gaze swept the meadow. Amid the faraway line of conifers, she caught a glimpse of movement, and she focused intently. The barrel of a rifle aimed directly at her heart. They were coming for her! The hunters were coming.
A wave of terror surged in her chest, and she gasped. Her throat tightened. She was drowning in her own fear—an urgent panic that flooded every cell of her body. She had to escape. To run. To hide.
Rolling thunder echoed through the mountain cliffs and valleys, and the rain began to fall hard. Vertical sheets of water pelted her head and shoulders.
Drawing upon her last reserve of strength, she staggered to her feet. Beside her was a backpack—a big one that was suitable for weeklong wilderness expeditions. She hefted the weight onto her shoulders. She knew inherently that she needed to keep this pack with her at all times.
Stooped over, she moved as quickly as she could toward the nearby sheltering trees. Every step was torture. Inside her hiking boots, her toes cramped. Her knees and ankles creaked like frayed hinges.
At the edge of the forest, she collapsed on a carpet of pine needles. Small, gasping sobs escaped her chapped lips as she squinted through the rain toward the hunters on the opposite side of the mountain meadow.
She saw nothing. They were gone. She peered so intensely that her eyes ached. Nothing. They had vanished so quickly. Did they even exist? Had she invented the hunters? No! She knew they were out there.
Fear was her only reality, her only truth. People were after her. Faceless men, hunters, tracked her down like an animal. My God, why? What have I done?
If they found her, they would kill her. They’d tried once already. The slash on her arm. The wound on her head. She had to stay hidden, here in the forest. It was the only way she’d survive. She had to be smart. But how? How could she pretend to be clever when her brain was addled and her memory was gone?
She couldn’t do this. It was better to surrender, to lie back and accept her fate.
“Stop it,” she whispered angrily. She wasn’t a quitter. Though she didn’t remember her own name, she knew this: she wasn’t the sort of woman who gave up without a fight.
Her shoulders straightened. She would take responsibility for her own safety. She would forge a new life, a new identity. Here, in the forest.
Following the custom of Native American tribes christening a newborn, she chose her name based on the first thing she had seen when she’d awakened.
Rain. I am Rain.
Chapter One
At midafternoon on a sunlit day, Rain hunkered down beside a rippling creek. She reached into the cold, clear water and picked out a pebble. Round and smooth, the stone was the color of a tiger’s stripe and speckled with bits of quartz.
After careful inspection, she decided the tawny color was perfect for today—a very good day because she’d caught a fish. Today, she was fierce as a tiger. She was the huntress instead of the hunted.
Though she’d seen no sign of the men who had been pursuing her for days, she still felt their presence. At any given moment, they might appear.
Rain turned her back on the creek and scurried toward her wilderness home. Careful not to follow the same route and create a path that might lead others to her hideout, she zigzagged toward a wall of pines and a towering granite formation. Behind three fat boulders was a cleared space with a fire pit. She pushed aside a clump of sagebrush and entered her shallow cave.
Kneeling on the cave floor, she ceremoniously dropped the tiger pebble into a basket she’d woven from reeds and twigs. One pebble for every day of her new life. “Twenty-eight, so far.”
Proud that she’d survived so long, Rain smiled. The sunburned skin across her cheeks stretched and cracked, and she rubbed her face. Without moisturizer, her complexion must be a leathery disaster. Not that she was planning to win any beauty pageants.
Her jeans were torn, and so baggy that she held them up with twine she’d plaited from reeds and sweetgrass. Her blue silk shirt was in tatters. Several days ago, she’d given up on grooming her long, unmanageable, blond hair and had hacked it short—not stylish but functional. She didn’t have time to worry about how she looked. Every moment was dedicated to survival. Nothing else mattered.
Though it was a bit early for dinner preparations, she couldn’t wait to cook the fresh trout that would go so well with her usual salad of goldenrod, burdock and mint. As she took the leaves from the cooking pot where they soaked in water from the creek, she wished that she had oil or butter for frying.
Those were food items her backpack had not provided, but she wasn’t complaining. The pack had literally saved her life. Tucked inside, she’d found a Marmot Pinnacle sleeping bag, a serrated Buck knife, a collapsible fishing rod and Meals, Ready-to-Eat—the same kind of prepackaged, high-calorie food that the U.S. military used on maneuvers.
Though the last of her MREs had been devoured thirteen days ago, Rain found plenty of edible foods in the wild. Bark and grass. Flowers and roots. And now, the chokecherries and elderberries had begun to appear. She wouldn’t starve.
In fact, her health was good. Her wounds had healed, thanks to the first aid kit in her pack and her knowledge of medicinal plants.
Though she still couldn’t force herself to recall what had happened to her, memories had appeared like snapshots—moments caught in time. Once remembered, these pieces of the past became hers, not to be forgotten again.
Easily, she pictured her mother descending a sweeping staircase, being greeted by a golden retriever with a wildly wagging tail.
And there was a Little League game she’d coached.
On a green golf course, she practiced her swing.
Rain remembered her own wedding. The pristine lace dress. The filmy veil. And roses, tons of pink roses. Unfortunately, the groom wasn’t a clear vision, and she had the sinking feeling that her marriage hadn’t turned out well.
The elaborate, many-tiered cake, she recalled, had been delicious.
With a longing sigh, she fantasized about all the marvelous foods she used to eat. Gourmet sauces. Cheese and bread. Cream and chocolate desserts. She especially missed the candy bars her father used to bring home when she was a little girl. He’d hold out his arms and allow her to search his jacket pockets until she found the chocolate.
By far, her favorite memories were the days she’d spent with her father. A big, strong man, he’d taught her wilderness skills when she was a girl. They used to go backpacking together. He’d taught her how to forage; those skills had probably saved her life.
Through the mouth of her cave, she glanced heavenward. Her father—his name was Eric—had passed away several years ago. “I miss you, Dad.”
In her mind, she repeated his name. Eric. The golden retriever, also deceased, was Daisy. Her mother was Elizabeth. She’d remarried. Her new husband was Peter Rowe, and he had a son, Tom Rowe. All those names. But when it came to her own identity, she was still…Rain.
Knowledge of her immediate past remained elusive no matter how hard she tried to remember. The only thing she knew for sure was that hunters
