slid backward, staring at the dark weapon lying there like a rattlesnake ready to bite.
Law enforcement. That had to be it. She stared down at her clothing, as if her soggy black pants and white blouse could explain everything. Even though it’d been in her pocket, she had a holster. The gun had to be hers. Legally, she hoped.
And the clothes seemed familiar enough. At least they fit. She struggled to remember anything—her last meal or her last ride in a car or her last day at work—but there was nothing. Just a vast, blank space in her mind, as if someone had siphoned away her entire identity beyond her first name. How was it possible she had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there?
And what on earth was she supposed to do now?
Her lips parted to utter a prayer, but she checked herself almost instantly because, along with that certainty about her name and the sense that something terrible had happened, came the knowledge she wasn’t on speaking terms with God.
She shivered. Night was coming and she had no idea where to go. The thought of wandering around looking for help in the dark was horribly unappealing.
She crawled back toward the gun and picked it up, tentatively at first, but as her hand closed around it, a familiar sense of security washed over her. She clung to that tiny bit of comfort and clasped her knees to her chest, staring out across the desert. Hoping against reason that help would come.
Logan Everett walked across the parking lot to his Jeep. The meeting with the river ranger and the border patrol agents had taken longer than he’d expected, and the sun had begun its final descent behind the Mesa de Anguila to the west.
He could still get in a good chunk of the drive back to Panther Junction before the onset of total darkness, but he had a nagging feeling something was wrong.
That black sedan that had turned around in front of the general store—he had seen it from the window during their meeting—had headed down toward Santa Elena Canyon a good hour ago, and it hadn’t returned. Granted, it was hard to tell from his vantage point inside the Castolon ranger office, but it had looked like the driver, a woman, was alone.
Now that it was almost dark, she shouldn’t still be there. She couldn’t drive that sedan on the dirt road up to Big Bend National Park’s west entrance at Terlingua and, as far as pavement went, the canyon was the end of the line.
Logan exhaled a long breath that matched his never-ending day. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to check. He had learned that the hard way. He trusted his instincts—they hadn’t failed him yet—and if it turned out she was fine, or not there anymore, at least he’d be able to sleep tonight knowing he’d made sure.
An image flashed into his mind—a man’s body in a ranger uniform, half a mile off the trail. Vultures circling above in the 110-degree heat. More than circling.
Logan shuddered. No, he was not going to think about Sam. Not now.
Please, Lord, he prayed, keep this woman safe.
The Santa Elena Canyon parking lot lay in deep shadow by the time he pulled in. The lot was empty except for the black car, its driver conspicuously absent. Logan parked and got out, pulling a flashlight from the Jeep’s glove compartment.
He walked toward the trailhead, scanning his light across the sand for footprints. There were plenty, since the canyon trail was one of the most popular in the park. He frowned. It was also short enough that the woman should have returned by now.
He stopped when the arcing sweep of his light caught a set of footprints off to one side, leading toward the river. Annoying hikers. It was like they couldn’t read the signs plastered all over the place.
Stay on the trails. Not only did it preserve the environment, there were enough ways to get injured without needing to wander off looking for more trouble.
Picking his way carefully, Logan followed the tracks until they ended at the river. Here the sand was wet and the marks were much clearer. Too large for a woman. The same single pair of tracks circled back to the parking lot.
Nothing. As he turned to leave, his flashlight glinted off something lying in the brush a short distance downstream.
He snatched it off the damp sand. A woman’s silver wristwatch. His breath caught in his chest. Judging by its near flawless condition, it hadn’t been there long.
Hastening his pace, he walked downstream along the bank, sweeping the light ahead. He hadn’t gone far when he froze. Movement—there, to the left. A woman. And she was clearly alive, because she was lying on her stomach, arms out in front of her, pointing a handgun at his chest.
He slowly lifted both hands, the law-enforcement side of him sizing her up within seconds—midtwenties, maybe five feet, eight inches in height, thin yet muscular build. She had the same long, dark hair of the driver he had seen earlier.
Only now it was wet and hung in clumps around her pale face and her sandy, soaked shirt clung to her shoulders and arms.
“Whoa, it’s okay. I’m here to help you. You don’t need the gun.” He angled the flashlight to one side and inched toward her, hands up. “Put the gun down, okay? There’s no reason for anyone to get hurt.”
“Who are you?” Her voice was high-pitched and trembling.
“Logan Everett. I’m a law-enforcement ranger.” He pointed at the brown arrowhead badge on his shirt. “National Park Service.”
The woman sat up, keeping the gun steady. Clearly she was no stranger to handling weapons.
Law enforcement?
Or criminal? Crime was rare in Big Bend, but it did happen.
“Don’t come any closer.” Her brown eyes grew wide, the whites glistening in the fading light.
Logan stopped, crouching down ten feet away from her and holding the silver wristwatch out for her to inspect. “Is this your watch?”
“I...I don’t know,” she stammered. “Stay back.”
There was a definite edge of panic in her voice. Something had happened to her and she was still terrified.
“Hey—” he reached toward her “—we’re on the same side. How did you get out here?” The wary, frightened look in her large, dark eyes reminded him of a cornered animal.
Her forehead wrinkled and her eyes slipped out of focus as she shook her head. “I...I fell into the river.”
He nodded reassuringly, even as he tried to calculate how she could have fallen in. He couldn’t see her feet clearly from his present position, but he didn’t think it was likely the tracks by the river had been hers. Odd.
When she didn’t say anything else, he asked, “From the trail?”
“I...” She bit her lip, brows furrowed, and lowered the gun slightly. He straightened and inched forward, taking advantage of her distraction. “I don’t remember.”
Her eyes were still out of focus and her hands shook as she held the gun.
“Are you injured?”
She took one hand off the gun, reaching for the back of her head. When she pulled her hand away, red smeared her fingertips. She stared at the blood, the gun drooping in her other hand.
That explained it—well, at least her obvious confusion. Poor woman. She probably had a concussion.
He stepped forward, holding his hands up, inching closer and closer. Like approaching an injured mountain lion, only without the tranquilizer darts.
When he was a few feet away he dropped down onto his knees. He was directly in front of her by the time she looked at him again and, before she could react, Logan had the gun out of her hand and safely tucked into his waistband.