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  He was warm, dry, and fed—not well fed, but not starving, either. The crap he’d been eating was sustenance, but that was about all he could say for it. He’d thought a time or two about the food tied high at the cook site, out of reach of bears and other animals, but he figured if the bear was still anywhere around it would be there, closer to what was left of Davis, so that had been enough to dissuade him from trying to get the food supply. Not only that, he didn’t want to wade through what was left of Davis; once was enough.

  He’d left the tent only when he had to, to see to the horse. He wasn’t a great animal lover, but he needed that horse to be in good enough shape for him to ride it down the mountain. If anything happened to the horse he’d either have to walk out or try to make it back to where he’d left the other three horses, and hope they’d still be there. Just taking care of the horse that was here seemed like the easiest course of action.

  He walked around outside the tent, testing the footing. Frost covered everything, making the footing even more slippery. Damn, it was cold! He wasn’t wild about slogging through the mud, but he had no choice. The day would probably get warmer, and the longer he waited the more the flash floods would recede, if he could afford to wait it out. But he couldn’t. He had to assume that Angie was alive and that she was also setting out now that the rain had stopped. The one thing he couldn’t do was let her get down the mountain ahead of him.

  Chad closed his eyes and mentally pulled up the map he’d studied for hours in preparation for this trip. If he’d known about the difficulties he’d encounter he would’ve packed the damn map, as well as a handheld GPS, but he hadn’t wanted to pack anything that Davis could possibly see that would have made him suspicious, so he’d taken the chance. That particular decision hadn’t paid off.

  He had an excellent memory, though, and a sharp eye for detail: two more qualities most people didn’t expect him to have, which suited him just fine. It had come in handy to have some hidden talents, to be constantly underestimated.

  He pictured the path he’d planned to take, the path he’d tried to take, and then he let the image in his mind expand, moving east and west, north and south. He needed to move in a direction that would take him away from the creeks that had swollen to an impassible level, and from there find his way down. It would be a longer trek, but considering that the way shouldn’t be impeded by rushing water he’d likely save himself some time.

  He needed to go south, he figured. From what he remembered, the land became a little less rugged the farther south he went, but if he went too far he’d overshoot Lattimore’s place and have to double back, which would cost him precious time. He’d go a few miles and then try to cut east, down the mountain. If that didn’t work, he’d go a little farther south and try again.

  Going off plan, again, did bring up the potential for unknown obstacles. The thing about unknown stuff was that he couldn’t anticipate problems beforehand and already have the solution figured out. What was the most likely problem he’d run into? That was probably Angie, because they were heading to the same place; therefore it was at least feasible that at some point he’d overtake her. He had to be prepared for that.

  What else might stand between him and his way out? There could be people stranded at other camps, guides and hunters who’d been trapped by the weather. It wasn’t like this mountain was a mecca for vacationers, but he couldn’t discount the possibility. There were other guides in the area, he knew from his research, and then there were hunters who might rent a camp and go out without a guide.

  But they wouldn’t know what had happened; they wouldn’t be keeping an eye out for him, unless somehow Angie had stumbled across another hunting party when she’d made her escape. If that had happened, he had to assume that anyone he came across would know about him, and they’d have to be eliminated. They wouldn’t expect him to just start shooting, which would give him the upper hand, something he’d need if he had to take out an entire party of hunters. If his surprise tactic didn’t work, then he’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than give up after all he’d been through to get here. He sure as hell wasn’t going to lie down and surrender.

  He hoped with everything he had that Angie Powell was dead. The odds of that were at least fifty-fifty. There was so much that could have taken care of her: hypothermia, that fucking bear, falling off a cliff, getting washed away by the flood waters. He didn’t care how she went, he just wanted her out of the picture.

  He prayed that she was dead, but was prepared for her to be alive.

  No matter what, he couldn’t let himself get caught. He wouldn’t last a week in jail. Even if he did survive—which was unlikely because Davis’s bosses had people everywhere, even in prison—the confinement and the class of criminal he’d be forced to deal with would kill him, one way or another. He knew how he looked, like a total pushover, knew how prison tough guys would assess him. He’d rather be dead.

  That thought spurred him on. He checked his weapons—rifle and pistol—stuffed a couple more power bars into his pockets where they’d be easily accessible, and put on his boots, lacing and tying them tight. He got his heavy coat, his gloves, his slicker, and some water. He thought about taking his duffel, considered the pros and cons. He might be able to use the supplies he’d then be able to take along, but anything more than that would also weigh him down. Not only that, leaving the duffel here might lead searchers to think he was still in the vicinity. He had to commit to this, because there was no coming back. Time was running out for him.

  With his new route in mind, he walked to the corral. The ground was soaked, muddy, so his steps were cautious. The horse was moving around restlessly, its eyes rolling a little. He stopped, his hair standing on end as he remembered how the horses had acted when the bear was prowling around the camp. Holding his rifle at the ready, he looked all around, but didn’t see or hear anything. After a few minutes he shrugged and set the rifle aside. Maybe the damn horse was just tired of standing around.

  He saddled the chestnut, talking softly to it to settle it down. He was a little excited himself, now that the end of the ordeal was right in front of him. A few hours—maybe longer, depending on what conditions he ran into and how much he’d have to detour—and he’d be free.

  He’d come too far, done too much, to consider anything less.

  He mounted and turned the chestnut’s head toward the south. A light wind was blowing, the sun was bright. The chestnut didn’t make great time, but the footing was already a little more firm than it had been two days before, and after a few minutes the horse settled down. Chad’s spirit rose. Just being able to do something was a relief.

  Half an hour later, the bear cut across his scent trail.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “How’re you doing?” Dare asked, an hour into the trek. They hadn’t talked much, because both of them had to pay close attention to their footing. The ground was mushy, with a thin layer of ice on top; a misstep like the one she’d made the night of the storm could cause a real emergency.

  “I’m okay. The boot’s helping a lot.” The snug lacing and the elastic bandage provided much-needed support, helping stabilize her ankle.

  “Are you hurting?”

  “It’s kind of a dull ache, that’s all. I’m good.”

  Dare kept the pace slow, his eagle eye measuring her progress and the amount of effort she was making. Angie just walked, not making any effort to camouflage her limp; if she had, he’d have known and that would have concerned him more. She was deeply appreciative of the walking stick, which gave her support over the uneven footing and took a lion’s share of strain off her ankle. Tomorrow her arm and shoulder might be sore from the effort, but big deal.

  In an ideal situation, she would be sitting on a sofa or recliner with a pillow under her foot and an ice pack on the joint, but “ideal” was dreamland, and reality was that she had to walk. If they’d been moving across flat ground she wouldn’t have had much of a problem, but they weren’