Page 33 of Beneath the Mountain Sky
“She came this way.” Motioning toward the footprint and holding up the scrap, I incline my head back toward the river. “Signal Tony and Connor to get to this side of the river. We need to be searching over here.”
“On it.”
Liam bolts off the way he came to alert Sheriff Briggs and Connor that we need them over here as I move farther down the game trail, my heart climbing into my throat.
What the fuck was she doing up here?
I picture the McBride Mountain area on the map.
The town near the base.
Our homestead halfway up, about as far as is livable comfortably, where the land can be flattened at least somewhat for crops and structures. Any farther up and the slope gets too steep to really build anything, and the trees and temperatures start to change.
No one lives up here.
There’s nothing but wildlife.
And, apparently, the love of my life.
But why?
The question has rattled around my brain so much in the last two days, and I still don’t have an answer. Not one logical explanation for why she would have been back on the mountain, let alone all the way up here.
None of it makes any sense.
Yet, she was here.
I push farther along the game trail, finding additional signs that this was definitely how she came through the woods. Another bare footprint pressed into the soft earth, broken sticks and branches, as if she were stumbling and grabbing them for support or they snagged her along the way.
It must have been incredibly painful.
This hike is no joke, even with the proper gear.
Doing it barefoot…
“Christ…”
I always knew she was tough.
Determined.
This proves it.
I continue to follow the trail until it finally opens into a small clearing.
All there is up here is vast green grasses and wildflowers surrounded by towering trees—with no sign of which direction she came from.
“Shit.”
My grip on my axe tightens, the familiar feel of it in my hand doing nothing to calm me like it normally might.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
I turn and slam it into the nearest trunk, driving the blade in hard and deep, working out some of the rage and growing frustration on the poor, unsuspecting pine.
Each swing sends woodchips flying.
Over and over.
