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THE IMPACT of the first bullet to Morgan’s chest drove him back a half step, and a look of surprise crossed his nondescript face. He took another step forward, and the second bullet stopped him. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water and he fell to his knees, then slowly face-planted into the dirt. He lay still, and I began to shake—at first just a quiver in my outstretched arms that were locked at the elbows, still aiming the gun. I still wore the handcuff around my right wrist, and the dangling open cuff began to sway like a pendulum as I shook harder.
Guns have always been a part of my life—pistols, .22s, shotguns, hunting rifles. Mom taught me everything I knew about them. Dad had served his country, and when I’d asked him to go shooting with me, his standard line was “I had enough of guns.” So Mom and I would load up and head for the back forty. I’d shot my share of skunks, racoons, rattlesnakes, and sick cats. Mom and I had hunted antelope, deer, and elk together.
The summer between my junior and senior year, I was out checking cattle. A calf had gotten rattlesnake bit, and his nose had swollen shut. I’d raced back home to tell Mom, and she’d said there was nothing to do but put it out of its misery and sent me back to the pasture with her .357 Magnum. I’d shot the calf and told his mama I was sorry. I was still crying when I rode into the corral, where Mom scolded me and said it was a life lesson and I’d better toughen up. I wonder what lesson she would think I’d learned today.
I licked my lips, tasting salt. It was only then that I realized it was raining and I was crying. My hand had stiffened, fingers white where I still gripped the pistol.
“Courtney.” My name was spoken softly, like a whisper from a lover. “Courtney.” Louder now. “Are you okay?”
Max was asking me if I was okay. I’m not anywhere close to being okay. What I said, though, was “yes” as I ran to him. He was trying to sit up, but the effort was too much and he sank back down.
“Morgan?”
“I shot him.” I raised the gun.
“Courtney, give me the gun.” Max spoke in an even low tone, not taking his eyes from mine. I obeyed. He still held my gaze. “Courtney, is Morgan a threat to us?”
I glanced over to where Morgan lay. “I don’t think so. He’s not moving. I shot him twice in the chest.”
“We need to know.”
Nodding, I found a long tree limb. The small branches were brittle and broke off easily as I fashioned a long pole. As I neared Morgan, I could smell blood, as well as the distinct odors of urine and feces. I poked him hard in the ribs. Nothing. I circled around and hit him hard across the back. Again no movement. Still not trusting that he wasn’t playing possum, I took the point of the stick and maneuvered his head so I could look into his face. Open eyes stared, sightless, back at me, and foamy blood trickled out of his mouth and nose. “He’s dead,” I called over my shoulder.
“Courtney, I need my hands uncuffed. Can you get the key?”
“I ... I don’t—”
“Please, help me.”
I rolled Morgan over and pulled things out of the tactical belt pockets until I found the key. I unlocked my own cuff and then ran to Max. He lay with his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. “Max.” I fell to my knees beside him and opened the handcuffs. “Max, can you hear me?” I said, nudging his right shoulder.
He cried out in pain. “The son of a bitch broke my collarbone,” he said through clenched teeth. “And shot me.” There was a sunburst of blood spreading from a hole in his left pant leg, midthigh.
“Wow! My FBI Man is kind of a mess.” I quickly took off my belt and fashioned a tourniquet, waving it. “I researched tourniquets for one of my books.”
“You’re one smart cookie,” Max said, sucking air through his teeth as I tightened the belt above his leg wound.
The rain was intensifying, and a wind out of the north made me shiver. Lightning struck close, and the boom of thunder caused me to jump.
“How far do you think the cabin is?”
“Less than a quarter mile. Let’s try and get there before the storm gets worse.”
“We need to stabilize your shoulder.” I ran to Morgan’s backpack, rifled through it, and triumphantly waved a T-shirt. I stashed the items from the tactical belt in the backpack and hurried back to Max. After I fashioned the sling—a trick I’d learned from YouTube—I helped Max to his feet. “Let’s go,” I said.
We were both soaked to the skin from the rain and the sweat of exertion by the time we reached the cabin. It was well-camouflaged—bushes with razor-sharp thorns flanked the north and south sides, a vertical rock cliff rose at the back, and the eastern-facing weathered door blended into the scenery.
Max halted me before I reached for the door. “Lindy,” he called out, his voice sounding as tired as I felt.
“Lindy, it’s Courtney and an FBI agent. You’re safe now.” There was silence from the cabin.
“She might be gagged and can’t call out,” I said.
“And the door might be booby-trapped. Stay back and I’ll check it out.”
“How in the hell are you going to do that when you can’t walk on your own? We’re in this together.” I helped him move within a couple of feet of the door.
“Look for a thin wire running around the door frame or something on the latch. The windows are boarded up from the inside. Thorns will slice you to pieces if you try and get in from the outside.”
We didn’t see anything resembling a trip wire, and I held my breath as I slid the wooden latch to release the door. “Lindy, we’re coming in,” I called out. Once we were inside, I stated the obvious. “No sign of Lindy. Where do you think she is?”
“Now I don’t think Morgan had anything to do with her disappearance. She probably figured some way to get off the mountain to cause more drama.”
I shut the door against the storm outside, and the cabin was plunged into blackness. “Dark as the inside of a cow,” I said, cracking the door enough to let light in. A Coleman lantern with a jar of matches next to it sat on a wooden table. I lit the wick, and shadows danced around the small cabin.
My muscles screamed from overuse as I helped Max across the room to the filthy mattress covering the crudely fashioned log bed. There was a potbellied stove in the center of the cabin, and relief washed over me when I saw the wood box was full. I worked quickly to get a fire going. A covered pot on the stove top was full of water.
I looked around the cabin. Shelves on one wall held canned goods, pots and pans, and other survival items—including a first-aid kit. A backpack hung from a nail next to the shelves. There were a couple of clean-looking plastic pails beneath the table, and I set them outside to catch rainwater.
I heard Max moan, and I went to sit beside him on the bed. “I’m heating some water to clean your wound. I even found a first-aid kit. A survivalist cabin is a pretty great place to be after you’ve been shot.”
“Yup, I recommend it to everyone.”
“Glad to see getting shot hasn’t taken away your sense of humor.”
“Speaking of getting shot, I think we’d better loosen this tourniquet.”
I moved the two chairs away from the table, wondering which one had been Wanda Gasby’s, and pulled the table beside the bed. The water was just about to boil, and I set the pot on the table along with the first-aid kit. Max handed me his pocketknife. “Might as well cut my pant leg off. Or would you rather strip me out of my jeans? I’m too weak to put up much of a fight.”
“I’ll just give you a one-legged Daisy Duke look,” I said. The denim was stuck tight to the wound edges. As I began working it loose, Max gasped in pain. “Sorry,” I said, stopping.
“I’d say rip it off like a Band-Aid, but I don’t want to bleed out on you.”
“Nice thing to say when I’m—”
“Doing great,” Max said, touching my arm. “Did you find any bottled water anywhere? We both need to hydrate.”
“No, but I set some buckets out. The way it’s raining, there should be enough to boil soon.”
“Like I said, you are one smart cookie.”
“Just good ol’ Wyoming ranch sense. Plus, I write about a gal who is always getting herself out of dangerous situations in the middle of nowhere. There’s some canned soup I’ll heat up after we get your wound bandaged. So, your gunshot wound. Is this what they call a through-and-through, or do I get to dig a bullet out?” I waved the knife.
“There will be no digging.”
By the time I had cleaned and dressed the wound, I was glad there wasn’t knife digging involved. I wasn’t normally a queasy person, but the sight and smell of torn flesh and clotted blood made me dizzy.
“I’m going to check on our rainwater,” I said, glad to escape the small enclosure. The violent thunderstorm had been replaced by a steady drizzle. By the time I retrieved a bucket, my T-shirt was soaked again. I stood in front of the stove rubbing my arms. “Steady rain. I think the storm has stalled over us.”
The vegetable beef soup warmed quickly, and I took the pot and two spoons to the bed. Max propped himself against the rough wooden wall, and I sat on the edge of the bed with the pot between us. After we finished the soup, I tapped a couple aspirins out of the bottle from the first-aid kit and handed them and a cup of water to Max.
“You might want to take a couple yourself,” he said. “And if you promise not to take advantage of an injured man, I’ll share this ritzy bed with you.
“Courtney, all joking aside. You’ve had a lot happen to you in the past couple of days. You need to be prepared for when, not if, it all hits you. I hope we are off the mountain so there will be a professional you can talk to.”
I turned away from Max before he could see the tears in my eyes as I slid onto the mattress next him.
