open. She didn’t take chances. She played by the rules, and she expected other people to do the same. Something had sent her running, and he was pretty sure he knew what it was.
Who it was.
Her grandmother.
“If Stella were inside, she’d be out on the porch giving us a piece of her mind. She’s left for some reason, and I’m worried that reason might be her grandmother.”
“She’s prone to wandering?”
“She has Alzheimer’s, so it’s a good possibility.” Chance took a penlight from his pocket, flashing it into the yard. Snow fell in sheets now, layering the ground in a thick blanket of white. Soon it would cover whatever tracks the women had left. Once that happened, finding them would be nearly impossible.
Please, God, help us find them before then, he prayed silently as he moved across the yard, his light bouncing over white snow and sprigs of winter-dry grass.
A few yards out, it glanced off what looked like another footprint. Chance moved toward it, studying the ground more carefully, finding another footprint and another one.
“This way,” he said, not bothering to see if Simon was following. He would be. They knew how to run a mission. No reason to go over all the variables, discuss a plan. With the temperature below freezing, there was no time to waste.
Frantic people made errors in judgment. Like leaving a house in a snowstorm without letting anyone know they were going. Not that Chance would ever use the word frantic to describe Stella. She was one of the most clearheaded people he knew.
If she’d panicked, there had to be a good reason. Her grandmother wandering around in the snow fit the bill. He’d met Beatrice twice. She’d seemed sweet, kind and very fragile.
If she was out in the cold, she’d need medical attention. If the snow continued to fall and her footprints were covered, he and his team would need help searching the woods that surrounded the property.
So, maybe, Stella wasn’t the only one who’d panicked.
Maybe he’d been panicking, too. Acting on emotion rather than clear thinking. Not a good way to proceed.
“Change in plans,” he said, stopping short and motioning for Simon to do the same. “Call 911. Let’s get the local authorities in on this.”
“You want me to call it in as a missing person?”
“Yes. I’m going to see how far I can follow the tracks. Get Boone and follow after you’ve made the call.” He jogged across the yard.
The boot prints were faint but obvious. Stella had left the house recently. He wasn’t sure about Beatrice. He’d only seen one print that he thought was hers, and it had been left earlier. He hoped not too much earlier. He and Stella had their differences, but he only ever wanted the best for her. The best thing for her right now would be for her grandmother to be okay.
She’d be devastated if something happened to Beatrice, and Chance would be devastated for her. Stella was special. She had depth and character and just enough stubborn determination to keep Chance on his toes. Of all the women he’d dated, she was the only one he hadn’t wanted to walk away from.
He’d done it because it was what she had wanted.
Or, at least, what she’d said she’d wanted.
There were plenty of days when he regretted letting her go. He never mentioned it, and she never asked, but he’d have rekindled their relationship if she’d given any indication that she wanted to.
Pride goeth before the fall.
How many times had his father said that?
Too many to count, but Chance was still too proud to crawl back to a woman who’d sent him away. That was the truth. Ugly as it was. So, they were stuck in a pattern of butting heads and arguing and caring about each other a little more than coworkers probably should.
A little more?
A lot more.
“Stella!” he called, pushing through thick foliage. Someone had been there ahead of him. Branches were broken, the pine boughs cleared of snow. The thick tree canopy prevented snow from reaching the ground, but he could see depressions in the needles that covered the forest floor.
He followed them, stepping through a thicket and walking onto what looked like a deer trail. Narrow, but clear of brambles and bushes, it would be the path of least resistance for anything or anyone wandering through the woods.
“Stella!” he called again. “Beatrice!” he added. He could imagine the elderly woman wandering through here, finding the open path and heading in whatever direction she thought would lead her home.
A soft whistle echoed through the darkness.
Boone and Simon, moving into the trees behind him.
He didn’t slow down. They’d find their own way.
Cold wind bit through his heavy coat, and he wondered if Stella had dressed for the weather. If she’d left in a panic, would she have bothered?
He jogged along the path, the dark morning beginning to lighten around him. The sun would rise soon, warming the chilled air. But soon might be too late, and he felt the pressure of that, the knowledge of it, thrumming through his blood.
Somewhere ahead, water burbled across rocks and earth.
A deep creek or river?
He thought he heard movement and ducked under a pine bough, nearly sliding down an embankment that led to the creek he’d been hearing.
He stopped at the edge of the precipice, flashing his light down to the dark water below. A shallow tributary littered with large rocks and fallen branches, it looked easy enough to cross once a person got down to it.
He aimed the beam of light toward the bank, searching for footprints or some other sign that Beatrice or Stella had been there.
Just at the edge of the water, a pink shoe sat abandoned on a rock.
Not Stella’s. She never wore pink.
“Beatrice!” he called. He needed to phone Simon and give him the coordinates. They could begin their search from there, spread out along the banks of the creek and work a grid pattern until they found the missing women.
“Beatrice!” he yelled again.
Someone dove from the trees, slamming into him with enough force to send them both flying. He twisted, his arms locked around his assailant as he fell over the edge of the precipice and tumbled to the creek below.
Stella had to take her attacker down. She knew that, and it was all she knew. Everything else—the darkness, the cold, the blood—they were secondary to the need to survive and to find Beatrice.
She’d been a fool, though.
She should have waited longer. Instead, she’d rushed out when she’d heard the man calling Beatrice’s name. Now she was trapped in a vice-like grip, tumbling down, unable to stop the momentum.
Unable to free herself.
She fought the arms clamped around her waist. Blood was still seeping from the cut on her temple and a deeper wound on the back of her head. Sick, dizzy, confused—she knew the symptoms of a concussion, and she knew the damage could be even worse than that. Brain bleed. Fractured skull. She’d been hit hard enough to be knocked unconscious. She needed medical help, but she needed to protect Beatrice more.
She slammed her palm into her attacker’s jaw, water seeping through her flannel pajamas. The creek? Had she come that far?
Had her grandmother?
Fear shot through her, adrenaline