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Sam put his arm around Georgia’s shoulders. “I promise.”
More feet pounded and Sam heard Connor calling to Kit.
“Over here!” Kit called back. “Got ’em.”
Connor rushed toward them, his weapon drawn. “Sam?”
“I’m okay,” Sam said, gingerly rising to his feet, bringing Georgia with him. It was too cold for her to be sitting on the ground. “Maybe I’ll need a butterfly bandage.”
“Stitches,” Georgia and Kit snapped at the same time.
Sam shuddered out a breath. “We’re not dead, Georgia. I’d say a few stitches are worth it. Let’s get you into the SUV. You’re shivering.”
“I’m scared, dammit. Not cold.”
“I’ve got her, Sam,” Connor said quietly. “Let me help you, Miss Georgia.”
Still kneeling by the cuffed Roxanne, Kit was glaring up at Sam as Connor led Georgia to the waiting ambulance that had, apparently, followed them. When another officer arrived to take Roxanne, Kit shoved her gun in its holster and stalked toward him.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she demanded.
“That I didn’t want to die!”
She stopped six inches away, her eyes turbulent with too many emotions for him to name. “I was coming,” she insisted, but her voice shook.
“I know,” he said soberly. “I knew you’d come.” Then, ignoring the small voice that was telling him not to rush her, he threw his arms around her and pressed his face against her neck. “I knew you’d come.”
Slowly her arms came around him, her palms settling firmly on his back before giving him a few awkward pats. But she wasn’t pushing him away.
Finally, her shoulders sagged and she rested her cheek against his. “You scared me,” she whispered.
He pulled away enough to tip her chin up. She was biting her lips and he wanted to kiss them. But the small voice screamed for him to wait and he listened to it this time.
“How did you find us?” he asked instead.
“Siggy’s GPS collar. Oh. I forgot about Joel.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed. “I have him, Joel. He’s okay.” She answered a few of Joel’s questions before ending the call. “Come on, Danger Boy. Let’s get you seen to.”
She led him back to Georgia, who was sitting in the back of an ambulance. An EMT rushed toward him, eyes fixed on the steadily bleeding cut on his throat.
The cut that was almost at his jugular. But “almost” only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. I’m not dead.
As his heart began to slow to a normal rhythm, he picked up the shrill, panicked sound of Siggy’s barking.
“Can you check on him?” Sam asked Kit. “He knows you.”
“Of course.” She handed him over to the EMT. “We’ll debrief you when you’re patched up.”
Sam was more worried about Georgia. That was too much excitement for me. Georgia’s eighty-two.
But she was sitting up straight, her jaw set in a way that Sam recognized. His friend was too stubborn to succumb to the stress of a near-death experience. She met his eyes and gave him a sharp nod and a thumbs-up.
Then he remembered Roxanne’s phone call. “Roxanne called someone,” he told Connor because Kit was tending to Siggy. “They’re supposed to be picking her up. She said something about a rig. I think they’re close by.”
Connor nodded. “The rig is Roxanne’s tiny house. She’s been parked at the campground down the road from here since Sunday morning. One of the park rangers recognized her tiny house from the BOLOs we put out this afternoon and called us when we were en route to save your ass.”
“And the people who were supposed to come for her?”
“I’m guessing that she was calling her sister, and she’s too late. We picked the sister and her boyfriend up trying to sell the coins. We got the coins back, and both the sister and the boyfriend are in custody.”
