Chapter 13 #3
See, that’s what came from not eating cake for the better part of a decade.
Outside, the sun had just started to edge the far eastern rim of the mountains, simmering like molten gold hope. It cast fingers of light over the land, and as she sat on the roof of the small home, she made out her escape.
A thirty-foot area around the house shone white and pristine, lethally clear. A tall barn stood sentry over the house, buried in snow, along with a couple outbuildings. The truck with the cover sat in the drive.
She could just slide—
Her movement sent her skidding, and before she could grab hold of the roof, she slid right off—poof!—onto the ground.
Snow filled her cuffs, tunneled up the back of her underjacket, but she managed not to scream, so hallelujah.
She rolled, then ducked down and ran to the battered red truck.
No keys. Of course not. Fine. And she had no tools to hotwire it. Hopefully Thornwood and his scary brother would stay drunk and asleep for a good long time.
How she wished for the fur hat, but she still wore the tuque, so she shoved her bare hands into her pockets, bent against the wind, and took off, through the tire tracks.
“Keep your head on a swivel.” Her father, still in her head. “Control what you can, adapt to what you can’t.”
Okay, enough. Still, the words burrowed inside, burgeoned her. She could do this.
The wind fought to tunnel into her ears, but she kept her chin down, eyes on the tracks and the increasing brightness of the snow. She just needed to find a road. Traffic.
The trees shivered, the pine scent rich here. Turning once, she left the cabin behind, the trees growing up around her. Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.
She kept going, still jogging, her boots crunching in the pack and then—ahead, a dent in the forest wall.
A road. Please—please—
She picked up her pace, running awkwardly with her hands in her pockets, her eyes on the opening . . . slowed.
A lake. It opened up ahead of her, white and pristine. A road ran around it, still just the tire tracks, and disappeared into the woods.
“Don’t give up. This isn’t over.”
Again, her father. She shook his voice away and took off, head down, following the tracks.
It seemed someone might have plowed, maybe during the letup of the storm, which meant civilization, but she hadn’t seen any houses.
From here, however, she watched the dawn break over the eastern horizon, bold and fiery, the flame of a new day. It cast upon the lake, turning the snow to molten rose-gold fire.
Breathtaking.
She slowed, breathing hard, and in the silence, a crack sounded, breaking through the forest.
No—no—
She whirled and froze. A giant bull moose, with its long legs, stepped easily out of the tangle of forest to stand on the frozen road.
Maybe forty feet from her, but she’d heard stories.
His breath puffed out in the cold.
Hers too.
Moose were fast. And lethal, and maybe if she didn’t move—
It snorted at her, and did she imagine it or did its hair raise? Her heart thundered—
Then its ears flicked back.
She held up her hands. “Listen. I’m not going to hurt you. Let’s just pretend we don’t see each other.”
The animal pawed the ground. Run? Or did she stop, drop, and roll—oh—
A gunshot spiked the air, and the moose jerked. For a second, she thought it might be hit, but it spooked and took off running in the opposite direction.
She pressed her hands to her throat, checking to see if her heart had escaped, then turned.
A man stood in the road in front of a newer model Dodge Ram. Expensive and clean, and when the man lowered his gun, she let out a breath.
He wore a puffer jacket, a scarf, a wool hat, and normal boots, like he’d just stepped off the plane from any of the tame Lower 48 states where moose didn’t try and eat you, and you didn’t get stranded in the forest during a blizzard. Okay, maybe that happened in Minnesota. Or Washington state.
But the man looked worried as he lowered his gun. “You okay?”
She nodded, shoved her hands into her pockets, and walked toward him. “I was . . .” What? Out for a morning walk? “I didn’t see him. He just appeared.”
“Right. They do that. Silent but deadly.” He smiled. Glanced past her. “You out here alone?”
She tried not to read into that. Please don’t be a creep. “Not really.” She’d had a few voices in her head to keep her company, right? “I’m, um, from out of town though. I must have gotten turned around. You don’t have a cell phone, do you?”
He gave a half laugh. “Not one that works out here, but I suppose I could drive you to service.”
Right. “I left mine back at the . . . um . . . lodgings.”
“Staying at an Airbnb? This far off the grid?” He looked around, as if trying to locate it.
“The price was low.”
He offered a smile, and he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Mid-thirties, maybe.
“My name is Keely,” she said. “And if you’re willing to give me a ride to cell phone service . . . uh, I do need to make a call.”
He considered her a moment, then sighed, as if he had somewhere to be, and nodded. “Okay.” Walking back to his truck, he stowed the gun in the back. Then glanced at her. “It’s unlocked. And warm.”
She slid into his truck. Smelled new, the seats leather, and she pressed the button on the door to heat them up.
He got in, and her pulse moved to her throat, but he just glanced at her and smiled as he got in. “I’m Sloan, by the way.”
Then he put the truck in reverse, kept his gaze on the display, and started to back up. “Can’t turn around here. Need to head backward, to the nearest driveway.”
They pulled into a plowed driveway, and she spotted a nice-looking cabin in the sideview mirror, heat pumping out of a chimney. A few more yards and she would have seen it too. Her hand nearly went to the door, but maybe they didn’t have cell service either.
And he did turn around, heading toward town, hopefully.
“Seat belt,” he said when the car dinged.
Right. She pulled hers on, finding Goldie’s number in her memory. She’d call her, and Goldie would do the rest.
Including get ahold of Dawson.
He’d be so relieved. She hated thinking about what might have happened if—
The man pulled over. “We can get service here.” Opening his console box, he pulled out a phone. Looked like a burner phone, which felt weird for a man with such nice wheels, but . . .
“I need to make a call first, okay?”
She nodded. Looked away. Hey, Goldie, sorry for the radio silence. Funny thing happened—I was in a plane crash and then spent a blizzard—
“Hey. Yeah, I have her.”
She stiffened. Looked at the man, her heart caught. What—?
“I know. Do better.”
She reached for the door handle, but his hand clamped on her throat, tight. She hit his arm with her fist, and his grip loosened.
It didn’t touch his voice.
“Listen, I’ll make the call. And then we end this.”
She fought her seat belt. It unsnapped.
He grabbed at her, but she slammed her unmittened hand into his jaw.
Self-defense class skills, bam.
His head jerked back, and she barreled out the door. His hand grabbed her jacket, but she ripped away and slammed the door on his hand.
Or, almost.
She took off. Run for the house. Run for the—
Feet crunched in the snow, and she made the mistake of looking back.
Sloan was closing in, too fast, and as she turned back around, he grabbed the back of her snowsuit.
Jerked hard. She slipped in her rubbery Sorels and landed on the ground. He rolled her over, jumped on her, pinning her arms. “Where do you think you’re going, Bliss? You have family to meet.”
Then, just like that, he hit her.
And the world went black.