Black Hills

to see, to look at the land as she would. Upstream and across, she could cut around to his grandparents’ farm, or other houses. A long clip, but she could do it. Down and across, her parents’ farm. Closer.
    She had to know help would come from that direction.
    He started to wade in, to follow that instinct. Then stopped.
    Downstream, and east. The grassland. Her camera. Her place.
    He cut back, circled, and ran. He didn’t follow tracks now, but the thoughts and patterns of a woman he’d known and loved since childhood.
     
     
     
    JOE STARED DOWN at the blood staining the ground. It was black in the moonlight. His head went light, his knees weak, so he knelt down, laying his hand over the blood. He thought, could only think: Jenna.
    “Over here!” one of the deputies called out. “It’s Derrick Morganston. Goddamn it, it’s Derrick. He’s dead.”
    Not Jenna. Not his Jenna. Later, sometime later, he might feel sorrow that he didn’t think of the man, his family, and only of his own. But now fresh fury and fear pushed him to his feet.
    He started forward again, searching for tracks.
    Like a miracle, she came through the shadows and the moonlight. She staggered, fell, even as he raced toward her.
    He dropped to his knees again, pulled her up, rocked, wept. He stroked her bruised face with his fingers. “Jenna.”
    “The grasslands.” She croaked it out.
    “Here’s water. Ma, here’s water.” Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as Farley held water to her lips.
    She drank to ease her raging thirst as Farley petted her hair, as Joe rocked. “The grasslands,” she repeated.
    “What?” Joe took the bottle from Farley. “Drink a little more. You’re hurt. He hurt you.”
    “No. Lil. The grasslands. She’s leading him there. Her place. Find her. Joe. Find our baby.”
     
     
     
    HE HAD TO know where she was going now, but it couldn’t be helped. She only had to get within range of the camera, trust someone would see. Then hide. All that tall grass, she could hide.
    She had the knife in her boot. He didn’t know about that. She wasn’t defenseless. She hefted a rock, clutched it tight in her fist. Damn right she wasn’t defenseless.
    God, she needed to rest. To catch her breath. She’d have sold her soul for a single sip of water. She wished the moon behind clouds, just for a few minutes. She could find her way now in the dark, and the dark would hide her.
    The muscles in her legs wept as she fought her way up the next slope. The fingers that clutched the rock were numb with cold. Her breath whisked out, little ghosts, as she panted, as she pushed herself to the edge of endurance.
    She nearly stumbled, hated herself for the weakness, and braced her hand on a tree until she found her balance.
    The bolt slammed into the trunk inches from her fingers. She dropped, rolled behind the tree.
    “I could’ve pinned you like a moth!”
    His voice carried through the clear air. How close? How close? Impossible to tell. She lunged up, keeping low in the sprint from tree to tree. As the ground leveled out, she pushed harder. She imagined the shock and pain of one of those vicious bolts in the back. Cursed the thought. She’d come so far, nearly there. Her lungs burned, pushing air out as whistles as she tore her way through the brush, waking her freezing skin with fresh cuts.
    He’d scent her blood now.
    She burst out, praying someone would see as she flew across camera range. Then she dived, into the grass. Clamping her teeth, she slid the knife from her boot. Her heart pounded against the ground as she held her breath. Waited.
    Such quiet, such stillness. The air barely stirred the grass. As the blood beating in her head slowed, she heard the night sounds, little rustles, the lazy call of an owl. Then him, coming through the brush.
    Closer, she thought. Come closer.
    The bolt cut through the grass a foot to the left. She bit back the scream tearing at her throat, stayed still.
    “You’re good. I knew you would be. Best I’ve had. I’m sorry for it to end. I’m thinking I might give you another chance. Want another chance, Lil? Got any left? Go on and run.”
    The next bolt dug into the ground to her right.
    “You’ve got until I reload. Say thirty seconds.”
    Not close enough, not for the knife.
    “What do you say? Starting now. Thirty, twenty-nine—”
    She sprang up, wheeled back, and pitched the rock with the heart of a girl who’d believed she could play in the majors. It