A ridiculous notion. Failure of their marriage had threatened for months, maybe years. Despite all their efforts, they’d never really recovered from… her mind automatically shifted away.
A flash of bright blue drew her attention deep into the forest. Scott? But then, it might be Knife Guy, back to finish her off. Isolated out here, he wouldn’t have to wait for the cover of darkness. A fat, mean blue jay flew from the forest
Logic did nothing to stop the electric flash of nerves.
A crash behind her sent another zing of fire through her chest. Abbey barked. Nora spun, and fell against the railing, arms up, ready to defend against Knife Guy.
She drew in a breath, probably her last. A figure lurched from the gloomy lodge.
Oh. She slowly exhaled, allowing the panic to dissolve. This heart fibrillation needed to stop or she’d keel over dead.
Charlie, gray-haired hippy, survivor of the summer of love and whatever Jesus freak, earth-loving, peacenik movements surged in the old days, stood in front of the screen door he’d let bang closed. His rusty voice brought his usual good cheer. “You are beauty and grace and give me reason to live.”
Viva normalcy—at least Charlie’s version. “I’m here just for you,” she said.
Pabst Blue Ribbon beer can clutched in his hand, Charlie made his way to her, Abbey dancing at his feet. His grizzled face wore his usual grin and his faded eyes crinkled with affection. “I heard what happened in town yesterday. You ought to keep the back door of the lodge locked.”
“I thought it was locked.” Her inadvertent vulnerability shocked her.
Though they called the rambling building a lodge, it resembled an insulated barn with a few dividing walls to separate the small snack bar, rental and locker area, and her office. On snow days crowds packed the small place, making it hot and stuffy. The rest of the time it echoed and a constant chill filled the air. With a dependable snow supply, they could expand. Why not build a restaurant and get a liquor license? Possibilities and plans sprinted against her worry.
“Might think about getting a gun, too.” Charlie lived in Mountain Village, edged up to the forest, probably born of the pine needles and cinders after the last volcano erupted. He stopped in with his beer to visit Nora a couple of times a week then headed up one trail or another to perpetrate his brand of eco-terrorism.
“What’s the good news today, Ranger?” Nora asked her usual question.
Charlie gulped his beer and gave his expected response. “Looks like rain.” Charlie hung teapots, kettles, coffee cups and water buckets in a tree in front of his house to encouraged rain.
“A gully washer.”
He guffawed. “I like an optimist.”
With his unflappable attitude and his quirky outlook, Charlie often felt like her only ally. Even if he objected to snowmaking, he never argued with her about it. She felt slightly uncomfortable that he spent his days dragging logs across trails to thwart the wheels of hated motorized vehicles in his forest. But he did give up stringing cable from tree to tree when he nearly decapitated a dirt biker and ended up with a month’s jail time.
He reached into a pocket of the oversized army jacket he always wore, probably the one issued to him in Viet Nam, and pulled out another PBR. “Care for a beverage?”
Nora laughed. “That stuff tastes like gasoline.”
He popped the top and took a swig. “Coming from anyone else, I’d say that was an elitist comment made by an exclusionary capitalist out to exploit the underclass. A real Barrett McCreary.”
“I wouldn’t mind being compared to Barrett McCreary.”
Charlie shook his head. “Child, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Charlie tipped his head back and drained his PBR in one long chug. He crushed the can and slipped it into a pocket. “Got work to do. You be careful and lock that door.”
Abbey, tail wagging, joined Charlie and they ambled across the grass, disappearing in the forest. Nora wandered into the dark lodge. She checked the back door. No wonder Charlie walked right in. Scott must have broken the mechanism and forgot to tell her. She needed to rework her revenue projections and then she’d head back to town for repairs. No way did she want to spend a night here without sturdy locks.
The sound of a chair scraping over the floor startled her. Her head whipped around and she searched the vast darkness. “Who’s there? Charlie?” Her pulse pounded in her ears, blocking any other sound. Movement next to the white stone fireplace caught her eyes.
“If you’re one of those activists, you’d better get off my property.” She stepped toward the door. “I’m calling the police.” Another step. No replies. Maybe her overloaded mind blew a fuse and nobody was really there. She hurried toward the door anyway. In the dim lodge her eyes strayed to a hulking shadow jutting from the wall. Breath caught in her throat.
Knife Guy glared at her from behind the rental counter.
No debate between fight and flight. She took off for the screen door.
Nora barely cleared the rental counter when a brick wall slammed into her back, sending her crashing to the floor in a crush between concrete and two hundred pounds of lean, murderous Indian.
Fingers raked her head and grabbed a handful of hair. He jerked her around and pounded her down, the back of her head cracking on the floor. Fissures of pain blinded her. He straddled her chest, letting only the barest stream of air into her lungs, hatred shooting from his eyes. “You won’t destroy our sacred moun-ain.” His words slinked between clenched teeth.
She struggled for breath. “I…”
His hand smashed into the side of her face, grating her cheeks and tongue against her teeth. Agony exploded through her temple and a copper wave of blood filled her mouth.
“Shut up.”
His hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing as if her neck were nothing more than a wash rag. Rage turned his dark face into a mask of destruction, eyes glinting with absolute power.
She kicked for her life, fought to buck him off, struggled to shake her head. She barely moved, despite adrenaline pumping through her. Impossible that death could find her so easily. It shouldn’t happen this effortlessly. Someone shouldn’t simply walk in the door and kill her. No preamble, no preparation. Hardly any struggle. Dead.
Pain. Real, excruciating, burning her lungs as they dried up, turning in on themselves, begging for air. Blackness seeped into her vision, closing in, shuttering life. Her arms dropped to the floor; her body no longer obeyed her dying brain. The twisted face hovering over hers faded into darkness. This was it.
Death brought instant relief. The weight on her chest disappeared. It felt as if air actually raked against her raw throat. There shouldn’t be pain in death, right? Great gulps sent coughs scraping delicate tissue. She wasn’t dead! But Knife Guy wasn’t on top of her.
Black receded from her eyes and sound returned in the form of grunts and pounding flesh. Two men grappled on the floor next to her. Knife Guy, larger and heavier, took a fist to his face. The other man moved with grace and agility, planting another blow and another.
Knife Guy shoved the thinner man off balance and settled himself in an attack stance. And there it was. The knife appeared and the blade emerged with a schwit.
Jump, scream, or at least run. She could do nothing more than wallow as though buried in tar. The man, her savior, jumped to his feet. Cole Huntsman crouched, his eyes burning into the attacker’s, calculating, calling him on.
The heart-stuttering siren of an emergency vehicle sliced through the air.
Knife Guy hesitated only a second then bounded past Cole and out the screen door.
Before the door banged closed Cole knelt beside Nora. “Are you okay?” He put an arm under her shoulders and helped her sit.
She swallowed fire. Her voice sounded raspy and weak. “Yes. No.”
“Can you stand?” She nodded and he pulled her to her feet.
Her core shook, radiating out to her arms and legs. She leaned on Cole.
“He’s gone?”
“The siren saved us. Our odds took a bad turn when he pulled the knife.” He took her weight and helped her toward a bench.
Sirens. Police? Ambulance? Charlie. How long since he left her, minutes, a half hour? He might have been careless, fallen and broken a leg or crushed a foot with a heavy log.
Who else? Scott always teased Nora for over reacting. A hiker probably twisted a knee or something.
Cole lowered Nora to sit. “Where is your husband? You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
But she wasn’t alone. Cole was here. A dangerous environmental activist. Her heart accelerated again. Fear made for a terrific aerobic workout. She glanced at the door, wondering if she could get outside before he caught her. Cole Huntsman couldn’t be any more pleased with her making snow than Knife Guy. “What are you doing here?”
He looked startled at her accusing tone. “Well,” his Western drawl sounded as if he just stepped in from the range. Even in the dim light she saw a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I couldn’t help but notice that things didn’t go that great between you and your husband yesterday. I don’t mean to butt in but I just wanted to check to make sure you were all right.”
Likely story. He and Big Elk had to be in cahoots and he was taking the “good cop” role. Maybe he came to Flagstaff to stop Barrett’s uranium mining—why else would he be hounding Barrett—but he’d obviously joined Big Elk’s camp. Still, he saved her life.
Her life. Her throat and neck ached with bruises inside and out and her tremors intensified. She nearly died. And the man who wanted her dead lurked out there somewhere.
Cole’s hand rested on her shoulder and rubbed slowly across her back. “Let’s get you into the sunshine.”
Good guy/bad guy. Right now, Cole was the only guy. He’d kept her alive so far. She let him help her stand and stagger to the deck. As soon as possible she ducked from his supporting arm.
The lodge squatted halfway up the mountain. Two short flights of wide metal stairs led from the ground to the deck. Five giant picnic tables spread out on the expansive redwood platform that faced the lift. Nora and Scott’s tiny apartment sat on the second story, accessed by a steep outside stairway climbing on the front of the lodge.
A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot and stopped.
Someone called the cops? How did they know about the attack? Odd they showed up so quickly.
She and Cole watched as the cop walked up the path and clumped up the stairs. Nora recognized him as the same officer who investigated her slashed tires and the broken shed window. Gary Something or Other.
Gary glanced at Cole then settled his focus on Nora.
“Hi, Nora,” Gary looked down at his shoes then up at her again. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
It suddenly dawned on her this wasn’t about the attack. The ambulance. Charlie.
“We just brought Scott down.”
“Scott?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Scott? Brought him down? Down from where? The ambulance. Not in town but on the mountain. Scott.
Her eyes lifted to a hint of red glow through the trees. Scott was there.
Her husband had been hurt on the mountain. He needed her. She sprinted past Cole and hit the stairs two at a time.
Gary called to her but she dashed on. Scott needed her.
The ambulance sat at the trailhead across the road from the parking lot. Its red lights flared off the pines.
“Scott!” Her screams echoed off the mountain.
No, oh no. He’s got to be okay. He’s fine.
Then she saw it. The gurney. Two people wheeled it toward the back of the ambulance. There was no face. It couldn’t be Scott.
No face.
Because it was covered with a sheet.
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Acknowledgments
I’ve said it before and I’ll whine about it again, writing books is hard. At least it is for me. If it weren’t for the love and support of others, I’d never get to The End. Without fail and for everything I’ve ever written, including newsletters, my biggest thanks is to Janet Fogg. She pushes, prods, proofs, inspires, and expects better things from me.
To my clever and hard-working agent, Jill Marsal, a huge debt of gratitude for thoughtful reading and for finding this book a good home. Thank you to Terri Bischoff, and editor with a gentle touch and a keen eye.
To the amazing team at Severn River Publishing, Andrew, Amber, and Keris, as well as all the talented craftspeople they’ve gathered, I couldn’t be more grateful. You’ve welcomed me and my stories into the fold and it’s a nice place to be.
Eleanor Longden’s TED Talk about hearing voices grabbed me by the heart. During research for this book, I heard so many wrenching stories, as well as some with humor, and many inspiring journeys. I was surprised to find out how many people hear voices. For all of these people, I hope I addressed the subject with fairness, accuracy, and compassion. I don’t know the road you travel but thank you for courageously sharing your truth.
I tip my hat, as always, to Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. This group is splitting at the seams with generous, talented, smart, savvy, and unbelievably supportive writers. Every danged one of you. Thank you.
And to my phenomenal daughters, Joslyn and Erin, who teach me, inspire me, tickle me, and keep me on my toes. People say writing books is like having children, but I disagree. There is nothing as special as you in my life.
Thank you to Dave. For so much. Always.
About the Author
Shannon Baker lives on the edge of the desert in Tucson with her crazy Weimaraner and her favorite human. Baker spent 20 years in the Nebraska Sandhills, where cattle outnumber people by more than 50:1. She lived in Flagstaff for several years and worked for the Grand Canyon Trust, a hotbed of environmentalists who, usually, don’t resort to murder. She is the proud recipient of the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers 2014 and 2017-18 Writer of the Year Award.
A lover of the great outdoors, she can be found backpacking, traipsing to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, skiing mountains and plains, kayaking lakes, river running, hiking, cycling, and scuba diving whenever she gets a chance. Arizona sunsets notwithstanding, Baker is, and always will be a Nebraska Husker. Go Big Red.
You can find Shannon online at www.Shannon-Baker.com, and connect with her on Facebook at AuthorShannonBaker or Instagram at ShannonBaker5328.
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