Chapter 108 On Her Own
Sierra trudged back to the campsite, her arms aching from the weight of the dry branches. The fire had dwindled to embers, its warmth a meager promise in the biting cold. She dropped the wood beside the dying flames and knelt, stoking them with the dry wood in her trembling fingers. The burst of orange and the scent of smoldering pine revived her briefly.
Leaning against the cold granite wall, Julian lay motionless beneath the mylar blanket, his face pale as ash. She moved to his side, crouching to check his wound. As she leaned in, she noticed that his breathing had stopped. She reaches for the vein in his neck to check his pulse; before she’d left to gather more wood, he had been speaking to her in a weak voice, begging her not to leave him. Now, she knew why. He was gone. Her hand lingered for a moment as a strange silence settled around her, the kind that pressed into the chest.
She exhaled sharply, as if blowing out the smoke of a memory. Once, long ago, Julian had made her laugh. His wit had been a match to her own, his confidence a mirror to her own ambition. But that man was gone, even before he’d taken his last breath, buried beneath layers of lies and the weight of his own greed. She had tolerated his subterfuge, believing that she was serving a larger cause. She had come to be locked inside his prison, fearing him, especially after what he’d done to her in the suite in Flagstaff. She had prayed that it would all be over soon. However, she had counted on this.
Relief, then, was the crueler thorn. It bloomed in her throat, bitter and slow. Julian’s death wasn’t a tragedy; it was an end to a cage. She had ache for the man who had controlled her as much as she had for the one who’d made her feel alive. Swallowing hard, she pressed a hand to her chest, willing the storm of conflicting emotions to still.
The fire crackled, and she leaned forward, feeding it more wood. Its light would be her beacon, a signal to the world beyond the ravine. But if no one came…
A shudder ran through her. Not from the cold, but from the hollow understanding that she was alone. The thought struck with the force of a sledgehammer: alone. She had no idea where she was or where she needed to go. She had no food and only the shelter of the granite cliff behind her fire.
She pulled the map from among the meager emergency supplies. The sunrise had etched the peaks and valleys into greater clarity, and she now knew which way was north. If the jet had been following Highway 82 going east, their crash site was either north or south of that highway. It was unlikely that the pilots would have traveled north of the highway because the mountains on that side were much higher. So, she must be south of Highway 82. She traced its route with her finger. To the west, it led back to Aspen. To the east, it intersected with a highway between Leadville and Buena Vista.
There were trees around the clearing where the jet had crashed, so she was still below timberline, which is where the altitude prohibits tree growth. She picked a likely place on the map and then looked toward the peaks to her southeast. On the map, there were two peaks labeled: Rinker and La Plata.
Regardless of which peak it was, north and down the slope was her best chance of reaching Highway 82 and being rescued. A glimmer of hope flared in her chest.
Standing, she stuffed the map in her Prada coat and tucked the knife into her belt. She pulled the Mylar blanket up over Julian’s head and tucked it in around his body.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
She descended the slope through the timber, which grew thicker as she went. Each step was a battle against the weight of the world. Her boots, better suited for a sidewalk in Manhattan than a hike in the rugged rockies crunched through crusts of ice; her breath was steady, deliberate. Her head was a bass drum being pounded on with a heavy mallet. The cold seeped into her bones, but her mind remained sharp and focused.
By mid-morning, the wind had shifted, carrying the distant rumble of an engine.
A search plane.
She was deep in the forest. There was no way anyone in the plane would see her. She surged down the slope with greater urgency, sliding more than running as she worked her way toward what looked like a clearing below. A small clearing opened before her. She rushed into it, falling. She struggled to her knees, arms raised, shouting until her voice cracked.
The plane circled once, its shadow sweeping over the trees. Then it banked hard, its path curving southward.
“No! No!” Sierra scrambled to her feet, legs wobbling. The plane’s tail vanished beyond a ridge, and the silence that followed was louder than thunder. She sank back onto the snow, her body numb, her mind racing. How long would they search? How long before she could try again?
In the quiet that followed, the text message she’d received just before the crash surfaced:
If you survive this, go to the ranch. I’ll come to you there.
Someone knew about the crash, perhaps arranged it. That meant someone would be coming. Who? When?
If she made it back to the ranch, what would be waiting for her there?
The sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows through the trees, but warmth was a cruel illusion. Below her, she could see a broad valley and what looked like a narrow ribbon meandering in it, a stream. Streams always led down toward civilization. That was something her father had taught her whenever they were riding in the mountains. If she followed the stream down, she would eventually reach some form of civilization. Her hands trembled, and her legs barely supported her weight.
She considered for a few more minutes. If she continued down the slope to reach the stream, she would have to leave the clearing. She would be hidden in the trees if the search plane flew over her again. She wished she had the flair to send up a signal, but even with it, she would need to be in a clearing.
She decided it was best to wait. She lay back against the withered stump of a deadfall spruce and allowed herself to doze.
Staying in the clearing turned out to be the right decision, as far to the south, the search plane banked again, its course shifting. Holding her breath, Sierra straightened and listened. Was it coming closer?