by Stone, Kyla
The hairs rose on the back of his neck. He checked the window again. Threat assessment was engrained in every fiber of his being.
“It could be an animal,” he said. “Maybe a fox or coyote.”
“Maybe,” Hannah said in a small, quivering voice.
He turned away from the window and glanced back at her. She was hunched on the cot, her legs pulled as close to her chest as she could with her big belly, her eyes huge in her pale, drawn face. Her whole body trembled. She looked terrified.
“What do you smell?” he asked the dog.
Ghost shot him a disgusted look, like it was obvious. He stopped barking but gave a low, terrible growl.
It made Liam uneasy. He wished he could see better. Wished he could go out there.
It was negative fifteen degrees outside at least, not including the vicious wind chill. Even animals were smart enough to take cover in weather this lethal.
After several minutes, Ghost stopped growling and retreated to the warm hearth by Hannah’s side. He flopped onto his stomach with a dejected chuff.
Liam circled the inside of the cabin for another twenty minutes, checking the windows, on high alert for any noise or movement. There was nothing but the wind, the snow, the darkness.
Finally, he holstered the Glock, went back to the fire, and poked around in the wood bin until he found a piece the right size. He carved one end into a knife edge, then jammed the shim between the top and bottom window so it couldn’t be jimmied open. Just in case.
The woman watched him, wide-eyed and still suspicious of his every movement.
He stoked the flames with the poker, then poured the water from the snow he’d melted earlier into his water bottle and took a long swallow. He glanced at her. “You want some?”
She nodded, dug a canteen out of her backpack, and passed it to him with her right hand, her left hand curled uselessly against her stomach.
What had happened to her? Why was she really out here?
He didn’t ask. It was none of his business.
He’d done his good deed. He’d saved her life, brought her to shelter. That was all that could be expected of him. He couldn’t handle anything else.
They would part ways at dawn—or as soon as this storm relented.
He returned to the cot, opened his pack, and removed most of his supplies. He spread them out on the cot to reorganize and recheck what he had.
He liked things to be organized and easily accessible.
He left the roll of five hundred bucks in twenties and fifties at the bottom of his pack. He hadn’t eaten into his funds yet, too wary of interaction to approach a store or gas station.
His Gerber MK II tactical knife and Glock 19 were securely attached to his belt.
His small everyday carry case was still in his coat pocket. It contained his multitool, stainless steel tactical pen, small LED flashlight, two lighters, small folding knife, and a handkerchief wound with more paracord.
She eyed the cot. “You have a lot of stuff.”
“I like to be prepared.”
He’d had a chaotic childhood, to say the least. A father more interested in using his fists to control rather than love his sons. Liam had always hated feeling at the mercy of others, of being beholden to adults who should’ve had his best interests at heart, but didn’t.
He believed in being ready for anything. Nothing would take him by surprise. Nothing would ever leave him feeling helpless or defenseless again.
“Me too,” she said so softly that he almost didn’t hear her.
He repacked his go-bag carefully, organizing it so he could get to what he needed quickly and efficiently. He’d need to get more medical supplies as soon as possible. And he could use a long gun.
“Are you a soldier?” She watched him, nibbling her bottom lip nervously. “You look like you’ve served in the military.”
He had, but it wasn’t something he liked to talk about.
The military had been his salvation. A way to escape his depressing homelife. He’d joined up the day he’d turned eighteen, eventually earning the distinction of serving as an elite Delta Operator.
After eight years of seeing too much and doing worse, he’d been medically discharged for a back injury. Five crushed discs jumping from choppers and airplanes with Special Forces.
He worked out regularly to remain fit, but he couldn’t run and jump like he used to. He hated it, but he’d learned to live with it. Along with the bad memories. The nightmares of combat, of fear and pain and death.
He’d learned to live with a lot of things.
“Something like that,” he muttered, staring down at his hands.
A beat of awkward silence.
“What do you do?” he asked, because it seemed rude not to after her barrage of questions.
“I’m a—” she hesitated. “I used to be a singer. I was going to school for music education. But I…I don’t sing anymore.”
He didn’t say anything. The wind moaned. Tiny bits of ice ticked against the windows.
“You said you don’t have a family. None at all? No parents? No brothers or sisters?”
Emotions rose in Liam’s chest unbidden—remorse, guilt, loss.
His father had been a low-life drunk who’d barely kept food on the table and seldom kept his fists off their mother, a depressed woman who’d never been much of a mother.
They were both dead now. Had been for years.
His only other family was his twin brother, Lincoln, and his sister-in-law, Jessa.
Gregarious, outgoing Lincoln with his infectious laughter, his constant optimism, his extravagant love of life. The complete opposite of Liam, who was shy and withdrawn and lonely, even as a child.
His twin’s absence carved a hollowness in his chest, an empty space where his heart should be but wasn’t.
And Jessa. Compassionate, calm, and steady. Her long black braids framing the regal structure of her face, her warm smile and radiant light brown skin. The most beautiful woman he’d ever known.
Liam had one other living family member. He couldn’t think about that. It would undo him.
Grief surged through him. Regret like acid burning the back of his throat.
He blinked. Forced out the terrible memories. The whiff of jasmine perfume. The screams and the blood and the stench of burning jet fuel.
“You need rest,” he said more sharply than he intended.
She flinched.
Guilt stabbed him. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. Softer, he said, “And you should eat something.”
“I’m out of everything but peanut butter.” She spoke the words cautiously, carefully, like if she said the wrong thing, he’d snap at her again. Or worse.
The guilt worsened. He looked away. “I have some chili stew. I’ll heat it up for both of us.”
Anything to distract him from his own shame. From the memories that haunted his every step, invaded his dreams.
After he heated the chili over the fire, they ate in tense silence. The flames roared and crackled as another log caught fire.
He didn’t feel like talking. Neither did she.
She sat hunched and cowering in her corner and didn’t ask any more questions. She poured half her chili into her own camping pot and set in on the floor for Ghost, who wolfed it up in a couple of bites and licked the bowl clean.
When he finished, Ghost nosed at the door, needing to relieve himself.
The woman moved the door stop, let him out, and slammed the door shut as a gust of snow blew into the cabin. The cold hit them like a slap. Wind moaned through the trees. The branches groaned and creaked. They scraped the roof.
A minute later, Ghost returned, alerting them with a deep booming bark. He shook his coat, spraying snow everywhere, and curled up before the fire with a smug, satisfied expression.
She glanced at Liam warily, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
“What is it?”
“What do we do?” She waved her hand, embarrassed. �
�When we have to go?”
“The outhouse is ten yards behind the cabin.”
She blanched.
“It’s that, or pee into a pot in here.”
She glanced at the door, at him, at the door again. Wrinkled her nose. “Outside it is.”
“Maybe don’t go to the outhouse,” he said, reconsidering. She was likely to get disoriented in the storm, and then he’d have to freeze his butt off to find her. “Just go right outside the cabin and come back.”
They shrugged on their coats, boots, and all their winter gear, and took turns doing their business. Liam had never missed a functioning toilet inside a warm building more than he did right now.
Once they were back inside, he put the door stop back in place and added more logs to the fire. “As soon as this storm stops, I’ll be on my way. You can stay here as long as you need to.”
She looked a little taken aback. She bit her chapped lower lip and nodded.
He cleared his throat. “I wish you luck on your journey.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at him with those big, doleful green eyes before dropping her gaze to her clasped hands. Those eyes were disconcerting. Green as moss, as the deepest forest.
“Get some sleep,” he said brusquely.
She lay on the cot, facing him, her eyes open and staring. He’d noticed when she retrieved her kitchen knife from the mantle but pretended not to.
She was scared of him. He hated that. It made him angry. Not at her, but at whoever could do that to another human being.
He tried not to think about the pregnant woman out there tomorrow, on her own. So small and wan and afraid of everything.
She wasn’t his responsibility. Wasn’t his problem, he told himself again and again. The words rang hollow in his own ears.He slept fitfully that night. Not from fear, but something else. The sorrow creeping up on him. The what-ifs, the should-haves circling in his mind, relentless. The regret and self-loathing like a block of ice in his belly.
The storm raged all that night and into the next day.
They spent most of the fourth day eating, heating more melted snow to wash themselves down, and lying on their cots, drifting in and out of sleep to the sounds of the crackling, hissing fire and the cabin creaking and settling, the snow pelting the windows, the wind moaning.
He and the woman were both mentally and physically exhausted. Their bodies craved the extra rest. Eventually, they both succumbed to it.
Sometime during the middle of the second night, the howling wind abated. He raised his arm and looked at his mechanical watch. Only 3:23 a.m.
He laid back on the cot, adjusted the go-bag beneath his head, and closed his eyes. He needed as much sleep as he could.
His own journey wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.
30
Liam
Day Five
Liam was up just as the first fringe of dawn brightened the cabin windows.
The snow had stopped falling and the wind had died down, though the relentless killing cold snuck through the cracks in the window frame with bitter, seeking fingers.
The storm was over.
Time to leave.
The woman still slept in her cot, curled into a fetal position beneath her sleeping bag, her knees tucked beneath her stomach, her long hair a tangled mess around her face. She looked so young, so vulnerable.
You shouldn’t abandon her. Jessa’s voice in his head again.
He could almost feel her presence beside him. An ache washed through him, a painful pressure ballooning in his chest. The grief a visceral, physical thing.
Grief did that to you. Scooped you hollow from the inside out. So did regret.
She wasn’t real. The voice wasn’t real. Wasn’t her.
He blocked it out and kept moving. He retrieved his dried socks, boots, coat, and scarf, and put them all on. It felt good to be dry again. It wouldn’t last long.
He added more logs to the fire and stoked it, making sure it would burn for several more hours. He ate a can of peaches, a handful of nuts, and half a protein bar.
On the mantle above the fireplace, he left her a meatballs in marinara sauce MRE, a can of peaches, and a can of black beans, both opened in case she didn’t have a can opener, and the other half of the protein bar.
He had a few days’ rations left. Food wasn’t a problem. Water he could melt with a pan and a fire. He’d be good and hungry when he returned to the homestead, but he’d get there.
He could go days without food if he needed to. Hydration and maintaining his body temperature were critical.
He put on his gloves and knit hat, wrapped his scarf around the lower half of his face, and shrugged on his pack. He did a quick weapons check, then headed for the door.
Ghost lifted his head and watched him without a sound.
He considered saying something like goodbye but didn’t see the need for it. The woman needed her sleep more than any pointless remarks from him.
He’d already told her he was leaving in the morning. There was nothing more to be said.
Liam opened the door and stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind him. Thin orange and red clouds drifted across the lightening sky. The sun might actually show itself today.
He pulled out his compass and the map of Michigan and took a moment to orient himself.
If he headed northwest, he’d pick up a spur trail that led back to the North Country Trail, which he’d take another sixty miles or so until just before Traverse City. From there, he’d find an eastern route to Mayfield.
Three or four more days, and he’d be—
Liam stopped abruptly.
Directly ahead of him, less than thirty feet away: a fresh set of footprints.
They weren’t his.
His adrenaline spiked. He lifted his coat and drew his pistol. He turned in a slow circle, scanning the shadows, the gnarled underbrush and pine, oak, and hickory trees.
No sounds. No movement.
He retraced his steps from the day before yesterday from the cabin to the woods. He’d circled the cabin once himself to clear the area.
His old tracks just inside the tree line were nearly buried. The new tracks were half-filled with fresh snow, but they were clear.
A second set of footprints traced his own. Not once, but several times, as if the person had paced around the cabin again and again, like a mountain lion circling its prey.
The hairs on his arms stood up. Ghost had heard something. Someone had been out here in the middle of the night, in the storm. Watching them.
What the hell?
He brought the pistol up and re-scanned the woods, tense and alert and ready for anything. Once again, he missed his long gun. He was only effective out to fifteen yards with the handgun. He needed the punch—and the range.
He followed the tracks, his stomach sinking, anger growing with each step.
This was all wrong. What was he missing? He’d been on his own, minding his business, just trying to get home. He’d stumbled across a woman in the woods and decided against his own self-interest to help her.
Was the woman bait, meant to lure him into a trap? What was going on?
Liam stopped in his tracks. Not ten yards from the left side of the cabin, something lay in the snow. The carcass of an animal.
A coyote. He recognized the gray-white tufts of fur, the pointed ears and narrow muzzle. The animal had been flayed.
It lay on its back, its skin opened in two bloody flaps on either side of it. The internal organs were laid out like the courses of a feast—heart, lungs, stomach, the intestines draped grotesquely around the creature’s neck.
Liam’s gorge rose in his throat and he fought down the sour-sick acid burning the back of his throat. This was no roadkill. No half-eaten prey. There was nothing natural about this at all.
It was a warning.
A threat.
31
Liam
Day Five
“No!” The cry shattered the stil
lness.
Liam’s head snapped up.
The woman stood in her socks in the doorway, her expression stricken. She wore her coat, though it wasn’t zipped. Her rounded basketball belly protruded underneath her sweatshirt.
Her face had more color, but her eyes were still too big for her face, huge and green and terrified.
“It’s him,” she whispered.
“Who’s him?”
She shook her head. She took a stumbling step backward and sank to her knees in the opened doorway. A low moan escaped her lips.
Liam strode toward the cabin, trying but failing to rein in his building frustration. “Who the hell is him? You know who this is?”
She shrank away from him, trembling. Rocked back and forth. Covered her face with her hands.
Ghost bounded protectively in front of her. He didn’t growl, but his lips curled back from his impressive canines. He stared Liam down.
Liam knew better than to take another step. He stopped and kept his hands at his sides. His grip tightened on the Glock. “You know something. Tell me.”
Another long minute passed. She rocked and moaned, oblivious to anything but her own fear.
Liam gritted his teeth. “Fine. Have it your way.” He turned on his heels and started to walk away.
“Wait.”
Her hoarse voice was so soft and pathetic, he almost didn’t hear her.
He stopped. He couldn’t help himself.
“He—he’s after me. He wants me back.”
Liam turned around and faced her. “Who?”
She dropped her hands from her face. Her eyes were glassy with terror, her pupils huge. Strands of her wild dark brown hair stuck to her wet cheeks. She was still shaking, but she’d stopped rocking back and forth. She lifted her chin. “The man who took me.”
“You said your car stopped working.”
“It did. It didn’t break down five days ago. It broke down five years ago.”
He heard what she said. The words were too incredible to take in. He gaped at her. “What?”