Nora Roberts - Black Hills

SHE LAID A trail to a stream, backtracked. With sundown the air chilled. Despite the sweat of exertion and fear, she was cold. She imagined the warm sweater she’d shed in her office that afternoon as she took the time to remove her boots, her socks.

Brushing out tracks as she went, she returned to the stream, gritted her teeth as she waded through the icy water. The false trail might fool him, might not. But it was worth a try. She waded downstream ten yards, then ten more before she began to search the banks. Her feet were numb by the time she spotted the tumble of rocks. They’d do.

She climbed out, put her socks and shoes on again, then picked her way over the rocks until they gave way to soft ground. She ran, cutting away from the water, circling the brush until she was forced to shove through it. Her boots thudded as she propelled herself up a slope.

She sought the shelter of trees again to rest, to listen.

The moon rose like a spotlight over the hills. It would help her avoid tripping over roots or rocks in the dark.

Her mother should be halfway back to the farm by now, she calculated. Help would be coming from that direction, too. She had to believe her mother would make it, and would direct the help toward the high ground she’d chosen for her stand.

She had to cut east again. She rubbed her chilled arms, ignoring the sting from nicks and scrapes she’d incurred on the run. If her maneuver at the stream bought her any time, she had the distance to make it. She just needed the stamina.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed to her feet, then cocked her head as she heard a quiet splash.

Some time, she thought as she turned east. But not as much as she’d hoped.

He was coming. And he was closing in.

COOP STOPPED AGAIN. He saw the slash, fresh, on the pine bark. Lil’s sign. But he studied the prints-cougar tracks. The first pointed west, and the second north.

Nothing to prove it was her cougar, he thought. And clearly, she’d gone west. Following Ethan’s trail, to find her mother. But after, he’d want the hunt. Want the thrill.

Coop’s head said go west, but his heart…

“Head west. Be slow, go quiet. Follow the slash marks. Radio back, tell them I’m heading north from here.”

“But why?” Lena demanded. “Where are you going?”

“I’m following the cat.”

Wouldn’t she have led Ethan away from her mother? Coop asked himself. His heart thudded every time he thought he’d lost the trail. What made him think he could track a cougar? Mr. Fucking New York. She wouldn’t leave signs now. No handy slash marks or rock piles. She couldn’t leave signs because by now he was hunting her.

Come after me, she asked him. He could only pray he was.

Twice he lost the trail, so desperation and terror made his skin clammy. And his belly would clutch each time he found it again.

Then he saw the bootprints. Lil’s. Even as he crouched, touched a finger to the impression she’d left on the ground, his body shuddered. Alive. Still alive and moving. He saw where others-Ethan’s-crossed hers. He was following, but she was still ahead. And the cat followed both.

He moved ahead. When he heard the murmur of water on rock, he picked up his pace again. She’d headed toward water, to lose him in the water.

When he reached the stream, he stood, baffled. Her tracks led into the water, while Ethan’s moved forward, back, circled around again. He closed his eyes, tried to clear his mind and think.

What would she do?

False trails, backtracking. He had no skill for that. If she’d gone into the water, she might’ve come out again anywhere. The cat had gone in, that was clear enough. Maybe just to cross, or maybe to follow her. Which way?

His hands fisted at his sides as he struggled to see, to look at the land as she would. Upstream and across, she could cut around to his grandparents’ farm, or other houses. A long clip, but she could do it. Down and across, her parents’ farm. Closer.

She had to know help would come from that direction.

He started to wade in, to follow that instinct. Then stopped.

Downstream, and east. The grassland. Her camera. Her place.

He cut back, circled, and ran. He didn’t follow tracks now, but the thoughts and patterns of a woman he’d known and loved since childhood.

JOE STARED DOWN at the blood staining the ground. It was black in the moonlight. His head went light, his knees weak, so he knelt down, laying his hand over the blood. He thought, could only think: Jenna.

“Over here!” one of the deputies called out. “It’s Derrick Morganston. Goddamn it, it’s Derrick. He’s dead.”

Not Jenna. Not his Jenna. Later, sometime later, he might feel sorrow that he didn’t think of the man, his family, and only of his own. But now fresh fury and fear pushed him to his feet.

He started forward again, searching for tracks.

Like a miracle, she came through the shadows and the moonlight. She staggered, fell, even as he raced toward her.

He dropped to his knees again, pulled her up, rocked, wept. He stroked her bruised face with his fingers. “Jenna.”

“The grasslands.” She croaked it out.

“Here’s water. Ma, here’s water.” Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as Farley held water to her lips.

She drank to ease her raging thirst as Farley petted her hair, as Joe rocked. “The grasslands,” she repeated.

“What?” Joe took the bottle from Farley. “Drink a little more. You’re hurt. He hurt you.”

“No. Lil. The grasslands. She’s leading him there. Her place. Find her. Joe. Find our baby.”

HE HAD TO know where she was going now, but it couldn’t be helped. She only had to get within range of the camera, trust someone would see. Then hide. All that tall grass, she could hide.

She had the knife in her boot. He didn’t know about that. She wasn’t defenseless. She hefted a rock, clutched it tight in her fist. Damn right she wasn’t defenseless.

God, she needed to rest. To catch her breath. She’d have sold her soul for a single sip of water. She wished the moon behind clouds, just for a few minutes. She could find her way now in the dark, and the dark would hide her.

The muscles in her legs wept as she fought her way up the next slope. The fingers that clutched the rock were numb with cold. Her breath whisked out, little ghosts, as she panted, as she pushed herself to the edge of endurance.

She nearly stumbled, hated herself for the weakness, and braced her hand on a tree until she found her balance.

The bolt slammed into the trunk inches from her fingers. She dropped, rolled behind the tree.

“I could’ve pinned you like a moth!”

His voice carried through the clear air. How close? How close? Impossible to tell. She lunged up, keeping low in the sprint from tree to tree. As the ground leveled out, she pushed harder. She imagined the shock and pain of one of those vicious bolts in the back. Cursed the thought. She’d come so far, nearly there. Her lungs burned, pushing air out as whistles as she tore her way through the brush, waking her freezing skin with fresh cuts.

He’d scent her blood now.

She burst out, praying someone would see as she flew across camera range. Then she dived, into the grass. Clamping her teeth, she slid the knife from her boot. Her heart pounded against the ground as she held her breath. Waited.

Such quiet, such stillness. The air barely stirred the grass. As the blood beating in her head slowed, she heard the night sounds, little rustles, the lazy call of an owl. Then him, coming through the brush.

Closer, she thought. Come closer.

The bolt cut through the grass a foot to the left. She bit back the scream tearing at her throat, stayed still.

“You’re good. I knew you would be. Best I’ve had. I’m sorry for it to end. I’m thinking I might give you another chance. Want another chance, Lil? Got any left? Go on and run.”