Chapter Two

Linc sat in the driver’s seat of his Jeep Wrangler to wait out the storm, watching the rain come down in sheets. Listening to the drumming on the roof, he hoped like hell his tent would hold up against the deluge. He narrowed his eyes to peer at the campsite across the road from his and wondered how the Celtic goddess would deal with the inclement weather.

She'd driven in the day before in a Subaru Outback, then proceeded to amaze him. He had to admit he’d been entertained watching her unpack her vehicle and organize her site with the efficiency of an army quartermaster. Her tent went up with a minimum of fuss, looking roomy enough for a scout troop. Loaded plastic bins and an ice chest went in the bear-proof locker, then she’d spread a plastic tablecloth over the picnic table and secured it with metal clips. Wouldn’t do to eat on bare wood. Dinner for him? Canned chili heated over his tiny backpacking stove. For the Celtic goddess? Something chopped, shredded, and sautéed over a Coleman camp stove that smelled truly amazing. And no doubt tasted a damned sight better than canned chili.

What had about killed him was the coffee. For his morning dose, he’d made do with freeze-dried granules spooned into water he’d been too impatient to let get hot enough. He wasn’t even sure it really was coffee, the flavor more how he thought wood pulp steeped in motor oil might taste. The redheaded goddess brewed her coffee in some fancy-looking pot. The aroma drifting into his campsite had nearly sent him over to beg for a cup, only the knowledge he’d have to actually talk to another human being, even one as compelling as the Celtic goddess, stopping him.

The pounding on the roof eased, then tapered to the occasional drip from the trees. The woman’s tent flap flipped open and she emerged under the little awning sheltering the front of her tent. He shifted uncomfortably as lust gave him a sneaky hit to the gut.

Resting back against the headrest, he decided watching her offered an eye-feast diversion that he would indulge. Long and lithe with an incredible mass of deep red hair, now covered by the hood of a parka, she looked the part of an Irish queen of old. He bet her eyes were green, a nice go-with for skin that appeared to be pale cream. He’d always been a sucker for green eyes. Right now, with brows lowered and abrupt movements, she looked pissed. He wished he was close enough to tell if she had freckles. She’d slathered herself with sunscreen early in the morning even though it had been cloudy, and now she was meticulously packing a medium-size daypack. He’d lay odds she consulted a checklist. Water, check. Trail map, check. Granola bars, check.

His ex would have never considered taking a hike, unless it was up the stairs at the mall, and then only because the escalator was broken. He closed his eyes and reminded himself Lana had been more fun and games than a soul connection. The acknowledgment left him feeling hollowed out. He’d been cheating himself, putting values important to him on hold for a good time. Four months with her and only now did he own up to the fact there’d been absolutely no depth to their relationship. A waste of time and effort.

He pushed back at the dragging mood. Sudden brightening had him opening his eyes. The sun broke through the rapidly thinning clouds, reflecting off water droplets shining on about every leaf and twig. His campsite neighbor, looking like a well-prepared and earnest Girl Scout, shouldered her pack and set off toward the river.

He sighed. Now even the Celtic goddess couldn’t distract him from the clusterfuck that was his life.

Two weeks ago he’d checked himself out of the hospital against doctor’s orders. The simple task of taking a Lyft to his apartment and he’d been nearly comatose with fatigue. But no matter that he could hardly get himself to the toilet. Anything was better than lying in that hospital bed. Then his mother had found out.

As soon as she realized her son wasn’t where she’d left him, she’d swooped into his apartment and chewed his ass. The only way to placate her short of returning to the hospital, which not even she could make him do, was to agree to let her take care of him. He’d figured that was what she’d wanted all along, and ended up at her and Arch’s place in the hills. It hadn’t been so bad. His mom let him be for the most part, and Linc knew he had his stepfather to thank for that. And for the long conversations that held him off from his decision to turn in his badge.

Retired or not, Arch knew the job, and he knew burnout. His straightforward, cut-the-bullshit talks had swayed Linc, and he ended up asking for a leave of absence, length of time undetermined.

So here he sat, four days into a camping trip, trying to find the man he’d once been.

A light breeze scattered drops of water from the trees and the mid-afternoon sun reflected off the spectacular red rock cliffs surrounding the Lower Falls campground. Getting out of San Diego had been the right move, and he’d figured if he headed to Utah he could camp for a bit in what he considered the best part of the world. He’d thrown his gear in the Jeep and driven northeast for most of a day. When he’d spotted this campground, he’d decided it was as good a place as any, and pitched his tent.

Linc rubbed absently where the bullet had passed between two ribs. It ached less today than it had the day before, and he’d stopped taking any meds. That was damn good progress by his measure. Now if he could only shut down the memories. Donny’s blank expression. The muzzle flash. The incredible pressure in his chest. Sinking into blackness.

Shaking his head, Linc got out of the Jeep. He grabbed the thick biography on the explorer George Mallory he’d been reading. A movement on the road caught his attention. A guy in a long-sleeved t-shirt and baggy jeans, looking out of place in his city clothes, crossed the road. He glanced around like he was afraid of being followed and took the same trail the goddess had taken. Linc frowned. He knew a banger when he saw one.

Where’d the guy come from? No one had driven into the campground in the past forty minutes. The guy wasn’t from one of the campsites because Linc had checked them out. He opened the back door of the Jeep to retrieve his folding chair, then stopped. Now that the sun was out, he wanted a spot where he could prop his feet on a tree stump, read for a while, maybe close his eyes if he got tired. He didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s business. He frowned, staring at the trail where the guy had disappeared. Shit.

Linc shut the door with more force than necessary, leaving the chair inside.

***

Mikayla took the trail at a swift pace, puffing a bit at the steady climb. The sign at the trailhead had arrows pointing the way to a waterfall two miles up the river. Red rock canyon walls, the rushing river below, pines and cottonwoods, all should serve to soothe, to help work off her mad. A mad that had stuck with her for three days. Being angry was a waste of energy, and made her feel guilty, but holding on to her anger in gorgeous Utah was plain stupid.

Why couldn’t the people who loved her most—her mother, sister, and fiancé—why couldn’t they respect that she was perfectly capable of making her own decisions? Having her judgment constantly undermined, questioned, and challenged plain sucked. And when she thought she was finding her own way, then wham-o, it turned out good old Mom had been manipulating behind the scenes all along. The accomplished puppet master pulling all the right strings.

For as long as Mikayla could remember, Martha O’Kane Bauman had tried to force her daughter into a mold so constraining, so stifling, so horrifyingly mind-numbing, Mikayla knew giving in was tantamount to pulling closed the bars to her own prison. She feared the relentless pressure to comply “for her own protection” would one day erode her resolve and she’d find herself locked securely behind the bars of a privileged life with no meaning.

This time she wouldn’t budge, not one fraction of an inch. No matter how much she’d like to ease her mother’s worries, she wouldn’t live a life dictated by fear. She’d been fighting that war since age thirteen, and while she’d won a few battles, a truce had yet to be called.

Mikayla paused to catch her breath, tilting back her head to catch the breeze. The sun stood poised over the western ridge of the canyon, and once it went down, she’d be hiking in the dark. She sighed. The rain had forced a late start, and now the waterfall would have to wait for tomorrow. Looking at her muddy shoes, she thought the trail might be a little drier then as well. Adjusting the straps of her daypack, she turned around to retrace her steps.

Solitary camping trips were hardly on her mother’s list of approved activities, and her objections had been constant and unrelenting. Worried phone calls, threats, and dire pronouncements hadn’t budged Mikayla, even when heaped on by her mother and her fiancé. Ex-fiancé, she corrected.

The idea of getting away from everyone, from all the expectations, the guilt, the constant pressure, so she could just be, had been too seductive to ignore. She had the semester off from teaching, and if she was going to retain her sanity, she needed some alone time. The bonus: the trip got her out of the blast zone when her mother found out she’d broken off her engagement to Peter. Being two states away seemed prudent.

Twilight faded the colors from the canyon walls and Mikayla quickened her pace. The trail followed the swollen river. Where the day before the water had moved in calm swirls, it now roared down the canyon in a torrent, lapping at the edge of the path. The trail climbed until it wound through a dense copse of trees crowding the bank of the river, filtering the light.

She plodded along until, suddenly wary, she paused. Her heart thudded heavily. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but she never took her safety for granted. The chill snaking along her spine brought her to full alert. She gauged the dim pathway. Crap. This was not the time to get the jitters. It wasn’t like she was passing a dark alley in a bad neighborhood of Los Angeles. She was on a hiking trail in the middle of the wilderness. And besides, there was no other way back to the campground but through that shadowy darkness.

She pressed on, watchful, while her feet slipped a little in the mud. The setting sun cast deep shadows in the canyon, and she’d be lucky to be back at her campsite before complete darkness fell. A sound, a barely discernable clink of rock on rock, had her stopping to look over her shoulder, ears straining for any clue of who or what was near. Most likely, it was another hiker trying to get back before the trail became too dangerous to travel. She rubbed the goosebumps raising the flesh on her arms.

A sharp crack echoed from deep in the trees, eerily like a gunshot. She whirled, searching for the source. Nothing. She stood motionless, heart hammering, her hand resting against the solid presence of a tree. Could be a bear. She swallowed with a nervous gulp. A bear would want to be left alone. More likely it was a branch breaking, or some other non-large wild animal natural occurrence.

She waited, trying to slow the rapid beating of her heart. Tall tree trunks cast pillars of black along the path, not wide enough to hide a bear. But wide enough to hide a man.

Cursing her overactive imagination, she set out again. The incident the day before had her spooked. Replaying it, she still wasn’t sure if she’d been overreacting.

On the highway heading east, she’d seen the same dark car every time she’d looked in the rearview mirror. Sometimes a few cars behind her, sometimes right on her tail. The same car that had followed her out of the parking lot of the little diner where she’d had breakfast. Stopping for gas, the black sedan had pulled up to a pump at the next island. The driver, a young Hispanic man with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, had gotten out and began pumping fuel. Mikayla paid inside, then lingered in the market, watching him through the window. At the time, she’d worried her mother’s dire predictions that she’d end up murdered in her sleep by some crazed serial killer had triggered a bout of paranoia.

Giving herself a mental shake, Mikayla marched on toward her campsite. That guy had freaked her out, nothing more. The trail rose above the channel of the river and wound along a high bank among tall pines and an occasional jumble of boulders. Once past this part, the trail followed the river maybe another quarter mile and then she would cross the bridge to the other side and be back, safe, sound, and among other people at the campground.

Nearly through the thick grouping of trees, she shivered. She could feel something, someone, behind her. She quickened her steps. A hurried glance over her shoulder brought her to a stumbling halt. A man stood on the trail not fifteen feet behind her. Her heart slammed in her chest. It was him. The driver of the dark sedan. The man from the gas station.

The baseball cap was the same, and he wore a black t-shirt. A sickle-shaped scar shone through dark stubble on his chin.

He raised his hands as if to show he wasn’t a threat. “Hey, lady. I just want to talk to you.”

Like hell. She was physically fit, and she’d trained to defend herself. But Mikayla didn’t question instinct, and instinct screamed run. Abandoning all pretense, she whipped around and broke into a mad dash.

Sprinting along the trail in the deepening twilight, she couldn’t risk looking back. A single misstep meant slipping in the mud or hurtling down the embankment into the raging river. Footsteps thudded behind her, ominously close. What did he want? Definitely not conversation.

Lengthening her stride as much as she dared, she put everything she had into gaining distance from her pursuer. Trees thinned ahead. It wasn’t far to the bridge. She could make it, maybe if—a jerk at the shoulder straps of her pack had her reeling, a cry of alarm escaping her lips.

Mikayla twisted, off balance, arms impeded by the pack. “Let me go, you bastard.” She gasped the words as she gave a sharp backward kick, connecting with his shin. He uttered a short grunt, then a blow to her head had stars exploding.

She reeled sideways and his sharp intake of breath made her think she’d caught him off guard. He lost his hold on her pack and she spun around. Forcing back the panic, she struggled to remember her training. Stay focused. Keep the attacker at a distance. Fight smart. Her instructor’s words played like a mantra in her mind. Number one rule: escape. If escape wasn’t possible, fight. She’d trained for this, exactly this. She could do it.

She faced her opponent, arms out, body set. He took a similar stance.

“You want my backpack?” She shucked the pack free and threw it at him. “Take it.”

He caught the pack and threw it aside, launching himself at her in a fluid move. A swift jump to the side and she avoided the fist flying past her shoulder. He skidded in the slick mud and went to his knees.

“Fucking bitch.”

Mikayla kicked out with her hiking boot, striking him in the ribs. His grunt of pain brought grim satisfaction. Moving on instinct, she whirled to run, then staggered as he whipped out a hand and snagged her ankle. She went down, flipping over to scramble backward when he crawled toward her. She managed to get to her feet and made three running steps on the trail before he caught her again, wiry arms grasping her from behind. Shit, shit, shit. Resisting the instinct to fight, she went limp. It worked. His grip loosened, and she swung her head back with hard force, gratified at the crunching sound.

Wrenching free, she backed away, uncomfortably aware of the steep drop behind her. The river sounded ferociously loud and she couldn’t smother a scream as the earth shifted and began to crumble beneath her feet. In a desperate struggle for purchase, she grabbed a spindly tree trunk that tilted crazily toward the torrent of foaming water. Seething anger vied horribly with grinding fear. The bastard wouldn’t win. She wouldn’t let him win. Gaining a precarious balance at the edge of the embankment, she let go of the tree and faced her attacker.

His cap had come off to reveal black hair trimmed close to the scalp. He reached into the pocket of his baggy jeans and pulled out a folded knife. Her stomach dropped. Baring his teeth, he used them to pry it open. The wicked-looking blade glinted dully in the fading light. The odds now tipped heavily in his favor.