Courage Dares (10 page)

Judd put a full box of shells in his pack and handed the rifle and extra magazine to Ira. “That sporting goods store had a lot more than tennis balls. Last in line carries this."

If the police came, there’d be a shoot-out, with Connor and herself used as shields. After the murder of her neighbor, Judd and his men would refuse to be taken alive. Perhaps calling in help wasn’t such a good idea.

Judd motioned down the road, and she started out, leading the way, determined to come up with some means of escape.

Judd took the lead on the narrow road, setting a pace too fast for Mary's liking. She wanted them in the open as long as possible, so slowly began to drop behind, as if she couldn’t keep up.

"You go first," Judd commanded, “where I can watch you."

Mary set a slower pace, stopping now and then to rest. Each time she stopped, Wes took off his pack and tried to adjust the straps.

She could’ve told him the trouble was not with the straps, but in the weight distribution and the size of the frame itself— but she didn't.

She glanced up at the winter sun, shining weakly through the thin overcast. It stayed low on the southeastern horizon, offering ten hours of daylight. Total. At this pace, they’d make it to the trail head around noon.

Hiking always provided Mary with ample time to think. Her thoughts turned increasingly to Connor, who strode beside her. He had taken her five-pound two-man tent as part of his pack, giving her a lighter load.

Now that she no longer felt afraid of him, she could appreciate his size. Long legged, he carried his weight in his shoulders and chest. He moved with the physical assurance and casual ease of an athlete, relaxed under the weight of the pack.

Two-days-worth of dark stubble covered his square chin. Rumpled black hair hung over his broad forehead. His injured eye no longer appeared swollen, although a purplish ring still surrounded it. In spite of that he had a rugged appeal, a valiant spirit that set him far above other men in her life.

There were many things she didn't know about Connor. Like what he did for a living. And more important, if he was married.

He wore no wedding ring, but many men didn't. He had never mentioned a wife, only his mother.

Another thing bothered her— why did his mother give an antique chest to her father? A object so valuable men would kill for it?

Mary glanced at the four murderers walking behind them, spread out in a fan-shape across the roadbed. They were far enough back, they wouldn't hear her.

"Do you know why your mom gave such a gift to my dad?" she asked.

"She never told me."

"Where’d they meet?"

"I don't know. Maybe they worked together."

"That's possible. What does she do?"

"She works at a department store, selling children’s clothing."

"Dad had a consulting position with the State Department of Transportation."

"He was a geologist, right?"

"Yes," Mary answered. "He quit the oil company after my mother was killed, and brought me back here. I'm afraid I forced that on him."

"Mom said he felt it was the only thing to do."

"It probably was. It took a long time for me to recover from her death. I still get nightmares. I needed to have Dad nearby, especially at night, so he took a job close to home. I couldn’t bear to have him away from me."

"What do you do, Mary?"

"I’m a cartographer for the Department of Natural Resources. I update maps."

"Sounds interesting."

"It's mainly an office position. I rarely get out to do any field work, but when I do, I know every elevation of every mountain, the name of every stream. It really helps with my Search and Rescue missions."

"Which is why you don't have a map with you?"

"One of the reasons. The main reason is so these thugs won't know where we're going. I only hope they don't spot it when I change directions, but most of these trails wind around pretty much anyway— and of course the snow cover will make all the trails hard to follow."

"Will we even have to follow the trails, once we get on snowshoes? I thought that was one of their main advantages.”

"It is. There’ll be places where we can walk anywhere we want. But a lot of these mountains are vertical. We’ll need to watch where we go"

"We'll stop here," Judd called forward. "Break time."

Mary realized they had picked up their speed while they were talking. She had automatically matched Connor's pace.

"We need to walk slower," she said. "Anything to make this trip last longer."

Connor nodded, his face grim as he stared up the gravel road.

Mary turned to look at Wes, who had taken off his pack and was rubbing his shoulders. The cigarette drooping between his lips looked as tired as the man himself. The other three followed suit, sitting on their packs.

Mary remained standing, knowing that sitting down tightened the muscles. It made it harder to start walking again.

"They’re getting tired. After you soften them up a bit, I might be able to handle all four," Connor remarked. "If my hands are free. And if they don't have their guns out."

"How’re you feeling?"

"Great. The exercise is a whole lot better than sitting tied up in that farm house."

"And your hands?"

"Fine. The straps are like handcuffs. They don't cut off the circulation like the ropes did. They chaff, but so did the ropes."

"When we hit the snow and start up the trail, they'll have to take them off."

"Let's hope so. They aren't trying to be gentle. It's for their convenience, not my comfort."

"At least I could get you loose quickly."

"Not quick enough to evade a bullet. The Velcro will send out a warning like a siren. Let the trail take the edge off them. Judd bought a lot of things that a backpacker would never carry. Like the ammo. They won't last long, under those loads."

Mary opened her water bottle, drank deeply and then helped Connor drink.

"More," she insisted, when he stopped. "We didn't have any liquid with our hamburger breakfast."

When he finished, she took another long drink, feeling the liquid revive her body, then put her almost-empty bottle back in her pack, fastening it securely with a strap. Mary considered her water bottle the most important part of her survival gear.

"It does make a difference," Connor remarked. "I wasn't very tired, but now I'm less so. We had forced marches in boot camp and our D.I. always stopped for water breaks. Nobody took more than a few swallows, though."

"You were in the military?"

"Still am."

"What branch?"

"Navy. I'm supposed to be back on my ship tonight." He gave a short, hard laugh. "If nothing else, maybe they’ll come searching for me."

Mary felt her emotions flatten like a hot-air balloon after the top ring had been pulled.

A sailor! Someone who’d seldom be home. Why couldn't he have a normal, nine to five job? The information left her feeling more disappointed than when they had had to leave her apartment just before the police arrived.

Luckily she had found out now, before she became attracted to Connor. At least strongly attracted. She couldn’t help but be interested in him. He had the clear, self-possession of a man in charge— tall and powerful, with the rugged magnitude of the warrior.

She didn't want a warrior. At least she did, right now, to get out of this, but she didn't want to become permanently interested in one.

She noticed Ramone struggling to adjust his straps. Judd had purchased the same size pack frame for all four of them. The longer frames didn't fit Ramone and Wes, who were around five-nine, five-ten.

Judd stood, impatient, waiting for them to get ready. "Come on, come on," he muttered. "We haven't even gotten to the trail yet."

Wes glared at him. "This is more work than I've done in a year."

"What work? You spent all your time in the slammer," Ramone jeered.

"That's where you’re wrong. Me and Judd's been pinched twenty-seven times, but only served eight total." Wes picked up his pack, testing the weight in his hand. "We should've brought the van."

Judd shrugged. "Remember what we're after, that's all."

"Yeah." Wes grinned.

Mary wondered how many miles they’d go before the chest would no longer be worth the pain and effort. She and Connor would do fine. Both were in excellent shape.

They started walking down the road again, side by side, the men following about ten feet behind.

"Why do you still have your father's gear?" Connor asked. "I'd have thought you would’ve kept some things, but his boots— and gloves?"

"I sent his regular street clothes to the homeless, but I wanted someone in Search and Rescue to have his gear. That's a nine-hundred-dollar sleeping bag you're carrying. Good to thirty below. It saved both him and a woman in a blizzard on Mount Rainier.”

"I see. You don't give that away to just any man on the streets."

"I put out the word, but so far no one’s been tall enough to wear his things— and the old timers all have their gear."

He stopped, turning to look fully at her. "Wait a minute. You say he saved a woman's life on Mount Rainier?"

"Yes." She paused and looked at him. The men behind slowed to a stop also.

"When was that?"

"Four— no, three years ago."

"Then that's where they met," he said, turning to walk with her once more, the gravel scrunching loudly under his boots. "I'd forgotten his name. My mother had gone day climbing with a group, got separated from the rest, and fell. Warren found her just as the blizzard set in."

"That was your mother? I was there, too," Mary exclaimed, skipping a step to catch up with him, delighted to find another link with Connor. As people said, it was a small world.

"You were?"

"Yes. We were on our way back to the base because of the incoming storm, when he spotted her at the bottom of a crevasse. I lowered Dad down, and when he found she was too injured to travel, I left the tent with him and went for help."

"Wasn't it dangerous for you to travel, too?"

"The path was wide there, not dangerous at all as long as the visibility held. She only fell because she had left it to look at an avalanche lily. I got down in time, but the storm raged for three days and we had to wait until it was over before we could go back. She had have died from exposure if Dad hadn't stayed."

"Mom sent a message to let me know what happened. I called him from the ship to thank him." He paused, then added, "It feels good to wear his clothes. Thank you for saving her."

"You're welcome, although I didn’t do much." His words gave Mary the inner glow she always felt upon completing a successful rescue. "It's a relief to find someone alive. When you save a life, it makes it all worth while. I had fewer nightmares after we rescued our first person."

"Good." He paused, scuffling the gravel under his feet, then asked, "Does it bother you a lot? Finding dead people?”

She took a deep, revitalizing breath of mountain air. "Yes. Especially the ones who gave up. Who could've survived but didn't have the will to do so."

"I see."

"Will power makes the difference between life and death in survival. There's such a contrast in people. Some searches you go out on, you look at the terrain, what the person was wearing— maybe no supplies, no experience— you think for sure you'll end up finding a body. You brace yourself for it. And then...." She waved her hand.

He nodded. "They surprise you."

"Yes. You find the person with multiple fractures, dragging himself down the mountain, determined to make it. And he usually does. Some people are just too stubborn to die."

"That's what we have to be, Mary. Too stubborn to let these men kill us. And that means keeping them away from the chest until we have a chance to escape."

A chance to escape. The trail offered them that chance. Mary walked slowly, conserving her energy, listening to the four savages trudging along behind, swearing and complaining.

They were worse off than she, although she already felt fatigue in her muscles. The adrenaline of fear had taken its toll. She could’ve done double this day's work if she’d have been able to relax. Talking with Connor helped.

The trees grew close together on each side of the road, an impenetrable wall, thick with brush and the tangled remains of logs decaying back into the soil.

Douglas fir dominated these mountains— a type of tree that loved company. If planted in a group it grew rapidly, in a uniform stand— like grass— each tree supporting its neighbor. If left uncut, they pretty much died together, so were usually logged all at once in what was called clear cutting. It left open spaces in forest.

The opposite mountainside had been clearcut sometime last summer, its treeless acreage like an open sore in the otherwise heavily forested area. Seven or more deer grazed the open area near a ridge, including a beautiful young buck.

The clearcuts weren't pretty, swathing the slopes in giant bare spots, looking like someone had given the mountains a patchy haircut, but they provided a feeding area for the wildlife of the Cascades—an altogether mutual relationship.

The logging companies replanted as soon as their equipment moved out. The baby trees grew up swiftly, covering the logging scars, to become the houses of tomorrow.

Mary looked away from the clearing just as a shot exploded behind her. She squealed, frightened, then watched as the deer streaked away in magnificent leaps and bounds, headed for the timber. Another shot followed them.

"No!" she screamed, spinning around to rush toward Wes, who was sighting carefully down his pistol.

He shot again.

"Can it, you fool!" Judd shouted.

Mary slowed to a walk, then stopped. She couldn't do anything, she realized, feeling the anger of helplessness.

"Who’s a fool? If I had the rifle, I'd have dropped him," Wes replied, taking one more defiant shot before putting his gun away.

"Then what?" Judd demanded, looking ready to trash him. "We're not here to play games."

"You're as jumpy as an old woman."

Judd moved a step closer. “If someone hears those shots, they might come to check them out."

"They'll think we're target practicing."

"Depends on who hears them."

Mary looked at the pout marring Wes' weasel-like face. Like a spoiled child, he wanted everything for himself at the expense of others. Perhaps when he got tired he wouldn't be so ready to shoot.

She picked up her pace, moving closer to Connor.

"It makes me furious— shooting at a living creature just for fun," she said, indignation poring from her.