But his disadvantage right now was that he didn’t know where he was, exactly. He sat there and concentrated, forced himself to tune out the storm, the restless horses. He wasn’t a great outdoorsman, but he did have a general sense of direction. He and Davis had been to the left of and behind the camp; the bear had come from that direction. When he’d fled the camp he’d raced to the right, away from the bear, which had taken him generally north. He needed to go back south, then east. He had no idea how long he’d ridden, driven by panic, but he figured he couldn’t be more than a couple of miles from the camp.
He’d oriented himself with some visual landmarks when they’d arrived, so he was pretty sure he could find the campsite again if he needed to. Did he need to? Did he really need to make sure Angie was dead, or should he just get to Lattimore’s as fast as he could and get out of the country? He was riding, she was on foot. He’d be at least a day ahead of her, right?
Was a day long enough?
Maybe, maybe not. He’d rather have that week he’d planned on.
Then suddenly a horrifying thought occurred to him, and he groaned aloud. Fuck! How could he have been so stupid? He’d lost his head, panicked, and now … double fuck! He had to go back to the camp, and this had nothing to do with Angie and tying up loose ends.
He didn’t have the keys to the SUV.
Davis had had them. They might have been in his pocket, or they might be somewhere in his tent, but one way or another Chad had to get those keys or his whole plan evaporated beneath him and left him sitting in a big pile of shit.
He’d have to go back to the camp, pick a position from which to watch, and see if Angie was still there. If she was, he’d have to wait for his chance to pick her off, then he’d go after the keys. He only hoped they were with Davis’s belongings in his tent, and not in his pockets … or in the belly of a black bear.
Chapter Twelve
Angie hugged the ground and dragged herself along, over rocks and bushes, through rivulets of water that had already turned into rushing streams as the runoff from the mountain storm threatened to turn into a flood. Going through that water required her to check her common sense way back somewhere along the trail, because only an idiot would try to crawl through fast-running flood water without being tethered, but all in all she figured flood water was the least of her problems. If she got swept down the mountain and drowned in three inches of mud and water, well, to her that was more acceptable than getting mauled to death by a bear, or letting that murderous twerp Chad Krugman get the best of her.
So she made up her mind that she wasn’t going to drown. The only way to get through this was to focus on only the moment, not letting herself think about how far it was to Ray Lattimore’s place, or how long it would take her to get there, or how cold she was, or how much her ankle hurt—none of that had any place in her head right now, because she had to concentrate on surviving.
She’d always loved the smell of rain, the freshness it brought, the promise of life, the renewal. She’d loved to listen to it beating on the roof, lulling her to sleep at night. Oh, she’d worked out in the rain many times and that wasn’t any fun, but livestock had to be taken care of regardless of the weather, and doing so was simply part of life and she hadn’t wasted any time or effort fretting about it.
This was different. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to enjoy the rain again.
She moved forward inch by painful inch, her ankle throbbing so much sometimes she simply froze in place, her teeth grinding together, as she fought through the waves of pain. Her hands were like clumsy chunks of ice, so cold from the water that she could barely feel them, but at least the cold would slow down any bleeding and the water would wash away the scent of her blood.
Survive.
She would. No matter what. She made that promise to herself.
And she kept going.
One moment became another. Every muddy inch was a victory. Every breath she took could be counted as a win.
That son of a bitch Chad Krugman was not going to get the best of her.
Whenever lightning flashed she lifted her head and looked around, trying to keep track of her direction and progress, and keep a sharp eye out for any pitfalls and obstacles ahead, because without the lightning and not daring to turn on her flashlight, she was literally moving forward blind. She also looked for movement, of any kind in general, but specifically Krugman or the bear. So far all she’d seen were trees whipping wildly in the wind.
Lightning didn’t operate on command, so there were times when she needed to see what was ahead of her and she simply had to stop and wait for the next flash before moving forward again.
Gradually it occurred to her how well-camouflaged she was. Unless she did something to give away her position, such as turning on her flashlight, Chad wasn’t likely to see her. She was covered in mud from head to toe, crawling along so close to the ground she’d effectively become a part of the landscape. The mud and water should also disguise her scent, at least to some degree, protecting her from the bear’s sensitive sense of smell.
Terror could be sustained for only so long; it took too much energy. After a while the body would push it away and concentrate instead on the mundane, and that was what she was doing now, her world narrowed to each inch she crawled, and how the inches became feet, and the feet, yards. Eventually she would reach her destination. All she had to do was not quit.
For a while her progress had been so slow she would have been discouraged if she’d let herself think about it, so she hadn’t. Her biggest asset was her will to live. She’d get through this. She’d survive the storm, the cold, the pain. Her injured ankle, whether it was sprained or broken, wouldn’t kill her in and of itself, but it could sure as hell contribute to her death if either the bear or Krugman crossed her trail. She’d never felt so vulnerable, and she didn’t like that feeling any more than she liked the physical pain.