WILD RIVALS

Four minutes. That's about how long Mara Vance gave the guy in the new boots before he broke his ankle. She hung back about twenty feet, watching him pick his way down a slab of granite still wet from last night's rain. New boots, unscuffed soles, the kind of confidence you only get from watching a gear commercial and never actually standing on wet rock in your life. He had money — that much was obvious from the jacket, the sunglasses, the way he'd asked twice at the trailhead if there'd be cell service. Money didn't mean balance. "Left foot," she called out. "Not the ledge — the c***k next to it." He didn't listen. They never did, not until the ground reminded them why she'd said it in the first place. His boot came down on the ledge. The ledge did exactly what she knew it would. She was moving before he'd even finished falling — grabbed his pack strap, planted her other hand flat against the rock, and for about three seconds she was the only thing standing between this guy and a very expensive helicopter ride off the mountain. She hauled him back up onto his feet. He laughed, that shaky, too-loud laugh people get when they've almost died and haven't caught up to it yet. "Nice catch," he said. "Nice listening," she said. "Try it next time." This was the job, really. Not the summit photos everyone posted, not the campfire stories that got her five-star reviews — the job was those four minutes nobody thanked her for, because nothing happened. She'd built Vance Trail & Wilderness on exactly that. Three years since she'd taken over what was left of her dad's company, and she still scouted every route twice, checked every strap and buckle herself, never let a client near a rock face she hadn't already stood on. It cost her bookings sometimes. Cost her a reputation for being "a lot," according to one guy's Yelp review. She didn't care. Nobody died on her watch. That was the whole business model. Which is why what she saw back at the trailhead an hour later stopped her cold, keys still in her hand. There was a second van parked behind hers. Sleek, silver, with SUMMIT EDGE ADVENTURES stamped across the side in a font that looked expensive on purpose. Engine still running, like it had somewhere better to be. And leaning on the hood, sunglasses shoved up into his hair, looking like he'd just walked off the cover of a catalog she'd never buy from — was a man she recognized instantly and had zero interest in seeing again. Jonah Reyes. "Tell me this is a coincidence," she said, before he'd even opened his mouth. "Mara Vance." He said her name like it was funny to him. Everything was funny to him — that was basically his whole personality. "Small world." "It's a two-thousand-acre wilderness area. It's not that small." "And yet." He gestured toward the eight people now climbing out of both vans, checking name tags, slowly figuring out something wasn't right. "Same date. Same route. And unless I'm wrong" — he checked his clipboard, way too pleased with himself — "the same eight clients. Your Hendersons, my Hendersons." Her stomach dropped somewhere around her boot laces. She'd taken this booking six weeks ago. Confirmed it twice, actually — filed the permits, packed the food, checked every piece of gear personally, because this was the trip that got her through the slow season. And now, because of some scheduling screwup, or maybe some client who'd booked two companies just to see who'd show up, she was standing in a gravel parking lot getting laughed at by Summit Edge's most photogenic guide. "There's obviously been a mistake," she said. "There has," Jonah agreed. "Just not sure it's mine." "Your company doesn't even run this route. You do the two-hour waterfall selfie tours." Something crossed his face — quick, gone before she could pin it down. "We expanded," he said. "Turns out people like coming back alive. Wild concept." Behind them, the Henderson group — four couples on some kind of joint anniversary trip, she remembered now, the booking that had felt like a gift six weeks ago — had stopped even pretending not to listen. "So which one of you is actually taking us up?" asked the oldest guy in the group, wearing a jacket so new it still had the fold lines in it. Mara opened her mouth. Jonah opened his at the exact same second. They just looked at each other. Neither one gave an inch. "Both of us, looks like," Jonah said, before she could get a word out. "Lucky you. Two guides, one price." "That's not—" she started. "Oh my god, I love that," one of the wives said, already reaching for her phone. "Competing guides. This is so Parent Trap." Mara looked at eight expectant faces. At a route she'd personally walked three weeks ago. At the guy who'd once told a room full of investors that companies like hers were "just marketing for people scared of adventure" — she'd heard about it secondhand, but she'd never forgotten it. And she felt that very specific kind of fury that comes from watching an entire season get held hostage by somebody else's ego. "Fine," she said. Jonah blinked. Whatever he expected, that wasn't it. "Fine?" "We're not driving eight people back down this mountain to argue about a booking error while our weather window closes." She was already walking toward her van, already doing the math — one guide for every four clients instead of eight, someone up front and someone in the back, it could actually work if he didn't do something reckless to prove a point. "You follow my route. My pace. My safety calls, no exceptions, no matter how good the photo looks." "Or," Jonah said, catching up like this was fun for him, like any of this was fun, "we split the difference. My route's faster." "Your route's riskier." "My route gets them to the ridge in time for sunset. Which is the whole reason four of these people are here celebrating their anniversary, so unless you want to explain to Mrs. Henderson why she's watching the sun go down behind a granite wall—" "I'd rather explain that than explain why she's in a body bag." "Dramatic." "Realistic." They'd reached the trailhead sign by now, all eight clients gathered in a loose semicircle, clearly enjoying this way more than they should. Mara realized, a beat too late, that she'd been having this entire argument out loud, in public, in front of the people who were currently paying both their salaries. She took a breath. Reset. Business voice. "We compromise," she said. "My protocols. Your pace, where it doesn't compromise them. We get them up, we get them down, and then we never have to do this again." Jonah looked at her a second longer than the conversation really called for. Something moved behind the easy grin — there and gone, same as before. For a second she thought he'd actually push back. Instead he stuck his hand out. "Deal," he said. "Try to keep up, Vance." She shook it once, hard, and didn't smile. "Try not to get anyone killed, Reyes." Behind them, the trail climbed four hundred feet up into cloud cover. Neither of them had checked the forecast closely enough to see the storm system already building at the top.