Dana Mentink - Treacherous Trails

“Done so soon?”

The sudden appearance of Bruce Reed, dark hair slicked down and smelling of cologne, made her jump. Her skin prickled as her friend Luke’s words from earlier in the day came back to her.

Reed’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s dangerous.

“Yes,” Ella said. “I tended to Bellweather. I can’t understand how the shoe came loose. I just shod him last week.”

Reed shrugged. “Horses are dumb animals. They don’t know enough to take care of themselves like we do. Nice of you to make an emergency call.”

Dumb animals? Though she knew Bruce Reed was in his fifties, he seemed ageless close up, his skin smooth and tight across his prominent cheekbones, no extra softness anywhere. He quirked a smile to reveal blinding white teeth, the canines pointed and slightly longer than the rest. Wolflike, she mused before she blinked herself back to reality. The fatigue was really getting to her.

She started the engine. “I’ve got to go, Mr. Reed.”

“Call me Bruce. What’s the rush?” He stroked her fingers that still clutched the window frame. “Come join Candy and me for a drink.”

“No, thank you,” she said while easing her hand away. “I don’t drink and my sister is waiting.” Ella had taken a moment to hurry home in between farrier appointments to be sure Betsy had dinner before they took a walk together. A stab of anxiety twisted through her. If she could just save enough to pay for a nurse to come and check on her sister, help her get the proper exercise for her atrophied muscles... “Work today, rest tomorrow,” Ella silently repeated to herself, but her body was screaming for sleep.

Ella blinked as her vision blurred. “I’ve really got to go,” she said, wondering when he would detach himself from her door.

“Take good care of yourself, Ella,” he said with one final smile.

She could feel his gaze on her as she drove along the lane away from Candy Silverton’s lavish stables on the outskirts of Gold Bar. Without warning, Ella began to shake, her grip loosening from the wheel.

Something was wrong, very wrong. Guiding the van to the shoulder, she patted her pockets for her cell phone but could not pull it free, so she unbuckled and stepped from the van. Fresh air would help. Her thermos fell out, rolling off into the leaves, but she was too unsteady to bend over and retrieve it. Her knees buckled and she fell, hands planted on the ground. All she could do was breathe against the dizziness. Vaguely, from the deepest part of her instincts, she heard someone approaching.

Help me, she tried to call out, but the words remained locked inside. Then she was sliding stomach-first onto the ground, rocks biting into her face, unable to move. From above she detected a presence.

Please, she tried to whisper.

Everything went black as a sack was shoved over her head, rough, smelling of oats, an old feed bag. A scream of terror lodged in her throat. Her arms were pulled behind her. Panic surged, and she tried to kick out, but her limbs were leaden. What was wrong with her? Something in her system, her brain thought. No, something in the tea, a drug.

Whoever it was seized her arms and yanked her up. It took her a long moment to realize she was being shoved back into her van, behind the wheel. Something cold made her gasp, a liquid, the sharp scent of alcohol, beer, pouring over her clothes, soaking her flannel jacket, her pants.

Whatever was happening, it was meant to destroy her, she was certain. Her only chance of survival was to get out of that van. She had to force her body to act before it was too late. With every grain of mental strength she readied herself, trying to tense her internal muscles without letting on that she was conscious. She could feel the cool air billowing in through the open van door against her. When he stepped away to close it, she would have one shot, one slender chance, one moment that would decide her fate.

Hands fumbled with her jacket, tugging, then her tormentor reached to straighten her shoulders, posing her as if she were a dime store mannequin. Her mind felt foggy and she was not sure if her eyes would work properly should she manage to get free of the bag. His fingers reached the bottom of the sack and he started to pull it off. She waited no longer.

Arms flailing like unwieldy tree limbs, she catapulted from the car, the burlap falling away. Fingers grasped the back of her jacket so she wriggled out of it and kept on, forcing her legs to carry her toward the trees, anywhere away from her abductor.

Half staggering, half running, like some zombie from a horror movie, she made it to the trees, the sound of pursuit ringing in her ears. Her numb feet caught in a twisted tree root and she tumbled down a shallow ravine in a helpless jumble of arms and legs.

She hit the bottom, the breath driven out her.

Move. Move or he’ll find you. All around were spindly pine trees and granite chunks protruding through a carpet of pine needles and fallen tree trunks. She saw a hollow underneath one of the downed trees. Dragging herself there, heart thundering, she crawled in, scooping handfuls of the dead leaves and needles over herself as a form of filthy camouflage. The sound of feet creeping through the needles caused the blood to freeze in her veins. He had to be no more than three yards from her hiding spot.

“Lord, God,” she prayed, but she could not finish as a wave of darkness overcame her.

* * *

Owen slammed his truck to a halt in the morning sunlight, shocked at the sight of Ella Cahill, the ranch farrier and his childhood friend, crawling out of the shrubs onto the road. In disbelief, he flung the door open and ran to her, ignoring the twang of pain in his damaged leg.

“Ella. What happened? How badly are you hurt?”

She reached out a hand and grabbed his arm, the cold of her fingers seeping right through his shirt sleeve. “Someone...someone abducted me.”

He was momentarily speechless. “Who?”

“I don’t know. There was...” She touched her face as if searching for something. “He put a bag on my head. I think he drugged the tea in my thermos.”

Something inside him went white-hot with anger. “Someone you know?”

“I’m not sure.” Her voice was high-pitched, tight. “Where’s my van?”

“I didn’t see it.”

Her eyes scanned the sunlit shoulder of the road before widening. “Owen, what time is it?”

“Six a.m.”

Her mouth fell open. “Thursday morning? Betsy’s been alone all night?” She struggled to her knees. “I have to get home.”

“We need to call the police and an ambulance.”

“I don’t need an ambulance. Call the police, but get me home first. They can talk to me there, okay? Please?”

Her face was scratched and bruised, red hair matted with burrs and leaves. What kind of person would harm Ella Cahill? He put his rage aside and prioritized the mission. Get her home. Get her help. Punishing her attacker would have to wait.

Easing a hand under her elbow, he helped her stand slowly, gratified that there were no outward signs of broken bones or blood. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her to his truck, but she was already moving in that direction under her own power.

She pushed tangled hair from her face. “How did you know to find me here?”

“I’ve been driving the area for an hour searching for you.” He hesitated. “The cops, Larraby I mean, called the ranch before sunrise looking for you.”

“Why me?”

He still could hardly believe it himself. “They got an anonymous call that you and Candy Silverton’s nephew, were in an altercation yesterday.”

“An altercation with Luke? Who said that?”

“I don’t know, but now Luke is apparently missing.”

“Missing?” she gasped.