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 inside, 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.
Yes, apparently, it was.
And of course, her words she’d spoken to him seemed to pulse with her heartbeat.
I learned that day that there would be a day when no one is there to save me. And I have to be ready for it.
See, she was right.
And as soon as she confirmed a sighting of March, she’d find a radio, call in her position—
She heard grunting. From her position she had a clear sight of the road, and every cell in her body froze when she spotted March walking up the road as if out for a stroll. But he had his hand pressed to his side, his face in a knot of pain.
So she had hit him. Good.
Except, with him walked her father. The front of his shirt bore the evidence of a bloodied nose, although it looked like it had stopped gushing.
He watched the forest, scanning the road, and she wondered if he was looking for her. She couldn’t tell if he was a captive or not.
She didn’t know which she rooted for. If he were a captive, March could easily kill him. She counted at least four shots left in her gun that March now possessed.
If he wasn’t a captive, then…
No. Her father could not be a part of this escape.
March went right up to the truck with not even a glance at the camper and opened the door.
An expletive sharpened the air as he slammed the door.
Then he came up to her dad, yanked him around to the front of the truck, and dispelled any questions about her father’s involvement. He set the revolver against his head. “I know you’re out there, pretty girl,” March said, staring into the woods, nearly right at her. “I want my keys.”
Her dad didn’t move. Didn’t blink, his face stone.
March lowered his gun and shot her father in the foot.
The sound cracked through the silence of the morning, scattering birds, and Archer howled.
Stevie clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from shouting.
“Shut up!” March said, grabbing his shirt and pulling him up from where Archer was keeling over. March looked beyond her, as if searching for her. “I have three bullets left. I promise to save one for a head shot, but I have two more to use up. Give me those keys and he goes free.”
She closed her eyes, almost hearing her father in her head. You gotta watch your own back, Stevie.
Except she hadn’t, had she? Because when she’d needed her father—even if she didn’t want to admit it—he’d shown up.
Maybe your dad was just as scared as you were.
March turned, his grip now around her father’s neck. “You have three seconds.”
He began to count, and her father’s expression tightened. “Stevie, if you’re out there, don’t—”
She stepped out on two, holding up her hands. “March!”
He took the gun off her father, and her father’s mouth tightened. But what was she supposed to do?
More, she was banking on the hope that he was still a law enforcement officer under all that soot and blood and desperation. That he had some trick up his sleeve.
She took another step toward March. “I have the keys. But you don’t get them unless you let him go.”
“Drop the keys.”
She stopped moving. “Let him go.”
March considered her, his eyes narrowing. He put the gun back on her father.
“If you shoot him, I throw these into the woods,” she said.
March gave her father a hard push. He stumbled forward, one eye closing in a grimace, his jaw tight. But he barely grunted as he dragged his bloody foot across the grass. One step, two.
“Throw the keys.” March leveled the gun to her father’s back.
She took a step. “Two more steps!”
Her father kept walking.
“Now. I won’t ask again,” March said.
Her father met her eyes, gave a little shake of his head. But she wasn’t made of the stuff he was, apparently. Because she wasn’t better alone, and frankly, if she could show up to save her dad, then maybe that’s why she was here.
Today, she showed up to save someone she loved.
She tossed the keys underhanded to March. He caught them with one hand.
Smiled.
And that’s when she figured it out. When she caught up to why her dad had escaped with March, why
he’d run with him over and over.
Her father let out a howl. “No!” He sprinted toward Stevie. He leaped as the gun in March’s grip reported.
His arms went around her, his body pummeling her to the ground, and he landed on top of her, his full weight pinning her.
Stopped moving.
“Dad—” She pressed up against him, wiggling out from under him.
He groaned, and she wanted to weep with relief. But blood covered her jacket, her hands. “Dad!” Kneeling beside him, she rolled him over.
Blood ran out of a wound in his gut, spilling onto the dirt road, a through and through that—
She touched her own body. The bullet had missed her, somehow.
She tore off her jacket, pressing it into the wound. “Hang on—please, don’t die!”
A hand curled around her neck. “C’mon, honey,” March said. “We have to go.” Fingers pressed in, cutting off her breath. She gripped her hand around his, fighting for air, then rearing back to slam her hand into March’s wound, to fight him with everything she had.
He cuffed her hard, the blow stinging, the world spinning.
Then he hit her again, and everything went black.
Tucker spotted the plume of black in the sky even before he got Seth on the horn.
“The fire’s kicking back up,” Seth said in response to Tucker’s check-in. “Winds from the west have pushed it past the fire line, down into the valley. Last night we had to retreat south. We’re about a half mile from the Boy Scout camp.
“That lake is your safety zone, then,” Tucker said, studying the smoke. It rose as a thick column into the blue, black in the center with layers of gray and white. “Looks like the fire is burning hot and fast. But as it digs in to the moisture under the dry underbrush, it’s smoldering—that’s the gray smoke, burning wet trees. You may be able to slow it down if you can direct it toward an area with wet fuels.”
He needed a map, really, but every second he spent on the radio was a precious second that Stevie ran after trouble.
Alone.
He’d dug around in his pack and pulled out two pairs of dry socks plus a T-shirt. The T-shirt and one pair of socks he’d given to Skye, who went into the woods to change. He bent to unlace his soggy boots.
“We need you back here,” Seth said. “With Riley gone, we’re down to four, plus the three prisoners. We need reinforcements.”
“What’s the BLM doing?”
“They’re working on getting a tanker in here, maybe calling in another team. By the way, the team of US marshals found the cabin—they can’t be too far from you.”
Skye emerged from her forested changing room with her hair pulled back into a wet and grimy ponytail, wearing his black T-shirt and dry socks. It wasn’t a roaring campfire, but at least her core might start to warm.
“Tell them that we followed a deer trail south,” Tucker said.
“I’ll let them know.” Seth paused. “Can you get back here?”
Maybe. They could hike back to the cabin and take the old four-wheeler he’d seen.
Skye met his eyes. Something was up with her—she’d argued with him the entire walk/jog/run back to his pack that they needed to follow Rio. That he was in danger.
Tucker closed his eyes, pressed the radio to his forehead. Because yeah, he should be heading back to help his team. He wasn’t a cop. The last time he’d tried to play at fugitive recovery he’d nearly gotten Stevie killed. Certainly she was smart enough to stay back, let her team bring down March.
Except she had no radio.
And he knew her—shoot, but he knew her. Already. Knew that at her core, she wasn’t going to let March get away.
And he knew in his core that he couldn’t let her do it alone.
This can’t be anything.
But he wanted it to be. Being with Stevie had sparked something inside him. Something alive and yeah, maybe dangerous, but…
He was tired of playing it safe.
Love gives us power, makes us risk everything we have, everything we are.
His own words poured back onto him.
“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Tucker said. “But first, we gotta do something.” He looked up at Skye, who nodded. “Don’t do anything stupid, Seth.”
He clicked off and pocketed the radio, Jed’s words rebounding in his ears.
Pulling off his boots and socks, he grabbed his dry socks, his secret to keeping healthy on the fire line. He wrestled them onto his wrinkled, chilled feet. Shoved his feet back into the boots. The water had the effect of numbing his knee, and at the moment, he ached everywhere anyway.
He laced up his boots and made to grab his backpack, but Skye had already reached for it, shouldering it on.
“Skye—”
“Stop. Let me do something. I know you think you have to shield me, but I made this team just like everyone else. I can carry a PG pack and keep up with you, boss.”
He gave her a grim smile. “I don’t have to tell you that March is dangerous—”
“Listen. Like I said, there’s more going on than you realize here, and I have to find Rio and warn him about something I heard. He’s in real danger.”
“Yeah, from getting apprehended. Skye, he’s a criminal!”
She glared at him. “Let’s go.”
She turned and ran down the trail.
Okay, he didn’t understand this girl at all. But at least she was running in the right direction.
Admittedly, without the pack, he moved easier. They hiked down the trail Stevie had taken, then across the bridge where he got a good look at the rapids, the place where they’d climbed out. Farther down the river a roar rose behind a cloud of mist. A waterfall.
He hustled across the bridge and down the path.
“Do you know where March was taking you?” Tucker said, moving into a run. Training had taught him that he had a lot more in him than he thought.
“I heard him talking with Archer. He said he had a campsite and a truck we could take.”
She was running ahead of him, hardly breaking a sweat.
“Did anyone ever mention that Archer was a…cop?”
“No.” She glanced over her shoulder. Frowned.
“Was he in on the escape?”
“I don’t know. He was on March like glue, though. So maybe.”
Or maybe Archer knew that if March escaped, his daughter would go after him. And if she did, Archer would want to be there to make sure March didn’t hurt her.
That’s what Tucker would have done.
The path edged away from the river, through the woods, and as he ran, he spotted a lake through the thinning trees. Crystalline blue under the bold sky. The wind raked fingers down his neck, into his T-shirt, still soggy and chafing as he ran.
Please, let him be running in the right direction. Because he’d seen no sign of March or Archer or even Stevie.
Skye set a grueling pace, and he had to give her credit. Maybe she hadn’t needed his protection as much as he’d thought.
You can’t stop bad things from happening. And you don’t need to save everyone.
Okay, maybe not, Lord. But if Stevie is in trouble, I’d like to save her.
He spotted a sign for the Troublesome campground and slowed down to a walk, breathing hard. They came out to a gravel road. RVs, pop-ups, and tents were tucked into campsites. Civilization of sorts.
Which meant people in the way. He caught up to Skye and grabbed her arm.
“Wait.”
He thought he’d heard a shout.
She nodded, drew back, and he stopped to listen.
A shot cracked the air.
He glanced at Skye, then took off running.
The road curved, and he came around the corner just in time to spot March standing in front of his truck, holding Archer by the collar. The man seemed white with pain.
And standing across the road, Stevie, the wind blowing back that sable hair, her jaw tight, her expression unmoving. “Let h
im go.”
Tucker grabbed Skye and pulled her with him into the forest edging the campsite. A rusty, ancient trailer squatted in the middle of the campsite, and he moved around the edge of the forest, watching as Stevie took a step toward March.
Tucker crouched behind the arms of a shaggy spruce, his heart banging hard. “You stay here,” he whispered. “I’m going to try and get behind March and tackle him.”
“Don’t die,” Skye snapped, taking off the PG pack.
“Right. Radio in to Seth, tell him our position so the marshals can get here.”
She nodded again, and he edged out from the woods to scamper behind the trailer. He couldn’t see Stevie, but he heard March shouting. “Throw the keys!”
No, Stevie, don’t—
Tucker came out around the trailer, behind March. The man pointed his revolver at Stevie, and Tucker’s knees nearly buckled.
Archer took a step toward Stevie.
Somehow Tucker kept his mouth shut as Stevie tossed the keys to March.
The next seconds played out in a flash. Archer, shouting, launching himself at Stevie.
A shot that turned Tucker’s bones to liquid.
Archer, collapsing on top of Stevie.
Now. He should tackle March—
March grabbed Stevie around the neck and hauled her to her feet.
A terrible heat sparked to flame inside Tucker when he saw March hit her.
Stevie went down. March hit her again.
And everything inside Tucker exploded.
He launched himself at March, a full-out body tackle that slammed him and March into the ground. The revolver bounced out of March’s hand, and Tucker rolled away, hitting his feet.
March too had rolled, and he came up with a tire iron in his grip.
He swung it at Tucker and it flew out of his hand.
Tucker dodged, dove, and rolled, facing the road, hands out.
“I didn’t peg you for the scrappy type, kid,” March said. His preppy look had turned disheveled, blood on his face, his lip cut, another cut over his eye. “You were all textbook and rules out on the line. Now what—? There aren’t any rules out here.”
“You’re right, man. There are no rules here.” Just instincts.
Then he charged March.
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