When the blinding pain subsided and her head settled on her neck once again, she glanced around her, not believing her eyes. They were off the road, hidden in thick underbrush beneath a stand of pine trees, only a few hundred feet from the Purgatory trailhead. The Jeep was in the unseen valley below, somewhere between here and Cascade Creek.
“It’s down there.” She pointed toward the Animas River, out of sight and miles away. Both the trail and the creek meandered down the west side of the valley toward the river.
He stared into the forest in the direction she indicated and then eyed her suspiciously. “How do we get down there?”
“We can’t. It’s too steep,” she asserted—hope of him abandoning his futile mission filling her heart. “They’ve never been able to pull the Jeep out. You can’t get down there.” Disdain flared in his eyes and a cocky attitude spread across his face. She deflated as she realized her feeble argument wouldn’t dissuade him.
“We will.”
“You can’t mean that,” she responded with no breath, fear threatening to paralyze her. She ground her teeth and determined to play the game.
“Oh, I mean it. And I know how we’ll do it. We’ll take the trail down to the train track. That’ll get us closer, and then we can find a way to get to the Jeep from there.”
Cory’s plan lacked reason. There was no simple way to reach the Jeep. They couldn’t get to it from the trail and would have to walk down the train track for some distance and then climb up the Cascade Creek gorge. It would be a rough, rocky, and steep climb uphill. They could traverse the entire creek without finding it.
She allowed him to make his ill-considered plan, refusing to correct his bad assumptions. If he intended to leave her with the Jeep once he located it, she had other plans.
He removed a gun from his jacket pocket. “I’m going to remove the duct tape. But remember, I’ve got the gun.”
She wasn’t about to forget.
He cut her loose with one swift slit of the knife and nicked her wrists. Spattered blood covered her once white T-shirt. Where had all the blood come from? She pushed trembling fingers against the head wound and shivered, missing the warmth of the jacket she had tossed on the backseat of her car.
****
An ominous hint of nasty weather hovered in the air. The wildlife fell silent, undoubtedly hiding in preparation for the coming storm. As Cory pushed her deeper into the wilderness, the scenery passed Chris in a steady blur.
She tripped on an exposed root and fell to her knees, the pain jolting through her bones. She groaned and glanced up at her captor, but he didn’t offer to help her up. Instead, he snorted his displeasure. She stumbled to rise to her feet and then brushed the debris from her clothes. He nudged her with the gun. Grunting in feeble protest, she continued down the trail, not daring to glance back to see if he still had the gun aimed at her. She had no doubt that he did.
She recalled the last time she was on this trail…with Steve. Tears welled in her eyes. Steve was surely already on his way to Virginia. His flight departed this afternoon. What time was it? Had he boarded the plane already? She wished with all her heart she had found the courage to tell him how much she cared about him, that she had fallen in love with him. Now it was likely she might never get the chance.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked through chattering teeth. Then she regretted opening a dialogue with Cory, the man who had been calling himself Jeff.
His derisive laughter echoed through the woods and bounced back to her. “That’s a stupid question. I can’t believe you can’t figure this out, Carrie. Maybe you’ve spent too much time pretending to be a good girl, hanging around with that sheriff. Why wouldn’t I do this? I want what’s mine.”
“It’s not yours.”
“How long did you think I was going to let you lead West on like that? You must be out of your mind. You should’ve left town as soon as he got here.”
She went with her gut instinct, sensing that Carrie—Carol—was a very different type of woman. “You’re right. I should’ve left town, but not because of him. He was spending his money on me. No, I should’ve left to get away from you.” Had she managed to adopt the other woman’s attitude?
He snorted in disgust. “You always were an opportunist. But you were never any good at getting out of a jam.”
“I got away from you.”
“I’m here, baby.” His malicious smile sent a shiver down her spine. “And you owe me. I got rid of your last problem for you.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
“I killed that worthless husband of yours,” he bragged.
“You what?” She nearly collapsed. Was Steve dead?
He gave her no time to ask questions. “Enough talk. You walk.” He pushed her harder down the Purgatory trail.
Chapter Twenty-One
The bile heaved in Steve’s stomach and rose in his throat. He forced it down and peered into the dense forest on one side of the road and then the other, hoping he could remember what the car looked like. It was old, and he thought it was a dark shade of green. It had to be on or near the highway somewhere. As he drove the Jeep further and further out of Hermosa, back up the highway toward Purgatory, his panic level rose. He had to find the car.
He had forgotten to put the top up in his haste to follow her. Icy-cold drops of rain mixed with sleet pelted his forehead and forearms as he headed into the mountains toward Purgatory. He wiped an errant tear from his cheek—or was it a snowflake?—keeping his attention on the road.
As he neared the ski lift area at Durango Mountain Resort, the rain and sleet turned to a solid sheet of snow, making it hard to see very far in front of him. He was about to give up when he passed a vehicle parked in the trees off the highway. The Jeep leaned on two wheels as he turned and pulled onto the shoulder.
He got out of his vehicle and inspected the car. The hood was still hot. Peering through the passenger window, he searched for any sign of her. On the ground near the trunk, he found an oily rag and some mangled, bloody duct tape. His eyes followed two sets of footprints in the freshly fallen snow.
Looking back down the highway, he focused on the Purgatory trail. He followed his instinct, drove the Jeep to the lot at the trailhead, and started his descent down the trail.
****
Chris was freezing by the time she passed the abandoned cabin, but Cory had little sympathy for her physical distress. She struggled with the material, hooking her finger in a rip in the cloth, but finally managed to tear a strip of cloth from the bottom of her T-shirt to bind up her bleeding forehead. He snorted as he watched her struggle with the makeshift bandage, refusing to do anything to help. Instead, he prodded her with the gun.
How can anyone be so hateful? Why would he want to treat me this way? What have I done to him? What have I done to deserve this?
The blood was congealing on her forehead in the cold weather—the bandage a wet, soggy mess, as was the rest of her clothing. What was left of her thin, cotton shirt clung to her torso. Her black jeans stuck to her thighs.
She didn’t dare complain.
As she stumbled further down the trail, she formulated one plan of escape after another, determined that he wouldn’t defeat her. Believing she was more experienced climbing this trail than Cory was, she felt a strong, unseen force guiding her, leading her down the now familiar trail.
He stopped to catch his breath. “Okay, stop. Let’s take a break.” He leaned against a pine tree, all the while aiming the weapon at her face.
He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve a bottle of drinking water, but offered her none. Sweat formed on his brow, despite the rapidly dropping temperatures. She was still holding her own, glad she had done so much hiking in the last five years, but apparently, Cory hadn’t done enough.
“What made you think you could get by with it?” He gasped his words, gulping in the cold mountain air. He was breathing all wrong—short and choppy i
ntakes of breath. He couldn’t possibly be taking in enough oxygen.
She refused to address his question. She had no answer that made any sense. Ideas were starting to form in the subconscious part of her mind, but they were still just shadows, not quite ready to take shape. She was beginning to sense the enormity of the memories she suppressed so long and their power to immobilize her with terror. Cory embodied every fear she had of her past.
“Okay, let’s move,” he commanded and pushed her forward with a wave of the gun. She turned back toward the trail and smiled. He would never survive if he got lost in the wilderness. He didn’t know how to pace himself.
She hardly noticed as they passed the cliff overhang where she had the flashback. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder at the man who held her life in his hands. The angry, malevolent glare on his face froze her heart, stalling its beating until she willed it to start again. She drove herself forward, not wanting to risk his ire, refusing to stop unless he killed her.
Too soon, they arrived at the picnic area. By that time of day, all the scheduled train excursions had already passed the area as it headed back to Durango. There were no vehicles on the small lot at the trailhead when they started down the trail. The day’s hikers—if there were any—had long since left the area and gone on with their plans for the evening.
They were alone in the wilderness.
****
Steve ran down the well-trodden path unmindful of the branches that brushed his face, not feeling the rocks that bit at his toes through the fabric of his running shoes, grateful for the time he spent jogging the steep ascent from the lifts up the highway to Cascade Creek every day.
He dared not think about what was going on down the trail and cringed as he wondered how bad Chris’ injuries were. Was her heightened activity causing the blood to flow freely? Her wounds weren’t severe enough to keep her from starting the hike. But was she strong enough to finish it?
The sky had turned ominously dark. His feet crunched the debris on the forest floor. The landmarks he noted on his previous hike passed him in a blur. His thoughts concentrated on forward motion. He felt the bump of his keys against his thigh with every step he took. His right foot slid in slick mud and he nearly fell. Snow stuck to his hair, so he pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.
His eyes scanned the trail, back and forth, searching for any hint she had passed that way before him. As he approached the abandoned cabin, he found a torn piece of fabric discarded on the trail. He stopped and picked it up, studying it closely. His heart raced faster as he noted the telltale splotch of red on the white fabric.
His hyperactive consciousness refused to explore the possibility she was underclothed for the deteriorating weather. His subconscious pushed him to run faster.
When he got to the cliff overhang, the forest was almost completely dark. He upbraided himself for not grabbing his flashlight and realized he was making a lot of noise as he ran down the steep trail in the dark. Not wanting to alert her kidnapper to his presence before he was ready to confront him, he slowed his pace as he crossed the bridge and neared the picnic area.
Was that the low mumble of conversation? Was someone on the other side of that stand of trees? No. It had to be his imagination. The rushing sounds of the Animas River drowned out all but the loudest noises.
Footprints disrupted the otherwise pristine, snow-laden surface of the footbridge. White patches clung to the north side of rocks and trees and covered the picnic table’s top. The temperature was dropping.
To his dismay, he reached the railroad track without finding her. The snowfall was quickly covering the now barely visible footprints heading for the trestle bridge over the creek. Was that Cascade Creek? He started toward the bridge when he heard the faintest noise, stopped, and held his breath. Was that conversation? He wasn’t sure.
Veering off the track, he entered the woods to the right, walking at a slow but steady pace, listening for the slightest sounds that would indicate human activity. The darkening night limited his visibility. He was almost to the trestle when he saw the bright white of someone’s shirt. Was that Chris? It had to be. She faced a tree, standing so close her nose was almost touching the bark. What in the world was she doing? What was she staring at? He hesitated to approach her, waiting a moment to determine if anyone was with her. It seemed like forever, but it was only a few minutes before he dared come near her.
“Chris?” he whispered. She didn’t hear him over the sound of the river. He called her name again, this time a little louder.
She turned her head toward him—a wide-eyed expression on her face. A bloody makeshift bandage circled her head. He realized too late that she was bound to the tree. She called his name as if in warning. Then pain shot through the back of his head. He fell to the ground and grunted with the impact. The last thing he heard was her ear-piercing scream.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Steve awoke, but his eyelids refused to open. Slowly, his consciousness defined his surroundings one item at a time—hard wood floor beneath him and ropes binding his hands. His muscles cramped from lying in the fetal position. A sharp pain stabbed the back of his head.
But none of that mattered. The slow up and down rise of someone’s chest pushed against his back and he breathed a sigh of relief. They were both still alive.
He opened his eyes but stayed still—sure Chris was asleep. They would both need rest to face whatever confronted them. She shifted and shivered, almost wedging her trembling body beneath him. Her breath heated the back of his neck.
He wanted to remove his lined jacket and put it over her shoulders, but he couldn’t, not with his hands bound. What kind of monster wouldn’t allow her to have a jacket in this weather? Seething at the unknown person who held them prisoner, he recognized the emotion—the same intense anger he felt toward the person who kidnapped Carol. Instinct slammed into his consciousness. Were Chris’s captor and Carol’s kidnapper the same man?
He didn’t want to explore the answer to that question. It involved things he wouldn’t consider. Not right now. His sole mission at this point was finding a way for both of them to escape. He pushed all other considerations aside.
Once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he glanced around him. The room was small, cramped, and darker than dark. He shifted his weight off his aching shoulder and bumped something solid and immovable. One ankle was tied to the heavy object. A sharp pain radiated through his leg, and his foot began to throb.
Chris must have felt him move. “Steve, are you awake?”
“Yes. Are you okay? You must be freezing.”
“I’m cold, but I’m all right.”
He wasn’t sure he believed her. She sounded weak and distressed. “Where are we?”
“We’re in a railroad work shed.”
“Do you know who hit me?” He waited for an answer. She convulsed against him. Hot liquid wet the back of his neck. Was she crying?
“His real name is Cory. He’s my stepbrother.” He thought that was an odd answer. What did she mean his real name was Cory? Just as he was about to ask her to explain further, the shed door flew open. The form of a man appeared in the doorway—just the outline of a dark silhouette against the darker background of the night.
As the man’s face became more distinct, Steve breathed a sigh of relief. “How did you find us? Hurry and untie us before he comes back.”
Jeff considered them without moving to release them. “Tell him who I really am,” he said in a flat voice that reminded Steve of something heavy falling from scaffolding and landing with a thud. He didn’t understand, and Chris didn’t respond. Jeff kicked her. Steve tried to rise to her defense, but the bindings that tied his leg to the heavy piece of equipment frustrated his effort.
“His name isn’t Jeff. His real name is Cory Powell. My stepbrother,” she muttered, sounding like she was trying to spit their familial relationship into the wind.
He tried to digest the new information. So his foreman, the
man he knew as Jeff Osborne, was her stepbrother? “Then who is Jeff Osborne?” He shook his head to untangle his thoughts, thinking he had asked the wrong question…until she answered him.
“His cousin.” Chris exhaled the words—a hint of shocked realization in her voice.
Cory cackled. “My cousin? Just my cousin? That’s a hoot!” Cory’s sarcasm rang across the Animas River valley, the grating sound of his voice shattering the still night.
Steve’s breath caught in his throat.
“Come on, Carol. Tell him the truth.” Her stepbrother called her Carol.
Was Jeff…or Cory…confused? Wouldn’t he know his own stepsister? He didn’t want Chris to be Carol. She couldn’t be Carol, whoever Carol was. The dead woman was Carol, a stranger to him. Chris was the woman he loved.
“Didn’t you tell him about Jeff?” Cory paused for malignant effect. A malicious light danced in his eyes. “Jeff is her husband.”
Jeff? Whose husband? Carol or Chris? He tried to turn toward her, but the ropes made moving difficult and he couldn’t see her over his shoulder. She trembled, still tucked beneath him. So many questions demanded utterance, but they all stuck in his throat. He knew what Cory was doing—inserting doubt into his tired mind.
“Get up and start a fire,” Cory demanded and grabbed Chris by the elbow, yanking her from him. She groaned and tried to pull back, but Cory was too strong for her.
Steve couldn’t help her with his hands bound and his foot tied. Cory pulled Chris out of sight on the other side of the shed wall. He shifted his weight for a better angle so he could see them through the open door and felt the rush of blood reviving his slumbering limb, sending him into a spasm of tingling discomfort. He heard the hard thunk as an axe bit into wood and then the clunk of wood being stacked—Chris straining to start the fire—Cory berating her.
“You are so weak. Really, Carol, you used to be the strong one. Not like that wimpy sister of yours. You used to have some spunk. What’s happened to you, Carol?” Why was Cory emphasizing her name so hard? What point was he trying to make? What was Cory trying to say without actually verbalizing it?
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