Bram opened his eyes. It felt like someone was hammering the back of his head and holding a hot poker to his shoulder. Something was in his mouth. A mixture of odors, all bad. He tried to move, shift to relieve the agony.
His arms were stuck.
He blinked, then tried to yell. The thing in his mouth was a gag.
The last thing I remember . . . Closing his eyes, he tried to reconstruct how he got here . . . wherever here was . . . His horse fell, he’d been thrown, walked for miles, hid in the barn. Been attacked.
Now he was lying on his side on something soft, arms tied behind his back. The smells made him want to vomit—an act that would surely kill him with the gag.
He moved his legs. Tied together. Opening his eyes, he focused on the surroundings. Bunkbeds on the far wall and side, a table in the middle, worn dressers. The men’s side of the bunkhouse.
Using his tongue, he tried to push the gag out so he could yell. It held tight.
He tried to loosen the binding on his hands, but that brought blinding pain to his shoulder.
Maybe he could stand, hop if need be, to find help.
Trying to find help had gotten him into this mess. At least whoever had knocked him out had placed him on this bed and tucked a pillow under his head. He could have been left outside, tied to a tree, or left on the floor. This didn’t make sense.
Why here? Why the bunkhouse? It was out of sight from most of the resort. It would, however, eventually be searched when Wyatt brought help.
Unless Wyatt’s group ran into problems as well. Liam could also be bringing help. He hadn’t bothered to stop when Bram was thrown.
A thought stopped him cold. Had Liam been given a GPS? Or just the three main riders? He couldn’t remember. Liam could even be one of the suspects.
The stench grew.
The back of his throat burned. Sucking in air through his nose, then holding his breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, then let the momentum swing him to a seated position.
The room twirled around him. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He waited until the world stopped spinning.
Now he could see there were people in the other beds. Motionless people.
The odors sorted themselves out. The reek of dead bodies. And the pungent smell of gasoline.
* * *
I landed, rolled, and kept rolling. A hoof clipped my hip. Another set of hooves thundered past my head. I stayed in a fetal position, arms over my head. The ground rumbled under me. Oh, please . . .
The drumming moved away. I remained curled up just in case a straggler came along. When it seemed the herd had passed, I uncoiled and checked for injuries. I’d have some doozie bruises, and I didn’t even want to look at my hip, but otherwise I was in one piece.
I’d landed between my cabin and the next one. I could clearly see the window where the killer had stood. I couldn’t see anyone standing behind the curtain. I’d bet he was still watching the horses. That wouldn’t hold his interest for long. The dust was just settling from the stampede and I needed to put a tree or two between the killer and me.
My canine crutch, Maverick, was nowhere in sight. Crawling would be faster than hopping. I wasn’t even sure my good leg would hold me up. Rolling to my hands and knees, I crawled as fast as I could to the nearest ponderosa.
Leaning against the craggy bark, I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered. Twice today I’d faced death. I tried to calm my racing heart and slow my panting. Be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go. I wasn’t strong or courageous. I was afraid and discouraged. But the strength to get out of the mine, ride that unbroken mule, and get away with fancy trick riding after a five-year hiatus wasn’t coming from me. Thank You, Lord.
The sun had set, and nightfall drew close. For the first time since I woke up in that hospital room with a full-blown case of PTSD, darkness would be my ally.
I planned my next move. I couldn’t crawl diagonally to the next tree—the one nearest my cabin. I’d be exposed the entire way. I needed to keep this ponderosa between the killer’s window and me by crawling straight away until parallel with the next tree. A fast ninety-degree turn and I’d be behind it. From there it was a straight shot to my cabin.
Holly found me and gave me an enthusiastic greeting.
“No, Holly,” I whispered. Holly continued to circle me, tail wagging. “Holly, go away, go.” She became more excited at my whispering. The killer might easily see Holly reacting to something and come out to investigate. He’d find me.
I swatted her.
Holly backed away, tail now still.
My vision blurred. A massive lump formed in my throat. “Go now!” I whispered.
The dog trotted away, turning every so often to see if I’d changed my mind. To see if I still loved her.
An anvil rested on my heart. I wanted to call her back, to love on her. To ask for forgiveness. Instead I pointed away when she looked.
Someday, somehow, if I lived through this, I’d make it up to Holly and Maverick. They’d saved me from a bear, from my nightmares, from death in the mine.
I wiped my eyes and nose with the sleeve of my dirty sweatshirt and started crawling. When I’d gone beyond the next tree, I moved over slightly to see if anyone was watching from the window. I felt naked, exposed, and helpless now that I didn’t have the shield of trees.
No one was at the window. Go now. I scurried over to the next pine. My cabin was tantalizingly close.
My palms were on fire from the rough twine and from crawling on stiff pine needles. My jeans had a hole in one knee. All of my muscles ached. My residual leg ached and pinged. I waited a moment, then moved toward the cabin as fast as I could.
Finally I arrived at the small porch. I used the handrails to pull myself up, then hopped through the door with Maverick close behind, closed it, and leaned against its wooden surface. In the gloomy darkness, I could see the room hadn’t been touched since I left. Crossing to the table, I picked up the binoculars still resting next to the fruit basket and moved to the window. No one was moving around that I could see. With the exception of the window shot out last night, the lodge looked the same. I scanned the building from end to end and was about to turn my attention to the rest of the resort when something stopped me—the tiniest glint coming from the corner of the lodge. It took me a moment to find it again.
A knife was jammed sideways into a large crack in the logs. Only the back edge of the blade showed and the point extended slightly beyond the log. That’s what had caught the last rays of the sun. Surrounded by all the places someone could hide something, a crack in a log seemed odd. The good news was that the handle, which might have fingerprints, was protected from the elements.
A final sweep with the binoculars revealed that the horses, having had their run around the resort, had returned to the pasture and were calmly grazing.
After pulling the drapes tightly closed over the window, I did the same for all the windows. A chair jammed under the doorknob blocked that entrance. I could barely see. I turned to the dog, who’d sprawled in the middle of the room. “Maverick, this is the deal. We’re stuck here until help arrives, and you have to guard me if anyone tries to get in, just as you guarded Mae’s body from predators up there in the mountains. Okay?”
Maverick thumped his tail on the floor. A bowl of dog food sealed our agreement. I wished that my luggage, including my iWALK, hadn’t gone over the cliff.
A glass of water and several chocolate pieces later, I was ready to go to work. One final check of the resort with the binoculars revealed light seeping around the curtains in the killer’s cabin. If I needed a light, I’d have to be somewhere it wouldn’t show. The bathroom was at the back of the cabin and had a single window with a blackout blind.
I sought the book Roy loaned me from the International Gem Society, a handful of books from the bookshelf, the stack of magazines, and the packet from Roy. I put everything on the bathroom floor, shut the door, and placed a towel along the crack at the bottom. I made sure I had matches in my hand before pulling the blind. The room disappeared into total darkness.
After lighting the match, I lit the row of candles on the shelf behind the tub, grabbed the two largest, placed them on the floor, then sat. Placing the lump of ore on the rim of the tub, I started with the gem book. Page after page showed beautifully cut colored gemstones. The rock in front of me hardly looked like any image. I had no idea if this was what, say, a Yogo sapphire looked like in its natural state. Or even if this was a raw gemstone. It could be gold, or silver, or just a rock.
I slammed the book closed in frustration.
Maverick bumped against the door.
“I’m okay, Maverick. Just keep guarding.”
Two of the titles from my bookshelf drew my attention—one on the mining history of the region, the second on regional lore.
The rock looked nothing like any of the precious metals in the mining book. Three strikes, you’re out. The legend book, under different circumstances, might have been interesting, but contained nothing about rocks or gems. I did find the same map that was in the lodge. Mae’s place was probably along Beryl Creek.
I closed the book, but the word stayed with me. Beryl. I had seen that word in the gemstone book. I looked it up in the index, then turned to the correct page. “A mineral colored by trace amounts of chromium and sometimes vanadium. Be3Al2(SiO3)6. Emerald.”
One of the most precious gems in the world.