Knifepoint (3 page)

When—and how—did he come off?

I pull a U-turn and canter back.

Springsteen stands patiently, waiting for his rider to get it together and climb back on.

“You okay?” I ask.

He laughs nervously. “A little dusty.

But I'm all right.”

I slide off Whiskey and hold Springsteen while Darren climbs back on. “You're, uh…You're not a wrangler, are you, Darren Parker?”

Darren shakes his head. I expect to find embarrassment in his face, but he's got that cheerful smile pasted on.

“Nope,” he grins. “I'm a bartender.”

I nod. I feel a bit relieved that I don't have to endure two hours of fearful risk-taking in the saddle. But part of me is disappointed all the same.

“So we'll, uh, maybe we'll take it a little bit slower?” I ask. “I mean, we'll still go on an adventure ride, just…just not a really fast one.”

He grins. “Sure. A slow adventure ride sounds great.”

Suddenly I have a brilliant idea.

“Maybe I'll take you to the old mill site,” I say. “It's totally hidden away up on a mountainside.” I haven't been there in years.

“That sounds
perfect
,” he says. I can tell by his face that he likes the idea. We ride side by side for a while, hemmed in by trees on one side and the river on the other. He tells me that he's from down east, here for his last “fun” summer job before he finishes his mba in January.

That he's wanted to see the Rockies his whole life, and now he's finally here.

For his adventure.

I wave to a group of white-water rafters drifting by.

“Who are they?” Darren asks.

“Local rafting outfit,” I answer. “I worked for them as a river guide last summer. The Sawtooth is a popular river for white-water kayakers and rafters.

Lots of good rapids.” The rafters drift around a bend and out of sight. “You should try it sometime,” I say. “It goes with your whole adventure theme.”

“Mmm, nah,” he says. “I'm not much of a swimmer. Why'd you quit rafting?”

I shrug. “It wasn't as fun as it looked.

Heavy rafts, dumb tourists who don't listen. Lots of hard work.”

“But you work hard at the ranch, don't you?” he asks. “I watched you bringing in the horses this morning. Didn't look like a cakewalk to me.”

I laugh. “Yeah, but at least I'm an okay rider,” I say. “I sucked at steering a thousand-pound raft through a whitewater pinball machine.”

This makes him laugh. We turn off the main trail and onto a side path.

We're headed toward the old mill.

Chapter Five

There's nobody around as we meander through a residential camp at the base of Mount Whiteridge. That's because it's Saturday afternoon. Transition day. One tired group of campers has returned home, and the next won't arrive until tomorrow. As we walk, I tell Darren about my memories of being a camper here. Living in a teepee. Canoe trips. Midnight kitchen raids. Getting lost in the dark. Falling in love.

I keep an eye out for the wooden arrow that points the way up the hillside, toward the mill site. I remember my first visit. Our counselor took our group when I was about twelve. We spent a long time looking at the remnants of the millkeeper's home up on the mountainside. It was eerie. Almost like his spirit was still up there somewhere. Watching.

Before long I spot the faded sign. I turn Whiskey's head uphill. As I lead Darren up to the site, I wonder how much has changed in the years since I last visited. Is the old cabin still standing? Has the rusted car become overgrown by bushes?

A few minutes later, we arrive. The wooden wreckage spreads out around us. Half an acre of thin boards are piled in a huge heap, like a giant spilled a big box of matches. They're a lonely reminder of an old-timer's attempt to make a living. I always wonder why he picked a mountainside to set up the mill.

Small saplings have started to grow up along the edge of the decomposing wood. It's quiet here, and I feel myself relax. Darren's mellow too. We're pretty far from the camp below—half a mile or so. Maybe a couple of miles from the ranch. I can't hear anything but the aspen leaves whispering in the breeze.

That's why they call them “trembling aspens”—because they'll shiver in the slightest wind. It's a sound I love.

I dismount and loosen off Whiskey's saddle. I tie her to a tree so her head can reach the sweet grasses around the base. I tie Springsteen the same way.

I unbuckle my saddlebag and grab my water bottle.

“Come on,” I say. I'm excited to show Darren around. He seems just as stoked as I am to check out this creepy place.

I show him the mossy old cabin and its built-in wooden bed. The mattress is gone now. Who lived here? What was his life like? The table's still there, next to the four-pane window. Did I just imagine it, or did there used to be old cans and utensils too? I show Darren the rusted-out car beside the cabin. It's a two-door, smaller than I had remembered.

“How'd he get the car up here, I wonder,” Darren says.

I glance behind us to where the path we took meets up with another one.

“Look there,” I say, pointing. “You can see where the road used to lie. Right across the side of the mountain.” I look back to the car, imagining the people it once carried. “I wonder why they didn't just build their house in the valley below.

Why would they bother to set this all up on the side of a mountain?”

“They?” asks Darren. He's standing close to me now. Really close. He smells good. Like soap and sunshine. “I thought this was just one crazy mountain man's place,” he says.

“Well, maybe,” I say. “But I think it
was
a ‘they.' Because look at this.” I put my hand on his elbow and pull him farther down the narrow trail to where a rusted-out baby carriage rests on its side in the grass. A chill creeps up my back as I look at it. I wonder what happened to that baby.

I shiver. Darren puts his arm around my shoulders. My heart does a giddy little double-skip and I blush a bit, but I don't move under the weight of his arm. I like that he wants to touch me. I want to touch him too, but I don't. Instead I just smile. He smiles back and gives my shoulders a little squeeze.

“Let me show you one more thing,” I say. I turn and lead him toward the old well.

The well is covered—at least it used to be. I mean, I sure as hell hope it still is. The grass is pretty long around here. It could easily conceal a well opening. I don't remember exactly where it was, but I seem to recall it was a bit uphill. Just through these bushes. Wasn't it?

I'm bent over and rustling through the greenery, trying to part the thick undergrowth with my hands. There it is. It's still got its cover. I push the grass to the side, exposing a mossy wooden disc.

I don't hear Darren come up behind me. But I feel him. Without warning, he grabs my hips and presses his pelvis against me. Against my butt.

Being this close to him doesn't feel so nice this time.

“Hey!” I shout. I kind of laugh. But it's one of those uncomfortable laughs.

You know the ones. Like when you're not sure what's really going on. “What the hell?” I try to stand up. I don't like this. I want to shake him off.

But Darren's hands grip the sides of my hips, an iron vise. He holds me there.

Hard. I can't move away
.
My laughter dies in my throat.

“Darren!” I shout. “Let me go!” I'm pissed now. My voice cracks. I taste fear. I lunge forward but I can't slip his grasp. He laughs.

My mouth suddenly feels like it's full of cotton. I try to stand, but my hands can't push me up off the ground. He's too strong. I don't want to drop to the ground either. I need my legs under me.

I need to run.

Chapter Six

My heart is smashing against my ribcage. I'm tingling everywhere. In the space of a minute this whole situation just went from feeling pretty good to feeling really wrong.

In front of me, my fingers try to grab something—anything—to pull me away from Darren. But there's nothing to pull on. Just grass. I snatch at it. He's laughing. He slaps the side of my butt. “Giddyup,
gurl
,” he drawls.

Suddenly, rage and fear coil my guts into a tight spring. Something inside me snaps.

With a sudden lunge and twist, I break free of Darren's grasp. I fall back into the bushes. My hand hits something hard. The wooden well cover. I'd have preferred to fall down the shaft, considering how my morning is going.

I scramble to my feet, ready to rip this guy a new asshole. Who does he think he is? Darren's chuckling, his head thrown back, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. His neat teeth gleam white against the green of the trees.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” I shout.

Darren stops laughing. “Aw, Jill,” he says. He spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I was just goofing around. Can't you take a joke?” He looks at me. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

I brush my backside off, wanting to wipe off his touch. I feel dirty. Cheap. Like I've done something wrong.

“You've got a pretty crappy idea of what makes a joke,” I seethe. “Don't you touch me again.” Something in his eyes changes. He likes to see me getting angry I realize. I feel sick.

He's not normal.

Suddenly my outrage dissolves, replaced by cold fear. It sticks in my throat. Darren takes a step toward me.

I jump back, but he grabs my wrist and yanks me around, twisting my arm behind my back.

Pain explodes in a series of flashing white and red lights. My body locks up with agony as my shoulder rotates toward the outer edge of its range of motion.

I scream. What the hell is going on?

How can this be happening to me?

I've never heard myself scream before. Not like this. It's a scream of fear and pain and complete helplessness.

He's going to kill me.
The words flash in my head, like neon letters against a dark building. On. Off. On. Off.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Then, suddenly, he lets me go. I fall to the ground, half laughing, half crying.

Who knows why I'm laughing. I'm not feeling particularly jovial.

Get the hell up off the ground!

I command my hands to put themselves on the earth. To help me up. My left hand complies; my right arm hangs limp, as though I've slept the whole night on it. My shoulder socket burns.

This is not how it's supposed to be. Out of nowhere, James's voice intrudes in my head.
Quite the adventure ride
this turned out to be, eh, Jill?

I feel a wave of nausea as the whole picture comes crashing in on me. I'm on a mountainside, half a mile from anyone who could possibly hear me. On a trail that's seldom used. On a day when no one's in the camp below. There's no information back at the ranch that explains who I'm with or which trail I took. No note. No waiver form. Jeremy saw me leaving, but for all he knows I could be gone for a full-day ride. He wouldn't think to check the bookings. And besides, there's probably nothing written there.

No one knows where I've gone. No one knows how long I'll be.

No one knows I'm here
.

Darren grabs me by my bad arm and pulls me up. Yanks me onto my feet. Sharp fireworks explode in my head. I swoon, like some old-fashioned sweetheart. He pulls me close to him. Presses his face against mine. His mouth against my ear. Breathes his terrible air onto my cheek.

“It's okay, Jill,” he says. His voice is smooth. “Don't be scared.” He lets out a spooky little giggle. His voice drops to a whisper. “I'm not going to hurt you.

Not yet. I'm just going to play with you a little bit first.”

Chapter Seven

Darren drops my arm. I stagger backward. I watch him stroll a few steps away and sit down on a log at the edge of the clearing. He smiles at me. I suppress a crazy urge to laugh as he punches a piece of gum out of a crinkling blister pack and pops it in his mouth. I guess even bad guys need fresh breath.

The urge to giggle passes quickly.

An icy fist grips my heart as I remember where I am. Like I'm in some terrible dream, I watch as Darren lifts his pant leg and slides a gleaming hunting knife out of the holster strapped to his calf.

Ssssshiinnnng.

That's when the tears start to roll.

As soon as the sob bubbles up in my throat, I clamp down on it. I can't let myself cry now. It'll screw up my thinking. I've got to think. I don't want him to hear me either. I don't want him to think he's got me where he wants me.

Guys like this, fear turns them on.

I tear my eyes off the knife.

Without warning, I hear the voice of my grade-eight gym teacher, Mrs. Rodney.

“You always have a choice,” she says in her trademark calm tone. “You can choose fear. Or you can choose focus.

But you can't have both. You don't have room for both.” It's the same thing she said to me before our last gymnastics competition—the one where our team f lattened every other school in the province and took home the provincial championship title. “It's one or the other,” she's saying. “What's it going to be, Jill?”

Right there I ditch the fear and choose focus instead. It's like they're shirts of a different color. Fear won't get me out of here. Fear will kill me. I slide the fear shirt off and slip into the focus one. I imagine that it's made of a fine chain mail. It has a nice weight to it. My feet grow solid under me.

I've got to get off this mountain.

“Listen, Darren,” I say. I scuff my toes on the dirt, ignoring his freaky knife. My voice sounds surprisingly steady. I have to talk my way out of this, somehow. “I'm sorry I got mad back there. You just…caught me off guard. Surprised me. Let's just forget about it. Start over, 'kay?” I shrug.