AllFreeNovel
Share Us
No muzzle appears. Instead, I see a rounded head against that patch of sun. A smooth head with something on it that isnota furry pair of ears. It’s a hat. I catch the distinct shape of a brim. A ball cap or a safari-style hat. Or a Western-style, like Dalton’s? It’s not him. He’d have said something by now.
Still, it’s definitely a human up there. Male? Female? I only see the shadow of a head. Then there’s another grunt, and I realize it’s the soft exhale of someone rising—the first grunt being when they crouched.
Someone is out there. That is the reality I’m trying to hide under the cover of figuring outwhoit might be. If someone is out there, I need to make a choice.
Should I say anything?
I don’t think they’ve noticed me. They must have seen my backpack, though. It’s right there. So they spotted a random backpack beside a hole and crouched to look in.
Crouched, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask if someonewas in there. Didn’t bend inside to be sure no one was lying on the ground, injured.
Is that because theydidsee me? They know I’m here… and they aren’t offering to help. They aren’t asking whether I’m okay.
Footsteps sound again. A slow crunching that I track all the way around the pit. They stop at the spot where I fell in.
Another soft grunt, as if crouching. Outside, the forest has gone completely silent, and when I focus, I can hear breathing.
Another sound comes. A whisper, like fabric dragged along the ground. Then a clink that I do recognize—my carabiner hitting my bear spray can. The person has picked up my backpack.
I tense, imagining they’re pawing through it. Instead, footsteps retreat, and soon, all is silent again.
Did they juststealmy backpack?
Did they find a backpack, in the middle of the Yukon wilderness, beside a hole where someone has fallen into a pit… and they took it? Took what could be someone’s only hope of survival?
I holster my gun, march to the edge of the pit and grab the root that had supported me earlier. I heave myself up, and in my mind, I’m already out and going after whoever the hell just stole my damn backpack. I’m focused on that, and this time, I don’t notice when the root gives way. I’m dangling, feet on the side, weight held up by that root, and it jerks from the earth, and I fall flat on my back, wind knocked out of me again.
I lie there for a moment, reining in my temper. Yes, I’m reasonably sure someone just took off with my backpack. I’m even reasonably sure that they knew I was down here. But I can’t go running into the forest after them. I promised Dalton I’d stay here, and now Storm has gone to find him, which is going to bring him running in a panic. I must be here when he gets back.
When my breathing slows, I declare myself calm enough to stand. I reach down on either side, bracing myself to rise. One hand sinks into the dirt. The other sinks… and hits something. Something that is not rock or root. Something soft and pliant and cold.
I don’t jump up. I stay where I am, letting my fingers touch what I know is flesh. Cold flesh.
I ease to the side, away from what I am touching. Not escaping it, but minimizing the damage I might have already done.
Am I really that calm while touching what I think is a buried body? No, but this is how I deal with it. Switch into detective mode while telling myself it’s probably a dead animal. After all, thisisa hunting pit.
I ease to the side, and then I scramble up until I’m crouched. I’m blocking the light, so I inch upward until the sunshine hits the dirt here, and I see a pale patch of skin that I know is not any animal out here.
I carefully brush away the dirt. The patch of skin becomes the back of a hand. Then fingers, long and slender. Two delicate rings, one woven gold and one with emeralds.
I keep clearing. A watch. A gold watch. I keep clearing. A shirt sleeve. Then a jacket sleeve pushed up a few inches. The sleeve becomes a jacket, zipped tight against the chill spring evening. I keep going, up the neck. That’s where I stop. It’s bent at an odd angle. Snapped.
I process that, and I keep going, gently clearing until I see the pale face of a white woman with light brown hair. A woman in her early forties. With a gold watch and rings and trimmed, clean nails. Not a hiker. Not a miner. Not a hunter. A professional working in this forest.
I’ve found Penny.
CHAPTER FOUR
I’m still clearing the dirt from Penny when running footsteps pound overhead.
“Casey?” Dalton shouts. “Casey!”
“Down here,” I call back, and then quickly add, “I’m fine. I fell in a pit trap, but I’m fine.”
More pounding of footsteps. The first head that appears in the hole is big and shaggy.
“Hey, Storm,” I say. “You brought help, huh?”
