Squirming, the lost woman bites and kicks, making me hold on tighter. “Miss. Stop. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Let go!” A flash of her knife nicks my skin, so I flip her face down.
“I’m Sheriff O’Malley. Your family sent me to find you.” Her arm twisted to her back, I wrestle a plastic cuff out of my vest.
“Not happening, Gollum. Sorry to spoil your fun. Hunting season’s over.” She struggles so hard, I worry zip-tying her wrists may dislocate her shoulder.
“Don't fight me, dammit.”
“Woof, woof.” Incisors bared, Becca’s about to pounce.
“Sit. Now.” This time she obeys, eyes locked on the threat.
“Atta girl.” While I pat her head, the other female tries to roll free.
“I’m not yourgirl, you bastard.”
“I was talking to my dog. Unlike you, she listens.”
The moment I remove my knee from the wildcat, she spins between my legs. While I study her glassy, dilated eyes, hers stare into the pine trees.
Crap. She’s high.Gentle, yet insistent, I tap her cheeks, “Briana. Look at me. What did you take?”
“Help, please! Fire-ire-ire!” Her screech echoes off the mountain face, each repetition more mocking.
Seven freaking days. I’ve spent a damnweektracking this — this addict? Possibly a killer? One who didn’t think twice about putting her family through hell.
Pulling her to her feet, I grip her face. “Your parents reported you missing—”
She lunges, clamping her teeth on the fleshy part of my thumb. Pitt bull style, she doesn’t unclench. My companion’s had enough. Leaping, she knocks us all sideways.
“Becca, stay!” Hand stinging, I glare at the termagant while binding her ankles with ty-wraps. “Bite me again, and next time, I'll let my dog eat you.”
After I drag her to a tree, I tie her to the trunk with a spare line from my pack. “Becca. Guard.”
Growling deep in her throat, my pet parks her butt.
Damned if I don’t wish I could do the same. “What the hell is wrong with you? What did you take?”
“Why don’t you tell me.” Chin jut out, spittle slides down her mud-streaked chin.
“Me? How the fuck would I know?” Jesus. My thumb’s bleeding so badly, it might need stitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb.” She tilts her head to her shoulder where blood drips onto moss and pine needles.
Unable to reason with her, I stick to the script. “You are Briana Gainsborough, right?”
Tight-lipped, brows pulled together, she nods.
ID confirmed, I dig into my pack and bandage the split flesh on my hand. Next, I unzip her coat and tip water over her wound.
When she shrinks away, I sigh. “I only want to rinse it off.”
The wind picks up, blowing the Medusa-like knots in her hair. “Why? So you can continue your fucked up game of cat and mouse?”
Already bitten—metaphorically and literally—my temper snaps. “No, so you don’t die of infection.”
“Let me go. I promise, I’ll run this time.” As her eyes dart toward the woods, I shake my head.
