Ruthie wasn’t arguing, but she wasn’t actively helping.
Shiloh tried to pick up the knife, but the guy moved, his fingers finding the hilt. With a roar, he lunged upward, the blade whispering against her calf, and Shiloh reacted, kicking his face, smashing his nose, and hoping to hell that she’d killed the bastard. Who the hell was he? Not Tate, she knew that much, but the features of his face, deep in shadow and covered with the ski mask and shaggy hair, were undefined.
“Come on!” Katrina ordered. She had Ruthie on her feet but was half dragging her to the trail.
Shiloh ran to the dock to snag their bundles of clothes and silently cursed the fact that she hadn’t been able to grab the bastard’s weapon or his camera. Her leg throbbed from the gash he’d made with the knife. She could feel blood running from the wound, but she ignored the pain.
“Where’s your cell phone?” she asked, catching up with the other two, something, a bra or panties, flying from the pile of clothes she’d tucked under her arm.
“At home, remember?”
“Great.”
“We’ll find a house,” Kat said.
“Out here?”
“There’s got to be one. A farm. A ranch. Something.”
“We just have to get to the truck.” Which, of course, was parked half a mile away on the nearest stretch of road to the lake. “Come on. Run!”
Ruthie’s legs began to move of their own accord, thankfully, but Shiloh was forever looking over her shoulder, certain the assailant would reappear. Terror drove her forward. She didn’t want to ever see that bastard again.
“I can’t,” Ruthie finally said, and Shiloh took it as a good sign. At least she was talking; at least she was turning back into the naysayer she was.
“Sure you can,” Kat encouraged as they hurried along the path.
“I—I need my clothes.” It was as if Ruthie had just realized they were naked.
“Shiloh’s got them.”
Only some of them, Shiloh thought. She’d dropped some things in the race to leave the bastard behind. But she kept her thoughts to herself and prayed that she at least had her cutoffs and the keys to the truck in the pocket. If they didn’t have the keys, what then? She kind of knew how to hot-wire a car, had seen it done a couple of times, but out here in the middle of the night? Oh no, she couldn’t think of that now. “Just move it!” Dear God, did she hear someone lumbering in the woods behind them? She grabbed Ruthie’s arm and propelled her forward, dropping another article of clothing in the process.
Into the clearing they ran, past the boulders, toward the far end of the small canyon where the truck was parked. Shiloh’s lungs were beginning to burn, her heart thudding, and beside her, Ruthie was gasping for breath.
“I can’t . . . I just can’t,” Ruthie rasped.
If the poor girl hadn’t just been through a horrid trauma, Shiloh would have stopped in her tracks and shaken some sense into her. Instead, she said, “Sure you can, Ruthie, we’re almost there.” That was a lie. The old Dodge was more than a quarter of a mile away, but Shiloh wasn’t going to admit it. Not now.
“That’s right. Come on,” Katrina encouraged as yet another piece of clothing—a blouse?—slid out of Shiloh’s arms. Damn it, she was leaving a trail for the psycho if he was chasing them, the scraps of apparel just like the breadcrumbs for Hansel and Gretel.
“I—I can’t go home,” Ruthie said.
“What?” Shiloh kept running, pulling her. “We sure as hell can’t stay here.”
“My dad will kill me.”
“He’s not the one I’m worried about.” Shiloh hazarded a glance over her shoulder, and her blood turned to ice. She thought she saw something, big and dark, running after them, cutting between the boulders. “Hurry!” Spurred on, she pulled Ruthie with her. “He’s coming.”
“Noooo!” Ruthie wailed, but suddenly she began to run in earnest, her speed surprising Shiloh. She let go, as did Katrina. Separately, they flew across the dry Wyoming grass and weeds, the palest of moonlight guiding them.
Faster, faster, faster! Shiloh was in the lead, the other girls close behind. She saw the truck at the end of the trail, and her heart soared. They could make it. They could! “Come on!” she cried and another piece of clothing fell. Damn! Holding their precious garments to her chest, she was gasping, her lungs burning, her leg throbbing and bleeding, her feet bloodied by the time she reached the old Dodge parked in an open field. All of the clothes tumbled from her arms and onto the ground as she grappled with the door handle. “Crap!” With a groan of old metal that rubbed in all the wrong spots, the door lurched open. Then she dropped to the hardpan and, scrabbling frantically, searched through the bras, undies, and blouses, throwing them onto the front seat until she found her cutoffs.
“Yes,” she whispered under her breath and yanked on the pair of frayed shorts, then reached into her pocket.
Nothing.
What? No!
Katrina and Ruthie appeared.
“Get in,” Shiloh ordered.
“But our clothes . . .” Ruthie began.
“Are inside. Just get in!” she yelled, freaking out. The keys! Where were the damned keys? She searched her pockets again.
Empty. No!
And then she saw him. Emerging from the darkness. Running at them.
Christ! Now what.
Ruthie screamed as she scrambled into the truck.
Oh God, oh God!
“Shiloh! Hurry!” Katrina, usually calm, sounded panicked.
“Get the flashlight. In the glove box!” Shiloh said. “Now!”
“But—”
“I dropped the flippin’ keys!”
“No!” Ruthie’s voice was high and screeching. “Shiloh, no! He’s coming! Oh no, no, no!”
“Shhh!” Katrina hissed.
Shiloh scoured the ground frantically on her hands and knees, thinking the damned keys fell out when she’d dropped the rest of the clothes. She raked her fingers through the dry grass and dirt. A fingernail broke and something sharp poked her palm, but she didn’t give up. Come on, come on, they have to be here! They have to!
She could hear him now, breathing and running, his feet pounding the ground awkwardly. Fear turned her insides to jelly.
“Lock the door!” she ordered over her shoulder as she still desperately tried to locate the keys. What if they had fallen out on the path? What if they’d slid from her pocket as she’d scooped them up? Jesus, dear God, no! Her heart was thudding, her skin damp, her terror increasing. Again and again, she swept her hands over the uneven ground, feeling only rocks, weeds, and dust. “Oh come on, come on, come on,” she muttered as sweat ran down her face. Never had she felt so vulnerable in her life.
Ruthie whispered, “But—”
Damn it all to– “Move over,” Katrina ordered Ruthie, then leaned out the open driver’s-side window. She was holding a flashlight and switched it on so that a frail beam of light appeared, a fragile yellow glow casting thin illumination on the dry stubble. “Lock the doors,” Shiloh repeated as Katrina swung the flashlight, casting a wide arc around the battered Dodge. “Roll up the windows and lock the damned doors!”