Sylvie Kurtz - Spirit Of A Hunter

Nora scrunched down in the Jeep’s seat, spine rounded, legs pressed together, arms tight against her sides, keeping still and quiet. She’d spent a great deal of her childhood quivering in fear, making herself invisible, yet fear had taken on a new dimension when she’d delivered Scotty and known unconditional love for the first time.

The thought of being pregnant, a mother, had petrified her. She wasn’t ready. Tommy wasn’t ready. Things were too unstable with the resurgence of his illness and their uncertain future. Then, when the nurse had laid this innocent little creature into her arms, all she’d wanted to do was to knit him back into the protective cocoon of her womb, away from this harsh world’s dangers.

She’d tried to protect him, whipping toy trucks and Lego pieces from under his dimpled feet, distracting him from the greenhouse of tempting plants with which his grandmother decorated every room, shielding him from the Colonel’s unreasonable expectations.

Love that fervent didn’t make you brave, she’d learned, it made you afraid—of everything. And the thought of losing her son—the best part of her—now terrified her like nothing before.

Her only job had been to keep her little boy safe. A job she’d done with a fierceness that bordered on obsession. He would have a happy childhood, if that was the only thing she accomplished.

Overcompensation, she knew. For all the good it had done.

Where was he? Was he warm enough? Was he hungry?

Was he breathing?

What would happen to him if the Colonel’s men followed their orders and she met with a convenient accident?

On the verge of tears again, she turned to the window. She frowned as a road sign zoomed by. “Shouldn’t we be heading north, not south?”

“I’m taking you to a safe house.”

She strained against the seat belt. “No! That’s not going to work. I can’t abandon my son when he needs me.”

“I’ll find him.”

“His medicine—”

“I’ll get it to him.”

“Do you know anything about kids?”

“I’ll bring him back.” Sabriel’s iron hand squeezed hers. “Safe. I promise.”

The rigid lines of his face, telling their own tale, negated any reassurance she might have gained from the warm gesture. “Like you did Tommy during Ranger School?”

His hand shot off hers, stinging her with ripped-flesh rawness, and gripped the steering wheel as if he needed its steadying balance.

“I’m sorry. That was out of line.” Her cutting comment had hit a still-fresh scar, and she wanted to smooth the hurt. She’d been on the receiving end of cruel words often enough to know better. But her worry for Scotty trumped all and brought out a ruthless streak.

She reached toward Sabriel, but his aura vibrated with an electric-fence intensity that would fry her if she dared to cross its boundary. She folded her hands into her lap. “You’re trying to help me. And I’m being ungrateful.”

As the Colonel never ceased to remind her whenever she defied any of his orders. And like the Colonel, Sabriel was taking over without asking, expecting her to fall meekly in line and obey.

The worst part was that letting him take over would be easy—too easy. Her spine curved in as if it had lost its anchoring guy wire. She needed his help. He was fit and strong and knew his way around the mountains. He knew how to find Tommy. He knew how to bring Scotty back to her.

Something she could not do for herself.

She flattened her palms on her thighs, shoring up her resolve. She couldn’t let fear rule. Not this time. And she couldn’t continue to let other people make decisions for her. Especially not when it came to Scotty. Maybe if she’d taken a stronger stand against the Colonel’s intrusive meddling, then Tommy wouldn’t have felt he had to take Scotty.

“The Aerie’s a safe bunker,” Sabriel said.

“The Colonel—”

“Won’t be able to get to you.”

“I’m tougher than I look.” Her chin flagged up. “I won’t complain. I promise.”

“You’ll slow me down.”

The Jeep bumped over a dip in the road, forcing her to grab onto the dashboard. “I’ll keep up. I swear.”

“You’ll muddle the tracks.”

“I’ll stay out of your way.”

“The best thing you can do for your son is to let me find him. Alone.”

He spoke to her as if she were a kindergartner who was having trouble learning how to tie her shoes. Her back stiffened. “Do you know anything about asthma? What if Tommy can’t cope? Can you handle him when he’s in a manic phase? Or, even worse, when he’s scraping the bottom of the depression barrel?”

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