Not trying to hide her trail.
Not thinking about anyone following her.
Just trying to get distance between herself and me.
The sun is touching the horizon now, painting the sky in shades of orange and red.
Maybe an hour of usable light left.
Maybe less under the tree canopy.
I check my GPS.
The hunting cottage is seven-tenths of a mile ahead.
I push into a jog despite the rough terrain, despite the fading light, despite the very real risk of hurting myself if I misstep.
Don't care.
I only care about reaching her before dark.
Before the temperature drops below freezing.
Before she's spent another hour alone, cold and terrified.
And finally, through the trees ahead?—
There.
A structure.
Small. Dilapidated.
Roof sagging dangerously on one side.
Windows nothing but empty frames, but still standing.
And smoke—thin, barely visible in the fading light—rising from the chimney.
She's there.
She found shelter. Made a fire somehow. Survived this long.
The relief is so intense it nearly brings me to my knees.
She's alive. She's safe. She's?—
Mine.
And she's about to learnexactlywhat that means.
I approach slowly, carefully.
I don't want to spook her.
I don't want her running again before I can reach her, before I can stop her, before I can make her understand that running is over.
The door is hanging on one hinge, barely attached.
