Lone Star Survivor

by Colleen Thompson

  The enemy? Could he possibly mean Ian? Her hands were shaking and her stomach knotting as she powered off the phone completely and sped out of the parking lot, the acid tang of panic on her tongue.

  Did Julian really have the kind of power, the authority, he implied? Or were his words no more than a last-ditch effort to control her?

  And what about Ian? Could he really be the traitor Julian implied? She tried to fathom it, to picture the man she’d ridden with this morning willingly providing his captors with intelligence. Impossible, she told herself, thinking of Ian’s scars, of the suffering so painful he couldn’t bring himself to remember the details.

  Whatever he’d done to survive, she told herself she didn’t blame him or doubt his honor or his courage for a moment. She’d learned too much about the ways prisoners in captivity were broken to believe that even the strongest, most loyal person alive could long withstand the physical and psychological manipulation, the darkness, the starvation, the loneliness and deprivation. The things she’d heard in sessions with other former captives had given her nightmares, dreams so horrifying they’d had her crying out.

  Nausea churning in her stomach, she fueled up at the nearest station and grabbed snacks and a bottled iced tea for what she knew would be one very long drive. More than a thousand miles, she remembered from her initial journey out here. She would have a rough time making it in one marathon session even if she were in tip-top condition. Instead, it was late afternoon already, feeling even later with the skies a leaden gray, and she was so emotionally raw that she ached with every breath. She was sore, too, from the riding, and there was a tender lump where she had opened up her forehead. All in all, she needed a warm bath and a soft bed, not a cross-country journey and a broken heart.

  Just outside of town, she reached the fork in the road that forced her to make a choice. Straight on would connect her to the southbound state road that would eventually take her to the interstate she’d follow all the way to California. If she turned right instead, following the arrow with a small sign reading Spur Creek 35, Rusted Spur 70, she could be at the Rayford Ranch in less than an hour’s time...could be there long enough to warn Ian—a warning Julian would have no chance of tracing through her cell phone or computer—before heading south to pick up the interstate from there and get on her way.

  Behind her, a driver in a primer-gray pickup honked and glared behind dark sunglasses, alerting her to the fact that she’d come to a full stop in the middle of the road. After waving the man past her with an apologetic smile, Andrea finally made up her mind.

  For Ian’s sake, for old time’s sake, she simply had to take the chance.

  Speeding along the rural road, she struggled to calm the pounding in her chest and focus on her breathing, on the gentle rise and fall of grasslands that seemed to stretch into forever. But since her ride with Ian, she saw them differently, her gaze seeking out clues to hidden places, places that might hide either great beauty or grave dangers.

  Other than the occasional distant shed, the changing fence lines and the different types of cattle, there was little to mark her progress, and there wouldn’t be, she knew, until she crossed the narrow bridge that spanned Spur Creek at the halfway point. The two-lane road was rutted and emptier than the last two times she’d come this way, and she saw far more hawks, jackrabbits and coyotes than signs of other humans.

  Which was why, sometime later, she was so quick to notice the pair of headlights shining in her rearview. Headlights from a huge grill coming up behind her little Honda far too fast.

  * * *

  “What on God’s green earth do you think you’re doing takin’ off in my truck like that?” Zach shouted at Ian over the cell phone’s speaker. “I told you I just had to grab my wallet and I’d take you.”

  “Sorry, but I couldn’t wait,” Ian said as the big Ford roared along the ranch road. “I’ll return the truck as soon as—”

  “You do realize it’d make Sheriff Canter’s day to lock you up for driving with no license.”

  “He’ll have to catch me first, and it’s one damned big county,” Ian said. Though Canter’s jurisdiction extended as far as Marston, he normally stuck closer to sleepy Rusted Spur, which had been the county seat for decades before the now-much-larger town had been established.

  “Last I heard, they’ve opened up a satellite office in Marston—with a half-dozen deputies on patrol there. Any one of ’em would score big with the boss man by hauling in a Rayford.”

  “What’re they gonna do?” Ian scoffed. “Prosecute a dead man?”

  “Maybe not, but they can damn sure throw his stubborn ass in jail for truck theft.”

  “Relax, Zach. I’m just borrowing your baby. And I swear I’ll return it without a single scratch or dent.” As if to contradict the point, Ian took the Marston turnoff too fast, tires squealing in protest as the vehicle fishtailed around the corner. As he wrestled the pickup back under control, he heard a faint protest from his brother from the floorboard, where the phone had fallen.

  “You’ll be the one scratched and dented,” came the tinny voice, “if you don’t drive any better than the last time I remember.”

  “Last you remember, I was sixteen,” Ian told him. “I’ve had a little more experience since then. Now, if you’ll quit distracting me, I want to give the road my full attention.”

  “Just see that you do, bro. I don’t want you hurt,” Zach said, as his angry bluster gave way to something deeper. “And call me when you find her. All right? Then, whatever you do, try to remember that she’s built a whole life since she was with you—a life you’ve managed to totally knock off the rails in just a few days.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk.” A moment later, Ian’s sarcasm eased into sincerity. “I will call you. Promise. And believe me, I’ll do my damnedest not to scare her off this time.”

  The more details he remembered from their time together, the more determined he was to right the wrong that had spread like poison through his life when he’d been foolish enough to let her leave it. Sure, he’d had his job, a career he’d always thought he was damned good at, and he’d loved being a part of something that he had truly believed mattered. But with the ambush, that confidence, too, had crumbled, leaving him with nothing more than fractured memories of how fortunate, how fulfilled and whole, he’d felt when he was with her.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, hinting at the reason for the purplish gloom on the horizon. Though ordinarily, he would welcome the moisture, which would bring better grazing for the family’s cattle, Ian hoped the storm would slide off in another direction or at least wait until after he found Andrea and talked her out of leaving.

  Once Zach wished him luck and ended the call, Ian flipped on the pickup’s headlights. Within a few miles, a light patter started, and by the time he reached the Spur Creek bridge, he was cursing the steady rain and flipping on the wipers.

  His aggravation nearly made him miss the break in the narrow bridge’s railing, driving past before it registered. Someone must have had a wreck there or even gone over since he’d last come through here. He was half surprised he hadn’t read about it in the local paper.

  Maybe because it hadn’t happened prior to the last edition, some instinct told him. The same instinct that had him pulling to the gravel shoulder and turning to look back over his shoulder. But from this angle there was no way he could see the water.

  You’re wasting time, imagining things that aren’t there. From what Jessie had told him, every second he delayed was taking Andrea farther and farther away from Marston, away from him and Texas.

  Unable to bear the thought, he put the truck back into gear and sped off. As he did, the rain redoubled, every drop of it raising the level of the creek.

  Chapter 8

  Andrea came to with a gasp, sputtering as the cold water reached her mouth and nost
rils. Reflex had her craning her neck and pushing herself away from what would drown her, struggling to escape whatever held her down. Adrenaline flooding through her, she succeeded only in gouging her own flesh with her ragged fingernails. She was going to die here, right now, her final moments illuminated by the dashboard lights.

  A thought cut through her panicked scrabble. Seat belt. That was right. She was in her car—now lying on its side beneath the bridge railing she had crashed through, as far as she could make out. In the creek itself, judging from the water pouring into her car, rising high enough that she could only breathe by straining.

  You’re okay. Nothing feels broken, she assured herself, though she felt sick from the pounding in her head. It’s only panic that will kill you.

  Repeating the last part like a mantra, she found and clicked the belt latch and cried out with joy when it released. Untangling herself from the shoulder harness, she splashed frantically in an attempt to raise herself above the water level. But how would she get out, with the driver’s side door pinned against the creek bottom?

  Why, oh why hadn’t she bought one of those escape tools for the glove box, the kind guaranteed to break out the windshield with a tap or two? Without one, her frantic attempts to punch or kick her way through the windshield were useless. And with the passenger-side door above her, she faced an awkward struggle trying to get to the latch. When she could finally reach it, she lacked the strength, or anything to brace against with her legs, to force open the door more than an inch or so.

  As the dash lights flickered, she wedged a foot against the side of a seat for better leverage and screamed as the car lurched, tilting farther toward its roof. “Don’t tip, don’t tip, don’t tip!” she begged, bracing herself in a standing position to keep her head and shoulders above the swiftly rising water.

  From outside the car, she felt the rush of the current, heard its chatter as it jostled the vehicle and swept past. There were more ominous noises, too: the grinding scrape of the driver’s side on the pebbles of the creek bed, the ticking of the engine and the groan of metal. Knowing that any shift in her weight could be what toppled the car, Andrea felt the water leaching the warmth from her body and understood that if she did nothing, she would surely die.

  With her phone lost somewhere and undoubtedly ruined, there was no way to call for help and no time, either. There was only her strength and her courage, courage that nearly failed her as she remembered the vehicle she’d been helpless to outrace or outmaneuver, the powerful truck that had smashed into the Honda’s rear tire and made her lose control.

  Was the driver somewhere nearby, on the bridge or by the creek’s bank? Was he waiting not to help but to kill her instead if she’d survived? Shuddering with fear and cold, she told herself that by simply waiting here to drown, she would be doing his job for him.

  The dash lights gave a final flicker and then plunged her into near-darkness, making up her mind.

  Bracing herself, she fought to find the focus that had once made her a fierce competitor. She might be cold and battered, her strength fading with each passing second, but she’d be damned if she let whatever government goon Julian had sent win this round and then go after Ian.

  Summoning a last-ditch burst of will, she powered the door until it stood above her, open. She hesitated for a moment longer, praying for all she was worth, before jumping up to thrust an elbow out of the door.

  As she began to hoist herself, however, the car abruptly shifted.

  “No!” she cried, frantic to get up and get clear.

  But nothing could stop the momentum that had the Honda splashing down like a dead roach on its back.

  * * *

  Ian didn’t make it a half mile down the road before he was slammed with doubt and guilt—was he really so damned selfish he would drive right past a possible wreck? A three-point turn made him feel better. He’d go back far enough to assure himself that it was nothing and then turn around again, delaying his journey less than a minute.

  Except it wasn’t nothing, but instead a sight that slammed his heart into overdrive. Some twenty feet below, a dark car—in the rain, it was impossible to make out the color—lay on its side in the creek, partly submerged in the waters that swirled around it. For an instant, he took the car for Jessie’s blue Prius before reminding himself that she was home and safe on the ranch.

  But Andrea isn’t, and her car is dark blue.

  He gripped the thought like an exposed wire, the shocking certainty coursing through him, mind and body. Just as he wondered if she had survived the crash, he saw the car’s door rising, lifted by someone trapped inside...

  He screamed her name, turning to run down to the bank when his attention was attracted by a splashing thud. When he looked again, he saw the car’s wheels pointing upward, the doors and windows totally submerged. And no sign at all of Andrea.

  Rain soaking into his clothes, he raced to reach her, the steep bank giving way beneath his feet to send him sliding on his ass. But that didn’t matter, no more than the current’s surprising power when he dove in. It pushed him past the car the first time, forcing him to swim to shore and then make a second try from upstream before he was able to latch on to the undercarriage and position himself on the lee side of the vehicle.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he dove under, feeling his way when he could see nothing...nothing until his fingers tangled in her hair.

  Forced to come up for air once more, he made a second dive and encountered Andrea, her body partway through a door that refused to open wide enough to allow her lower half to get through. She thrashed and fought, jerking back reflexively when he grasped her wrist, but his attempts to pull her through the narrow gap were futile, with the door wedged against the slick rocks lining the bottom.

  She’s going to drown. The thought raced through his bloodstream to the frantic beating of his heart. He couldn’t let it happen, refused to lose her like this.

  Bracing his feet against the frame, he yanked the door with all his might. With Andrea pushing from the other side, it gave, opening a few more inches before it dug into the bottom, sticking as though cast in concrete.

  The gap proved just enough, but as she came free at last, her body spasmed and went limp. Pushing off the bottom, he hauled her to the surface, then dragged her to where the bank widened and flattened out about ten yards downstream. Half crawling out, he pulled her behind him and opened her unresisting mouth, positioning her head to let the water pour out.

  It wasn’t enough, and her flesh was so damned chilled, the rainwater so much cooler than the mild early evening, so he tipped her onto her back and started mouth-to-mouth, his mind casting up a frantic prayer: Breathe, please breathe. The steps from an old first-aid class resurfaced in his memory: four rescue breaths followed by a check for a pulse at her carotid. Desperate for a sign of life, he pressed his fingers into her neck—and felt nothing but the racing rhythm of his own pounding heat.

  Hoping like hell he was remembering the technique correctly, he moved to start CPR, his eyes and throat burning with an emotion that he didn’t dare give in to. He couldn’t think about it, couldn’t doubt or hesitate a second.

  Before he got in a single compression, Andrea’s arms jerked, and she began coughing noisily. He turned her onto her side, where she heaved up more water, then helped her as she pushed herself back from the mess.

  “Andrea, talk to me. Are you hurting anywhere? Are your neck and back—”

  She held up a hand, still coughing, her body shivering violently. Her teeth chattered so hard he heard their staccato clicking.

  “My phone’s back in the truck,” he said. “I need to call for help and see if I can find some towels or maybe a blanket for you.”

  “N-no call. No 911.”

  Breathing, speaking—now all I need is for you to start talking sense. “You need a hospital and
proper warming. Your lungs could still have water in—”

  “No.” Her gaze found his and held it, her eyes clear and her expression urgent. “You c-call an ambulance, and I’m as good—as good as d-dead already. This w-wasn’t any a-accident.” She rolled onto all fours and started trying to crawl up the embankment, a scramble that felt like a knife’s thrust to his heart.

  Confused as she was, there was no way he could leave her alone to go and call for help, and she damned well didn’t look or act like someone with a spinal injury. So instead he said, “Here, let me help you, and we’ll go back to the truck and turn the heat on high.”

  He half supported and half carried her to the road above, finally getting her into the front seat of Zach’s truck. After finding a dry towel behind the rear seat and one of his brother’s old barn jackets, he helped her into the sleeves and latched her seat belt before coming around and hauling his own chilled and dripping body into the driver’s seat.

  For a minute, they sat panting, both of them in shock as heat blasted through the vents. But when Ian reached forward to scoop up his phone from the floorboard, Andrea’s lashes fluttered, and her eyes shot wide.

  “No! I mean it, Ian. A b-big truck, or maybe it was an SUV.” She was interrupted by a coughing fit, only to continue soon after. “I’m not exactly sure what it was, only that it seemed huge, the way it came roaring up behind me, chasing me for several miles. I c-couldn’t get away, and I was scared to death of what might happen if I tried to pull over. Then he bumped my tire and—”

  “You said he. Did you see a man?”

  She shook her head. “I was too intent on keeping my wheels on the road to really make out anybody. But one hard bump, and I completely lost control and hit the guardrail. Next thing I knew, I was coming to with creek water pouring into my car.”

  “You were knocked out, too? Then you definitely need the ER. I’ll drive you there myself, though. It’ll be a lot faster that way.”