Chapter 12
Jaxon’s snore snapped McKenna out of a dead sleep. She turned over in his arms, but he didn’t budge. Her bladder nagged with the need to pee, but the last thing she wanted to do was escape his warmth. She snuggled deeper, but sleep didn’t come.
He snored again.
She didn’t bother taking the flashlight to the bathroom.
The route was one she took in the dark often.
She closed the door halfway, peed, and washed her hands.
Stepping into the hallway, she heard the sound of the fire crackling.
If she added more firewood, they just might make it till morning before being woken by the cold again.
She turned toward the living room. Shadows were scattered around the space in the orange glow.
She picked up some logs and used the poker to position them.
Satisfied, she put the iron piece back in its place and stood.
A cold draft hit her back.
The air in the room changed.
She froze, her breath lodged in her airway.
Someone’s here.
Panic skittered up the back of her neck.
She was just being paranoid.
Creak
The moan of the floorboard made bile hit the back of her throat.
She needed to run, to scream, to wake Jaxon despite the terror seizing her tongue.
She looked in the direction of the bedroom, sucked in a breath, and opened her mouth.
A rush of movement hit her back and a hand slammed over her face, stifling the scream before it reached her throat. Metal ground into her temple: a gun.
She closed her eyes, pushing out the tears that had welled behind her lashes. The man’s scent invaded her: Hot. Stuffy. Astringent. She had to alert Jaxon. But with her attacker’s other arm clamped around her chest, she couldn’t so much as breathe let alone scream.
He dragged her backward. She clamped her hands around his forearm, but the thick flannel of a coat met her nails. She had to fight. Had to do something. If he took her from the house, she wouldn’t survive.
She twisted and bucked, but he moved swiftly backward, his hold unbreakable. Her breath stifled her, hot and damp in the palm of his hand. Cold air blasted her as he opened the back door. The floor creaked, and hope surged through her.
Please, Jaxon. Wake up.
The intruder lowered the gun from her temple as he lifted her over the threshold. He eased the old wooden door shut but didn’t latch it—probably for fear of waking Jaxon.
The northern wind ate through her thin pajama pants and long-sleeved Henley.
The attacker’s arm remained across her chest, his hand over her mouth.
He moved backward down the steps, half carrying her.
She took inventory of his body and proximity.
He must have pocketed the gun. He held her too tightly for him to still have it in his hand.
Now was her only chance.
She worked her mind at warp speed. If she escaped, she’d have to find cover. He could pull out his gun and shoot her before Jaxon made it outside.
He hit the pile of snow at the bottom of the steps. Her gaze swept over the yard and landed on an old tree stump where she normally chopped wood. The handle of the ax jutted out from beneath a blanket of snow.
It wasn’t far. But she wouldn’t be able to swing at him before he could fire a shot. She had to get him down first and take his weapon.
Now, now, now!
She threw her weight backward. He stumbled, his heels catching in the thick snow.
The hand covering her mouth loosened as his weight shifted.
She bit down on his gloved skin as hard as she could, pinching his flesh between her teeth.
He hissed and yanked his hand away, and she drove her elbow into his ribs.
He lost his footing.
She broke away from him, landing in the snow. Then she opened her mouth and screamed. A sharp blow cracked into the side of her head, and she hit the snow face-first.
Bone-chilling cold seeped through her skin. Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes and the world spun.
All went dark.
* * *
Jaxon’s feet hit the floor. His knees quickly followed. He grabbed the bed and righted himself. His gaze fell to the mess of blankets. Empty.
“McKenna!” he bellowed. He grabbed the flashlight and ran to the living room.
The fire licked high in the hearth. Freshly kindled.
His brain floundered as he spun in a circle.
No sounds reached his ears. The scream that had woken him had sounded so close—almost next to him.
He ran to the front door and checked the locks. Secure.
She wouldn’t have left. He charged for the back door, and the cool air skimming his toes ripped a new hole of fear into his chest. He brought the flashlight to the wood.
The door hung ajar. He yanked it open. Tracks ate up the snow on the porch and continued into the backyard.
He turned and dashed to the bedroom, where he pulled on his pants—damn him for sleeping in briefs—and threw on his shirt before running for his boots at the front door.
He grabbed the gun and charged outside without tying his boots. He didn’t care if he got frostbite. Didn’t care if he froze half to death. With fiery rage warming his blood, he’d make it to McKenna first.
He jumped off the porch, landed in the snow, and broke into a run.
One set of footprints—thick and wide—had torn a strip through the crisp, calm powder.
The humming of a motor reached his ears and for a second, he thought of Trevor’s truck.
No, it wasn’t the same. The rumbling sound in the distance was likely coming from a four-wheeler—maybe more of the town’s volunteers bringing food.
Whoever had taken McKenna hadn’t left long ago. Her scream resounded in his head, over and over. He had to find her. He charged into the woods, where the tracks led. Using the flashlight, he illuminated the night. The yellow glow sliced over the pristine white, tarnishing it.
The footsteps ended.
He stopped at a fallen log and turned in a circle. They hadn’t flown, for god’s sake. He climbed over the log and raked his gaze over the ground. There they were: tire tracks.
The kidnapper had a four-wheeler. Trevor’s idling diesel truck had drowned out a lot of sound, so the kidnapper could have parked nearby while they were distracted. Undoubtedly, he’d parked it farther away the other times he “visited.”
Cold sweat soaked the back of his shirt. He dragged in one frosty breath after another. Whoever had her was long gone. He had to get to town, but by the time he made it there or reached anyone who might be able to help, McKenna could be dead.
A war waged inside him. If he ran back to the house, he might be able to get his cell phone and maybe, maybe he could get service. Add a couple more maybes and he might just get ahold of the sheriff.
Fuck it. He didn’t want the sheriff around when he found the cocksucker.
But having his phone would be better than not.
After racing back to the house and grabbing his phone, he pulled McKenna’s snowshoes from the closet.
He adjusted the straps and laced his boots.
Grabbing his coat, he shoved his arms through the sleeves, not wasting the seconds it would take to zip it up.
He fished his phone from his pocket as he hit the snow.
Lord, please let me get service. Just for one fucking minute.