Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(101)

“He was your friend, and I thought he’d get over it. He would see the truth—that it was you, and it had always been you, and I never saw him as anything but a friend. I married you. I had your baby. He would understand soon. I kept telling myself he would finally understand. And he did not.”

Baptiste goes still, processing. Then his face hardens, and he strides toward the forest. “Lane! Sidra’s right. Show yourself! You have something to say to me, come out here and—”

A whistle. That’s all I hear. An odd whistle, and then Baptiste falls back and Sidra screams. She runs to her husband as he staggers back, an arrow in his shoulder. Sidra knocks Baptiste to the ground as another arrow whistles past. She covers his body, protecting him, as we surround them, guns out, shouting for Lane.

The forest goes silent.

Dalton motions that he’s heading in. I clamp down on the urge to stop him. Instead, I motion that I’ll do the same, from the other side, and he gives me the same look, the one that resists saying no, don’t go. Go or stay, though, we’re in equal danger from an archer in the woods.

Dalton leaves first, as I call to Storm, loud enough to distract Lane if he’s watching. I’m telling Storm to stay with Petra when Sidra shouts, “Lane!”

I look to see Sidra marching toward the forest, her arms spread wide. Petra is on the ground with Baptiste, checking his shoulder injury. Baptiste stares at Sidra and then tries to rise, but Petra holds him down.

“Sidra?” I say. “Don’t—”

“Lane!” she shouts. “I do not love you. You could take me captive, and I would only kill you the first chance I got. If I couldn’t kill you, I would kill myself before I let you touch me. Is that clear? Do you understand? I will not be yours. I will never—”

“No!” I say. I hear her words, and I hear echoes of others, and I know what is coming, what is always coming in a situation like this.

I run for Sidra, but Petra is closer, and she knows the same thing I do. She’s on her feet, launching herself at Sidra. That whistle sounds. That horrible whistle. Petra hits Sidra and sends her flying, and the arrow hits Petra in the chest. I’m already running at her, and I see it hit and her eyes round, mouth rounding, too, in surprise. Another arrow, this one hitting her in the shoulder, spinning her. She stumbles, and I catch her. I grab her, and her feet scuffle against the ground as she tries to stay upright.

“Cover!” I shout at Sidra and Baptiste. “Get to cover. Storm!”

Storm races to me as I half drag Petra. Baptiste says, “Here!” and I look to see him and Sidra ducking behind a deadfall off to our left. I manage to get Petra there. I glance at Baptiste, but he says, “I’m fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Sidra says, voice quavering, “but his jacket is thick. He’ll be all right.”

Sidra helps me lay Petra down. Petra’s fingers wrap around my arm, her face pale, eyes wide with impending shock.

“You’re okay,” I say. “Relax. Stay with us.”

“émilie,” she says, and it takes me a moment to remember that that’s her grandmother, one of the board members for Rockton. “The … the hostiles … Your … your theory.”

“Tell émilie my theory about the hostiles. Got it. But you can do it yourself. Just hold on.”

We don’t remove the arrows, not until we get a look at how deep they’re in. I undo Petra’s parka. While she hasn’t been as lucky as Baptiste, the arrowheads haven’t gone deeper than the head. One is in her shoulder, the other just above her heart. Serious, yes. Life-threatening, though? I hope not. I really, really hope not. I can’t see well enough to be sure, not without removing the arrows.

“We need to snap off the shafts,” I say. “If the shafts are off, we can get her out of that jacket and—”

“Eric,” Petra whispers. “Go look after Eric. And get this guy. Stop him.”

I hesitate, but Sidra shoulders me aside, taking over. “She’s right. We’ll leave the arrows in for now. Just find your sheriff and stop Lane.” She meets my gaze. “Please stop Lane.”

I nod, squeeze Petra’s hand, and then take off.





FORTY-ONE


From the arrow-fire, I know the direction to go. I do what we’d planned before Petra got shot—I sneak up in the other direction, presumably on Lane’s opposite side. I hear Lane before I see him. He’s breathing hard and fast, the sound pulling me easily through the woods, letting me approach alongside him, no danger of running smack into him. Not that I’m too worried about that. His weapon might be lethal, but he doesn’t have an arrow nocked. I can see that as soon as I spot him. He’s poised, bow in hand, his gaze riveted on the place where the others hide behind the deadfall.

He’s waiting for movement. I don’t know what he expects—someone to leap up like a jack-in-the-box? His heavy breathing tells me his adrenaline is pumping, blood pounding in his ears, rendering him deaf and blind to everything except what he wants to see.

Sidra.

He’s waiting for Sidra.

He expects she’ll leap up again to scream at him. Tell him that she’ll never be his, and he will kill her for it. That is what men like him do. He’s been raised to believe he has the right to a life partner, the right to the woman he chooses to fill that role, and if he can’t have her, then by God, no one else will either. He’ll kill Sidra and then himself. That is how this goes. It’s how it always goes.