Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
TEAGAN
Engrossed in the thrill of riding Onyx, Teagan didn’t notice the newcomer until he was at the corral gate. Fit, thirty-something, and armed, he was dressed in an official uniform, complete with badge, baton, and handcuffs. She didn’t know who he was, but she knew what he was.
Teagan coaxed the feisty stallion to a walk, then brought him to a halt on the farthest side of the paddock to dismount. A small voice in the back of her head suggested that the guy might just be a friend of Mona’s and was enjoying the show, but the knot in her gut told her otherwise.
She’d learned the hard way to trust her instincts.
She remained on the far side of the stallion, nearly invisible beside the fourteen-hand-high mount. A discreet peek around Onyx’s foreleg revealed the cop leaning against the gatepost. His stance was deceptively casual. His intense stare was anything but.
“Evening,” he called out in a friendly sort of tone, his deep voice carrying easily in the still, dusky air. “You mind giving me a moment of your time?”
Teagan pretended she hadn’t heard him. Her mind was racing with the hows and whys, but ultimately, none of it mattered. Another lesson she’d learned the hard way: don’t trust the police.
Switching into survival mode, Teagan silenced the mental noise and focused. This was not her first rodeo, and she’d prepared for this eventuality. The cop was between her and the loft, so going back there was a no-go.
Woods, it was then.
She let the adrenaline build, reviewing escape routes and the best way to get to the emergency pack she’d stowed in the woods about a mile away.
The cop straightened, his hand on the gate latch, ready to enter.
“You there,” he called out again, his voice louder this time. “I need a word, please.”
The latch door from the house slammed shut as Mona barreled out at full speed. “Bill Jackson, what are you doing out there?”
Mona spoke with the tone of a woman chastising a bunch of kids for TP’ing her house on mischief night. Unfortunately for Teagan, the sheriff didn’t seem fazed. His eyes remained riveted on her—or rather, the part of her he could see beneath the stallion’s underside.
“Now, Miss Mona, this ain’t none of your concern. Go on back in the house and let me do my job.”
“Don’t you use that tone of voice with me,” Mona chastised. “I used to change your diapers. You can’t just come around, hassling my employees. You tell me what this is all about.”
Mona’s intervention was the best distraction Teagan was going to get. She’d barely taken a step when the sheriff reached for the gun at his hip.
Teagan froze.
“Get back in the house, Mona,” the sheriff said in warning.
Even across the paddock, Teagan could hear Mona’s gasp. Could see Mona reaching out for his arm as she pleaded, “Bill, stop. You can’t do this.”
Clearly, the sheriff didn’t agree. And since Teagan wasn’t about to stick around to find out why he wanted to talk to her, she did the only thing she could do—she bolted.
“Stop!” the sheriff yelled, shoving Mona out of the way and beginning his pursuit.
Teagan vaulted over the railing, the sleeve of her oversize shirt catching on a nail.
She flipped, hitting the ground hard. Screaming pain tore through her shoulder like white-hot lightning, but she rolled with the momentum, shoving it to the back of her mind.
Back on her feet, she ran full tilt toward the woods, no longer caring about trying to remain hidden.
The only thing that mattered now was speed and putting as much distance between her and the cop as possible.
She broke through the tree line without hesitation and headed for the creek. She could hear the sheriff’s pounding feet behind her, growing closer every second. A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on her forehead as the pain battered against her mental shields.
It’s just pain, she told herself, blocking it out. You’ve had worse.
Half a mile later, the excruciating ache in her shoulder was making her sick to her stomach. She cursed as she leaped over a fallen log, hearing her pursuer’s heavy footsteps gaining ground.
Wasn’t it just her luck to be chased by a small-town sheriff who wasn’t pudgy and middle-aged?
Her mind raced, searching for any possible advantage. Injured as she was, she couldn’t outrun him. She sure as hell couldn’t fight him; he was three times her size.
Think, Teagan. Think.
Perhaps she could use his bulk against him. Her mind seized on that, and she changed direction sharply and angled away from the creek. The abrupt change sent a fresh wave of pain through her. Her shoulder was dislocated for sure.
The juke turned out to be a smart move. The sheriff was fast on the straightaway, but not so good with quick turns. She zigzagged through the trees, glad she’d had the foresight to map these woods out beforehand.
Several sudden direction changes later, she crawled headfirst into a hole beneath a fallen tree.
The old bear den was one of several potential hidey-holes she’d discovered during her nocturnal forays.
The scents of old fur, wet leaves, and dank earth wrapped around her as she shrank down and made herself as small as possible.
Luckily, no bears had claimed the space this season.
Thank God for small favors, she muttered, then remembered that she’d stopped believing in a higher power a long time ago.
She bit hard into her lower lip against the intense pain shooting up into her neck and making her stomach roil.
Forcing herself to breathe deep and slow, she willed herself into silent stillness when she heard the heavy footfalls of the sheriff outside.
She shrank back even further, made herself smaller, even going so far as to close her eyes, like when she was little and her stepfather was on a bender.
If I close my eyes, he can’t see me …
The sheriff walked back and forth several times, cursing under his breath. The descending nightfall and darkness of the forest worked to Teagan’s advantage. Unless he knew exactly where to look, he wouldn’t see her.
“It’s gonna be a long, cold night,” Bill said, his voice clear in the crisp night air. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
The lack of footsteps told Teagan he had stopped. Thankfully, he was at least twenty yards away from the den, so Teagan allowed herself a slow, quiet exhale of relief.
“I know you’re hurt,” he said. “Come on out, and we’ll get you fixed up. I just want to talk.”
Teagan wondered if he fingered his gun every time he was looking for a friendly chat and decided to pass on his offer. Given the shape she was in, she wouldn’t have a prayer of escaping him if he got hold of her now.
“Suit yourself,” Bill said. “I’ll be up at the ranch, waiting in Mona’s nice, warm kitchen and drinking some of her special cocoa. You can join me when you’re ready.” He paused, then added, “I wouldn’t take too long if I were you.”
She made silent but liberal use of the F-word.
She would have hit her head against the hard ceiling of the den if she didn’t think it would give away her position.
She’d known the past few weeks had been too good to last. Worse, now that she’d been discovered, her presence put Mona—and everyone else at Hopewell—in danger.
A stray tear coursed down her cheek, surprising her. She didn’t cry anymore. Hadn’t in a long, long time. Shedding tears did nothing but deplete her body of water that could be put to better use elsewhere.
This was a hell of a way to repay Mona for taking her in, not asking unnecessary questions, and appreciating the work she did. How many well-meaning souls had suffered because they had the soft hearts and bad sense to try to help?
Too many.
No matter how far or how fast she ran, trouble caught up to her.
Teagan settled in to wait on the off chance that the sheriff planned on doubling back. There was no doubt she’d have to leave now. Perhaps it was just as well. She hadn’t planned on staying long, although getting through the worst of winter would have been nice.
She would miss it though. Sure, she’d only been around for a few weeks, but it had been a good three weeks. She loved the horses, especially Onyx. Mona was tough but fair and respected personal boundaries.
Teagan waited as long as she dared after the sound of the sheriff’s retreating footsteps faded away. The cold and damp had seeped into her bones, increasing her discomfort. She crawled out inch by inch with stiff limbs, pushing with her knees because her left arm was nearly useless.
Once out, she gulped in the brisk air to clear her head.
Her shoulder was dislocated—she was sure of it.
It had happened before and probably would again.
There was no sense in crying over it. Her flannel shirt was stuck to her back and side, too, suggesting that she’d torn flesh as well as flannel when she vaulted over that fence.
The night just kept getting better.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she forced herself to stand and circled drunkenly until she spotted what she was looking for—a good-sized tree with low-hanging branches.
Then, with a deep breath and a strangled curse, she threw herself against the base of the tree, popping her shoulder back into place.
The action was even more painful than the original fall due to the swelling, but it needed to be done.
She fell to the ground in renewed agony, hot, salty tears flowing freely. A brief respite to gather her strength was all she could afford.
A rustle of underbrush nearby had her instantly alert, the tears ceasing as quickly as if someone had turned off a spigot.
She listened hard and peered into the darkness intently, but all was still.
Common sense told her that it was probably only a rabbit, but she wasn’t willing to take any chances.
With slow, practiced movements that wouldn’t draw attention, she got to her feet and began to head for the creek, keeping to the shadows cast by larger trees and bushes in the moonlight.
Her body ached; her head pounded. She had painkillers and antibiotics in her emergency bag. It was only OTC stuff, but it would take off the edge.
She skirted the trails without thinking.
The moon was clear and high in the sky, shining down through breaks in the trees, lighting the way for her.
Reaching her stash tree took her longer than normal, but she did make it, only to look up and realize she’d made a critical mistake.
Her pack was two levels up, and she hadn’t factored an injury into her escape plan.
She needed that pack. So, using her toes, her knees, and her one good arm, she shimmied up the trunk a few inches at a time until she reached the first crook.
It was slow-going, but Teagan was nothing if not tenacious.
Years of experience climbing into the hayloft, battered and bruised, came back to her.
By the time she heaved herself over the branch, she was breathing heavily. Pain and exhaustion, combined with a lack of food, sent dots swimming in her field of vision. That short climb—child’s play with two arms—had sapped nearly all of her remaining strength.
Climbing to the next level seemed impossible, so she opted for a reach and grab instead. With her good arm against the trunk and her injured arm hanging loosely at her side, she rose on shaky legs and stretched.
Her fingertips brushed against the strap, but she was unable to grab it.
She tried several more times until she managed to snag it on her index and middle fingers and gave a quick tug.
The pack came free, but the weight of it swung her away from the trunk, and between one breath and the next, she was grasping at empty air.
The ground rose up fast, and with a muffled groan, Teagan hit hard.
Her left ankle took the brunt of it, twisting beneath her, but her damaged shoulder caught the secondary impact, jarring her beyond her limits.
Fate, it seemed, had finally decided she’d been running long enough. That was her last thought before the darkness claimed her.