Okay?”
She nodded and redirected her attention to the ground.
“Now back away slowly. Toward the sound of my voice.”
She hesitated.
“It’s okay. Slow movements shouldn’t spook her,” he said.
Sara followed his directions and backed up, but the bear kept coming. Will stepped in front of her.
The bear roared, aggravating her headache.
“What does she want?” she said.
“Probably the same thing you want. To be left alone. Maybe she’s got cubs nearby.”
“I have the gun.”
“That’ll only make her angry. Back up slowly.”
She took a step back, then another.
“That’s it,” he said.
As she and Will tried to distance themselves, the bear slowly followed.
“This isn’t working,” Sara said, panic gripping her chest.
“Easy now. Don’t make eye contact. You’re doing great.”
Sara continued to step back. “What if she charges us?”
“We make ourselves big and threatening. I have a feeling you’ll do great.”
Was he teasing her? As they were both about to be torn apart by a bear?
They kept backing away and Sara was stunned when the bear hesitated.
“That’s right, we’re boring hikers, mama bear,” he said in a hushed voice.
That smooth, sweet voice he’d used on Sara.
They backed away until they were out of sight. Will turned and gripped her arm. “Let’s move.”
“You think she’ll follow us?”
“Doubtful, but we’re safer in the cabin. What were you thinking, taking off with nothing but a blanket?”
“I was... That you were—”
“Enough. I don’t want to hear any more about how I’m going to kill you. The dehydration is messing with your head.” He stopped and looked deeply into her eyes. “If I wanted you dead, I would have let Smokey eat you for dinner, right?”
True. An assassin wouldn’t have risked his own life to save a mark from a bear, only to kill her later. In LaRouche’s and Harrington’s minds, a dead witness was the best witness, yet Will have saved her twice.
Which meant she’d been abusing this innocent man, Good Samaritan.
Single father.
She sighed as they kept walking.
“Thanks,” she said. “For the bear thing.”
“You’re welcome. I don’t suppose that warrants me knowing your name?”
“Sara.”
“Nice to meet you, Sara. I’d rather you not run off again and get eaten by wild animals on my watch.”
“No promises,” she half joked.
“Ah, you like pushing back for the fun of it,” he teased.
But he’d nailed it. Sara was always pushing, although, not necessarily for fun.
“Why do you think someone wants to harm you?” he asked.
“I witnessed a crime.”
They turned a corner and he stopped short.
“What?” She looked around him.
A man was coming out of the cabin.
“Do you recognize him?” she said.
“No.” He motioned to a nearby tree. “Hide back there. I’ll check it out.”
“It could be dangerous.”
“Or simply a hiker lost in the mountains. Kinda like you.” Will smiled and nodded toward the tree. “Go on.”
“Maybe you should take this.” She offered him the gun.
An odd smile creased his lips. “Thanks, but you keep it.”
She nodded and watched him walk away, shielding herself behind the tree. From this vantage point she could watch the scene unfold, not that she had a great escape plan. Hiking back up the trail meant crossing paths with the bear, but sticking around meant being interrogated by the real assassin, if that’s who the stranger was.
If it was the man hired by LaRouche and Harrington, that meant Will, a single father of two girls, was walking into trouble.
For Sara.
“No,” she whispered, and peered around the tree, wanting to go to him, to tell him not to take the chance.
A gunshot echoed across the property.
And Will dropped to the ground.
Will hit the dirt, thinking Sara had come after him and took her best shot. But that didn’t make sense. She was smart enough to know it was safer where he’d left her, camouflaged by the trees.
Sara might be confused, but she wasn’t foolish.
He struggled to slow the adrenaline rush flooding his body.
“Hey, sorry about that,” a man’s voice said.
Will eyed a man’s hiking boots as he approached.
“I saw a mountain lion and wanted to scare him off.”
Will stood and brushed himself off, irritated both by the hiker’s decision to discharge a firearm and by his own reaction to the gunshot. It was a defense response developed from growing up in a house with a volatile, and sometimes mean, drunk.
“I’m B. J. Masters.” B.J. extended his gloved hand and Will shook it.
“Will Rankin.”
B.J. was in his late thirties, wearing a top-quality jacket and expensive hiking boots. He didn’t seem like an amateur hiker, nor did he seem like the type to be hunting a helpless woman.
“Whoa, what happened?” B.J. motioned to Will’s face.
Bruising must have formed from
