at his GPS device lying near her feet.
“Where were you going when you fell down here?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Which way is Cold Plains?” she said.
“Cold Plains?”
“You’ve never heard of Cold Plains?”
“I …” He cursed softly.
June swore to herself. She was not capable of leaving him to die out here. She was programmed to rescue, had been ever since she was a kid. June was the child who saved bugs from puddles. It was why she became a paramedic. It was why she worked for SAR—she was wired to help those in despair.
But she had not been able to help her husband. The sudden memory stab, the sharp reminder of her inadequacies, hurt.
Holding her gun on him with one hand, she reached down and picked up his GPS with the other. She pressed the menu button, saw that he’d been saving his route—and he appeared to have hiked in not from Cold Plains, but from over the mountains.
“You’ve come a long way,” she said. “You’ve saved a route into these mountains from forty miles north—where were you before that?”
He groaned, lay back. “I wish I knew.”
He needed help—he was still losing blood. He might have been lying here for hours. She had no idea how bad his leg wound was. And daylight was beginning to filter down into the ravine. She had maybe an hour to hike all the way down into Cold Plains and to head around to the search base camp on the other side of the mountain, and she’d still found no sign of Lacy and the twins.
Her only solution—if one could even call it that—was to take this stranger back to the safe house and hold him there until she could fetch FBI Agent Hawk Bledsoe. It was risky, but she didn’t have time to think further.
“I’m going to help you, okay?”
He nodded.
“I’m putting this gun away.” Please don’t let this be a mistake … “And if you hurt me, you’re going to die out here, alone, understand?”
His eyes remained locked onto hers. “I don’t hurt people.”
She holstered her Glock. “How would you know?” She shrugged out of her backpack as she spoke. “You don’t even know your name.”
Crouching down next to him, she opened her pack and removed her first-aid kit. His pulse was within range, and he was breathing okay—she’d seen that much.
“Can you move your limbs? Any numbness in your extremities?”
He grunted. “No. Just … weak.”
Blood loss was her priority now.
“I’m going to cut open the bottom of your jeans. I want to take a look at that injury on your leg,” she said as she reached for her scissors and began splitting open the base of his pants. The gash on his head was bad, but the one on his leg could be worse—she needed to see what she was dealing with.
He groaned in pain as she peeled the bloodied and rain-soaked denim off a deep gash on his calf.
He was going to need sutures.
She worked quickly to clean and dry the wound as best she could, shielding him from the rain with her body. There was no arterial damage or obvious fracture—just a big surface gash probably caused by sharp rock during his fall.
Pulling the edges of the cut together, she applied butterfly sutures from her kit. Then she wound a bandage tightly around his calf, urgency powering her movements.
“This should work as a temporary stopgap,” she said as she began to clean the cut on his temple.
His gaze caught hers and she stilled for a second—the intensity in his eyes was disturbing. He smelled faintly of wood smoke.
“You been camping?” she said.
He inhaled sharply as disinfectant touched his cut. “I—I really don’t know.” Then, as he thought deeper: “Do I have a backpack with me?”
“I can’t see one.”
He closed his eyes, clearly straining to remember. Then he swore softly again. “I feel as if I might have had a pack or something. That I was going somewhere … important.”
The cut on his head, if ugly, was also superficial. However, given his apparent memory loss, he could be suffering from some sort of intracranial hemorrhaging due to blunt-force trauma, which could become dangerous.
“I’m going to give you three words,” she said. “Radio, belt, Jesse. Can you memorize them for me? I’m going to ask you to repeat them to me in a little while, okay?”
“Radio, belt, Jesse,” he repeated. “Got it.”
His voice was beautiful, she thought, deep and husky like Matt’s used to be. Matt had been fair, but similar in stature to this man—an ace helicopter pilot she’d met on one of her very first recue missions. She’d loved going camping with Matt—loved the way fire smoke lingered in his checked lumberjack shirt, how the stubble on his cheeks grew rough in the wilderness. Emotion pricked into her eyes. June pushed it away, startled at the freshness of it all. It had been five years. She’d dealt with it.
“You sure you don’t recall firing your weapon?” she said, trying another angle as she taped more butterfly sutures to the cut on his temple. Eager was watching obediently from the side, waiting for new directions.
“No.”
“But you knew you had a gun—you went for it at your hip.”
“I … guess.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t see a young mother and her children in the woods?”
“No!” Frustration bit into his tone “I’m not the hell sure of anything.”
He was scared of what was happening to him, thought June.
“Why do you have that little red shoe?”
He was quiet a moment, then his eyes flickered as if a memory suddenly crossed before them. “I told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
June wondered if he was lying.
“That shoe—” she jerked her chin to where it lay “—belongs to a three-year-old twin. She and her sister call them their Dorothy shoes. They like to take them everywhere so they can put them on and click their heels like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz and be home safe whenever they need to be. Their names are Rebecca and Abigail. Their mother is Lacy Matthews. Lacy runs the coffee shop in town. They’ve been missing in these woods for two nights, and I’m thinking the girls will be wanting their magic shoes to take them home about now.”
His gaze went to the shoe and he stared at it as if he’d never seen it before in his life.
“There, that should tide you over,” she said as she applied a bandage over the sutures.
He pulled up his jeans zipper, buckled his belt and immediately tried to get to his feet, but he swayed and slumped heavily back to the ground.
“Easy, big guy,” she said, helping him back up by the arm. “You lost a fair bit of blood. Move too fast and you’re going down like a rock.”
“I need to go—” He started to stumble through the brush, then swayed and leaned heavily on her. “I’ve got to get to …” His voice faded, and his features twisted in frustration.
“Get to where?” she said.
“I … Jesus, I don’t know. I was going somewhere. Urgent—had to do something … important, for someone. Something … dangerous.”
A chill trickled down