Chapter Seventeen
Harper sat with everyone from the Bar C around the wooden trestle table in Reese and Shay’s kitchen. Everyone was grim. He saw the worry in their eyes. They sat with coffee in hand, the tension thick.
“We’ve decided not to tell Garret and Kira about this,” Shay told them quietly. “They just started on their honeymoon. We want them to enjoy their time together.”
“Yeah,” Noah said, “because Garret would be back here in a flash if he knew what had happened.”
“Kira wouldn’t be far behind him,” Dair muttered, frowning.
“For now,” Reese said, “let them enjoy their happiness. I know they love Tara like a sister and they would be back here in a heartbeat.”
“We still have no proof it was Tara who was taken,” Noah said.
Harper knew his friend wanted to give everyone hope, so he didn’t argue with him, but he knew without a doubt Tara had been kidnapped.
He moved the thick white ceramic mug slowly around between his hands, sitting opposite Dair and Noah. It had been an hour since Harper had returned to the Bar C, called a meeting and told them what had happened. They huddled together, as if feeling there was strength in the team being one at times like this, and Harper appreciated that. He knew there was so much daily work that needed to be done, but everyone was sitting with him until Sarah called with news. He could barely sit still. He wanted to do something—anything—to end this waiting. Tara was out there with Elson, who would hurt her, might kill her. The sour taste in his mouth turned bitter as he shut his mind off from going down the dark, haunted path of her being raped and murdered.
Shay sat nearest him and placed her hand on his forearm, “This is so hard on you, Harper.”
Shrugging, he said, “We all knew Cree Elson was in the background, like a coyote circling his prey. We were aware that he might try to kidnap Tara again. At least she and I thought it was a possibility.” He felt her fingers grow firmer around his arm, and he saw tears in Shay’s blue eyes. He wanted to cry himself but didn’t dare because if he started, he wouldn’t stop.
Glumly, Shay whispered, “I know.... Reese and I talked about it, too. Elson is unstable. He’s proven that over and over again.”
“Probably all of us willed that thought away,” Dair said. “None of us wanted to believe Elson would come after her again.”
“We didn’t want to think of it,” Reese agreed. “Part of it is that the Bar C is a place of safety. We can let down here. Heal.”
Harper swallowed hard and took a sip of his coffee, burning his tongue. There was no question his friends were just as deeply upset as he was.
The phone rang.
Harper jerked, snapping his head up, his gaze whipping to the wall phone. Everyone at the table jumped, the tension tightening in the kitchen.
“You take it,” Reese told him, gesturing toward the phone.
Quickly rising, Harper answered it.
“Sarah here. We’ve gotten a piece of luck. Cree Elson’s truck was spotted going into Prater Canyon in the Salt Mountain Range. On a hunch, I called the Forest Service right after you left the scene, Harper. I asked one of the civilian employees who has an RV and parks out in the parking lot of different Forest Service camping sites to drive over to Prater Canyon. The reason I asked him to do that is because the first time Elson kidnapped Tara, he took her to a cabin up above Prater Canyon. I asked him to keep an eye out for Elson. I gave him a description of the truck and told him to keep his cell phone available in case he drove into that lot.”
“And?” Harper growled.
“Elson came into the parking lot and he has Tara with him. My office assistant is sending photos to all your cell phones right now. The good news is that Tara’s alive, but she’s injured. One photo shows a lot of blood down her left temple and the side of her neck. Elson is wounded, too. He’s got a bandanna wrapped around his upper left arm and there’s blood down his left arm. Was Tara carrying a Buck knife on her? Most wranglers do.”
“Yes,” he breathed, “she was.”
“That explains Elson’s wound, then.”
“What about her head wound? Was she walking okay?” Being a medic, Harper had to know.
“We think she got the injury when the truck flipped. Our contact, who’s in his sixties, said she was walking but appeared dazed. Check your phones for those photos now.”
Harper turned, his heart beating hard in his chest, telling everyone to pull out their cell phones to look for the pictures. He went to the table and retrieved his and brought it back to the wall phone, picking the receiver back up. “I got the photos,” and he zeroed in on them. Cree had tied Tara’s wrists with rope in front of her. He was gripping her by her right arm, practically dragging her along. The man was wearing a dark green knapsack that probably weighed close to fifty pounds on his broad back. Harper felt his gut turn icy as he studied the photos. “He’s got a pretty big knapsack.”
“Yes, we think he’s going to take her up into the canyon again, like he did before. There are several broken-down old log cabins up at seven and eight thousand feet. We believe he may choose one of them to hole up in with her.”
“Which is why you set a lookout at the entrance to that canyon,” Harper congratulated.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “Cree isn’t right in the head. He has brain damage. And my gut told me because of the circumstances, he was going to repeat the same pattern. And he has so far.”
“What now? What do we do?”
“I’m getting a posse together, along with a SWAT team from the Teton County sheriff’s department. Commander Tom Franks is helping us. They’re a much bigger organization than we are. The Forest Service is bringing in horses by trailer. They’ll arrive at the canyon in another hour. There’s an ex-military drone pilot who works with us coming into the office, and he’ll be traveling with us to the site. We’ll all be there shortly. He’s going to fly the drone into the areas where I think Cree is taking Tara. If we can locate him with a drone, that will save a lot of man-hours of trying to find him by horseback and on foot patrol.”
“Yes,” Harper rasped, “that will be a great help. What can we do?”
“Nothing. Just stay where you are, Harper. I know you want to come, but you can’t. You’re not trained.”
He snorted. “It’s fine that everyone at the Bar C stays here, but I’m sure as hell not going to wait with them. I’m coming to meet you at the canyon whether you like it or not. I was in combat, Sarah. I’ve had years of black ops in Afghanistan. You want me there. I can be of help with strategy and tactics. I’ll bring my paramedic bag with me, too. Someone could get hurt.”
“I knew you wouldn’t sit this out.”
“Hell no. I’ll meet you there.”
“Don’t do anything, Harper, once you arrive. Wait for us, okay?”
“I’ll wait,” he promised roughly.
* * *
Tara struggled to keep up. Cree had bound her wrists with a cotton rope and he had strung about eight feet between them, the other end attached to his belt as she walked behind him. He’d taken her watch off her, searched her for a cell phone and found none. She’d barely stood his hands frisking her, lingering at her breasts, her butt and then her thighs. It had sent a shiver of dread so deep within her that she wanted to scream. But he was wounded, losing blood, and he was in a foul mood. His eyes looked half-crazed, just as they’d been the last time he’d kidnapped her. That look scared her more than anything else. It made Cree unpredictable. Explosive. One minute he could be nice, but the wrong tone of voice, the wrong expression on her face, would send him into an uncontrolled rage. That was how her nose had gotten broken that first time. She’d asked for some water because she’d been dying of thirst.
She struggled on the steep mountain that was taking them to near the eight-thousand-foot level. They were above the canyon now and on the slope. Unused to such hard, constant hiking, she was breathing heavily. So was Cree. Blood was still leaking from where she’d sunk the blade up to its hilt into his upper biceps. He’d forced her to tie a dark green neckerchief above the wound to create something like a tourniquet. It didn’t stop all the bleeding; fresh red blood was constantly dripping down to his elbow and then dropping off into the pine needles beneath their feet.
The calves of her legs were starting to cramp; she wanted to ask him to stop so she could rest, but she knew him well enough to be sure he had a destination in mind. Cree was big, strong and in good shape, so he doggedly kept going up the deeply forested area. Her mind turned to wondering if anyone had seen them after the crash. She recalled a gray Toyota driving up to the scene as Cree dragged her, semiconscious, toward his truck. She couldn’t call for help because she was barely aware, except to register a silver-looking car had stopped. Had the person seen them? Had they called 911? What if they hadn’t? How would Harper or Sarah at the sheriff’s department know their whereabouts? It all seemed so hopeless to Tara.
“Hurry up!” Cree snapped, barely turning his head, glaring at her, giving the rope a jerk.
“I need to rest, please!” Tara knew she didn’t dare get too bossy with him or he’d hit her. She’d been young, angry, scared and foolish the first time he’d kidnapped her. Now, she was older and more mature. Cree was emotionally imbalanced and she felt if she looked at him the wrong way, he’d unexpectedly attack her. She worried about him raping her. Tara knew he’d try to sooner or later. An icy sliver of terror coursed through her. He was limping and she guessed it was because she’d kicked him squarely in the balls. It gave her a tiny bit of satisfaction.
Cree suddenly halted.
Tara nearly crashed into him, stumbling, dizzy and collapsed onto the pine-needle floor, landing on her hands and knees.
He removed the rope from his belt and tied it around a branch just above Tara’s head. “You need to drink water,” he muttered. Looking warily around, he shrugged out of the heavy pack and set it at his booted feet. Grabbing a quart of water, he thrust it toward her. “Drink your fill. I want you alive.”
Looking up at him, seeing the hatred mixed with so many other emotions she couldn’t even begin to interpret, Tara gratefully took the water bottle. When their fingers touched, she jerked her hand back. His glare intensified.
“Can’t stand me touching you?” he jeered, pushing the plastic bottle into her hand. Straightening, he added, “Get over it.”
Drinking deeply, Tara knew she had to remain hydrated. Even though she was still terribly dizzy and her head wound ached, screaming at her like an unrelenting banshee, she continued to look for ways to escape. She saw no pistol and no rifle on the outside of Cree’s massive pack. That didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside it, however. Water dribbled down her chin as she continued to gulp it down.
She winced when he grabbed the bottle out of her hands.
“That’s enough. Don’t be a selfish bitch. I need some, too.”
He pressed the bottle to his lips, tipping his head back, drinking the last half of the contents. Wiping his mouth afterward, he stashed the empty bottle in the knapsack, drawing out another full one and placing it in a side net pocket.
Tara sat there, leaning back on her boot heels, grateful for the rest. She glanced around. Up above them was a rocky slope where the pine trees were thinning out because of the high altitude. Above that area it was nothing but bare rock and a lot of snow that had yet to melt. She figured they must be somewhere around eight thousand feet and that they were on the tallest mountain in the valley. They’d already passed up the old, broken cabin where Cree had taken her captive and kept her before. She wondered where he was taking her this time.
The pine needles were dry, and that meant they’d be slippery, tough to run across and hard to keep her balance on—at least what little she had left. Did anyone know where she was? Assuming they didn’t, Tara realized she had to get out of this on her own. There was no way to rely on help, even though she secretly longed to know that Harper and those who loved her were out searching for her right now. Would Sarah realize Cree was repeating his actions? If she did, she’d have someone in place to search Prater Canyon.
Tara had glimpsed an RV sitting off in one corner of the parking lot, which had made her hope whoever was in it had seen them. The fact that Cree had tied her hands in front of her before they left the cab of his truck should tell anyone in the RV that something was wrong. Had anyone seen them, though? If they had, had they called 911? Tara tried not to let her spirits rise because the person in that vehicle could have been asleep and not seen them at all. Her hope deflated.
“Let’s get going,” he snarled at her, hauling the knapsack onto his shoulders, settling it against his back.
Judging by the sun, it had to be around ten a.m. Tara sorely missed her watch. Taking her time, her muscles protesting, she placed her hands against the trunk of the tree to steady herself as she stood on weak knees.
Cree approached her and she tensed, watching him without any trust. His red hair was badly mussed, some of it escaping from the ponytail. His beard was at least three days old, emphasizing his narrow, gaunt features. He didn’t seem as out of sorts as before, more focused and, therefore, steadier emotionally, she hoped.
Untying the rope, he looped it around the left side of his belt and retied it.
“Cree, you don’t have to do this,” she said, keeping her voice calm, watching him glance in her direction. “You could let me go. I wouldn’t press charges. Just let me go.”
He snorted and stood there, hands on his hips, studying her. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“I guess I don’t.”
“You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. This time, I’m not letting you go.” He wagged his finger in her face. “You try to escape this time and I’ll do more than bust your nose. Understand?”
He was insane. Obsessed and insane. “I’ll never be yours, Cree. Not ever,” she hissed, tensing, waiting for him to strike her.
A twisted smile came to his lips. “We’ll see. Over time, you’ll come to appreciate me. I’ll be good to you, Tara. You’ll see. Now, come on. We gotta make that old salt mine before noon. They’re gonna start hunting parties soon enough, lookin’ for us.”
Blinking, Tara’s mind spun with that information. The Salt Mountains got their name precisely because the Native Americans had found salt in certain places within the mountain range. As she slipped on the pine needles, she caught herself, straightened and moved up the slope, knees protesting. Tara dug into her memory. At one time, there had been a couple of mines built by prospectors in the range. Salt was expensive and always in demand. Even though it didn’t command gold prices, it was called white gold by the prospectors-turned-businessmen in the area. The salt that came out of these mines had made them rich. Until the vein ran out. Tara was aware there was an old salt mine near nine thousand feet above Prater Canyon, but she’d never been to it, only heard about it from her father.
Maybe Cree had learned his lesson in keeping her in a run-down old log cabin. It had been an obvious place that law enforcement who had hunted for her had first checked out. Now, Cree had upped the ante. Would anyone think about that old salt mine? Tara doubted it. She’d lived here the first eighteen years of her life and never visited the historic mine, which was now shut down. It had run out of salt in 1900 and quickly fallen into disrepair, essentially forgotten by people of the twenty-first century. She wondered if it was even on the Forest Service maps. Certainly, a regional topography map would have it.
Maybe ...
Was that his objective? His new hideout? Tara hadn’t been in any mines, so she had no awareness of what it was like to be there. Moving her eyes first one way and then the other, she tried not to let Cree know she was looking for an escape route. Every once in a while, he’d turn his head, catch sight of her and then turn away, focused on the ever-steepening slope in front of them. Wanting to search the sky, Tara didn’t dare as the woods began to thin out more and more. They would be easy to spot from the air now, a lot of ground between each tree. Keying her hearing, she found no noise except for the call of birds every now and then.
She tried to keep her imagination leashed. She had to focus, instead, on escape. Already she’d spotted several good-size downed limbs. Could she scoop one up without Cree seeing her do it and hit him over the head, knocking him unconscious? Tara shivered at the thought of him catching her in the act. She was sure he’d come unhinged and kill her with the knife he carried in a sheath.
Her mind turned at a thousand miles an hour, looking at every possible escape route. She’d gone through two weeks of evasion training because she’d been a combat photographer. There had been many times when she’d been out with black-ops groups that she’d learned stealth at a much higher level. How to hide in plain sight. How to evade. To be patient. Take her time and survey every possible weapon that might be of use to her survival. And right now? Those pine limbs all over the floor of the forest were her primary weapon.
For an instant, Tara felt fear of dying. She’d come so close so many times before and cheated death. But would she this time? She didn’t know. On the heels of that fear serrating her came an overwhelming love that she’d quietly developed for Harper. She loved him. Miserably, as she scrambled up and over some rocks, cutting her fingers, she couldn’t stop the grief over the loss of him. Would she ever see Harper again? Or would he find her beaten and dead? Her heart tore and a soft sob broke from her lips. She bowed her head, tears stinging her eyes. Above all, she couldn’t let Cree see her this way! She just couldn’t. Battling back all those grief-stricken emotions, needing Harper so badly right now, needing his arms around her to make her feel safe once more, came like an avalanche over Tara.
Staggering, she dragged in a deep breath, shoving everything down, down, down within her. She’d had to do this in combat, too. It was no easier now than it was then. In some villages, children had been kidnapped out of homes, the mothers screaming and crying, begging her team to find the kidnappers. Bring their children home. It was a refrain she’d heard too often, and the one that gutted her as nothing else ever would. Taliban were stealing the children to sell to sex traffickers waiting near the Afghan-Pakistani border. Those children would be taken across to Pakistan, never to be seen again. The money would be spent on weapons to rearm the Taliban.
Tara had identified with them too easily because Cree had stolen her from her home, too. And he’d tried to have sex with her, but she’d fought him off and wouldn’t let him touch her. Those children weren’t in that position. They were too small, too weak to defend themselves against such sexual monsters. Shivering inwardly, Tara tried to push away all the ugly memories she’d had to deal with in Afghanistan too many times. Now, it was here again.
Again.
Once more, she was pursued. Hatred rose up in her as she watched Cree balance the heavy backpack against the challenges of the slope ahead of them. He could easily outmuscle her, no question. And he would. Sooner or later, he would. Her mind turned into a chain saw, tearing into her fear, releasing it. The way he looked at her made her stomach turn with nausea. Like those poor Afghan children, she, too, was going to be turned into nothing more than a sex slave, owned by a brutal male. In the end, Tara knew it was about power over a woman or child fueling the sick male.
She’d never forgotten Cree’s mother, Roberta. She’d grown up with her father discussing some of the permissible information about the cases that passed through his court. At least once a year, for as long as she could remember, Roberta would press charges against her husband, Brian, who was a drunkard and a drug addict. When he wasn’t high on drugs, he was a brutal animal, beating up on her and her four sons. Brian Elson was well known for being an ugly drunk. Everyone in Wind River Valley steered clear of him when he drank at the local bar. She tried to feel sorry for Cree but couldn’t. Had his father sexually traumatized him? It was entirely possible. Tara remembered her mother saying sadly, one night at the dinner table, that Cree was “little more than Brian’s punching bag.”