Page 10 of Not This Night

“Ethan!” she called.

But before she’d even finished the cry, she heard movement, glimpsing the tall, lanky form of her sandy-haired golden retriever of a man.

He really did have an uncanny knack for anticipating Rachel’s movements.

"Tracks," she said the moment her partner stepped around the side of the shed.

"Show me," Ethan replied, the lines of his face set in grim resolve.

Rachel led Ethan towards the trail she had spotted from the elevated perch of the window, their boots crunching on the hard, dry ground.

"See here?" she said, pointing at the disturbance. "It's too regular to be an animal, and too messy to be the wind. Someone was here, and they were in a hurry."

Ethan knelt down, studying the print. "Looks like they were wearing some kind of boot. Not a cowboy boot though,” he said, squinting. “I think I can make out a pattern here."

He traced his fingers along the impression and then stood up, examining it further.

She nodded, impressed. “You’re getting better.”

He grinned. “Thanks.” He then shot her a sidelong glance. We’re gonna wait for backup, coordinate a search team and do this the right way, right?”

Rachel snorted, then began pacing into the desert, following the trail

“Yeah… that’s what I thought,” Ethen muttered, following along behind her.

CHAPTER FOUR

The turquoise beads seemed to catch and fracture the harsh Texan sunlight as they fell, one by one, from the man's clenched fist. With each release, a low mutter escaped his lips, the words lost to the wind that whipped around the cliff's edge. His fingers trembled slightly, not from the chill of the breeze but from the palpable frustration that radiated off him like heat from sun-baked rocks.

"Damn it," he hissed, tossing another bead into the abyss. It plummeted, a tiny speck of color against the stark backdrop of the canyon below. The beads had belonged to her, an heirloom passed down through generations. Now, they were just fragments of a life he could no longer claim.

He turned from the precipice, the sole of his boot scraping against the rough stone. Back and forth, he paced, like a caged animal plotting its escape. His eyes darted to the edge again, his mind grappling with the thought of leaping. Just a quick step, a rush of air, and then... nothing. But fear shackled his feet to the ground.

"Come on," he urged himself, voice barely above a whisper. Scowling, he stared down at the dirt and shrubs clinging stubbornly to the rocky soil. Anger bubbled inside him, a searing, roiling presence. He was angry at the world, at his own crippling dread, at the hand fate had dealt him. Disappointment gnawed at his insides, adding to the tumultuous storm of emotions.

"Pathetic," he spat out, the word a venomous barb aimed inward. He was supposed to be stronger than this, wasn't he? Yet here he was, unable to take the final plunge, unable to end the chase. He kicked at a loose pebble, sending it skittering over the edge, a surrogate for the jump he couldn't make.

"Mandy would've had the guts," he muttered with a bitter chuckle, the name a shard of glass in his mouth. She was brave, undaunted by the world's cruelty or the harshness of this unforgiving land. And yet, where was she now? Where were the answers to the questions that haunted his every waking moment?

He clenched his fists, the last of the beads pressing into his palm, a reminder of what was at stake. They were all he had left of a past that refused to stay buried, of a truth that clawed its way to the surface with each passing day. The man took a deep, steadying breath, the desert air arid and tasting faintly of dust and sagebrush.

He lunged toward the cliff's edge, heart thundering. The drop loomed, a gaping mouth ready to swallow him whole. But his legs betrayed him, refusing to carry him over into the abyss. A strangled whimper escaped his lips as he teetered, then stumbled backward, away from the precipice.

"Damn it!" His voice was a hoarse whisper, each attempt at courage crumbling like the brittle sandstone beneath his feet. He clutched at his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse.

The desert stretched out before him, indifferent to his turmoil. The sun scorched his skin, and each failed leap sharpened his desperation, stoking the fires of frustration within. He could almost hear Rachel's rebuke, her voice laced with that steely resolve he so lacked.

His gaze found a target: a lone cactus, standing sentinel amidst the barren landscape. With a guttural cry, he launched himself at the unsuspecting plant. His boot connected, and the cactus exploded in a burst of green flesh and spiky armor.

"Take that!" he yelled, the sound echoing off the desolate canyon walls, a testament to his rage. The shattered remnants of the cactus lay strewn about.

His boot came down hard. Crunch. A sharp pain shot up through his sole, sharp as a viper's bite beneath the leather. "Shit!" The word burst from his lips as he hopped on one foot, grimacing.

Crouched in the dirt, he yanked at the offending spike—a cactus needle lodged like a sliver in his flesh. His fingers trembled, sweat mingling with the dust on his brow.

"Damn you," he hissed, finally plucking the needle free. A drop of blood welled up on the tip of the dark spike, and he flung it away, watching it disappear into the parched landscape.

Breath ragged, he stilled, hands on his knees. The throbbing in his toe kept time with the pounding in his head. Rising slowly, he straightened to full height, the vast Texas sky bearing down like a silent judge.

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