by Janet Dailey
He was banking for the turn when he glimpsed something out of place. In the middle of the muskeg, a living creature was struggling to get free. A young deer or bear cub—that was John’s first impression. But as he corrected the turn and leveled out to a full view of the muskeg, he realized that it was a woman, caught in the treacherous muck.
What would a lone woman be doing out here? Whatever her story, she was in one hell of a bad spot.
John put the plane into a shallow dive and zoomed in low. There was no place to land here, but he wanted the woman to know she’d been seen and that help would be coming. She waved frantically as he passed overhead. He glimpsed long chestnut hair and a plaid shirt before he climbed again and circled back.
Now what? He could—and would—radio for rescue. But it would soon be dark, and the night would be cold. Even with a helicopter, a rescue team might not be able to reach her before hypothermia set in. And there was another danger. Trapped as she was, the woman would be easy prey for the black bears that roamed the forest and had little fear of humans.
A hardcore loner, John made it a habit to keep to himself. Other people’s problems were none of his damned business. The last thing he wanted was to be somebody’s hero. But even he couldn’t leave a helpless fool woman out here alone.
The Beaver’s floats would only allow the small plane to land on water. The soupy surface of a muskeg might do in an emergency, but this open patch, surrounded by dense forest, was way too small. His best bet, a quarter mile from the muskeg, was a place where a creek had eroded its banks to form a shallow lake. From the air, the lake hadn’t looked much bigger than a puddle. But he remembered estimating its length to be a little over a thousand feet—barely enough distance to land and take off again. The width was maybe a third that distance. The landing would be hairy as hell, the takeoff even riskier. But it was his best chance of reaching the woman. Maybe the only chance.
He took a moment to radio his position and pass on what was happening. Then he banked, made one more low pass over the woman, then headed for the lake.
* * *
Emma’s flash of hope faded as the plane vanished over the trees. She was sure the pilot had seen her. But now he’d gone.
Was he looking for a place to land, or had he simply radioed her position and left her to wait for rescue?
But what difference would it make? She’d already run out of time.
The drone of the plane faded with distance. Then, abruptly, it stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. It took a moment for Emma to realize that she could no longer hear the dogs.
Her mind scrambled to piece together what was happening. Boone would’ve been aware of the plane—and it made sense that he wouldn’t want the pilot, or any other witness, to see him. He must’ve silenced the dogs and pulled back into the forest to wait until the coast was clear.
Boone wouldn’t wait long. As soon as he could be sure the pilot wasn’t coming back, the chase would be over. She would be at his mercy.
But the plane’s arrival had bought her time and given her hope. She couldn’t give up now.
Dropping forward and sprawling belly down to even out her weight, she dragged herself ahead. One foot pulled free of the muck, then the other. Both shoes were gone now. Even if she made it onto solid ground, her tender feet wouldn’t get her very far. But she couldn’t stop—not as long as there was any chance of rescue.
As she crawled toward the far side of the muskeg, she focused her thoughts on the plane and the unseen pilot.
Come back . . . she pleaded silently. Please, come back . . .
* * *
The landing had been tight, leaving only a few feet of water between the floats and the bank. John took a long breath, then reached back for the coiled rope he kept in the plane. His Smith & Wesson .44 magnum revolver, which he carried as a precaution against bears, was tucked under the seat. He took it out and buckled on the shoulder holster before climbing out the door, stepping onto the float and wading through shallow water to reach the bank.
By his reckoning, the muskeg would be about ten minutes due south. There was no trail, but he’d flown over this stretch of forest countless times going in and out of Refuge Cove. The map was fixed in his mind.
With the rope slung over his shoulder, he set off at a ground-eating stride. The lady wasn’t going anywhere fast, but his danger instincts were prickling. There was only one reason a woman would get herself stranded in the middle of a muskeg. Something—or more likely someone—was after her.
Whoever that someone might be, it wouldn’t hurt to let them know he was on his way, and that he was armed. He paused long enough to draw the .44 and fire two shots in the air. As the echo died away, he broke into a run.
* * *
Emma heard the shots. But with her head down, there was no way to tell which direction they were coming from or who was firing. All she could do was stay low and keep moving.
She was nearing the edge of the muskeg. The going was easier here, the ground firmer beneath her weight. But she was wet and shivering with exhaustion. Beyond the ring of scraggly brush and devil’s club, the evergreen forest lay deep in twilight shadows. She might be able to hide among the trees, but with the dogs on her trail, how far could she run without shoes?
There was no sign of Boone, but that didn’t mean he’d given up and left. Emma knew he’d be just out of sight, waiting for the best chance to rush her. As for the pilot—
She gasped as a man stepped out from among the trees. He was tall and dark, dressed in khakis and a heavy shirt. A rope was coiled over one shoulder. The opposite hand gripped a heavy revolver.
“You’re the pilot.” Her teeth were chattering.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
He slid the gun into its holster, then paused as if deciding on a course of action. He’d brought a rope, but by now she was only a few feet from firm ground. Stepping past the edge of the bog, he planted his work boots for balance, reached down, and caught her bleeding hands. There was no gentleness in his clasp. If anything, his manner suggested that having to rescue her was nothing but a bother.
Emma bit back a whimper as he dragged her off the muskeg. He had just pulled her to her feet when a shot rang out from the forest on the far side of the bog. Missing by inches, the bullet slammed into a tree behind them.
“Get down!” He shoved her to the ground as another bullet whined past. “Sounds like a damned bear rifle,” he muttered. “And the bastard’s a good shot. I’m guessing it’s somebody you know.”
“Yes.” Emma forced the words through chattering teeth. “My husband.”
His stony expression didn’t even flicker. “So why would your husband want you dead?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Come on. And keep low.” Crouching, he yanked her along with him into the safety of the trees. Dry pine needles jabbed her feet. She willed herself not to cry out.
“He’s got dogs,” she said.
“Stay here.” Leaving Emma huddled at the base of a stump, he drew his pistol and moved like a shadow to the edge of the clearing. The sound of the pistol, as he fired across the distance, made her ears ring.
Seconds later he was back, offering an impersonal hand to pull her to her feet.
“Why did you shoot?” she asked him. “You couldn’t have hit anything in the dark.”
“You said he had dogs. Now that he knows I could shoot them, he’ll be less likely to send them after us.” He gripped her arm above the elbow. “Let’s go. The plane isn’t far.”
She took a step. A sharp pine cone jabbed her foot. Emma yelped.
“What now?” He scowled down at her.
“My shoes. I lost them.”
“Hang on.” He shoved the pistol into its holster and adjusted the coil of rope. Scooping her up, he slung her over his shoulder like a fireman carrying an unconscious victim out of a burning house. Her hair dangled down his back. Her hips rode his shoulder. The hand that balanced her rested
on the backs of her thighs, just below her rump.
“Comfortable?”
“Don’t even ask.”
“It won’t be for long,” he said, striding out. “Let me know if you hear anybody behind us.”
“What if it’s a bear? Will you drop me and run?”
“Don’t tempt me, lady.”
“My name is Emma.”
“Pleased to meet you, Emma,” he muttered. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
About the Author
JANET DAILEY’s first book was published in 1976. Since then she has written more than 100 novels and become one of the top-selling female authors in the world, with 300 million copies of her books sold in nineteen languages in ninety-eight countries. She is known for her strong, decisive characters, her extraordinary ability to re-create a time and a place, and her unerring courage to confront important, controversial issues in her stories. You can learn more about Janet at www.JanetDailey.com.
