“Put it in your bag. We’ll need it, and it can be used as a weapon in a pinch,” I explained. I could see the question in her eyes, so I mocked hitting someone over the head with the pan. She stifled a giggle at my ridiculous pantomime and stuffed the pan into her bag.
We exited through the back door, and slipped into the small shed on the side of the house. I rummaged around for a fishing pole—didn’t find one—but didn’t come away empty-handed either. Fishing line, hooks, and some of those scissors that can cut through anything all found their way into my pack.
“Move over MacGyver.” I zipped up the bag and returned it to my shoulders.
Ashley looked at me questioningly. “Who’s MacGyver?”
I shook my head. “Who’s MacGyver? Only the most amazing genius-crime-fighter ever. He never carried a gun, but always saved the day using only his vast scientific knowledge and the items he had on hand.” She rolled her eyes, which only encouraged me to continue. “He built bombs out of things like bubble gum. You seriously don’t know who MacGyver is? Did you even watch TV?”
Ashley cast me one of those apprehensive looks usually reserved for religious fanatics and door-to-door salesmen. “Mom wasn’t big on violence.”
“MacGyver wasn’t violent.” I leaned against the counter. “He was a genius.” I held up my hands. “It was educational.”
“Right,” Ashley replied, patting me on the arm like she was trying to appease some psycho.
I growled in disgust. “They just don’t teach kids anything these days. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
By the time we left the farm, I felt much better about our chances of survival. We headed more north than east to shoot the gap between Puyallup and Enumclaw. I planned to stay east of Highway 167, in an effort to avoid as many towns and people as possible without drifting too far off course. The map in my back pocket advertised several little lakes, streams and rivers, which we could use as water sources along the way. The weather had been mostly dry and we’d need to fill up our water bottles soon.
About three more hours of walking brought us to the enchanting sounds and smells of the first stream. We approached with practiced caution before descending upon the water source. An abundance of animal tracks marked the spot as a popular watering hole.
“See this Ash?” I pointed at the ground before me.
She nodded.
“Deer track.”
She studied the ground. “How can you be so sure?”
“Size and shape.” I pointed to the deer droppings a few feet away. “That helps too.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What about this one?” She pointed to a small paw print.
I considered the track. The claw marks were faint and definitely canine. “Most likely a wolf,” I replied. “Or maybe a wild dog.”
“There are wolves out here?” Ashley looked around suspiciously.
“Of course. But don’t worry; they have plenty to eat in the early summer. They won’t bother us.”
I owed much of my survival to my outdoor packed childhood. Michelle’s father—Howard—had been the local butcher in our home town. He was a widower, and Michelle was his entire world. Positively the coolest dad I ever met, he welcomed me along on their escapades. An avid outdoorsman, Howard served as our self-appointed camping, fishing, hunting and hiking guide. He was always more than willing to drag us into the safety of Mother Nature and away from the dangers of boys.
When we forgot to “moan and groan,” about the lack of comforts in the wilderness, we actually enjoyed ourselves. He taught us the dangers and benefits of his natural playground with never ending enthusiasm. I grew up traipsing around the forest after him with Michelle by my side. He never gave up on our wilderness training, and I was grateful now more than ever. Without the things he taught me, I would have died months ago. Thanks to Howard, not only could I survive, but I could also provide.
Encouraged by the stream, I rummaged through the tall grass until I found a decently strong stick; about three feet long. Ashley sat and rifled through her pack as I removed excess branches and leaves. She watched me from the corner of her eye. After measuring and snipping a length of fishing line, I tied one end securely around the stick. To the other end, I attached a hook. A small rock toward the hook end of the line acted as a weight and completed my handiwork. Knowing the soft bank would most likely yield what I needed next, I dug my fingers in until I found a very large worm. I split the worm in half and secured one portion on the hook and set aside the other half for later.
Ashley made a sound of disgust. I raised an eyebrow at her, and she returned her attention to her pack.
Now that the hook was properly baited, I cast my line and sat down to wait. The sound of water rushing over rocks soothed my mind. The clean scents and tranquil music of the forest assaulted the tense muscles in my neck and back, forcing me to relax. I closed my eyes and reveled in the warmth of the sun against my eyelids.
A shadow appeared, blocking my sunshine. “That is not a fishing pole,” Ashley announced.
I chuckled and opened my eyes. She had her arms crossed and brows furrowed, scrutinizing my work.
“You don’t even know who MacGyver is. What exactly do you think you know about fishing poles?”
She eyed the pole. “I’ve seen them before. They don’t look like … like that.”
“Yes, but have you ever seen a ‘custom-built’ fishing pole?” I nodded toward the stick in my hands.
She gave up and sat next to me. “You can really catch fish with that?” Her expression changed from doubtful to curious.
“People have been catching fish since long before fishing poles were made in factories.”
I felt something exploring the worm on my line, and waited patiently as the top of the pole bobbed. Something was nudging my line. Finally, the slack pulled tight. Ashley gasped as I jerked the line up and to the left, pulling the fish out of the water and dangling it over the ground.
Dropping the pole, we rushed to inspect our catch: a large, healthy rainbow trout. Colorful scales reflected the fading sunlight as it flopped around in the grass. I cut the hook from its mouth and went to retrieve the other half of the worm to try my luck again.
“Wow,” Ashley said, still watching the fish with eyes the size of silver dollars. “That was so cool. I can’t believe you caught a fish with a stick!”
I cast my line back in and offered her the pole. “Wanna try?”
She shook her head.
“Come on Ash, it’s actually fun.”
I handed her the pole and she griped it tightly. Her entire body looked stiff.
“Relax,” I encouraged. “This is supposed to be the lazy person’s sport.”
She rolled her shoulders and sat back down.
“I used to fish a lot, you know. When I was your age.” I snickered at myself for sounding like an old lady. “My best friend, Michelle, and I went fishing with her dad quite a bit. We’d only hold our poles for about thirty minutes before we’d grow bored and accidentally fall in the water so we could go swimming.”
She glanced at the stream. “Isn’t it freezing?”
“It’s only cold for the first few minutes.” I shrugged. “You get used to it quickly.”
Ashley was starting to squirm when her line went taut. She stared at the pole and her eyes lit up with wonder. A precious smile stretched from one ear to the other and she asked, “Is that a fish? For real?”
“For real,” I replied and helped her jerk the pole up to snag the trout. “You did it! Your first fish, Ash!”
She bore her satisfaction like a gold medal, beaming a smile that would make Mona Lisa proud. Between the two of us we caught two more trout in the next half hour. Then I taught Ashley to gut and clean them properly. As she brought the skillet out of her backpack, I searched the area and gathered twigs, grateful for the dry weather. I hardly ever chanced a fire, but it was still light out and the idea of fried trout was making me giddy. The area was heavily wooded, w
ith lots of trees to hide us, and it wouldn’t take long to cook our small catch. We would be fed and long gone before nightfall.
The fish were happily sizzling in spray butter and a small amount of the seasonings I’d found at the farm when I heard an unfamiliar cough. I looked up to find a large, grimy, disturbingly hairy man with a knife held to Ashley’s throat.
“Mmm, fish,” he said, but leered at me and licked his lips like, ‘Mmm, woman.’
I wanted to kick myself for being caught unaware, and feared how we’d pay for my negligence. Ashley’s look of terror pulled me from my self-deprecating thoughts and calmed me. Determined to act and not panic, I glanced at the pack that held my gun. It was too far away and thus useless. My knife was equally worthless, lying by the river, where we’d used it to gut fish.
Um … Help? I prayed.
Then, I acted. Putting on my best helpless girl façade I asked, “What do you want?” I even lowered my head and batted my eyes like I was working for an Emmy. The trembling was real though.
The newcomer showed his repulsive yellow teeth in a predatory smile that made my skin crawl. “Well, let’s start with some dinner and then we can talk about dessert.” He looked me over and bile rose in my throat as I tried not to think too much on the insinuation. His eyes lingered on my chest. “Two pretty, young ladies out here all alone. Bet you ladies are lonely.”
It took a conscious effort not to roll my eyes while I considered the workings of the amazingly vast male ego. But he was armed and I, technically, was not, so I did what women have been doing for years; attempted to disarm him with the most charming smile in my arsenal and lied through my teeth.
“Absolutely. You should put down the knife and join us. We’ve had no one to talk to in so very long.” Was that really a southern drawl in my voice? I swallowed back ideas about women’s rights and equality and ignored the sound of every woman in my lineage rolling over in her grave, as I flirted with the filthy beast. All that mattered was Ashley.
The man withdrew his knife from Ashley’s throat and set her aside. My heart started to do a back-flip, but he paused and narrowed his eyes; Ashley’s wince was evidence that he’d tightened his big paw around her arm. “Promise you won’t try anything or the girl here dies.”
Hoping he wasn’t smarter than I’d assumed, I held up my hands in surrender and tried to look submissive. It was a stretch, but I’d taken classes. And Momma thought drama was just an easy “A.”
“Of course. What could we possibly do to you? You’d kill us.” My cheeks were cramping from smiling so long.
The stranger reeked of old cigarettes, beer, and sweat. He sat next to me, putting his hand inappropriately high on my thigh. I smiled at him through clenched teeth. Enjoy it now buddy, it won’t last.
The two large, flat stones I’d previously washed in the stream to use as plates were on the ground beside the man. I stood and reached for one.
He held up his knife warningly. “Slowly.”
I winked like we were sharing some secret innuendo. Gag.
He smiled back and lowered his knife. I placed all four of the trout on the makeshift plate and handed them to him with my left hand. My peripheral vision caught sight of a shadowy figure quickly moving out of the bushes toward us. As the stranger turned to see what had caught my eye, I grabbed the still sizzling skillet and lunged forward, bashing him over the head with it.
He toppled over just as Connor withdrew his knife from the stranger’s back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
~Fort Lewis, Washington, June 13
A SHARP RAP on the apartment door woke the commander sleeping inside. He climbed out of bed, wrapped his bathrobe around himself, and hurried to the door. Unlocking the chain, he pulled it open to see a soldier standing on his doorstep.
He sighed, knowing the news couldn’t possibly be good. “Report.”
The soldier saluted. “Yessir. Jacobson has returned.”
The commander’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Jacobson? And the team?”
“No sir. Just Jacobson.”
The commander closed his eyes and crossed himself. He took deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Has Captain Parkins been notified?”
* * *
Connor sized Liberty up. Her frying pan-wielding proficiency had surprised and impressed him, but he reveled in the fact that she seemed completely startled by his presence. He’d been following them for days, after all. Someone needs to pay closer attention …
“I won’t let you hurt her!” Ashley yelled at Connor as she ran between them.
“Do you really think I would, Ash?” He stared into her accusatory eyes and saw exactly what she thought he was capable of. Will she hate me forever?
“Libby is all I have. I won’t let you kill her too.” Her jaw thrust stubbornly outward, like a pit-bull refusing to release a bone.
“You were following us this entire time?” Liberty’s brows knit together. “And when you saw we were in danger you what … rushed in to knife the guy and save the day?”
Connor shrugged, leaned over, and wiped his knife on the dead man’s shirt. Then he rifled through the man’s pockets for anything that could be useful.
“What are you doing?” Liberty sounded appalled.
He retrieved a lighter. Bingo. After shaking it to confirm it still had fluid, he offered it to Liberty. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m seeing if he has anything we need.”
“You can’t steal from him! He’s dead!” She stared at the lighter and shook her head. “I don’t want that!”
“It’s not like he’s going to use it.” She still wouldn’t take it, so Connor shoved the lighter in his pocket.
“You—you—why did you kill him?”
“What?” Connor shook his head. “He was—”
She held up the frying pan. “I had the situation under control.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” he retorted and headed toward the stream, frustrated by the fact that she was angry with him over the death of someone who had expressed nefarious intentions toward her and Ashley. Can’t win no matter what I do.
Liberty wouldn’t let it go. “We didn’t ask for your help.”
He stopped and faced her. “Dammit, Liberty, I promised my brother I would take care of his daughter.”
“Oh.” She raised her eyebrows. “The brother you murdered?”
Connor’s jaw clenched as he turned his back to her and slipped the pack from his shoulders. He unzipped it while he walked, not wanting to spend a single second more than necessary with the annoying blowhard. He’d unscrewed the lid from the first water bottle when realization hit him. Ash spoke to me! Did I hear that right?
He stopped and turned to stare at her, pack dangling from his hand. Ashley glared at him.
“Ash?” he asked.
She turned her back.
Connor stepped toward her. “Would you just hear me out? Please? Let me explain?”
She didn’t respond.
“I loved them too, you know.” He walked over and laid his hand on her shoulder. “You’re all I have. Please don’t shut me out.”
Her shoulders tensed, and she shied away. With her back still facing him her voice was quiet, controlled, and dripping with disgust when she finally spoke. “Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me. I. Hate. You.”
Connor closed his eyes and received her anger as each word ripped through him, starving the hope he’d been nourishing only moments before. He couldn’t blame her. After all, he hated himself too. Over and over his mind replayed the last words he spoke to his brother.
‘No, Jacob, don’t ask this of me.’
Ashley moved. Connor couldn’t open his eyes; didn’t want to see her walking away from him again. She hates me.
“I’m sorry.” He muttered the words for the hundredth time, even though he knew she wouldn’t hear him. When he finally got up the courage to open his eyes, she was gone.
He picked
up his pack and, with his head hanging in defeat and self-loathing, headed for the stream.
Liberty’s shoes appeared in his view.
Great. He moved to walk around her, but she blocked him. Sensing the inevitable, he stopped and looked up at her face. Her expression was different, confused. She studied Connor in the same way he used to size up new clients; evaluating their honesty, determining their level of commitment.
“Connor, look—”
He held up a hand, stopping whatever pity-filled drivel was about to drip from her lips. He didn’t need her sympathy. He just needed her to get out of the way so he could refill his water. “Look, can I just get some water and get out of here? Shouldn’t you be chasing down Ashley?” He pulled more empty bottles out of his pack and brushed past her.
“Ash won’t go far. She doesn’t want to be alone,” Liberty said. Then she held out her hand to him.
Connor’s brows knit together.
She sighed. “Hand me a couple of the bottles. I’ll help.”
“What?” he asked.
She snatched two bottles from his hands and headed for the stream, stopping when he didn’t follow. “They aren’t gonna fill themselves, you know? You should probably follow me.”
He didn’t really want the company of a bossy psycho, but the determined way Liberty’s jaw jutted out told him he wouldn’t be able to shake her, so he followed her to the water.
“Um, I may have been a bit harsh back at the safe,” Liberty admitted as she filled up one of the bottles, screwed on the lid, and handed it to him. “You helped me, fed me and let me rest and in return I … well, I wasn’t very kind to you. It’s just that Ashley—” she shrugged. “she’s really hurting about whatever happened to her parents and I can’t handle a hurt kid. Kinda gives me this crazy-protective vibe.” She filled the second bottle.
Rescuing Liberty: Perseverance Book 1 Page 5
