Prey

Dare Callahan’s camp was closer than Lattimore’s, a lot closer, but she didn’t need shelter; she needed help. Besides, the camp would be locked up tight, and even if she could locate it in the dark she wouldn’t be able to get in. Heading that way on the off chance that she could get in would cost her precious time, and gain her nothing in reaching help. She didn’t have a moment to lose, because Chad would be coming after her.

If not for the rain, she could stop for a moment and listen for them—the bear and the man—but the thundering rain seemed to overwhelm any other sound. The rain didn’t just splatter, it hammered. The wind whistled. The only good thing was that if she couldn’t hear them, then they couldn’t hear her. The weather hampered her, beat at her, but it was also protecting her by shielding her within its ferocious heart.

She aimed downhill. Where else could she go? She didn’t try to stay on the trail, which followed the path of least resistance, because that was where Chad was likely to be. The going was rough and uneven, so slick she could barely stay upright. She clung to whatever she could get her hand around: bushes, hanging tree limbs, rocks.

The wind shifted. She felt the difference on her face. She stopped, mentally working out the bear’s location. Rain or no rain, the bear would be able to catch her scent if she continued in this direction. On the other hand, if she changed directions she’d be moving away from Lattimore’s place. For that matter, without being able to see the bear, she had no idea if it was still in the same location or if it had moved on—to the west, away from her, or paralleling her movements at a higher altitude, or coming in behind her.

No matter what, she needed to move. She stretched out her left foot, feeling for solid ground, only to find a slope of mud. She tried to catch herself, grabbing for a bush, but she was already in mid-step when her left foot slid out from under her. She tried to catch herself with her right foot, only to have it land in a hole she hadn’t been able to see in the darkness. She lurched forward, completely off-balance. In the split second during which she realized she was going down, feeling helpless and stupid and afraid, she put out her hands to break the fall but at least had enough sense not to straight-arm herself. The last thing she needed right now was to break an arm or a collarbone. She landed hard, jarring every bone in her body, and for a stunned moment she lay there on the muddy ground, silently taking inventory.

She was jolted in every bone, every muscle, but she was pretty sure she was okay, except for her right foot. It was still in the hole, the toe of her boot caught, her foot twisted. The pain screamed at her, her ankle throbbing inside the boot.

She lay there with the rain beating down on her back and head, with water running under her body. Her heart beat so hard she could feel it, thudding against the wet ground. Defeat pressed down on her. God, she was cold. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to know how bad it was, because if she’d broken that ankle she was as good as dead. Maybe if she just stayed still for a moment the throbbing would ease. She’d sprained her ankle before, and the pain had been excruciating for a few minutes, only to ease and then she’d been able to walk it off.

But she didn’t have the luxury of lying there for more than a few seconds. Angie pushed the saddlebags aside, unslung the rifle scabbard from her shoulder and propped it on the saddlebag, then, very cautiously, she sat up and used both hands to free her twisted foot from the hole. She didn’t pull her boot off. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to get it back on. She wouldn’t be able to see what was wrong, anyway, and wouldn’t be able to do anything even if she could. If she’d broken her ankle, the boot would help brace it, so better to leave things as they were.

With cold fingers she probed at the ankle, trying to feel any break. There didn’t seem to be any one particular place that produced any extra agony when she touched it, but when she tried to rotate her foot pain shot straight to her head and threatened to make her pass out. “Okay, that wasn’t a good idea,” she muttered. She didn’t think it was broken. If it was, maybe it was just a hairline fracture. More than likely it was a bad sprain. On a practical basis, it didn’t matter which it was. All that mattered was whether or not she could walk on that ankle.

Gritting her teeth, putting her weight on her left foot and steadying herself by clutching a sapling, Angie levered herself upward. She hugged the tree, hauling herself up slow and steady. Bark scrapped against the slicker, snagging and scraping. It was a balancing act, but she made it to an upright position. She reoriented herself, checked the wind, took a deep breath, then let go of the tree and took a hobbling step forward, willing herself to stand the pain, to walk. As soon as she put weight on her right foot that blinding pain shot through her ankle again and it gave out beneath her, sending her sprawling again. This time she wasn’t fast enough to brace herself, and she landed facedown in the mud.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to beat the mud with her fist and howl. Talk about bad karma! What had she ever done to deserve this? Her business was gone, she had to sell her home, throw in Dare Callahan, that asshole Davis, Killer Krugman, and, oh yeah, a fucking bear. And now she’d either broken or sprained her ankle, when she had to get off this mountain as fast as possible before either Killer Krugman or that monster bear got her. Beyond any doubt, her life had gone to shit.

If she couldn’t walk off the mountain, which was a tough enough prospect under the best of circumstances, what would happen? What was she supposed to do, just lie here and wait for Krugman or the bear to find her? She had her rifle, but she had to clean it, somehow, before it would be usable again. Still, she had the pistol. She could handle Krugman, as long as she saw him coming. But that bear … yeah, she was more terrified of that huge son of a bitch, any day of the week, than she was of Krugman.