head. “I think I’m all in one piece. Mostly. I need a large glass of whiskey. Or a bottle.”

“First we need to get you out of there. Do you think we need to call in like… a rescue team?” I’m envisioning something with ropes and pulleys and a stretcher. “I’ll call nine-one-one.”

“Absolutely not. The last thing I need is the boys I went to high school with cutting me open. They couldn’t even dissect a fucking frog in biology.”

“I feel like they give them training for stuff like this.”

“No. I can climb up.”

“You can climb up? What are you, Spiderman?”

“I did some rock climbing out at Big Sur. It was more dangerous than this.”

“The fact that you just fell and almost died seems to contradict what you’re saying.”

“I didn’t die or even come close to it. I’m mildly winded.”

“Then why are you just lying there.”

“I’m resting. It’s restful here. Next time I go camping, fuck White Mountain. I’m just gonna roll out a tent right here and look up at the stars.”

You can’t see a single star because of the fog. “I’m going to call nine-one-one.”

“Don’t.” He forces himself to a sitting position. “I’m coming.”

“You’re at least ten feet away from me.”

“Fifteen, but the angle of the rock is almost forty-five degrees. This wouldn’t even count as rock climbing. It’s advanced hiking, and I could do it hammered.”

“You might be bleeding internally.”

He stands, looking unsteady as hell. I hope he was right about doing this drunk, because that’s what he looks like right now. He grasps onto a ridge above him and pulls. The first part of the way works pretty well, because like he said, it’s not that steep.

But the drop right where I’m standing is a solid five feet.

There’s a grunt. “I might need your help with this last part.”

“Listen. For the record I vote calling for help. If we both go over the edge and die in the sea, I want it to be clear that I was against this.”

“Fine,” he says between gritted teeth. “Don’t help.”

I make sure my feet are planted on fairly dry ground, grasp his hand, and pull as hard as I can. There’s a moment of uncertainty where we waver, his weight more than my strength, but then we collapse on the rock. It’s hard and cold and pointy in some places—but it’s never felt so good as right now. I press my cheek against it and let out a sob of relief.

Can adrenaline make you drunk? I feel a little hammered as I stand up. I stagger a little, but he doesn’t move from the ground. “Beau? Mr. Rochester?”

“I like it when you call me Beau,” he says without moving.

“Can you walk?”

“I may have understated how much pain I was in down there.”

“Oh my God, you are bleeding internally.”

“I’m not.” I can hear the scowl in his voice, though he doesn’t lift his head. “It’s my damned leg. I don’t think I can make it back to the house without a walking stick.”

“I’m not getting you a walking stick. Your leg is broken.”

“Well, I can crawl there. It will be undignified as fuck, but I probably deserve it.”

“You need crutches. And a cast. And X-rays. And a hospital, goddamn it.”

“The same way you had a hospital when you broke your wrist? Twice?”

“Yes,” I say, thoroughly aggravated at him. “That’s why you were able to bribe people to get the hospital records. Which I’m still mad about.”

“Thirty-six years climbing over these rocks, hauling lobsters on a boat, some truly crazy illegal stunts while high as a kite in Los Angeles, and I’ve somehow managed to never break a bone.” He glances at me. “You’re dangerous, Jane Mendoza.”