added. He could imagine the elderly woman wandering through here, finding the open path and heading in whatever direction she thought would lead her home.
A soft whistle echoed through the darkness.
Boone and Simon, moving into the trees behind him.
He didn’t slow down. They’d find their own way.
Cold wind bit through his heavy coat, and he wondered if Stella had dressed for the weather. If she’d left in a panic, would she have bothered?
He jogged along the path, the dark morning beginning to lighten around him. The sun would rise soon, warming the chilled air. But soon might be too late, and he felt the pressure of that, the knowledge of it, thrumming through his blood.
Somewhere ahead, water burbled across rocks and earth.
A deep creek or river?
He thought he heard movement and ducked under a pine bough, nearly sliding down an embankment that led to the creek he’d been hearing.
He stopped at the edge of the precipice, flashing his light down to the dark water below. A shallow tributary littered with large rocks and fallen branches, it looked easy enough to cross once a person got down to it.
He aimed the beam of light toward the bank, searching for footprints or some other sign that Beatrice or Stella had been there.
Just at the edge of the water, a pink shoe sat abandoned on a rock.
Not Stella’s. She never wore pink.
“Beatrice!” he called. He needed to phone Simon and give him the coordinates. They could begin their search from there, spread out along the banks of the creek and work a grid pattern until they found the missing women.
“Beatrice!” he yelled again.
Someone dove from the trees, slamming into him with enough force to send them both flying. He twisted, his arms locked around his assailant as he fell over the edge of the precipice and tumbled to the creek below.
Stella had to take her attacker down. She knew that, and it was all she knew. Everything else—the darkness, the cold, the blood—they were secondary to the need to survive and to find Beatrice.
She’d been a fool, though.
She should have waited longer. Instead, she’d rushed out when she’d heard the man calling Beatrice’s name. Now she was trapped in a vice-like grip, tumbling down, unable to stop the momentum.
Unable to free herself.
She fought the arms clamped around her waist. Blood was still seeping from the cut on her temple and a deeper wound on the back of her head. Sick, dizzy, confused—she knew the symptoms of a concussion, and she knew the damage could be even worse than that. Brain bleed. Fractured skull. She’d been hit hard enough to be knocked unconscious. She needed medical help, but she needed to protect Beatrice more.
She slammed her palm into her attacker’s jaw, water seeping through her flannel pajamas. The creek? Had she come that far?
Had her grandmother?
Fear shot through her, adrenaline giving strength to her muscles. She slammed her fist into a rock-hard stomach.
“Enough!” a man growled, his forearm pressing against her throat, his body holding her in place.
“Not hardly!” she gasped, bucking against his hold.
Suddenly he was gone, air filling her lungs, icy water lapping at her shoulders and legs as she gasped for breath.
She thought maybe she’d imagined him, that the head injury was causing hallucinations, or that she was hypothermic and delirious. Then a hand cupped her jaw, and she was looking into Chance Miller’s face.
He looked as shocked as she felt.
“You’re in DC,” she said, surprised at how slurred the words sounded, how difficult they were to get out.
“No,” he said, his arm slipping under her back as he lifted her out of the water. “I’m here.”
She thought she heard a tremor in his voice, but that wasn’t like Chance. He always held it together, always had himself under control.
“Always perfect,” she murmured.
“What?” he asked, and she realized they were moving, that somehow he was carrying her up the bank and away from the creek. Snow still fell. She could feel it melting on the crown of her head, sliding into the cut on her temple. None of it hurt. Not really. She just felt numb and scared. Not for herself. For her grandmother.
She had to concentrate, to stay focused on the mission. That was the only way to achieve success. She’d learned that, or maybe she’d always known it, but it had kept her alive in more than one tough situation.
“Put me down.” She shoved at Chance’s chest. “I have to find my grandmother.”
“Boone and Simon will find her. You need medical help.”
“What I need,” she said, forcing every word to be clear and precise, “is to find my grandmother. Until I do that, I’m not accepting help from anyone.”
“We’ve already called the local authorities. They should be here soon. They can conduct the search while an ambulance transports you to the hospital.”
“I’ll just transport myself back. So how about we make this easy and do things my way for a change?”
“We do things your way plenty. This time, we’re not.” He meant it. She could hear it in his voice. She could feel it in the firmness of his grip as he carried her through the snowy woods.
And he was right.
She knew he was right.
She needed medical attention.
She needed help.
But she couldn’t go to the hospital. Not while Beatrice was still lost in the woods.
“Chance, I can’t leave without her. I can’t.” Her voice broke—that’s how scared she was, how worried. Her grandmother was out in the cold, and someone was out there with her. Someone who’d attacked Stella.
More than one person?
She thought so, thought she’d been hit from behind, but she couldn’t quite grasp the memory.
Chance muttered something, then set her on her feet, his hands on her elbows as she found her balance. It took longer than she wanted, the world spinning and whirling, the falling snow making her dizzy. Her stomach heaved, and she swallowed hard. No way was she going to puke. If she did, it would be over. Chance would carry her back to the house and send her off in an ambulance.
Focus on the mission.
