One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(24)

The terrain has opened up dramatically. A huge expanse of wild grass, beaten golden brown by the sun this late in the summer, and dotted with white, yellow, and purple wildflowers. The air is crisper at this altitude, limned with the promise of glacier peaks and even the first hint of winter. All around us sweep the green, blue, and brown ridgelines of rolling mountains, some modestly short, some staggeringly tall.

It is all heart-stoppingly beautiful. The kind of views that drew pioneers far from the security of the known into the wild promise of the unknown. I would’ve made an excellent explorer, assuming I didn’t drop dead of exhaustion first.

It takes me a few tries to unclip the buckles around my chest and waist. My fingers are clumsy and swollen. I try to shake off my pack and nearly hiss from the pain in my shoulders. I bite it back quickly, not wanting to give away just how much I hurt.

To judge by the look on Nemeth’s face, he’s not fooled for a second. Beside me, Miggy has finally wrestled his bag to the ground. Without another word, he crosses to the river’s edge, drops to his knees, and plunges his head straight in.

It gives me the incentive to ditch my gear and follow suit as fast as I possibly can.

The water is a total shock. Not just cold, but cold. It’s bracing and brain numbing, perfectly refreshing and excruciatingly painful. I want to jerk away and gulp down entire mouthfuls. I hold steady, letting the water flow over my face and neck till I feel on the verge of an ice cream headache.

When I sit up and toss back my head, my long wet ponytail slaps between my shoulder blades and sends a fresh torrent of icy chills shivering down my overheated torso. It’s about as close to orgasm as I’ve ever come with an audience.

Beside me, Miggy removes the blue bandana from around his neck, dips it in the water, then uses it to scrub at his face, neck, bare arms. After a final dunking, he ties the dripping cloth around the bronze column of his throat.

Sheer longing must be stamped in my face, because next thing I know, Bob is kneeling beside me. “Want it?” Orange bandana still folded into a fresh, clean square.

“Last time I wanted something that bad, it was a bottle of rotgut vodka.”

Bob grins. “Take it, it’s yours.”

I copy Miggy’s technique down to the last detail. I might be stupid, but at least I’m a fast learner.

“Water?” Bob asks me.

“You want some?”

“No. How much do you have left? This is a good place to refill.”

I feel like I should know what he’s saying, but my physical exhaustion has impaired my ability to understand the English language.

Bob dangles two giant water jugs from their straps. Next, he produces what looks like an elongated plastic pop top, attached to an empty bladder. The water filtration system. I have a similar one in my pack.

As I watch, he fills the empty bladder with running water from the stream. Screws on the filtration top. Then, turning it upside down, he squeezes the water out of the bladder, through the charcoal filter pop top, into his drinking flask. Now I get it. And I should definitely refill both my bottles. Except that would involve standing up, and moving.

I promised I would not be deadweight. I promised I would not slow down the team. I still have to bite my lower lip as I rise painfully to my feet. Miggy is not moving much better. My impression is that Scott and Neil also wouldn’t mind being buried where they lie. There is thinking you’re active and fit, and then there is Nemeth fit.

When I turn, he’s standing right there. I try not to startle or flush guiltily. He hands me my water bottles and the filtration system from my pack.

“Final mile to go,” he says. “We’ll be camping tonight not far from a stream-fed lake. You can soak your feet in the water there. It’ll help.”

I nod.

“Today’s the hardest. Once we reach the target area and start our search, we’ll have to slow down and pay attention, not to mention respect Daisy’s need for breaks.”

I’ve never loved a dog more.

Nemeth steps back to take in the rest of the group. He might be a hard-ass, but clearly he’s also an experienced guide who knows how to size up his audience. Marty would walk to the ends of the earth without ever stopping, to bring his son home. Bob would follow because his heart is as big as the rest of him.

But for the bachelor party buddies, myself, even Luciana, this level of exertion is pushing our limits. Day one, Nemeth can’t afford for any of us to break.

“Ten more minutes,” he announces now. “Then we’ll gear up. Good news, we got plenty of daylight left, so you can take your time on the home stretch. Upon arrival, we’ll make camp, have a hot meal, then Marty and Luciana will walk us through the game plan for tomorrow.”

We nod as a unit. Nobody talking but everyone paying attention.

Then, in the distance: a strange, shrill scream that prickles the hair on the back of my neck. I drop my hand to the Rambo knife, feeling a jolt of fight or flight as the cry builds in intensity.

“Any questions?” Nemeth asks.

Scott, eyes wild: “What the hell is that?”

“Just an animal.”

The second shriek echoes disturbingly. Daisy’s ears prick forward, her body taut. I grip the handle of the tactical blade.

Nemeth remains unconcerned. “All right, break’s over. Gear up.”

That was not the ten-minute break he promised us. It makes me pay attention, catching the look Nemeth and Martin exchange while I note Bob’s posture has taken on a tension I haven’t seen before.