| Chapter One Excerpt |
| January 1996 |
Christina McIntyre. Good. She still knew her own name.
Arms, legs, fingers and— She wiggled her toes. Good. Still intact.
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking, carefully, trying to focus.
The cabin. Timmons Trail. She knew where she was.
Why was she on the floor? She started to lift up but froze as a bolt of agony ripped through her
front to back, top to bottom. Breath stuck in her throat as her eyes pinched shut; she fell back and for
a full minute did not move.
This . . . is not a dream. I’m really hurt. How? What happened?
Cold darkness surrounded her. Night had fallen.
This . . . is not good. I am so late.
Her breath came in puffs. Sharp stabs knifed deep through her right side with each new breath,
as fear trickled into her blood. Carefully, she brought her hands around to check the damage.
Her hands were bare. Both of them. Where were her gloves? Her fingers ached with cold. It
didn’t make any sense. So cold, all over. The long-sleeved thermal shirt she wore under her bright
red San Juan Search and Rescue jacket usually kept her warm enough, even on the coldest nights.
Her jacket was gone.
Panic swelled inside her, stealing her breath, returning it only in short gasps. Pain split through
her with every breath. She reached her left hand around to feel for damage. She winced. If ribs
weren’t broken inside her, they were cracked. She cautiously lifted her hand and felt the back of her
head. The lump she found there triggered a rush of rote emergency procedure through her mind.
Blunt force trauma to the head—loss of consciousness, moderate duration—contusion, severe
swelling, possible con— She forced it all away, silently mumbling, Yeah, yeah, yeah. She lowered
her hand. I’ll survive. Just . . . breathe.
Too cold. She needed her gloves, her jacket. How could they possibly be gone? She’d freeze if
she didn’t find them—she needed them; why would she take them off?
She needed her flashlight. In the deepening darkness, she could tell the door of the cabin was
open wide. Did I come through the door and fall? I tripped over the door stop? One of the table
chairs lay on its side by her feet. Did she knock it over as she fell? Did she fall on top of it? That
could explain possible broken ribs. And then she hit her head on the floor and passed out? Had she
always been this clumsy?
Closing her eyes, she wanted to sleep. She could have slept, if it wasn’t for the nagging stabs
in her side.
She needed help. This irritated her. She hated even the thought of it—the rescuer needed
rescuing. Because she tripped over her own big feet. The guys would love this. They’d want to haul
her out on a litter just to embarrass her. She cringed.
But tonight, and soon, if someone didn’t help her down off this mountain, she didn’t think she
would make it home.
That’s just great. And we were supposed to go out tonight. Mexican with Travis. Her
stomach churned and she groaned. That would be the last straw, throwing up all over the floor of the
cabin.
Get up and get to the radio. Nothing to it. Every cabin in the San Juan District Three Search
and Rescue region had a radio. If she could just stand up. Maybe she should light the kerosene lamp
first. She needed to find her jacket.
If she could just stand up.
She headed outside. Keeping her right arm pinned against her ribs, she eased herself down the
stairs and across the slippery snow-packed ground to her snow machine. She clicked on the
snowmobile’s headlights and winced at the sudden brightness.
Perfect silence filled the night, loud, ear-ringing silence. Faint swirls of fine, floating snowy
powder caught her eye as a light breeze carried them across the headlight beams. Mesmerized, she
watched. Her eyelids felt laden with sand. She desperately wanted to sleep.
So quiet. So peaceful. Pain and numbing cold cancelled each other out as she simply sat there,
watching the night. In the distance, an owl hooted. Her lips almost smiled.
The silence felt oppressive. Nothing moved. Only the breeze. Until she heard a pop. Very faint.
The kind of pop a knuckle makes. Or an ankle bone. Her entire being froze, strained to hear more, to
see through the shadows.
Someone was out there. Someone was watching her.
She listened, barely breathed. Reached up and clicked the snowmobile’s headlights off.
Darkness fell so quickly, so completely, it stunned her. Just wait, she told herself. Don’t panic.
There was just enough waning twilight left, if she could wait and let her eyes adjust, she would be
able to see.
She saw something, to her left; she looked, just as that something exploded with light—the
beam of a powerful flashlight pointed directly at her face. She turned away, eyes pinched shut.
“Not how I was hoping this night would go.”
Chris turned her head—a man stood about fifty feet away. In the faint light reflecting back over
him, she saw the brilliant red of her San Juan Search and Rescue jacket.
As she sat there, a strange warmth seeped into her bones with every pump of her heart—
coursing pumps of pure, building rage. Just who did this lunatic think he was?
She glared. Not only was the man a vandal and a thief, he was rude as well.
He started toward her, switching the flashlight to his left hand as he walked and then pulling off
the glove on his right hand with his teeth. Spitting the glove away, he reached into the pocket of
Chris’s jacket and pulled out something that glimmered in the light.
He stopped a few feet from her. Chris saw what he now held in his right hand.
“Get in the cabin now. I’m not going to tell you again.”
A 9mm handgun. Police issue. Or military. She glanced up, into the man’s eyes. What she saw
shattered her rage, laid bare her underlying terror.
The man slowly raised the pistol and pointed it at Chris’s head.
She pushed herself up and trudged back to the cabin.
Arms, legs, fingers and— She wiggled her toes. Good. Still intact.
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking, carefully, trying to focus.
The cabin. Timmons Trail. She knew where she was.
Why was she on the floor? She started to lift up but froze as a bolt of agony ripped through her
front to back, top to bottom. Breath stuck in her throat as her eyes pinched shut; she fell back and for
a full minute did not move.
This . . . is not a dream. I’m really hurt. How? What happened?
Cold darkness surrounded her. Night had fallen.
This . . . is not good. I am so late.
Her breath came in puffs. Sharp stabs knifed deep through her right side with each new breath,
as fear trickled into her blood. Carefully, she brought her hands around to check the damage.
Her hands were bare. Both of them. Where were her gloves? Her fingers ached with cold. It
didn’t make any sense. So cold, all over. The long-sleeved thermal shirt she wore under her bright
red San Juan Search and Rescue jacket usually kept her warm enough, even on the coldest nights.
Her jacket was gone.
Panic swelled inside her, stealing her breath, returning it only in short gasps. Pain split through
her with every breath. She reached her left hand around to feel for damage. She winced. If ribs
weren’t broken inside her, they were cracked. She cautiously lifted her hand and felt the back of her
head. The lump she found there triggered a rush of rote emergency procedure through her mind.
Blunt force trauma to the head—loss of consciousness, moderate duration—contusion, severe
swelling, possible con— She forced it all away, silently mumbling, Yeah, yeah, yeah. She lowered
her hand. I’ll survive. Just . . . breathe.
Too cold. She needed her gloves, her jacket. How could they possibly be gone? She’d freeze if
she didn’t find them—she needed them; why would she take them off?
She needed her flashlight. In the deepening darkness, she could tell the door of the cabin was
open wide. Did I come through the door and fall? I tripped over the door stop? One of the table
chairs lay on its side by her feet. Did she knock it over as she fell? Did she fall on top of it? That
could explain possible broken ribs. And then she hit her head on the floor and passed out? Had she
always been this clumsy?
Closing her eyes, she wanted to sleep. She could have slept, if it wasn’t for the nagging stabs
in her side.
She needed help. This irritated her. She hated even the thought of it—the rescuer needed
rescuing. Because she tripped over her own big feet. The guys would love this. They’d want to haul
her out on a litter just to embarrass her. She cringed.
But tonight, and soon, if someone didn’t help her down off this mountain, she didn’t think she
would make it home.
That’s just great. And we were supposed to go out tonight. Mexican with Travis. Her
stomach churned and she groaned. That would be the last straw, throwing up all over the floor of the
cabin.
Get up and get to the radio. Nothing to it. Every cabin in the San Juan District Three Search
and Rescue region had a radio. If she could just stand up. Maybe she should light the kerosene lamp
first. She needed to find her jacket.
If she could just stand up.
She headed outside. Keeping her right arm pinned against her ribs, she eased herself down the
stairs and across the slippery snow-packed ground to her snow machine. She clicked on the
snowmobile’s headlights and winced at the sudden brightness.
Perfect silence filled the night, loud, ear-ringing silence. Faint swirls of fine, floating snowy
powder caught her eye as a light breeze carried them across the headlight beams. Mesmerized, she
watched. Her eyelids felt laden with sand. She desperately wanted to sleep.
So quiet. So peaceful. Pain and numbing cold cancelled each other out as she simply sat there,
watching the night. In the distance, an owl hooted. Her lips almost smiled.
The silence felt oppressive. Nothing moved. Only the breeze. Until she heard a pop. Very faint.
The kind of pop a knuckle makes. Or an ankle bone. Her entire being froze, strained to hear more, to
see through the shadows.
Someone was out there. Someone was watching her.
She listened, barely breathed. Reached up and clicked the snowmobile’s headlights off.
Darkness fell so quickly, so completely, it stunned her. Just wait, she told herself. Don’t panic.
There was just enough waning twilight left, if she could wait and let her eyes adjust, she would be
able to see.
She saw something, to her left; she looked, just as that something exploded with light—the
beam of a powerful flashlight pointed directly at her face. She turned away, eyes pinched shut.
“Not how I was hoping this night would go.”
Chris turned her head—a man stood about fifty feet away. In the faint light reflecting back over
him, she saw the brilliant red of her San Juan Search and Rescue jacket.
As she sat there, a strange warmth seeped into her bones with every pump of her heart—
coursing pumps of pure, building rage. Just who did this lunatic think he was?
She glared. Not only was the man a vandal and a thief, he was rude as well.
He started toward her, switching the flashlight to his left hand as he walked and then pulling off
the glove on his right hand with his teeth. Spitting the glove away, he reached into the pocket of
Chris’s jacket and pulled out something that glimmered in the light.
He stopped a few feet from her. Chris saw what he now held in his right hand.
“Get in the cabin now. I’m not going to tell you again.”
A 9mm handgun. Police issue. Or military. She glanced up, into the man’s eyes. What she saw
shattered her rage, laid bare her underlying terror.
The man slowly raised the pistol and pointed it at Chris’s head.
She pushed herself up and trudged back to the cabin.
| © 2005 Donna A. Fleisher |
Wounded Healer
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| Isaiah 53:5 But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed. |