My toes gripped the base of the tree as I reached for the first branch. I put my weight on it.
It snapped.
Shit!
Another bark—loud and clear, just over the ridge.
I moved.
Scrabbling at the tree, I hugged the rough bark and hurled myself up, reaching like a crazed, climb-retarded monkey for a branch just out of grabbing distance. I didn’t think I’d make it. I closed my eyes in preparation for a painful fall, but by some miracle, my fingers latched around the bough, clinging harder than ever before.
Go. Go!
I gave myself over to a skill I’d never used but hoped remained dormant in some part of my human evolution. I placed my foot against the bark, pulling upward with my hands. I reached for the next.
And the next.
And the next.
My breath came hard and ragged, my heart an overworking drum.
I used the tree as my own personal stepladder to freedom, climbing higher and higher until I daren’t look down in case I blacked out and tumbled from heaven to hell.
A large thundering came, overshadowing the yips and excited barks of dogs. The leaves around me shuddered as footfalls of a bigger beast came closer.
Had Jethro come with others? Would Daniel be with him? Or even his father?
My skin rippled with hatred. I meant what I’d said. I would find a way to kill them all before this was over. I wouldn’t let them spill any more Weaver blood. It was the Hawks’ turn.
I’ll make them pay.
Turning slowly, cursing my shaking legs and suddenly nervous hands, I faced the forest floor from which I’d climbed. I was at least two and half stories up.
I closed my eyes, swallowing hard.
Don’t fall. Don’t even think about falling.
Faintness existed on my outer vision, teasing me with the awfulness of what could happen. I dug my fingernails into the bark, lowering myself slowly onto the branch. The minute I was sitting, with the roughness of the tree biting into my unprotected behind, I wrapped an arm around the trunk and sat wedged against the wood.
I looked around for weapons, but there were none. No pine cones. No easily snappable branches to stab him with. All I had was the element of disappearing. A naked girl vanishing into the green haze of the forest.
My heart lodged in my throat as the first dog appeared. I didn’t recognise him from the night spent in the kennels. He whirled around and around, sniffing the spot where I’d stood.
Another dog appeared, then another and another, pouring from the woods like ants, growling in delight at the strength of my trail.
Distress gripped my stomach.
Go away, damn you.
Then, he arrived.
Sitting proudly astride a black horse, so big it looked like a beast from the underworld, he cantered into being. His polished boots soaked up the dappling sunlight; a whip with a diamond wedged on the handle glinted menacingly.
He looked in his element.
A gentleman out hunting with his faithful steed and gallant party of dogs. His silvering hair sparkled like tinsel in the sun. His ageless face the epitome of ferocity and winning.
In his late twenties, Jethro wore command like one would wear cologne. His strong jaw, pursed lips, and sculptured brow shouted power—true power. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.