Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(88)

Ahead, the stream cut through a deep gully twenty feet below the game trail. During the spring, it likely ran much higher on its banks. There had to be a path leading down to the water.

Turning his head, he whispered, “Keep moving,” and nudged her gently along a two-foot-wide path that ran along the side of the gully. Morgan’s lack of balance worried him.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said.

Her grip was weak and trembling. He was freezing. Morgan had less body fat and lower overall body mass than he did. Her long limbs and thin body gave her more surface area from which to lose heat.

But there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to help her. With King on their trail, they couldn’t stop to build a fire or shelter.

They had to find a place to cross the stream. The snow helped illuminate the ground at their feet, but the topography forced them to slow down. They shuffled along, careful with each footstep. The quiet of the snowy woods was broken only by the gurgle of the stream.

Lance looked as far ahead as the darkness would allow. He had roughly twenty feet of decent visibility. Beyond that, the woods were a dark nothing.

Ahead, the path widened, the embankment becoming gradual enough that they should be able to scramble down without killing themselves.

He pointed with both hands and looked over his shoulder at Morgan at his left flank. She nodded and kept walking.

The snowfall picked up. A glance at the trail behind them showed the flakes settling into their tracks. Maybe King wouldn’t find them. Maybe they had a chance after all.

Morgan stumbled. Lance spun and lunged for her, but her feet slid over the edge. She clawed at nearby branches for a handhold. Lance caught her arm, his feet skidding a few inches in the snow. He fought for traction, his boots sliding closer and closer to the edge. Her eyes were wide open and shining with fear.

If she fell . . .

Lance’s boot hit a rock. Bracing against it, he hauled her back up onto the path, pivoted, and pushed her away from the edge, his heart hammering. She fell to her knees, but she was safe.

Rocks shifted. The ground dropped out from under Lance’s feet. He plunged downward, his body banging into tree trunks, broken branches tearing at his limbs. A hot bolt of pain licked at his leg. He slammed into a rock. A bone cracked, and pain rocketed through his side.

Then everything went black.





Chapter Forty-Seven

Morgan knelt on the edge of the embankment. A rush of panic lent her body renewed strength. Holding on to a tree, she leaned over the edge. “Lance?”

She shifted her weight, trying to get a better view through the foliage. Beneath her knees, the ground crumbled. Another fat section broke away and tumbled down the slope. Morgan scrambled for solid footing.

Where is he?

Feet first, she stepped down and planted her boot on a tree root. Her finger slipped from their grip on the tree. When she found a new handhold on a rock, she left a smear of blood behind. She used snow to wipe the blood away, then pulled the sleeve of her sweater over the cut. She didn’t want to leave that obvious a trail, but she was too cold, too numb to feel the cut on her palm. She moved carefully, making sure each new hand-and foothold was secure before releasing the previous grip. She wouldn’t be able to help Lance if she fell too, and having her hands cuffed together made the descent awkward.

It seemed to take forever to work her way into the gully.

She was near the bottom when she spotted his black-clad form and bright-blond hair on the snow. He lay still at the base of the slope, a few inches from the meandering stream.

If he’d tumbled farther, he would have drowned.

He has to be all right.

As if answering her thoughts, he stirred. His head lifted and turned as he scanned the stream bed.

She slid down the remaining few feet of bank and dropped to her knees beside him. She tried to run her hands over his body to assess his injuries, but she couldn’t feel anything. Her hands and feet felt like heavy blocks of ice. She slid her hands over his legs. Her fingers came away from his calf wet with fresh blood. She parted a slash in his pants. A deep gash ran through his calf. Blood ran from the wound. But she doubted the cut was the reason he hadn’t risen. “Where else are you hurt?”

“Ribs, leg,” he said though blue-white lips. “Help me up.”

“Are you sure?”

He hoisted his body into a sitting position, his face went gray, and the skin of his face stretched tight as a drum. Despite the cold, his injuries clearly weren’t numb. “We have to keep moving.”

“We need to stop that bleeding.” She got her shoulder under his arm. The handcuffs got in the way. With his feet under him, he walked two steps and doubled over, his hands pressing against his ribs.

“Broken?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“Hold on. We’re leaving a blood trail in the snow.” But what could she use to stop the bleeding? They had no supplies. Nothing. Her belt or his bootlace weren’t any good without a bandage of some sort. She must have something she could tie around his leg . . . There was only one thing she could think of.

She snaked her freezing hands into the neck of her sweater and slipped her bra straps down her shoulders. Unhooking the straps with frozen fingers was harder, but she fumbled through it. She gave Lance her back. “Unhook my bra.”

Lance made a choking sound. “What?”