Tucker dropped his backpack and pulled out his binoculars. Scanned the forest below.
“There’s a bridge.”
Stevie took the proffered binoculars. Some fifty feet away, a wooden hanging bridge spanned the cliff. She examined the shore where the forest thinned. A flash of orange made her pause, and she spotted a figure—the redhead—trekking through the woods, on the way to the bridge. She waited and spotted another—March. He’d taken off his fire shirt, just a white T-shirt underneath. And with him, Skye and Rio, walking ahead of him. Her father pulled up the rear.
“We need to get down there,” Tucker said.
But Stevie had pulled out the gun, now kneeling, propping her elbow on her knee.
“What are you doing?”
“If they’re going over that bridge, then I have a shot. The one I should have taken back at the cabin.”
He looked at her. “That’s a hand gun. A bear gun. You can’t make it from here.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That bear I told you about—it wasn’t the last bear that ever crept up on me, Tucker. I can and will shoot Eugene March.”
He met her eyes a moment. “Really? Because—”
“I can do this, Tucker. I have to do this. It’s my last bullet.”
He put the binoculars back to his eyes. “Please don’t shoot Skye.”
She didn’t need the binoculars to spot the redhead, in his orange shirt, edging out onto the bridge. Or to see Skye being pushed onto it by March. Rio went next, and then her father. Then… “I can make this.”
Please. But her hand trembled.
She could almost hear the roar of the past in her ears as she sighted March, her aim center mass as he followed Skye onto the bridge.
Then she exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger.
You can’t save everyone.
Stevie’s words flashed through Tucker’s brain as he watched the horror play out on the bridge. The shot shattering the morning air. Birds scattering from the poplar and birch, the froth and anger of March as he ducked, then grabbed Skye, pushing her forward to the other side of the bridge.
The other prisoner had already crossed and now disappeared into the woods at the far edge.
Rio and Archer Mills fled behind March.
“I missed!” Stevie said on a thin wisp of breath. She leaped to her feet. “I missed!”
“Maybe not—it’s hard to see.” Tucker held the binoculars on the drama unfolding. The way March grabbed Skye, held her body against his, as if a shield. Archer had hold of Rio, had pulled him behind a tree.
“I don’t see any blood on anyone.”
But now March held Stevie’s gun against Skye’s temple, staring almost directly at them.
A cold hand closed around his throat, tightened, cut off his breathing.
“He’s going to kill her,” Stevie said, her voice stripped, hollow. “How did I miss—”
Tucker couldn’t move, couldn’t answer—
Rio broke out of the forest, leaping at March, grabbing his arm, and forcing the gun away. Skye ducked under his grip, away from the gun—
It reported into the sky.
March rounded and slammed the gun against Rio’s head.
But Archer appeared, also leaping on March. They rolled as Rio stumbled to his feet. Another gunshot shredded the air.
“We have to get down there!” Stevie shouted.
But Tucker couldn’t move his glasses off the spectacle of watching Rio grab Skye. He dragged her to the edge of the ravine and—oh no—no—
“He threw her in!” Stevie said. “Skye’s in the river!”
Tucker dropped the glasses, watching with his naked eye as the frothy water grabbed Skye and propelled her downstream.
Stevie was running down the path toward the bridge. “C’mon!”
Except—Skye was fighting to stay afloat, the water merciless as it tossed her. And cold—it had to be hypothermic temperatures. Tucker dropped his pack. “Stevie! Stay here!”
But Stevie was already down the hill, running hard along the path.
And by the bridge, a tussle for life ensued as Archer and March beat each other. Rio had gone down, bleeding from the mouth.
Skye’s scream lifted like the mist off the river, light and eerie.
Tucker grew up in Minnesota. He knew how to swim—in lakes, in rivers, and—
Shoot. Stevie was running full tilt into trouble.
And below him, Skye fought for her life.
You can’t save everyone.
Maybe not. But he intended to try.
He took a running start and leaped off into the blue.
Windmilled his arms.
Landed with a hard splash into a current that grabbed him and threw him hard against a boulder. So hard it nearly jolted his bones loose. But the cold had him in a fisted grip, yanking out his breath from his lungs, a thousand knives that made him cry out in a roar.
“Skye!”
The current dragged him down, grabbing his boots, slamming him against boulders and other debris, filling his mouth with foam and icy spray. “Skye!”
His hands dragged over a boulder, and he grabbed hard, his fingers digging into the rough grooves long enough to get his bearings.
There—ten feet downstream, Skye had propped herself against a boulder, fighting her way out of the water. Her skin had turned translucent and pale, her blonde hair in strings around her face, and she shivered, hard, her teeth chattering.
“Stay there!”
She looked at him then, her eyes widening. Then past him toward the bridge. Her horrified expression made him turn.
Oh no—
March was on his feet, doubled over, bleeding from the mouth and—Tucker saw it now—side. So Stevie had shot him. He held the gun to Archer’s head, beckoning Stevie over the bridge.
And she held Seth’s pitiful, empty bear gun, as if it might actually produce bullets as she barked at March to put his weapon down.
Stevie had guts—he gave her that. And maybe she didn’t need saving—
Except March was calling her bluff.
The urge to jump in and save her gripped him, and he couldn’t stop himself.
“Stevie!”
She looked his way.
A shot rang out, but not at Stevie.
It hit the boulder—a fraction from Tucker. What—?
He jerked, the rapids ripping him from his hold, yanking him under. He slammed into a downed tree, came up gasping, blinded, choking.
The river spun him, and he hit another slab of rock, the air whooshing out of him, his vision blurring.
“Tucker!”
His name carried deep in the roar of the river, but he couldn’t get a fix on it.
His boots turned to cement, the river clinging to them, dragging him down. Water crested over his head. His lungs burned as he kicked hard.
Surfaced, the spray in his face.
A hand grabbed his wrist. Held with a vice grip. He grabbed hold of his rescuer, fought his way to stay above water.
Skye was just barely balanced on a boulder, one hand gripping a downed tree that had fallen over the rapids. “Don’t let go!” she yelled, dragging him toward her. His feet hit something solid, and he cupped them into a crevice under the water. Clawed for the boulder.
Tucker hooked his fingers into a groove in the face of the rock and pulled himself in, breathing hard. Skye had his arm, gripped her hand under his shoulder, and yanked.
He cleared the water, just enough to find purchase. To scrabble up the rock, coughing out water, gasping in breaths.
Skye grabbed his belt, urged him farther onto solid rock. Then, she collapsed next to him, breathing hard.
“You okay?”
He lifted his head, nodded, then crawled to safety and searched upriver.
The bridge, with all its drama, was empty.
“Where’d they go?” He looked at Skye. Her hollow, horrified expression banded his gut.
“I don’t know—I don’t—�
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He crouched there, shivering, the wind chilling his body. And heard his own stupid voice in the hollow of his chest. And that day…that day when no one shows up? It’s not today. Because I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.
Oh…no. No, no!
“Tucker, c’mon! We need to get out of the river!” Skye had him by the shirt, was pulling him across the boulder to the shore, gripping the tree for balance.
He shook all the way through to his core as he worked his way across the tumble of rocks to the granite shoreline. Skye was already scaling the gorge wall.
She reached the top, lay down, and held out her hand to him.
He ignored it, climbing up beside her, sitting hard on the cliff’s edge. He scanned the opposite shore.
Stevie.
He rolled over to his hands and knees, feeling ill.
“Tucker, what are you doing here?” Skye said.
He raised his head. “What am I—I’m rescuing you.”
“You’re nearly getting me killed is what you’re doing.”
He just stared at her. “What are you talking about—”
“There’s more to the story, is what I’m saying. And now you only made it worse!” She held out her hand and had the kindness not to say anything as he held in a moan, wrestling his body to his feet.
“Have you lost your mind? March is a murderer and a rapist—”
“I know, okay? I know. But…let’s just get going. We have to catch up to them.”
“You’re not going anywhere—”
“And you’re not the boss of me!”
He had nothing for a long moment, then, “Actually, I’m exactly that. Your boss. And you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do.”
Her mouth tightened, but she ran her hands up her arms, unable to hold back a shiver.
Shoot. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Sorry, Skye. I’m just…”
“Scared?”
Then, “Yeah, okay? I’m…I’m…yeah. Fine. Scared. Stevie could be hurt—even dead for all I know, and…” He turned, his hand around his neck, his breath trembling out. “I can’t believe how royally I screwed this up. I was supposed to get everybody home in one piece. That’s all Jed asked of me, and now…”
He closed his eyes.
“Tucker. You can’t stop bad things from happening. And you don’t need to save everyone.”
“Just for once, I’d like God to be on my side, okay?”
“And why are you assuming that He’s not?”
Tucker rounded on her. “Have you not been paying attention over the past twenty-four hours?”
“Actually, I have. Very much so, and—”
“I just don’t get why God has it out for me.”
“Why do you think this has anything to do with you?”
“Because I was put in charge!” He walked out, away from her. “I don’t get it. I’m a pretty good guy. I usually do the right things—I mean, yeah, once upon a time, I got into a lot of trouble, but I’m not that guy anymore. I follow the rules. And…I was hoping that God paid attention to that.” He started bushwhacking toward the trail.
“Where are you going?” Skye caught up to him.
“I dropped my pack up the trail—I’ve got a blanket, matches—we gotta get warm.”
“Fine—good, but—” She grabbed his arm. “Tucker. Stop. Listen. Why are you assuming that just because bad things happen that God isn’t on your side?”
“Because if He was on my side, then…”
“Then life would be perfect?”
He drew in a breath. “Fine. Okay. I get that things happen. But it feels very personal.”
“Trouble always feels personal. But it doesn’t mean that God doesn’t care about you. That He’s out to get you. In fact, the opposite is true. God deliberately put Himself in the way of the ultimate tragedy to save you. That’s what grace is…and frankly, He uses trouble to show you Himself.”
Tucker frowned.
“You gotta get out of the mindset that God doesn’t want to help you and start believing that ‘goodness and mercy will pursue you all the days of your life.’ Pursue. As in not give up tracking you down. As in relentlessly showing up in your life whether you are a good guy or not.”
Pursue.
“Psalm twenty-three, New Living Translation. It’s the one I learned at Bible camp. Look it up.” She curled her arms around herself. “Listen. People are evil. And bodies are frail, and fires happen. Lightning strikes—it just falls from the sky, and yet in the middle of the fire, in the middle of the darkness, God is there. Pursuing us. Because He loves us. Because He wants to rescue us. Because He is a rescuer by His very nature.” She offered a smile. “Sorta like a guy I know.”
He couldn’t speak.
She touched his arm. “You will never be enough to fight your fires on your own, Tucker. That’s why we have a team. And God is on your team.”
You’re not alone. So trust me a little, okay?
His words to Stevie, and they resounded inside him, like a shout, a fist, grabbing hold of him.
“C’mon. Let’s get that pack,” Skye said. “I’m freezing.”
He nodded and started up the trail.
And hopefully, yes, God was on his team. Because they were both going after Stevie.
Eight
She was better off alone.
That thought had never taken hold of Stevie with more ferocity than when March turned and fired at Tucker. Desperate, shaken, river-drenched Tucker who shouted her name with so much panic in his voice, it found her bones.
Made her believe his words. You’re not in this alone.
Except, she was alone. Painfully, achingly, horribly alone. Because despite shouting at Tucker to follow her—what had she been thinking?—he had leaped off a cliff to rescue Skye.
Of course.
And she didn’t have to think hard to sort out why—probably her gut had been right that he had feelings for the girl. But even if he didn’t care for Skye, yeah, she’d more than made her point to him.
Numerous times.
Alone was best.
Except, please, please let him not be dead. She’d stuck around long enough to see Skye grab him, but by then, March had her father by the collar, dragging him along, down the path, the gun to his head, shouting at Stevie to stay away.
Right. Never. And hello, she knew her father wasn’t in on the prison break. But the fact that she was toting around an empty gun kept her at a distance trailing them.
Helpless. Because yeah, she’d left the radio with Tucker’s PG pack. And what did she intend to do—tackle March?
Someone was bleeding. She crouched, took a stick to verify the moisture on the trail was blood. Please let it not be her father. Please.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, clamping down on the shaking of her body. Overhead, the sun had relit the sky, pushing back the shadows, although the shaggy arms of the black spruce still contained eerie pockets. The rush of the river turned to a whisper, the wind off the mountains shivering the trees. The path beneath her feet had widened, the dirt packed, the trail clear of downed trees. They must have hit upon a hiking trail.
Which meant—oh no.
They’d connected with some trail coming out of the Troublesome campground, where March was first arrested.
If March got to his vehicle, or any vehicle there, he’d be gone.
With her father as his hostage.
The other two prisoners had taken off when March threatened her on the bridge—so that meant, it was just March.
So what she was alone? She could stop him.
She took off in a jog down the path, keeping her footfalls light. Through the trees, she made out a lake— Yes. Troublesome Lake. The sun sparkled against it, turning it a deep indigo. Along the far shoreline, pine trees edged it in lush green, and not far away, she heard a dog bark.
Shoot. Tourists.
Stevie cut to the shoreline through the woods, staying just insid
e, stepping over decaying logs, pushing through willow brush, her feet landing on soft ground.
The campground edged the lake. She could work her way around and set up an ambush.
Or…call in for help. That thought trickled through her brain even as she came out on the edge of the camp road, a gravel drive that circled the campground.
Fifth wheels, RVs, campers, tents—the place teemed with guests parked in the wooded stalls of the campground. Fire grates smoldered, and picnic tables held coolers and boxed food not locked in cars or hanging from trees.
The tourists, at this early hour, were hopefully still sleeping.
From her recollection of his arrest details, March had been camped out for weeks—which meant that the campground would be well used. Fortified.
Her feet scuffed on the road, and she shoved the gun, then her hands into her pockets, her head down. What she wouldn’t give for a loaded weapon right now.
Or Tucker, coming up with some good idea for how she might take down March.
I’m not going anywhere.
She shook his voice out of her head.
But oh, her entire body wanted to cling to it—and the memory of his arms around her, his hands in her hair, kissing her—
Yeah. See. She’d been right. Being with him—and now without him—just led to heartache.
She slowed her pace as she came up to a yellow and white, 15-foot-long camper ringed with rust around the windows, its tires saggy and dug into the soft loam. Yellow curtains hung at the windows. Rickety steps covered in leaves led up to a door. It looked uninhabited.
A rusty red-and-white striped Ford 150—the wheel wells rusted out, an ancient topper affixed to the back, grass and weeds grown up around the tires—sat a few feet from the camper, facing the road.
This had to be the place.
Stevie stole up to the camper, under a window in the back, and listened. Just the rush of the wind, the rustle of a few decaying leaves.
Creeping over to the truck, she eased open the passenger door.
The keys—jackpot!—lay on the driver’s side floor mat. She cast herself across the bench seat and swiped them up. Then she backed away and pressed the door shut.
She crept around to the edge of the woods, crouched behind a trio of birch, and watched the road, her heart in her mouth.
That day…that day when no one shows up? Why Tucker picked now to edge into her brain wasn’t fair. It’s not today.
Light My Fire_Christian romantic suspense Page 11