Maybe it was those kids she’d run off earlier. Just before closing time, she’d caught three teenage boys pulling up the flags she’d staked out where the slave cabins used to be. Had they come back and hot-wired one of the backhoes?
“Stay here,” she said, as if the cat would. After she set the backpack beside the door, she flipped on her flashlight and walked up the brick path that led to the inn, which was really just a four-room log cabin with a dogtrot in the middle for ventilation in the summer. If it was the teenagers, this time she would get names and call the parents.
Instead of remaining behind, Suzy followed her to the deserted log structure, and they climbed the steps together. Emma walked through the dogtrot to the back porch and cocked her ear again. The sound had quit. She swept the light toward the maintenance building. The equipment looked untouched. Then she flashed the light against the trees, revealing only stark trunks and bare limbs except for the occasional live oak.
Wait. On the other side of the trees in the slave cemetery, the light revealed a yellow backhoe. Yep. Had to be those kids, since the maintenance supervisor wouldn’t have moved the equipment. While she wasn’t afraid of the teenagers, there was such a thing as common sense, so she checked her cell phone for service. One bar and it looked iffy.
She would try 911 anyway and let whomever the dispatcher sent deal with the boys. Preferably anyone but Sam.
When the operator answered, Emma could only make out a couple of words. She identified herself and asked for a patrol ranger to come to Mount Locust, hoping the operator understood the call.
When the operator didn’t respond, she checked her phone again. The call had dropped. She’d have to walk either to her office or the visitor center for better reception.
A rifle report split the night air as Emma hopped off the porch. She froze as a bullet splintered the wooden post where she’d just stood. Then she dove for the ground and scrambled under the house. Her heart stuttered in her chest as another report sent a bullet kicking up dirt a few yards from her hiding place.
Why was someone trying to kill her?
Like that mattered at this moment. She had to move or be trapped in the crawl space under the house. Frantically she looked for the cat. If it had any sense at all, it had high-tailed it back to the visitor center.
Emma scanned the area, looking for a way to escape. She couldn’t go back the way she’d come—it was too open—but there was ground cover from the side of the house to the edge of the woods only thirty feet away. Emma belly-crawled to the nearest tree, scraping her hand on a rock.
A dry twig snapped to her left.
Emma hoisted the rock and flung it away from her before she darted in the opposite direction toward the tractor shed. Another shot rang out, and the bullet embedded in a nearby tree.
With her heart exploding in her chest, she ducked under a live oak limb that dipped down to the ground and pressed against the huge trunk. Her lungs screamed for air. Heavy footsteps stomped through the dead leaves, and she pressed closer to the trunk, biting back a cry as the bark gouged her back.
A faint siren reached her ears. The 911 operator had understood her!
The footsteps halted. The shooter had heard it as well. But where was he? She dared not peer around the tree and remained absolutely still, surprised that he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart. Seconds later, footsteps retreated toward the service road. Then a motor roared to life, and the car sped away.
Emma’s knees buckled, and she braced against the tree, her fingers shaking as she dialed 911 again.
2
Sam Ryker wheeled the Ford Interceptor off the Trace into the Mount Locust entrance. His heart had almost stopped when the 911 operator contacted him. If anything had happened to Emma . . .
His headlights flashed across an older-model Toyota pickup parked in front of the locked gate to the visitor center. He recognized the truck that had been her brother’s back in the day. Emma must have walked from the gate to the building, but why? Surely she had a key to the gate. He turned right on the road that led to the well-lit maintenance building and beyond it, the tractor shed. Behind him, his field ranger, Clayton Bradshaw, made the same turn.
Sam’s radio crackled to life.
“Ranger Winters indicated the suspect is escaping on Chamberlain Road,” the dispatcher said.
Sam released the breath trapped in his chest. If Emma had called in the report, at least the suspect didn’t have her. “You want to take that, Clayton?” he asked, speaking into his radio. “I’ll check on Emma and then provide backup.”
“Roger,” Clayton said. Seconds later his junior officer’s SUV reversed direction and sped toward the other side of the entrance.
Since Emma would not be happy to see him, he probably should have gone after the car and let Clayton handle Emma. And he would have, but Clayton was more familiar with the roads around Mount Locust.
Sam scanned the woods, catching the beam of a flashlight. He scrambled out of the Interceptor and flipped the strap off his service semiautomatic. A figure ran toward him, but he couldn’t make out whether it was male or female. “Halt! And drop your light!”
“Sam, it’s me! Don’t shoot!”
Emma. He would know her voice anywhere, even after ten years. “Anyone with you?”
Still running, she dropped the beam of the flashlight to the ground. “I’m alone.”
The crack in Emma’s voice raised his worry level. She’d never been afraid of anything, and if she was scared, something bad had happened. Sam holstered his gun as she barreled into his chest. Automatically, he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her body tremble. “Are you hurt?”
Emma shook her head. “H-he missed when he shot at me.”
His arms tightened around her. “Someone fired at you?” No wonder she was shaking.
She pulled away from his embrace.
“Uh, sorry.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I shouldn’t have crashed into you like that.”
“No problem.”
Her stiff, boardlike stance conveyed how uncomfortable she was. That made two of them. Sam made a conscious effort to relax. Even though they worked different sides of the National Park Service, with Emma working as an interpretive ranger at Mount Locust and him the district law enforcement ranger, they would run into each other fairly often. No need to make it harder than it had to be. “Why’d you leave your truck at the gate?”
“I forgot the key to the lock.”
Sam had never known Emma to be forgetful. The overhead lights barely reached the area, but they were strong enough for her full lips and heart-shaped face to capture his attention. He gulped. Staring at her had been the wrong thing to do and only reminded him of what he’d lost.
In spite of that, he couldn’t look away. Were her eyes as green as he remembered? Don’t go there. The low lighting didn’t allow him to see that anyway. As if she’d read his thoughts, Emma dropped her gaze to the ground, her arms still wrapped across her body as if to ward him off. “What were you doing here this late? And by yourself?”
Her head snapped up. “Excuse me? Don’t use that tone of voice with me. And I hardly think 9:00 p.m. qualifies as late.”
“If someone was shooting at you, you could’ve been killed!” He swept his hand around the area. “This place is deserted at night. You of all people should know the Trace isn’t always safe after dark.”