could see the track of her fall.
Everything hurt, especially her arm that burned like fire. They’d shot her. No time to check it. Get out of here, Frankie.
She shoved to her feet and ran upstream on the bank. Her boots slipped and slid in the mud and snowy patches.
Glancing back, she saw her footprints that would point the way right to her. No, no, no.
She’d read thrillers about fugitives walking in the water to hide their tracks. Here was a stream. Would it work?
It might. She had to lose whoever was after her. That came before anything. She jumped into the calf-high stream. As the frigid water washed over her boots and trickled inside, she sucked in a breath and broke into a stumbling run downstream—the opposite direction of where she’d been going.
The minutes passed, an eternity of minutes, and the sounds of people behind her grew louder, faded, then disappeared. Relief swept through her. She’d lost her pursuers.
She’d also lost any sense of where the road might be. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo. A new fear crept up her spine.
The forest darkened around her. It couldn’t be sunset already. No, not sunset. Black clouds filled the sky. It was going to rain; she just knew it.
She stumbled up onto the bank, and the icy water drained from her boots. Her feet were numb. Her sleeve was wet—and red—because her upper arm still bled. A deep furrow cut across her deltoid and burned like fire.
Stop the bleeding was a basic first aid rule. And she sure didn’t want to attract bears or anything.
But with what? Her socks were wet and muddy. She wasn’t wearing anything that would—okay, maybe she was. No one was around to see her breasts, right? She pulled off her shirt and bra and wrapped her bra around her arm, then awkwardly used her teeth and free hand to knot it. An icy wind whipped over her bare skin.
As she eased her shirt back on, she shivered. That bullet could easily have struck her chest. Or her head.
Keep moving.
Farther down the stream bank, a small trail disappeared into the forest. A hobbit trail—because hobbits were a lot less scary than bears. It finally wound its way to a bigger trail. Um, did that mean it had bigger animals?
Maybe it would eventually reach a road. She kept trudging, her boots squishing with every step, her feet cold and blistering within wet socks.
An odd feeling ran down her spine and raised the hair on her nape. She halted. What a creepy feeling, like…like someone was watching her.
A low growl came from the side, and she spun. Wolves! In terror, she stared at the undergrowth.
“Frankie?” The deep rumbling voice was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard.
“Bull!”
When he stepped out of the forest onto the trail, she ran straight at him—and he pulled her into his arms.
Into safety.
The little New Yorker was twined around him tighter than a morning glory vine…and shaking so hard her bones should’ve rattled. At his feet, Gryff whined, tail whipping furiously.
Jesus, what’d happened to Frankie? Bull’s jaw clenched. They’d heard gunshots a while back…
“Easy, Frankie. You’re all right.” But was she? “Hawk, is she hurt?”
“Yeah, bro. Bloody sleeve. Clever girl wrapped a bra around the wound. Clothes are ripped.”
Bull stiffened.
Hawk said hastily, “Torn up from the brush, not a person.”
Frankie pulled back, gripped Bull’s arms, and gave him a shake. “Quiet. They’ll hear. They have guns.”
His suspicions confirmed, fury rose inside him. Someone had shot her.
“Sweetheart.” He tilted her chin so he could meet her eyes. He kept his voice low and easy, despite the boiling in his blood. “No one is close to us right now. Trust me on this.”
“You’re sure?” She checked his expression, then Hawk’s.
When they both nodded, she started to sag in his arms.
“Hold still a minute.” He moved her bra-dressing enough to check the wound on her arm. A bloody groove across her deltoid. The bullet had missed shattering her shoulder joint by mere inches.
Hawk’s mouth tightened, and he drew his pistol.
Reacting to their anger, Gryff growled, and the fur down his spine rose.
Gently, Bull put the dressing back in place. It would serve until Caz could do a better job.
Wrapping an arm around Frankie’s waist to keep her upright and moving, he headed down the trail toward his truck.
“Who shot you?” Bull asked.
Hawk fell in behind, guarding their six.
She hesitated and said slowly, “I didn’t see whoever it was. I just heard shooting, and I ran.”
Bull turned and considered the direction