Page 24 of Curves for the Mountain Man

Retrieving Ginger’s clothes and socks, I kneel next to her, helping her dress. She doesn’t protest the assistance, which tells me yet again how sick she is. I palm her tear-moistened cheek, penetrating her soul with my eyes. “Get dressed, and keep the fire fed. Remember, you’re tough and a survivor, and I’ll be back before you know it.” I hesitate, not wanting to give away my plan and worry her more. But I need confirmation. “Describe Asher’s Jeep for me.”

Her eyes round, panic-stricken.

“Shh, you’re safe, Ginger. I promise.”

“Dark gray,” she croaks. “A Rubicon with a red outline around the lettering. It has an Idaho license plate with a W in it, although I can’t remember the rest.” She massages her fingers into her temples, frustration filling her face.

“And Scofield?” While I saw the perp glancingly through the trees, I would struggle to identify him in a lineup.

She clears her throat, swallowing hard. “Curly brown hair and black, evil eyes with a unibrow. Late twenties or early thirties. Tall and thin but not nearly as tall as you.”

I nod, leaning in to kiss the worried beauty. “I’ll be back. Feed the fire.”

“What are you going to do?” Her voice has a panicked quaver to it.

“What needs to be done to ensure you have a good and happy life.”

Her hand darts out from underneath the boughs, gripping the front of my dark green Henley. “Promise me something.”

“Anything,” I answer breathlessly.

“That you’ll come back to me, and we’ll be together afterward.”

“Of course, I’ll come back for you.” But I hesitate, unable to promise the rest. My nighttime reflections inevitably brought me to the one conclusion I can’t chase from my mind: She can do so much better than me.

“Promise me we’ll be together.”

Swallowing loudly, I say, “Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to. I promise.”

She nods, tears moistening her face. Her breath sounds labored, a realization that terrifies me as I make a silent vow to get her to safety. Whatever it takes.

Emerging from behind a clump of bushes, the frosty air of early morning hits me. Fog lingers in the valley, shrouding the snow-tipped, verdant evergreens in an eerie thickness that fits my task at hand—to kill Asher Scofield. I just hope the vehicle I heard driving earlier is his.

I jog to the service road, reading the fresh impression of thick tire tracks in the new coating of snow. Although I can’t be certain, the impressions could be those of a Jeep. Only time will tell, a commodity I’m out of.

Laboring until I sweat and have to peel off my Carhartt, I drag logs into the roadway, wet from snowfall. My hope is to waylay the driver enough to get out and take a look. That’s all I need. Of course, the moment the man sees my makeshift barrier, the rubber will meet the road if it’s Scofield. If not, I still plan on using the blockade to force whoever’s driving to help us…even if it’s at gunpoint.

The forest route got washed out at its upper end a couple of years ago thanks to a disastrous mudslide following wildfires and a hefty winter snowpack. So, whoever’s taken this road must come back the same way.

I brush away my tracks with tree boughs to avoid revealing my position. Snow continues to fall lightly, further concealing them. As I work, a chain captures my eye in the thick brush. A fucking bear trap. Poachers. My blood chills, thanking God for guiding my steps. Between the potential damage to my leg, including broken bones, and the difficulty of escaping one of these, it could have meant the end for Ginger and me. The weight of keeping her alive weighs heavily on me as I move with more intention, not taking even one step for granted.

I crouch a distance away behind a couple of thick-trunked lodgepole pines and an outcropping of boulders. They should provide decent cover, even from an AR-15. I lie in wait for the vehicle to emerge, all the time praying for Divine intervention. I’m Ginger’s only hope. I can’t fuck up this opportunity to save her.

I lean against the rough trunk, my mind marveling at the strangeness of the past twenty-four hours and the echo of yesterday’s desperation in today’s mission. From ruminating over death to fighting with every ounce of my soul to keep Ginger alive.

Hours pass in quiet desperation as I register the sun overhead and then dipping towards the west, drawing closer with every passing hour to sunset. Dammit! Is the vehicle coming back, or did I dream the whole thing? If so, I’ve wasted precious hours, maybe sealing Ginger’s fate.

Shadows grow long across the snowy forest floor, and my heart drops. My mouth feels dry from dehydration, though I wet it occasionally with snow from the ground, melted in my hand.My stomach, past growling with hunger, aches with sickening urgency.

Suddenly, I hear the faint hum of a car engine.Thank God!My ears hone in on the sound, listening with increasing elation as it grows louder. One way or the other, this vehicle means survival for Ginger and me.

I ready myself, my heart pounding in my temples as a dark gray Jeep emerges from the woods. It comes to a hesitant halt in front of the impenetrable pile of logs. A man gets out, tall and lanky, and scratches the brown curls atop his head.

He surveys the barrier for a curious moment before realization hits him, and his black eyes scan the forest frantically. I don’t need any other identifying factors or a cleaner shot. Squeezing the trigger slowly, I register the percussive boom. I duck back behind boulders in case my aim is off, but I know it isn’t.

Normally, I wouldn’t be this cautious with my personal safety. But if I don’t live, Ginger doesn’t.

After a few moments of silence, I creep my way towards the man on the ground. My vision of him obscured behind the Jeep. I round the driver’s side, and my heart skips a beat. He’s disappeared.

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