jump, about three feet in the air.
Then she started running across the open field. Fastened to her by the nylon rope, Jordan had no choice but to follow at top speed. His feet beat the ground. His heart pounded. He hadn’t intended to set a new record for the four-hundred-meter dash across the world’s most rugged terrain.
His plan was to baby his aching muscles until they got to the warming hut where he could collapse into bed and recuperate. Dammit, he’d been gunshot today. Twice. But he couldn’t stop running. Emily sprinted with such arm-churning force that if he held back she’d yank him off his feet and drag him on his belly across the mountain meadow.
Any chance at a quiet, subtle sneak across the wide-open land vanished. If there were any searchers in the vicinity, they must have been alerted by Emily’s eardrumpiercing scream. Jordan tried to watch in all directions as he ran. Were they closing in? Were they converging? The reports on the police radio had named the Cascadia area. Would the next bullet strike his heart?
On the far side of the open meadow, Emily screeched to a halt on a hillside below a stand of conifers. Her frantic gaze darted. Her head swiveled. Her arms clenched across her breasts, and her fingers curled into tight little fists. Unnecessarily, she said, “I hate snakes.”
Pookie echoed, “Brrr-oof.”
“No lie.” Jordan bent double, trying to catch his breath. Though his chest heaved with the effort of consuming enough oxygen, the run seemed to have loosened him up. His muscles were tingling instead of throbbing.
“I can’t believe this.” She spoke in breathy half-sentences. “A few hours ago. I lectured. To Brownies. About snakes. Were you…scared?”
“No.” In Florida, there were lots of snakes. They’d never bothered Jordan. “I don’t think that one was poisonous.”
“Don’t care. I hate them all.”
From their vantage point on the hillside, he turned to scan the open meadow behind them. He looked for the glint of fading sunlight on a long-range rifle. He listened for the sound of manhunters calling to each other, for barking bloodhounds, for the whir of helicopter blades.
Only the soft whisper of mountain breezes disturbed the perfect silence. He saw no movement, no evidence of searchers. However, if and when the sheriff’s deputies came this way, their direction was obvious. The wild race across the dried grasses trampled a path straight as an arrow pointing the way toward Jordan.
He was well-aware that seeking shelter in the warming hut—a clearly mapped landmark—was risky. But he needed warmth and comfort for a good night’s sleep and recovery. His escape efforts might last for days, even weeks, and he couldn’t take a chance on falling ill.
He turned to Emily. “Nothing like that is going to happen again.”
“I didn’t plan to see a snake,” she said.
“I thought you were an expert outdoorswoman, certified in mountain survival.”
“Unless there’s a snake,” she said in a small voice.
After her consistent display of mountaineering skill and wisdom, he detected a subtle shift in their relationship. Her unreasonable fear of snakes had given him an edge and elevated him from the status of mountaineering idiot to potential survivor. He felt gratified to finally be the one with the answers. “I’m pretty sure snakes in these parts are headed toward hibernation. At nightfall, they hide away. It’s too cold out here for reptiles. We won’t see another one.”
“Do you promise?” With the back of her hand, she wiped sweat from her forehead. A convulsive tremble shook her slender body.
Though he wanted to take her into his arms and offer reassurance, Jordan still wasn’t sure whether she’d hug him back or slap him upside the head. He suspected the latter. “Do you want to sit and rest for a few minutes?”
“No! I want to put as much distance between us and that reptile as possible.”
“Suits me.” He took the topographical map from the pocket of his Levi’s. “First, let me get my bearings.”
Staring in a northeastern direction, he spotted a high, jagged outcropping of granite. “Are those the chimney rocks marked on the map?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Let’s get going. I can find my way to the warming hut.”
Not only did he mistrust her willingness to help him, but dusk was rapidly turning to night. The local landmarks would be invisible in the dark, and he’d have to rely on the compass.
Almost due north, he spied a hogback that was marked on the map. In his head, Jordan calculated the triangulation and set their course for twelve degrees northeast on the compass. “When we approach this hut, there’s probably a road. Right?”
“A path,” she said. “It should be maintained by the Forestry Service.”
He balanced her compass in the palm of his hand. The setting sun was behind them. He could already feel the chill in the air. “Let’s go.”
Keeping a steady pace, they climbed hills and crossed other meadows. As night surrounded them, Jordan took the lead, keeping them on track with the compass.
Behind him, Emily stumbled. “Ow! Jordan, I have flashlights in the backpacks. We should use them.”
“Here’s a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t we just hang a neon sign that says Escapee Here.”
“Searchers won’t be out this late,” she grumbled. “If they are, we’ll see them coming. Because they’ll be smart enough to use flashlights.”
A valid point. He concentrated on watching for glimmers of light in the surrounding forest. Though he was less likely to be tracked in the dark, shadows made him wary of an ambush. Every sound magnified. The snap of twigs beneath his feet. The rustle of wind. Occasional screams from predator birds. And Jordan was the prey. Well-armed deputies with guns and shackles were after him. Searchers led by bloodhounds. They could be waiting at the warming hut, setting a trap.
“How do you know where we’re going?” she demanded.
“I’m using the compass.”
“We should’ve already reached the hut,” she said. “It’s late. We need to stop soon.”
“We’ll find it.”
“You know,” she said, “people get lost in the mountains all the time. These are miles and miles of open country.”
“I said, we’ll find the damn hut.”
He’d learned the principles of coastal navigation while sailing on his fifteen foot sloop in the Gulf of Mexico, and the same logic applied on dry land. Though he could also take his bearings from the constellations, the Colorado sky was unfamiliar to him. Brilliant stars, unobscured by moisture or fog, shone too dazzling bright to be anything more than a distraction. Therefore, Jordan didn’t take the time to look upward. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, aiming in the right direction, finding shelter from the cold that froze his sweat against his body.
Stepping through a wall of forest,
