But no one was there. Only a trail of blood—separate from hers—and a larger set of footprints led away from her position and into the trees.
“Ana.” Movement registered from behind, and she twisted around and took aim.
At a familiar face.
“Benning.” She released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, adjusting her grip around her weapon. Her hands shook, the pain in her leg the only thing keeping her in the moment. She lowered the gun to her side as a sob nearly broke through her control.
Just before she collapsed.
“ANA!” HIS BLOOD ran cold, heart jerking in his chest. Lungs emptied of oxygen as a different kind of pain exploded through him. Benning pushed his legs as hard as he could to catch her before she hit the ground. But he wasn’t fast enough. His boots slid across an iced-over patch of snow, bringing him to his knees, but it couldn’t stop him. Nothing would stop him from getting to her. Clawing through snow, he discarded the gun he’d taken from her duffel bag inside the cabin after he’d woken and slipped his uninjured arm around her limp body. Fresh blood dripped from her nose and mouth, her skin too pale. He pressed his index and middle finger to the base of her throat, and a rush of relief flooded through him. Her heartbeat pulsed against his finger, slow, thready, but there. “Come on, Ana, open your eyes. Look at me.”
No response.
Hauling her upper body out of the snow, he gritted through the pain in his shoulder and skimmed the pad of his thumb across the bluish tint in her lips. The bastard who’d shot him had run before Benning had gotten another shot off, but it was the bright red stain of blood that had pooled beneath her, such a sharp contrast in the snow, that hiked his blood pressure higher now. Hell, she looked like she’d gone four rounds with a professional boxer and been stabbed in the process. He had to get her inside. Had to get her warm. He brought her into his chest, then scanned the tree line twenty feet to the north. The bullet to his shoulder had taken him down for a few minutes, and when he’d come back around, the shooter and his daughter were gone. Where was Olivia? Every muscle down his spine tightened with battle-ready tension, and Benning shook the woman in his arms. “Ana, wake up. You have to get up. You have to tell me where Olivia is.”
He’d searched the cabin after he’d woken alone in the snow. No one—not even the bastard who’d attacked him—had been inside. Which meant his daughter was somewhere out here or...or the killer had taken her, too. If the same man who’d tied him to a tree was responsible for taking his son, the SOB had made a grave mistake. Benning set his hand over Ana’s heart, blood crusting to her angled features. The skull was still out there. Benning didn’t know where, or who had taken it from the fireplace, but he’d be damn sure the shooter never got his hands on it.
“Benning.” His name struggled past her lacerated lips, barely a whisper over the constant whine of the wind through the trees.
He fisted her T-shirt in his hands and pulled her upright. Desperation and hints of anger bled into his voice. “Ana, where is Olivia? I need to know what happened to my daughter.”
“I couldn’t stop him.” Hazel-green eyes struggled to focus on him. Her hands fell limp at her sides, and for the first time he noted her bloodied knuckles and what looked like a knife wound across the top of her arm. “I tried, but I wasn’t strong enough. I screamed at her to run. I don’t know where she is.”
“You told her to run?” He loosened his grip on her shirt, and everything—the darkening bruising around her throat, the busted lip, the torn stitches, and her black-and-blue index finger—rushed into focus. Sweat sheened across her flawless skin, dark circles more prominent than a minute ago. He recovered the gun he’d dropped and shoved the barrel down the back of his jeans. “Hang on to me.”
A groan ripped from his throat as he hauled her into his chest and got to his feet, and the hollow space behind his sternum ripped wider. In these temperatures, combined with the loss of blood, her body was bordering on hypothermia and shock. He’d prioritized his daughter’s life over hers.
Without Ana, he and Olivia would already be dead. He owed her his life.
His legs burned as they climbed the stairs, maneuvered her through the sliding glass door and swung her down onto the nearest couch in the living room. First-aid kit. He’d left it on the kitchen table after stitching her the first time, but first, he had to get her core temperature back up. Ripping every blanket he could find from the beds, he dashed back into the living room to find her struggling to her feet. “What are you doing? You’ve lost a lot of blood, but stitches aren’t going to do a damn bit of good if you die from hypothermia.”
“You know you’re bleeding, too, right?” Heavy eyelids drooped lower as she shuffled toward him.
“Bastard shot me after Olivia attacked him. Now I don’t know where she is. At least I can say I shot him back.” But the man in the mask had slipped away before Benning could get the answers he needed. The echo of Olivia’s scream still played in his head, the memory of the suspect advancing on his daughter fresh. The cut on the back of his head throbbed. “Now, get back on that couch so I can keep you alive.”
“She’s a smart girl, Benning. We’re going to find her.” Ana fell against the kitchen table, strands of beautiful dark hair sticking to her skin and neck. Her gasp destroyed the lingering effects
