The truth was, they might not find the Lopez couple at all. The wilderness had swallowed people before, leaving behind nothing but questions and grief.
Probably it was good to be out here. Kept her mind off the hole Grandpa Elway’s death left in her life, the ranch’s mounting bills, the rodeo in two weeks that gave her son a reason to go to school, maybe figure out how to work out his grief.
She sighed. Focus, Sierra. She’d deal with the dead after she saved the living.
She picked up the pace, following the blood trail as it curved around a massive boulder formation. The granite here was streaked with quartz veins that caught the morning sun and threw it back in brilliant flashes.
“Movement.” Jackson’s voice was barely a whisper.
Sierra froze, following his gaze to a cluster of pine trees about fifty yards ahead. A tawny shape moved between the trunks—fluid, powerful, built for killing. The mountain lion paused, massive head turning in their direction.
“Easy,” Sierra whispered. “Back away slowly. No sudden movements.”
The cat’s ears flattened against its skull. Not good. That was aggressive posturing, the kind that preceded an attack. Sierra reached for her radio, no quick movements, everybody stay calm.
“Base, this is Sierra. We have visual contact with a mountain lion. Large tom, approximately one-fifty, showing aggressive behavior. Requesting immediate assistance from Fish and Wildlife.”
“Copy, Sierra. ETA on Fish and Wildlife is forty-five minutes.”
Forty-five minutes? They’d be cat food before then.
The mountain lion took a step toward them, yellow eyes fixed on Sierra with the kind of intensity that made her skin crawl. She’d encountered bears before, even aggressive bulls during breeding season, but nothing with the coiled lethal grace of a hunting cat.
“Jackson,” she said softly. “You still have that sidearm?”
“Yeah, but?—”
“Don’t shoot unless he charges. Gunshots might spook him off, or they might bring him straight at us.”
Jackson nodded, but slowly withdrew the gun.
The cat disappeared back into the trees, leaving nothing but the whisper of wind through pine needles.
“He’s still out there,” Jackson said.
“I know.” Sierra studied the terrain ahead. The blood trail continued along the ridge, disappearing toward the old mining district that dotted this section of the foothills. If the hikers had gone that direction, they were in serious trouble. The area was a maze of abandoned shafts and unstable ground.
“Sierra!” Kevin’s voice exploded from her radio. “We’ve got them! Both hikers, alive but in rough shape. We need immediate extraction.”
She let out a coiled breath. Glanced at Jackson, who also nodded. “Copy, Kevin. What’s your location?”
“About three hundred yards down the south face, near an old mining entrance. Sending you coordinates now.”
“Medical status?”
“Male has a broken leg, possible concussion. Female is hypothermic but responsive. They’re both scared out of their minds.”
“Roger that. Jackson and I are en route. Have Paige prep the emergency shelter and warming packs.”
They worked their way down the slope, Sierra checking occasionally for signs of the cat. The terrain here was riddled with old mining claims, most of them abandoned since the 1880s when silver played out. The park service had tried to seal the dangerous shafts, but there were too many scattered across the hillsides.
By the time they reached Kevin’s position, Sierra could see why the hikers had taken refuge here. The old mining shaft was carved into the hillside, its entrance partially concealed by fallen timber and scrub brush. The wooden support beams, gray and weathered from decades of mountain storms, sagged at dangerous angles. Rusty cable and broken equipment littered the ground around the entrance, remnants of some long-abandoned silver claim.
Not a place she’d want to spend the night, but it had probably saved their lives.
Inside the mine entrance, two figures huddled together under emergency blankets. Suzette Lopez—late forties, wearing that bright blue jacket, albeit torn, that had helped them spot her—sat with her husband’s head in her lap. Roland lay with one leg bent at an unnatural angle, his face pale with pain and cold.
“How long have they been like this?” Sierra knelt beside Roland, checking his pulse. Strong but rapid—shock, probably from the broken leg.
