Absaroka Ambush (Deadly Miles #1)

Chapter 1

Gina

Gina Connolly checked her GPS watch and didn’t like what she saw.

They were three miles from Bearwater on the outward section of the trail, with storm clouds building fast over the peaks like an angry wall. The wind had picked up in the last ten minutes, carrying the scent and feel of snow.

In mid-May, at nine thousand feet in Wyoming, anything was possible.

“We should turn back,” she called to the group spread out along the narrow trail ahead of her.

Brooke was setting a punishing rhythm fifty yards up, her Moose Range Run 100 training plan apparently immune to common sense. Brooke’s cousin Nick kept up easily beside her, but his head kept turning toward the darkening sky.

Kelsey maintained her steady, efficient stride immediately ahead of Gina in the middle of the pack, while Joe brought up the rear, breathing hard as they made the climb up the hillside.

He had slipped twice on patches of snow lingering in the shaded sections on the lower part of the trail, the north-facing slopes still holding winter’s grip despite the spring date.

The first fat snowflake hit Gina’s cheek.

“Seriously, guys,” she said, louder this time. “The weather’s turning faster than forecasted. Let’s bag it and head back.”

Brooke glanced back, her face flushed with exertion and something that looked like panic. “We can’t turn around. I pushed everyone to do this run today so that it would fit my training schedule. I need this distance. This climb. This exact route.”

“Gina’s right,” Nick said, his voice carrying an edge of authority that surprised her.

She’d only met Brooke’s cousin an hour ago when they’d gathered at the trailhead, but something about his tone suggested he knew what he was talking about.

“If it snows too much, we could get turned around and lose the trail.”

“It’s only another mile or so,” Brooke insisted. “If everyone would stop yakking and start climbing, we’ll get it done before it gets too bad.” With that, Gina’s friend put her head down and drove forward, pumping her arms to get her legs going.

Great. Brooke was cutting the mileage short. They’d done this run last July, when the weather was more predictable, and there was no way it was only a mile to the turnaround. Two miles was more likely, maybe even a little more.

And the entire trail had felt practically straight up. This stretch was no exception. It was a full-on climb that would test their legs and their endurance. Gina figured it would take at least an hour to reach the top.

She glanced back at Joe, who was falling farther behind. Make that an hour and a half, maybe two.

Brooke’s stubbornness could mean the difference between a good training story and a disaster. If they were on a flat paved road, they could do two miles in twenty minutes, easy.

But here in the mountains, on this technical trail, with an almost two-thousand-foot elevation gain, they’d be moving slow. Too slow to beat the snow.

Even if they turned back now and made it to the ghost town of Bearwater, they’d still face a forty-mile drive to anything resembling civilization. Elkridge was the closest town, and the first twelve miles followed a road that was little more than a four-wheel-drive track.

There were no bridges where it crossed the Sagebrush River again and again, and if this storm dropped real precipitation, the river would be impossible to ford.

“How waterproof is your pack?” she asked, catching up to Kelsey.

“Waterproof enough.” Kelsey’s response was clipped, distracted. “You worried about a little mountain weather?”

“I’m worried about a lot of mountain weather.” Gina lifted her hand toward the advancing wall of charcoal.

“What do you want to do?” Kelsey asked. “Turn back to the cars? Wait it out?”

Gina shook her head. “There’s not going to be any waiting it out. This isn’t a passing shower. It’s going to set in.”

“You think?” She glanced around and shrugged. “I don’t know. It doesn’t look that bad.”

“Trust me on this. It’s going to dump.”

Kelsey Kensington was still new to the area, having moved to their little Wyoming town only about two years ago. She’d joined the Basin County Running Club and showed up regularly for the weekly town runs, often tagging along on the longer trail runs on weekends.

But she didn’t understand how things could turn here the way Gina did. After many years in Irma, Gina had learned to read the sky. Conditions could flip in an instant, and danger could come out of nowhere.

Nick dropped back while Brooke powered ahead like a woman possessed. His steady breathing and measured stride impressed Gina.

Often, people struggled at this altitude, but he moved with the confidence of someone who belonged in these mountains. His dark eyes reflected the same concern she felt as he navigated the patchy snow and muddy sections of the trail with sure-footed grace.

When a particularly steep section caused her to stumble on a hidden patch of ice, Nick’s hand shot out to steady her elbow, preventing what could have been a nasty fall.

As his hand closed around her arm, heat sparked through the cold fabric—unwelcome, unexpected. It was the kind of thing she shouldn’t be feeling, not here, not now. And certainly not with him.

“Careful,” he said, his grip firm and warm even through her jacket sleeve. “Trail’s getting treacherous.”

“Thanks.” The word came out breathier than she intended. For a moment, caught in his captivating gaze, Gina felt something flutter in her chest that had nothing to do with altitude or exertion.

Then reality crashed back. Brooke had mentioned her cousin was recently out of a long-term relationship, currently between jobs, and had been crashing on various couches for the past year while he “figured things out.”

Everything her hard-learned experiences taught her was to avoid.

She’d been the responsible one since her parents’ divorce when she was twelve, taking care of her mother through depression, alcoholism, and a series of bad decisions.

She’d learned early that relying on people—especially people who couldn’t even get their own lives together—was a recipe for disappointment.

“What do you think?” she asked him, pulling back slightly and refocusing on the immediate problem. At least he seemed to have good judgment about the weather, even if his personal life was a mess and his cousin had a one-track mind.

“I think the forecast said afternoon storms, and it’s midmorning.

” He lifted a hand toward the approaching wall of weather.

“Someone got it wrong.” His voice dropped lower.

“Plus, we’re in the thick of bear territory here.

If this weather comes in hard and visibility drops, we could walk right into something we don’t want to meet. ”

“Let’s keep talking,” she suggested. “Make sure anything out here can hear us.”

He raised his voice. “We’re going to need to talk louder with the way the wind is picking up.”

“Point taken,” she replied at full volume.

Another snowflake, then three more, hit her face. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since they’d started the run from Bearwater earlier.

They’d left home at dawn, driven over two hours on increasingly rough roads, all for what was supposed to be a routine training run on a nice spring day.

Or as nice as they could expect at this elevation before the weather truly turned to spring.

The calendar might say one thing, but Wyoming weather had a mind of its own.

It snowed not long ago. Patches still remained in shaded areas, which made the footing iffy in places, and fresh snow would make the trail downright dangerous.

“Joe!” Gina called back. “How you holding up?”

“Fine,” came the breathless reply, though he was clearly struggling. He’d just skidded across another icy patch, arms windmilling for balance.

Joe Monroe had only been with the group for a month.

A recent transplant from somewhere on the West Coast, he’d joined the running club to get in shape.

Every run, even the easy ones through the streets of Irma, Wyoming, seemed to hit him harder than it should.

Still, he kept pushing through with a determination that sometimes edged into recklessness.

“We should stick together,” Nick suggested, his tone carefully diplomatic. “Keep the group tighter. Trail conditions are getting sketchy.”

Gina appreciated that he wasn’t directly challenging Brooke’s leadership of the run, but his message was clear: spreading out in these conditions was risky, and spreading out in bear country during a storm was potentially deadly.

Maybe Brooke’s cousin had more sense than his current life situation suggested.

“Brooke!” she called ahead. “Group up!”

Her friend waved without turning around, maintaining her brutal pace.

Whatever was driving Brooke’s need to complete this specific run went beyond normal training obsession.

There was desperation in the way she attacked the climb, checked her GPS obsessively, muttered calculations about distance and elevation gain.

The wind gusted again, stronger this time, carrying the sharp bite of serious weather. It also carried something else—the rich, musky scent of the Sagebrush River and the darker undertones of the forest awakening from winter. Too bad the weather didn’t get the memo.

Gina had run in Wyoming mountains long enough to read the signs, and everything about this approaching storm screamed trouble.

“Kelsey, talk to me about your gear,” Gina said, falling into step beside her. “Emergency stuff.”

“I brought what you told me to bring.” She gestured at her pack.

“And that is?”

“Emergency blanket, first aid, some food.” Kelsey seemed distracted, nervous about something. “As I said, exactly what you told me to bring. Why?”

“Because if this storm dumps what I think it’s going to dump, we might be making some decisions about shelter.”