The Middle of Somewhere(87)

“Stay near the tent.”

“I will.”

She climbed out and stood, directing her flashlight into the forest, sweeping the beam back and forth. She hugged herself with her free arm and stomped her feet as the icy breeze stole her body heat. Crouching into a ball, she returned to the question that had been eating away at her since she first felt Payton Root’s peculiar attention: Why her? Finally, she believed she understood. Stripped of her shell of lies and deceits, she could see herself as Payton did: a woman strong enough to be worth conquering, and fragile enough to break. It terrified her to know he was pursuing her, threatening her, with his brother in collusion. And as much as she wanted Dante by her side, Payton didn’t consider him a deterrent. She could only hope she and Dante could hold off the Roots until they encountered other people, or until someone realized they were in trouble and sent help.

The cold found its way to her bones. She scanned the trees one last time, unzipped the fly and crawled inside. Dante shifted as she climbed over him and settled into her bag. They didn’t speak, but his breathing told her he was as alert as she was, despite their exhaustion. Morning could not come soon enough.

Several times over the next hour, Dante crawled partway out of the tent and scanned for signs of the Roots. Liz’s eyelids would not stay open, and she struggled to listen for sounds above the whistling of the wind. She slid briefly into unconsciousness, but her jangled nerves prevented her from finding real sleep.

Dante clamped his hand on her arm. “Liz!”

She pushed herself up, disoriented, and rubbed her nose. A smell. A barbecue? Dante was scrambling out of his bag, grabbing his jacket, jamming his hat on.

“What—”

“A fire! We need to get out!”

Her stomach dropped. “Where?”

He opened the door and stuck his head out. “All I can see is smoke!”

Her mind racing, she tried to unzip her bag. It caught. She cursed and wriggled out. She threw on her jacket and stuffed whatever clothes and gear she could find quickly into her sleeping bag. Dante climbed outside, cramming his feet in his boots as he went.

Liz shouted, “Get the packs first!”

She crawled out, dragging the sleeping bags behind her. Her heart beat in her throat as she stood. Smoke everywhere, illuminated faint orange on the far side of the campsite, toward the trail. Too much smoke to see how large the fire might be. The wind was blowing toward them. She waved smoke from her face, the acrid smell stinging her nose. Where was her flashlight? She dropped the sleeping bags. Hands trembling, she fumbled in one pocket, then the other and found it. She clicked it on and spun around to find Dante hoisting both packs. He ran away from the blaze toward the meadow.

“To the river!” he shouted over his shoulder.

She scanned around her with the beam, holding her arm over her nose. Her legs wouldn’t move. Panic swamped her brain. Think. What was vital? She stuck the flashlight in her mouth, and shoved on her boots, tying them roughly. Stuffing one sleeping bag inside the other, she tossed them over her shoulder and crossed to the cooking area, waving smoke away as she did. She threw the stove and lighter inside the cook pot, grabbed two water bottles and hugged everything against her with one arm, and took the flashlight from her mouth with the other. Coughing, she sprinted after Dante. Her foot hit the nylon trip line, and she flew forward, twisting sideways as she fell. Her left arm hit the ground, the blow cushioned by the sleeping bags. She pushed herself upright, scooped up the water bottles she’d dropped and raced ahead.

Dante was running toward her. “The bear cans!”

“Oh, shit!” They’d left them somewhere between the tent and trail, close to where the fire seemed to be. She abandoned everything except the flashlight. The beam jumped up and down as she ran back to the campsite. The wind parted the smoke for a moment, revealing flames licking the stunted trees, a dozen yards away. Dante was near the tent, smoke billowing around him. Where had they put the cans? An image appeared in her mind. A large rock. She swung the light to Dante’s left where she thought they might be.

“Over there!”

He moved quickly, waving smoke away, coughing. She was nearly at the tent, searching for the cans with the light. The smoke was densest near the ground. There! Dante’s hands were already on them. He picked them up and was enveloped by smoke. She shone the light in his direction to help him, but he was already gone.

She started after him, but turned back. If she could rescue the tent, she should. They had nothing else to protect them in severe weather. She cast the light into the thickest part of the smoke, trying to see how close the flames were, but it was impossible. Flashlight in her mouth, she grabbed a corner of the tent and jerked it upward, pulling the stake out of the ground, freeing the ground sheet, tent and fly. She palmed the stake and she moved around the tent, yanking stakes from the ground and pushing aside the rocks she had used as anchors. Smoke stung her eyes and twice she had to remove the flashlight from her mouth during a coughing fit. She cursed herself for not having the headlamp handy. The last stake refused to budge. She recalled struggling to drive it into the ground earlier. She pulled with both hands, her heart pounding and hands slick with sweat. The stake flew out, disappearing into the smoke. Liz grabbed the tent and dragged it toward the meadow. Nearly blinded by smoke, the flashlight useless, she kicked each foot in front of her, searching for the trip line. Her foot hit the cord. She stepped over it, lifting the tent clear. Dante appeared and together they carried the tent to the stream edge.