Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series)

by Kimberli A. Bindschatel

  My brain signaled alarm bells. I had to be careful, move on. Rocky couldn’t be far behind. Just one more handful. Then back toward Dalton and the trap. Had it been enough time? Was he in place by now?

  I got to my feet. From where I stood, I had two choices: head upward, through the open hillside, then drop back on the downward slope to the trap or head toward the lakeside now, push through the woods and the thick understory that lined the lake, then make my way back upward.

  Either way had disadvantages and—whoosh! The ground at my feet exploded, spraying mud at my pant legs, and a split second later, the shot echoed inside my head.

  I dropped to the ground, my full weight coming down on my injured thigh. I retched with pain. A patch of berry bushes burst into pieces beside me. I pushed and rolled as the second shot rang out. Then a third.

  You’re supposed to chase me! Not shoot at me!

  Crawling on my hands and knees, I managed to get cover under a spruce. Wet branches let loose their droplets, soaking my head. Then I felt a burning sensation. In my arm. My coat sleeve had a rip in it, a hole. Blood oozed out. My left arm. He shot me in my arm!

  With my right hand, I clenched my bicep, squeezing to suppress the blood flow. Damn that hurts. A few short breaths. Shit. I had to get to the trap. To Dalton.

  What had I been thinking? Believing I could take on Rocky on my own. What have I done? I started to shake uncontrollably.

  “You are a feisty one.” Every one of my muscles tightened at the sound of his voice. Panic rumbled in my gut and threatened to spread. “More fun than I thought you were going to be.”

  Where is he? Which way?

  “And looky there. Under the tree, like a Christmas present.”

  Shit! I rolled, got to my feet, and ran, my hand gripping my left arm, my head down.

  Toward the trap. My foot caught. On a root. Something. I slammed to the ground, face down, knocking the wind out of me. I lay there, a quick moment to catch my breath, then got to my knees, to my feet, and I was running, fear carrying me forward.

  I couldn’t underestimate him again. He’d slept. Eaten. And he was bigger and stronger and more fit than I was. He could’ve caught me by now, if he hadn’t been toying with me.

  What if he was tired of that already? What if he decided to shoot at me again? Get it over with?

  I needed cover. Downhill, into the forest that lined the lake. That was the way.

  His laughter followed me—the wild, primal, blood-curdling shrieks of a hyena.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Somehow I got to the woods. My leg on fire, my arm screaming with sharp jolts, the rash at my neck burning where the devil’s club had done its work. But I’d made it. I’d made it this far. I gulped in air, trying not to think about how thirsty I was.

  The forest here was white and black spruce, quaking aspen, and paper birch. Not the best cover, but better than being out in the open. I pushed forward. I had to get as much space between me and Rocky as I could. Without him losing my trail. He’d shown that wasn’t likely.

  I followed the shoreline, uphill from the water’s edge, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Wait—wasn’t this where I’d encountered the moose? No, that was old growth. I had to get ahold of my dizziness, get focused.

  “There you are, little rabbit.”

  I spun around.

  Rocky stood thirty yards away, his crossbow trained on my chest.

  My lungs seized, catching my breath in my throat.

  “Thought you were getting away, did you?”

  His eyes glowed with satisfaction in startling me.

  There was thicket to my left, downed branches to my right, if I could—

  “Don’t even think about it. I’ll shoot. Enough running.”

  He took a step closer to me. Then another. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t make a fatal shot. Just one to slow you down.” He grinned, a wicked, sleazy grin that made bile stir at the back of my throat. “You’re wearing me out. And we haven’t even got to the fun part yet.”

  He took another step. “Don’t get me wrong. I like the feisty ones. Full of spice.” He opened his mouth slightly and his tongue flicked at me. “Maybe you’ll buck like a pig in heat.”

  I shuddered, the taste of bile in my throat making my stomach flip-flop.

  “Tell me you won’t lie there like a dead fish.” He cocked his head to the side, scrutinizing me, his reptilian eyes darting up and down my body. “No. You wouldn’t. You’ve got too much fire in you. I knew I liked you. The moment you walked in the lodge, trying to hide your disgust for the place.”

  You knew? You saw right through me?

  “Righteous little cowgirl princess.” He closed the distance between us. “I’ll take pleasure in taking you down off that pedestal.” He jerked the crossbow downward. “Get on the ground.”

  I froze in place. No way was I getting on the ground.

  He stomped toward me, grabbed me by my hair, and yanked my head down to his knees. “I said get on the ground, Bitch.”

  My knees collapsed and I was on my belly, my face in the moss.

  “You better learn to listen. To obey. Do you hear me? No girl of mine defies me.”

  I nodded, trying to pacify him.

  “That’s better. Now look at me.”

  I turned my head, looked up at him, into those colorless eyes, eyes reflecting years of anger, pent up, twisted into a calculated rage. His hand rubbed at the bulge in his pants. “Oh yeah, that’s it,” he said with a grunt. “You’re going to be my best yet. My finest trophy.”

  I fought back the nausea. If I showed any sign of revulsion, he’d kill me. I knew it, in my gut. He had to believe I felt beaten, that I’d given up.

  He grabbed the back of my pants, and with an amazing strength, lifted me in the air and flipped me on my back. He dropped down on the ground between my legs, shoving them apart.

  I shrank back, crawled with my elbows, trying to get away from him.

  “Now, now,” he said, grabbing my belt. “Enough playing hard to get.” He set down the crossbow so he’d have both hands now, yet he still fumbled to get the buckle undone. I bit my lip, trying not to react. Not yet. “You’ll do as I say.” A pause. He cocked his head to the side. “Well now, we can’t have that.”

  At first, I didn’t know what he meant, but he took hold of my arm and examined the gunshot wound. With his other hand, he flipped off his pack, reached into it, and took out a first-aid kit. He ripped my coat open and without a word, doused my arm with hydrogen peroxide, then wrapped it with a bandage.

  I kept still.

  Once he taped it off, he leaned down. His lips to my ear, his hot breath on my neck, he said, “I want you alive and kicking.” Slowly, he drew back, running his lips along my cheek. “Until I’m done with you.”

  Don’t react. Wait for the right moment. Wait.

  His hands squeezed my breasts.

  Son of a bitch. “What are you waiting for?” I spat.

  “Oh, now you want it, do you?”

  I made myself look up at him, look into his eyes. Saw his dilated pupils. The sign of excitement. Of lust. Of reveling in his conquest.

  “Tell me how you want it,” he moaned.

  I calmed my voice, my breathing. This could work. “Since I walked into that lodge and saw you across the room.” I steeled myself. “I’ve been wanting you. I was hoping it would be out here. In the wild.” I looked him in the eye. “Take off your pants.”

  There was hesitation in his look. Had I gone too far? Did he know what I was trying to do? Either way, he would lose. If he kept his pants on, he’d have a hard time doing what he wanted. If he pulled them down, he’d be vulnerable. Go ahead. Pull down those pants.

  He reared back and slapped me across the face. The sting fueled my rage. I swung and clipped him in the jaw. He caught me by the wrist and slammed my arm back, pinning me to the ground. “I knew you’d be a scrapper,” he said as he brought his knee up, ramming it into m
y thigh to keep me in place.

  I screamed out in pain.

  “That get you hot?” he growled.

  The man was built like a tiger, all sinewy and quick, with the same dangerous unpredictability. But he’d underestimated me. I was counting on it.

  “You gonna be a screamer, too?” He said it like that’s what he wanted.

  He fumbled at his belt with one hand, unsnapped his pants as he held me down with the other hand. “I’m going to give you something you’ll never forget.”

  He underestimated me. I had one hand free. The moment his pants were lowered, I reached down, grabbed his balls, and yanked as hard as I could. Like starting a lawn mower, my self-defense instructor had said. Pull!

  Rocky reared back, his face bright red, and let out a yowl like a speared pig. He fell back, right on top of the crossbow. Dammit!

  I reached for his sidearm, but it was gone. Where? In his pack?

  “You bitch!” he roared, his hands at his groin. “I’m going to kill you.”

  I rolled, got to my feet, and ran, one foot in front of the other, as fast as I could, my heartbeat thumping in my ears. Through the trees, up the hillside. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my leg, in my arm. My light head. I wasn’t stopping until I got to the trap.

  I could hear him behind me, crashing through the foliage, his footsteps thudding on the ground. That’s right. Follow me, you son of a bitch.

  My head down, I focused on nothing but speed. My chest heaved with my breath, lungs burning. I couldn’t fall down. If I fell, he’d be on me again. Stay upright and run, run, run.

  Behind me was a loud thump, then a curse. He must have fallen down. I kept running. Any distance I could gain, I needed.

  I broke from the thick woods, ran up a ridge, my arms pumping, feeling nothing but adrenaline. The stream was ahead. Not far now. The stream. And the trap. And Dalton. He’d be there. He had to be there.

  One stride. And another. And another.

  There was the stream. Straight ahead.

  Two more strides and my foot fell into place, right where I knew the trap to be. Another stride and I was past, running. Rocky right behind me.

  What if he didn’t step where I had? I slowed and turned. Rocky was there, almost at the edge of the creek, his eyes on me. He hesitated.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Run. Keep running.

  Rocky looked down, around. “Why’d you hesitate? What is it about this place?”

  Dammit. I dropped to my knees. “Just shoot me! Do it now. I’m tired of this!” I shouted.

  A grin crept across his face. He raised his index finger and shook it at me like a father scolding a little child. “Oh no, little rabbit. You’ve been up to something. Haven’t you?”

  He raised the crossbow to put me in his sights and took a step toward me, his foot right on the trap. Or was it? Wasn’t this the spot where we had hidden it? Nothing happened.

  My heart stopped. Where was Dalton? Was he really dead? Shot back at the river? Oh god! Dalton!

  Another step, and another. My body shook with anger and fear. Then Dalton reared up from the bushes and tackled Rocky, knocking him over. The crossbow flew out of his hands as the two tumbled into the bushes in a mass of grunts.

  Dalton! Thank god! I scrambled toward them on my hands and knees, reaching for the crossbow. Dalton pummeled Rocky with his fists, but Rocky took it like he was jacked up on something. He didn’t wince or pull away like a normal person would. It was as if he wanted it, welcomed it. When Dalton rose up, Rocky landed a punch in his kidney. Dalton doubled over.

  “No!” escaped my lips. I grabbed hold of the crossbow.

  Then they were wrestling again, arms and legs enmeshed, crashing through the brush. I couldn’t make out one from the other. No way could I shoot.

  Rocky was encumbered by the pack, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. Rage was a powerful motivator. And Dalton was getting the brunt of it.

  Then Rocky had a knife in his hand—or was it Dalton? No, it was Rocky. He sliced and red blood streamed down Dalton’s arm. He jabbed again and Dalton slapped his hand away. Rocky flipped the knife in his hand and sliced back. Dalton blocked with his forearm but took a knee to the gut.

  They were on the ground, rolling downhill again.

  I pushed through the brush, keeping up.

  Dalton broke free and kicked Rocky square in the jaw, sending him backward, stumbling, trying to stay on his feet.

  I raised the crossbow, tried to hold it steady to look through the scope, but Rocky had gained his balance and pounced on Dalton.

  Dalton came up from the bushes with Rocky’s sidearm in his hand, but Rocky lunged, sending it flying. Could I get to it? I had a weapon in my hands. A lethal weapon. A more accurate weapon. But a gun was a gun. I headed for it.

  I pawed at the ground where the gun had fallen, scrambling through the bushes. Where could it be? I searched left, then right. Dammit! Dammit all to hell!

  I popped my head up. The men were tumbling down the hill again. I took three strides before they came to a stop with a distinct moan. Dalton lay motionless, Rocky on top of him. I planted my feet and raised the crossbow, my whole body shaking.

  “Get off of him!” I shouted.

  Rocky’s eyes slowly raised to focus on me.

  “Get off of him right now!”

  Slowly, measured, he rose, sitting atop Dalton, his chest facing me, fully exposed. Thirty yards away.

  Holding the crossbow trained on his heart, I said, “It’s over.”

  His eyes held mine, cold and hard. In an instant, he raised his knife and thrust it downward. Toward Dalton.

  I pulled the trigger and let the arrow fly.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rocky fell backward, the arrow stuck in his chest, rage and shock in his eyes.

  I raced down the hill toward Dalton as fast as my leg would take me.

  The knife protruded from Dalton’s thigh, his hand wrapped around it, his face white. Blood. There was too much blood.

  I reached for the knife.

  “No!” he grunted. “Don’t take it out.”

  “What?”

  His chest was heaving. “I’ll bleed to death if—” he drew in air “—if you take it out.” He panted to hold back the pain. “Make sure,” he managed, nodding toward Rocky.

  Rocky lay on the ground in a heap, his leg twitching. Dead. I’d killed him.

  “I…I…” My stomach flipped. “I think I’m going to—” I leaned over and retched, vomit heaving from my stomach and onto the ground, the bitter, nasty taste of bile making me spit and gag.

  “Breathe,” Dalton was saying. “Stay with me. Just breathe.”

  I sat back, closed my eyes and drew in a long breath. Then released it, slowly, trying to find calm.

  “I killed him.” I puffed. “I shot a man.”

  “Poppy, focus. It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I nodded. My heart rate was slowing.

  “Listen to me. You have to check. Make sure. Do you hear me?”

  Nodding, knowing he was right, I stretched my reach as far as I could, not wanting to get any closer than I had to, and placed my index and forefinger on Rocky’s neck. No pulse.

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  “Well it’s about goddamn time,” Dalton croaked and lay back.

  “Yeah,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I’d just killed a man. A man trying to kill me, trying to kill my partner, but still…I’d killed him. My stomach pulled tight, the acid bubbling back up.

  “Take a breath,” Dalton said.

  I did.

  “You look like hell.”

  My attention snapped back to him. “You don’t look much better.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. His hand that clutched the knife, holding it in place in his thigh, was white. “Let me take a look at that.”

  Blood oozed around the knife blade where it entered the skin, soaking his pants around it. “Do you think he hit your
femoral artery?”

  Dalton’s lips were pursed into an O as he concentrated on his breathing.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Okay.” Okay. Shit. I stood to look. We were at least a quarter mile from the camp, maybe farther. “Okay,” I said again.

  I dropped to my knees next to Rocky, rolled him over onto his side, and ripped open his backpack.

  All his daypack emergency gear was inside, but not the sat phone. Damn.

  A tourniquet. That’s what was needed.

  I pulled a strap from the pack and quickly wrapped it around Dalton’s thigh, higher than the wound, and pulled it tight. An arrow was the best I had to cinch it. I tied one into the knot and twisted. Dalton winced.

  “Too tight?”

  He shook his head.

  “Good.” I tied the other end of the arrow just above his knee to keep the tension. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll run back to the camp and call for help. You—” I choked back my fear “—you stay alive. Okay?”

  With gritted teeth, he nodded.

  “I’ll be right back, Dalton.” I leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. “Don’t you die on me, do you hear me? I’ll be right back.”

  “Enough drama,” he said, the muscles in his neck pulled tight. “Go already.”

  I got to my feet and ran. And ran. I had to get help. Now. A severed femoral artery was life threatening.

  If Rocky had pulled the blade back out, Dalton would be—my hand went to my mouth. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t think it.

  Keep running. Keep running!

  I came up over the ridge and saw the camp over the next rise. There I would get the phone, call in the calvary, then race back to keep him stable.

  The gate was closed, the electric fence still energized. I gripped the plastic handles to unclip the wires as fast as I could, then moved right to the storage box. Our guns, boxes of food stuff—food! I shoved the crackers and bananas into a pack then continued sorting through the box, tossing the contents on the ground—cast iron skillet, box of matches, can of coffee, utensils, two blankets, camp chairs, the tent bags, a first-aid kit. No phone.