Doranna Durgin - Survival Instinct

Karin glanced warily out her side window. A pitch black night couldn’t stop her imagination from filling in the details of the steep drop to the river below. Damn good thing she was already sitting down; her knees were weak as water. She found Ellen sitting frozen, her hands clenched around the steering wheel so tightly they trembled. The windshield wipers slid across glass in a precise dance; the deer was long gone.

But we’re okay.

When Ellen’s shaky gaze connected with Karin’s, a multihued gray so like her own, Karin deliberately looked over the side again and drawled most dramatically, “Cree-ap.”

Ellen snorted, shaking herself free of her frozen fear. “That would so have sucked.”

Karin looked down on the mess of pretzels and warm soda in her lap and lifted her hands away in disgust. “Cree-”

Neither of them had time to scream as the coal truck came rumbling around the curve and slammed into the back of the car.

Karin Sommers’s Journal, March 13

Dear Ellen,

I love this little dormer. I love the way it feels like a place where only you and I go. I love the way it looks out over the driveway and the yard, letting me watch from high shadows.

Things are so different here…I can see why you came here to think through your life. To make changes. I guess that’s my job now, but my decisions still seem a long way off.

It’s easier to think about the work. I just finished tilling a truckload of manure into the garden. Mostly I used the tiller, but you know…there’s something fulfilling about doing it by hand. Almost…meditative. I bet you felt the same. Did you get blisters, too? And here I thought I’d gotten hardened up over the past year. I fit into your clothes, my hair’s as long as yours, and I’ve got your signature down pat. I even let my damned eyebrows fill in. I’m not the woman Rumsey made of me, not anymore.

I have to say he taught me one thing, though…how to survive. You do what it takes, right? So here I am in the middle of Blue Ridge country, learning to be a country girl. And I’m damned good at it if I say so myself.

Ah, lookie here. Your dog is barking. I’m not expecting anyone (as if I ever am). And it’s a city car, with a good-looking city guy. You forget to tell me about someone?

I don’t think he likes dogs. The door’s open…no, I really don’t think he likes dogs. “Cautious” would be kind. I’m not laughing, really!

Okay, yeah…I am.

He remembered her as a quiet woman, someone suited to the solitude of these aged, rolling ridges north of Roanoke if not, perhaps, to the hard work of keeping up a little homestead with a small, rolling pasture, freshly turned soil for a garden in the flat area near the house and a chicken coop beyond. He couldn’t see the goats, but he heard them well enough.

And then there was the dog.

Dave Hunter spent his days tracking down children, facing predatory human monsters and occasionally lending a hand in his family’s privately funded security business. He’d seen the darkest alleys, the filthiest warehouses, the slimiest side of human nature. He’d built a reputation for success, for his commitment to finding children and for his unyielding values.

But he didn’t like dogs.

This was a mutt, a big one. He stood between Dave and the house, head lowered slightly, tail tight and high. He had a long white-and-reddish coat and a broad, handsome head with alert ears, and he looked very much in command. Dave stood beside the car and eyed the wraparound porch with some longing.

As if you’re going to give up after coming all this way to talk to this woman.

Dave looked back at the dog. “That’s enough now. Go away.” In spite of the cool day-a perfect day, actually, with a bright sky and the sun just warm enough to offset the mild breeze-he felt sweat prickle between his shoulder blades.

The dog didn’t appear to be sweating. The dog appeared to know just exactly who was in control. He growled softly.

Maybe she’s not home.

And maybe Dave didn’t have all the time in the world. Maybe a little boy’s life hung in the balance.

Looking the dog directly in the eye, Dave took a step forward.

The creature dove for his ankle, gave his pants leg a good yank and backed off again before Dave could even react. Dave froze, heart pounding loud and fast. The damned dog probably knew it, too.

“Standing still is the first smart thing you’ve done.”

The voice was quiet, a smooth whiskey alto. Dave moved only his eyes to find her-there she was, leaning against the porch post with her arms crossed and no apparent sympathy for his predicament. He looked back at the dog. She made a tsking noise and said, “Stop meeting his eyes. You’re challenging him.”

He looked away, reluctantly so. The growling quieted. Off balance and not used to it, he should have known to keep his mouth shut. “Will he really bite?”

“What do you think?” Amusement colored that voice. He didn’t remember it being so low, so completely self-assured. In fact, he remembered a woman who often hesitated before speaking.

“C’mon,” he said, and his desperation leaked through. “Cut me a break.” And then at her silence, he jerked his gaze over to her and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Remind me,” she said.

He fought to regain some composure. A little dignity, perhaps. “Dammit, call him off.”

She might have smiled. Hard to tell from here. Without moving, she said, “Dewey,” and the dog trotted back toward the porch. But he sat in front of the house, with his uncompromising gaze on Dave.

With effort, Dave looked away. Don’t challenge him.

He looked at Ellen Sommers instead-and abruptly blinked, confused by the sudden impression that this wasn’t Ellen at all. Except…she had Ellen’s face, a lean face with a wide, expressive mouth. She had Ellen’s hair falling below her shoulders, the same deep brown with honey highlights. And she had Ellen’s dark, expressive brows-not plucked thin to be fashionable. But in the few conversations he’d had with Ellen Sommers, she’d kept her face smooth of expression. Now she looked at him with one eyebrow quirked in question.

No. In demand.

Well, country living certainly seemed to suit her, top to bottom. Before, she’d seemed thin. Now her jeans hugged an athletically lean figure, and under a sloppy hooded sweatshirt her baby-doll T-shirt showed a strip of toned belly without quite showing her belly button.

He wondered if she was an innie or an outie.

He closed his eyes, and breathed out slowly. “Dave Hunter,” he said. “I spoke to you about fourteen months ago.”

“Did you?” She said it negligently, as if it wouldn’t have mattered one way or the other. Okay, now that stung. If she didn’t remember him specifically, surely she’d remember why they’d spoken.

“About the missing boy? Terry Williams? It was right before you moved.” Not that he’d had any trouble tracking her down. It was what he did, after all.

She hesitated. He took the opportunity to ease a few steps closer. Not so close as to set the dog off again, but close enough to see she did indeed have Ellen’s eyes, a piercing gray-blue. Those distinctive brows drew together, leaving her with a disturbed expression. Finally she said, “Shortly after I moved here, I was in a car accident. I’m afraid there are some things from that period that I just can’t remember. You seem to be one of them.” At his surprise, she added a sardonic, “Don’t take it personally. It was a pretty bad accident.”

Held at bay by a mutt, lost for words before he even started…and a faint hope fast turning into a fading hope. If she didn’t remember…