Page 21 of Revival in Laurel Valley

The footsteps moved away, heading north—the wrong direction. Grant had led them northeast, but Caine was searching due north.

They waited. Five minutes that felt like fifty. When Grant finally moved, it was with excruciating slowness, making no sound as he rose and helped Liza to her feet.

“She’s ahead of us now,” he breathed into her ear. “We circle around. Stay low. Stay quiet.”

They moved parallel to the slope, traversing the mountainside rather than climbing straight up. It was harder this way—every step required balance, focus, the constant adjustment to uneven ground that wanted to slide them downhill. But it kept them away from Caine’s probable search pattern.

The forest grew denser. Pines gave way to a tangle of undergrowth that caught at their clothes and slowed their progress. Grant used his flashlight sparingly now, just brief flickers to check their path, then darkness again to preserve their night vision.

Liza’s concussion was getting worse. She could feel it in the way the darkness seemed to pulse, the way her balance wavered even on flat ground. Nausea rolled through her stomach in waves.

“Grant,” she whispered. “I need to stop. Just for a minute.”

“Not yet.” His hand found hers in the darkness, squeezed. “Another quarter mile. There’s a creek ahead—we’ll use it to mask our trail, then we can rest.”

She nodded, though he probably couldn’t see it, and pushed on.

The sound of water reached them before they saw it—a rushing, tumbling sound that spoke of snowmelt and spring runoff. The creek was maybe fifteen feet across, swollen with recent rain, moving fast over rocks that gleamed wet in the moonlight filtering through the canopy.

“We cross here,” Grant said, studying the water. “It’ll be cold. The current’s strong. But it’ll hide our tracks.”

Liza looked at the dark water and felt her stomach drop. “How deep?”

“Knee-deep, maybe thigh-deep in the middle. Can you make it?”

Could she? Her ankle was screaming, her head was pounding, and every muscle in her body felt like it was made of lead. But behind them—somewhere in the darkness—Caine was hunting.

“I can make it,” she said.

Grant went first, testing each step, finding the rocks that were stable enough to bear weight. The water hit him at mid-calf, then his knees, then his thighs at the deepest point. He turned back, extending his hand.

“Come on. Step where I stepped. I’ve got you.”

Liza stepped into the creek and gasped. The water was ice cold, so cold it felt like knives cutting into her legs. The current pushed against her, trying to sweep her downstream.

“I’ve got you,” Grant said again, his hand locked around her wrist. “Just a few more steps.”

She focused on his voice, on the strength of his grip, on putting one foot in front of the other. The water soaked through her jeans, climbing to her thighs, the cold so intense it made her teeth chatter.

Three more steps. Two. One.

Grant pulled her up onto the opposite bank and into his arms. She was shaking violently, her legs numb from the cold.

“We need to keep moving,” he said. “Get your blood flowing. Warm you up.”

“C-can’t,” she managed through chattering teeth.

“You can.” He rubbed her arms briskly. “You’re the woman who drove a car through a window. You’re the toughest person I know. You can do this.”

Something in his voice—the absolute conviction—cut through the cold and the pain and the exhaustion. She straightened, forced her legs to stop shaking.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They climbed away from the creek, Grant supporting half her weight now. The water had done its job. But they’d paid for it in energy they couldn’t afford to lose.

Liza’s clothes clung to her, icy and heavy. Each gust of wind felt like it was stripping away another layer of warmth. Her fingers were numb. Her feet were numb. Only the pain in her head reminded her she was still alive.

“How far?” she asked again, but this time her voice was thin, desperate.