But he was taking off her boots. And her pants.

He wasn’t going to do that.

He will not. Through the pain, her mind suddenly became clear. This time she had to plan better. She would have one chance. Just one. She had to do it at the perfect moment.

“You all right down there?” he asked. He was standing over her, unbuckling his belt.

She sobbed. She had to make him think she’d given up. But she was watching his every move, getting ready.

His pants were open, pulled partway down. He was going to leave them on while he did it. That might be better. Tie up his legs.

“Stay still so I don’t knock the blade handle,” he warned.

She readied herself. One chance. Just one. She whimpered like a wounded puppy, but inside she calculated how to rip out his throat.

She was right. Leaving his pants on had been a mistake. He had to put his full weight on his hands to balance. Ellis ripped the knife out and jerked it upward into his chest. Or his belly. She had no idea where it went, but she’d shoved as hard as she could, and she was strong from climbing mountains and hauling water. The knife sank deep.

She hardly heard his screams, she was so desperate to get out from under him. She shoved him, and he fell over on his side, staring wide eyed at the knife sticking out of the right side of his stomach. Her knife. The hunting knife had been passed from her great-grandfather to her grandfather to her.

Ellis stumbled to her feet and yanked the knife out of him. He wailed.

“I know how to use a hunting knife!” she screamed. “I know how to use it!”

The bearded man threw his fist into her face. Then another. Her left cheek and her right eye exploded. She saw red like splattering blood and white sparks and fell to the ground.

The blond was gasping, blood oozing down his belly. “Dean, help me!” he cried. “Get me in the truck!”

Ellis got up and ran. Into the trees. Deeper and deeper.

She didn’t stop until she hit a log. She fell over it and lay in the dead leaves, breathing hard. Just breathing.

The birds told her when to get up. They were twittering above her. Titmice and chickadees. They knew the sudden violence of predators in the forest. But when the threat was gone, they could fly again.

She risked stirring the leaves. When she stood, she felt her injuries. Sharp pain in her left side. Her left wrist sprained, possibly broken. Her eye already swelling closed. Her cheeks, nose, and mouth were throbbing and caked with blood. Her bare legs and feet were cold and torn up from running through branches and thorns.

She realized what was in her right hand. The bloody knife. She gripped it in case they were still there.

It took a minute to get her bearings. She had run down the hill. Now she had to go back up. It was tough. More difficult than when she’d climbed her first mountain. But she did it. Step by step.

When she got to the top, she stood quietly, knife in hand, listening for the men. She thought she saw the campground in the distance, a break in the trees. When she arrived at the campsites, the truck that had pulled in the night before was gone. She backtracked until she found her pack, boots, and pants. The sheath to her knife.

She dressed and walked to her camp, her hand pressed on the oozing cut in her side. She had to stop the bleeding. She pulled her medical supply box out of the back of the SUV and poured alcohol over the cut. Stifled a scream. When her skin dried, she smeared the gash with antibiotic cream, pressed on gauze pads, and taped it with duct tape. To be sure it held, she wrapped a strip of tape completely around her waist, then washed three ibuprofen tablets down with water.

Ellis sat on the ground, eyes closed, waiting for the medication to take effect. She tried to think what to do. She didn’t have health insurance. But if anyone found out about the knife wound, they would make her go to a hospital. The doctors would ask questions. She’d stabbed a man, possibly killed him. The police would get involved. Her history dug up. They’d link her to Jonah and Senator Bauhammer. The boys would find out.

It would be like the day Viola was abducted all over again.

And, of course, the doctors would give her pain medication. She didn’t want that. She couldn’t risk her sobriety. But they would make her. Maybe even knock her out with an IV to fix the cut. And when she woke, Jonah would be standing in her hospital room. His eyes would have that same look. Like a mirror reflecting what he saw. A bad mother. A screwup. Trailer trash.

She didn’t have to go to a hospital. The man who’d stabbed her said he knew the right place. He’d said she wouldn’t die. If she kept the cut clean, it would heal.

She’d have to hope her wrist was sprained, not broken. She could move it a little. It would be okay. Everything would be okay. She needed only a safe place to rest for a few days. Not a campground. She’d go to a motel, where she could take a shower and sleep in a bed.

When the ibuprofen blunted the pain, she packed camp. But bending and lifting made her feel like her insides were coming out. She had to move slowly and carefully. Once the tent was down, she used water and rags to wash the blood and dirt off her face. She zipped her coat over her bloody shirt and pants.

She got in the car and started the motor.

Gep was smiling on the dashboard. Everything would be okay.

2

She couldn’t stop seeing the dead deer.

Zane, and another chef everyone called Rocky, had brought it over to show her mother when Ellis was eight. Zane had never been hunting before, and Rocky wasn’t the best with a gun either. That was how the deer had gotten gut shot, as Zane said.