by Lisa Jackson
Adjusting the volume of her iPod, she concentrated on the course. She still felt low. Maybe it was the flu. It was certainly that time of year, and a grade school was a great breeding ground for all things contagious.
Or her malaise could be the result of overindulging in her favorite junk foods. She had been on a real bender this weekend and had devoured nachos, pizza, and two pints of ice cream, one of mint chocolate chip, and one of jingle-berry ribbon, in honor of the holidays.
Stupid.
She was thirty-five and had put on ten pounds in the past four years, ever since transferring to Evergreen Elementary, where the fourth graders she taught were difficult and the parents . . . Well, she didn’t want to think about them. Talk about overbearing! Half of them acted like she didn’t know her job; the other 50 percent didn’t seem to care what their kid did in school. Their attitude was they didn’t want to be bothered.
Sometimes she wondered why she stuck with it.
Because you love the kids.
Because you feel like you’re making a difference.
Because you like the paycheck and benefits.
And because you really like having most of the summer and two weeks at Christmas off!
Then why did she have to keep reminding herself? she wondered as she passed a laurel hedge in serious need of trimming. She looked over her shoulder before crossing the street.
She thought she saw the same dark pickup creeping up behind her, and she went instantly on alert as she was completely alone and the apartments and houses had dwindled a little as she’d reached the outskirts of town.
But the truck turned down a side street, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Don’t let your imagination get the better of you.
Still, she couldn’t help but feel a little anxious, her nerves strung more tightly than normal. Darkness was settling more quickly than she’d expected, the winter air stark and cold, trees shivering, their naked branches rattling over the steady beat of a Black Eyed Peas song.
Concentrate on your breathing.
She glanced over her shoulder again. The truck was nowhere in sight, and the snow was really coming down.
Good!
She was already breathing hard and blamed her lack of breath on cigarettes. She had quit twice before but had taken up the habit again after the breakup with Trace O’Halleran a little over six months ago. Her blood still boiled when she thought of the sexy cowboy and how she’d pinned her hopes on him, even though they’d dated such a short period. Tall and rangy, with wide shoulders and a slow smile that showed off just the hint of a dimple when he was really amused, the rancher had gotten to her. In a big way. He was a single father of one of her students last year, and she’d zeroed in on him on Back-to-School Night.
And it had been a mistake. Of course. She should never have gotten involved with him. When it came to men, she always jumped in feetfirst, without really thinking. Didn’t she have the divorce papers to prove it?
Another stab at romance with Trace not long ago had ended up badly, and she still blushed when she remembered her attempts at seduction and his rebuke. God, if she thought about it, she could feel his big hands over her wrists as he pushed her against the wall and, instead of kissing her, said, “Enough. It’s over. This was a really bad idea,” before releasing her abruptly and walking out her door.
She had slammed it behind him and could still hear the hollow thud reverberate in her mind.
Live and learn, she thought sourly before checking the street and turning up the hill that was the toughest part of her route. It was worth it, she told herself, because at the crest she was able to run along the cliff that overlooked the river and the falls, the most picturesque point of her run, though her mind was still on Trace. She wondered, now that she wasn’t Eli’s teacher any longer, if there was a chance she could rekindle the relationship.
Maybe she could take him over something she’d baked for Christmas. Cookies? No, that was too corny. A bottle of wine with a Christmas label? Again, he’d see right through it.
Hadn’t she tried the “let’s be friends” routine and had it blow up in her face? How many times had she called him since they broke up? Three times? Four? Eight? Stupid, stupid, stupid! And really, they hadn’t exactly broken up, just like they hadn’t exactly ever been in a relationship, no matter what she’d ridiculously put up on Facebook after two dates. That was what too much wine and listening to friends who were even drunker than you were got you.
Havoc.
Trace, when he’d learned of it through his son, no less, hadn’t been happy, and that had been the beginning of the end. She should never have called him and now winced when she realized she’d dialed his number the night before, then hung up just as his voice mail had answered.
Just be smart and get over him. There are other men out there, even in Grizzly Falls.
She checked the street and crossed to the other side so that she could run along the bluff overlooking the river before the trail opened up to a park where she could take a U-turn and start back.
Three cars passed, beams from their headlights shimmering on the wet road, tires splashing up dirty water. Gritting her teeth, she kept at it, breathing with more difficulty as she veered into the park with its series of hiking trails. Just a little farther, she told herself. She was really breathing hard now, and her calves were beginning to cramp.
Finally, the ground leveled off, and she ran along an asphalt trail along the bluff that overlooked the river’s chasm. A short stone rail, less than two feet tall, had been built over a hundred-some years earlier and allowed a view of the ravine where the river swept over the falls of the town nearly two hundred feet below. The older section of Grizzly Falls was strung along the river’s banks just below the falls, streetlights glowing like iridescent jewels in the gathering gloom.
Dragging her eyes back to the path before her, Jocelyn followed the bluff until the path forked, and she veered toward the interior of the park, away from the street. Sweating despite the wintry air, she headed toward the lone hemlock that she always circled before returning on the same path.
Her breath was fogging the air now; her blood pumping crazily.
Almost there!
She was alone; no one else was nutty or obsessive enough to be out in this weather. God, it was cold. Despite her gloves, her fingers were numb.
Around a final bend, she spied a massive tree rising darkly to the stygian heavens.
She slowed a bit, gasping from the exertion and removing her earbuds for a second. Leaning forward, she braced her hands on her knees. She usually didn’t stop midway, but tonight she needed a quick breather.
Over the sound of her labored breathing and the rapid tattoo of her heart, she heard the sound of the river and the moan of the wind. She was fiddling with her iPod when she heard another noise ... footsteps? Was someone else out jogging?
Her head snapped up.
Not a big deal, and yet she was wary. Careful.
Probably just another dedicated runner.
Maybe you aren’t the only idiot out tonight.
She plugged in one earbud and took off again, listening to a Beyoncé number with one ear and the sounds of the coming night with the other.
Just to be certain she was okay.
The wind was chasing down the river’s canyon, cold as ever, and she thought she heard an owl hoot, welcoming the gloaming, then, again, the regular smack of feet on pavement behind her.
Yep, another jogger.
And a fast one, from the sounds of it.
She glanced over her shoulder, saw no one, and picked up her pace. It was time to go home, stand under a warm shower, and try to feel better. There were still three more days of school before the holiday—
The footsteps were closer now.
Clipping along. Rapidly.
Again, she turned her head.
The path behind her was empty.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
&n
bsp; It’s just your imagination, Jocelyn. Nothing sinister.
Ignoring the burning in her lungs and the cramping in her calves, she kicked into a sprint, running quickly through the trees. It was dark now, only a few lamps offering any kind of illumination, the trees with their black trunks stark as they rose from the winter-bleached grass, a blur.
Don’t freak out. There’s no reason to freak out. Even though you don’t have your phone with you, it’s nothing to worry about.
She was really sweating now.
The main road rimming the bluff was close, just around the next corner—
“Oh!”
She caught a glimpse of the other jogger, a tall, athletic man dressed head to toe in black running gear and a ski mask.
Her heart clutched.
Nothing to worry about. Let him pass.
Adrenaline sped through her bloodstream. She kicked her pace up a notch, to a full-blown run, her feet slapping the path faster and faster, her breath hard.
It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right....
But was it?
He was closing quickly.
Panic swept through her.
He was close enough that she could hear his breathing. Strong. Steady—
The toe of her running shoe caught, and she stumbled forward, arms flying. She managed to catch herself before she went down and somehow kept her balance, though her stride was off.
“Careful,” a deep voice said from behind.
Oh, God! He was only two steps away.
She set her jaw. Told herself to be calm.
Did his voice sound familiar?
Her heart raced crazily.
Out of the park she ran. Onto the path edging the bluff. She’d hoped that he would turn the opposite direction, but he was just a step behind her, heading for the downhill run. Maybe she should just stop and let him breeze by.
If only she had her damned phone.
Or the canister of pepper spray she kept in her purse.
“On your right,” he said, catching up with her, matching her pace stride for stride. Now was the time to pull back. “Enjoying yourself, Josie?” he asked.
Josie? She nearly tripped again He knew her? Oh, God, why was his voice familiar?
“You should be careful, y’know.” His shoulder bumped against hers.
She lost her footing and was starting to go down when he suddenly caught her, the fingers of one strong hand circling her upper arm.
“I told you to be careful!” he declared, his grip tight, painful.
“Let go of me! Who are you?” she demanded as they both stopped. Behind his ski mask he was breathing loudly.
“Don’t you know?” His fingers grew punishing.
“Who you are? No! I said, let go of . . . Hey!” He jerked hard on her arm. “What’re you doing?” But she knew. In one heart-stopping second, she realized he meant to kill her! “Let go of me!” Her feet slipped out from under her as he pushed, and before she realized what was happening, he propelled her to the side of the cliff and the short stone railing. “Don’t! Oh, God, Help me! Help!” She was scrambling now, certain of the son of a bitch’s intent.
Oh, God, no! No!
Frantic, she flailed, trying to keep her balance as he shoved her sharply against the stone rail, cracking her shins.
Pain screamed up her legs.
“No!” She fought, but it was no use. He pushed hard, and her weight forced her over the guardrail. To her horror, arms windmilling, she went sailing into the growing darkness. Screaming, she tumbled through the air to land hard against the frozen hillside.
Crack!
Her head banged against a rock, and the world spun as she slid and bounced, twisting and rolling, trying to grab on to anything, her fingers scraping over dirt, roots, and rocks as she slid down the cliff face.
Please, God, help me—
Pain ricocheted up her spine, and somewhere in the distance she heard the roar of rushing water. Closer as she rolled, faster and faster, out of control, her skin bleeding, the world spinning.
But far above she caught a glimpse of him standing high above her, a black figure in the night, looking down.
Waiting.
For her to die.
CHAPTER 4
Trace O’Halleran was pissed.
In fact, he was pissed as hell as he drove ten miles over the speed limit from Evergreen Elementary School, where he’d picked up his kid; now they were on their way to the clinic for X-rays as Eli had been hurt on the playground.
Someone hadn’t been watching his boy, and once Trace was assured that Eli was all right, that someone had some serious explaining to do!
“Hang in there, buddy,” he said to his son, who was seated beside him in his battered old pickup.
Eli nodded and sniffed, either fighting tears or a nasty cold that had been hanging on for about a week.
Squinting through the windshield as the first flakes of snow swirled to the ground, Trace followed the steady stream of traffic that drove down the hillside known as Boxer Bluff to the section of town spread upon the banks of the Grizzly River.
Eli, all of seven, cradled his left arm, which was already in a splint and a sling compliments of an overworked school nurse, whose advice was, “He needs to see a doctor. I’ve already called the clinic on A Street, so you shouldn’t have to wait, like you might at Pinewood Community or St. Bartholomew’s. Have the arm x-rayed. I don’t think it’s broken, but there could be a hairline fracture. The clinic has a lab. While you’re there, you might have the doctor check his ears and throat. I ran his temp, and he’s got a bit of a fever—a hundred and one.”
Trace hadn’t argued against driving to the hospital. Once, he’d sat in the emergency room at St. Bart’s for five hours before anyone could look at his mangled hand, the result of his wedding ring getting caught on a cog of his combine machine when he’d been harvesting wheat. The combination harvester and thresher had nearly torn his arm off before he’d been able to shut it down. Even after saving his arm, he’d almost had to have his ring finger amputated. In the end his finger had been saved, but the nerve damage had been severe enough that he’d lost any feeling in that finger. He’d decided then and there he’d never wear the wedding band again. It hadn’t really mattered, anyway. Leanna, Eli’s mother, had already had one foot out the door.
No, Trace didn’t want his kid to sit on the uncomfortable plastic chairs of the waiting room at St. Bartholomew Hospital, if he could avoid it. They’d start with the clinic, the same damned low-slung building that had been servicing patients for nearly seventy years. Of course, over its life span, the building housing the clinic had been remodeled several times.
Trace’s own father had taken him to the place nearly thirty years earlier, after he’d been bucked off Rocky, the spirited bay gelding that his father had taken in trade for three head of cattle. Rocky had once been a rodeo bronc, and when Trace, at nine, had tried to ride him, some of the gelding’s old fire had resurfaced and he’d sent Trace flying. The result was a concussion and old Doc Mallory’s advice after a quick examination. “For the love of Mike, boy, use the brain God gave you and stay off wild horses!”
Now Trace glanced over at his son, who, cradling his injured arm, was staring out the window.
Eli’s small jaw was set; his eyes were red from the tears he wasn’t about to shed. His breath fogged against the passenger window, which was already smudged with nose prints from their dog, Sarge, a mottled stray who’d shown up half starved the year before. Part Australian shepherd, part who knew what, the dog had become part of their little family. Today, when Trace received the call from the principal of the school and took off for his truck, Sarge had galloped after him, then had stood at the gate, disappointed, when Trace told the dog, “Next time.” Despite the cold, and the fact that the shepherd could get into the warmth of the barn, Sarge would probably be waiting at the gate when they got home.
As if he felt his father’s gaze upon him, Eli mutt
ered, “I hate Cory Deter! He’s a jerk.”
“Cory do this to you?”
Eli lifted a little shoulder.
“Come on, bud. You can tell me.”
Doodling in the foggy glass with the index finger of his good hand, Eli coughed, winced, then said, “He pushed me. We was on the jungle gym, way up top, and he just hauled off and pushed me.”
“And you fell.”
“Yeah.”
“Where were the teachers?”
“Under the covered area.” He slid a glance over his shoulder. “Miss Wallis wasn’t there.”
“I didn’t ask about her,” Trace said with more bite than he’d meant. He flipped on the wipers.
“I know.” Again the shrug.
Trace felt like an idiot. What had he been thinking, going out with his kid’s teacher last year? It had been a mistake, and he’d known it from the second she invited him to dinner. He’d told himself that it was because of Eli, that she wanted to discuss his son and the trouble Eli was having in school, but Trace had known better, sensed it.
And yet he’d gone out with her four times. Well, five, if he included that last night of their final argument after trying to rekindle something that had never really sparked.
He’d only ended up disappointing everyone involved, himself included.
He sighed. Jocelyn Wallis had thought she could be the woman to heal the scar left by Eli’s mother walking out on them. She hadn’t believed Trace when he’d told her he wasn’t interested in a relationship, that he was okay raising his kid alone.
She wasn’t the only one. Eli couldn’t seem to forget the few times that his father had been with his teacher.
Yep, he’d made a royal mess of things.
Now his son said, “She wasn’t at school today.”
“Miss Wallis? Doesn’t matter. Someone was. Someone had playground duty.”
“Mr. Beene was on duty ’cuz Miss Wallis wasn’t there. He’s a substitute.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Eli assured him. “It was that stupid butt Cory Deter!”
“I know you’re mad, but no name calling, okay?”
“But he is.” Eli swiped at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket and set his jaw again. “He’s a stupid butt.”
