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.
While the men and Ellis’s mother joked about what a mess they’d made of killing the deer, Ellis had stared at the dead animal slumped in the back of Rocky’s pickup. The buck with big antlers was one of the most beautiful things Ellis had ever seen. She’d glimpsed deer in the Wild Wood but never up close like that. The stag’s eyes were open, his tongue hanging out. Ellis remembered the bloody hole in the side of his belly. She had wanted to cry, thinking how bad that would hurt, but she knew her mother would tease her if she did. She kept quiet and cried inside.
Ellis held the stab wound in her side and staggered out of bed. She barely made it to the bathroom in time. After she emptied her stomach, she lay on the floor next to the toilet. The cold tile felt good on her feverish skin.
She shouldn’t have thought of the gut-shot deer. That was what made her vomit. But the fever delirium was making her see and think all kinds of things she didn’t want to.
She awoke on the tile, quaking with chills, and managed to drag herself up. She put a trash can next to the bed so she wouldn’t have to run to the bathroom the next time. She took more ibuprofen, drank more water. Fell into restless sleep.
She woke on fire. Why wasn’t the fever reducer keeping her temperature down? Maybe the fever had to do with her wrist. It was swollen to double its normal size and throbbed right through the large dose of ibuprofen. The stab wound hurt even worse. She pulled back the covers and lifted her T-shirt. She peeled back the duct tape and gauze. The wound was purple and rimmed in red. It looked bad.
She needed help. Someone she trusted.
She got out of bed, walked with teetering steps to her car parked in front of her motel room door. Just seeing Gep’s happy face made her feel better. She ripped him off the tape sticking him to her car dashboard, got herself back to the motel room, and cuddled him under the covers. “Do you think I should call Keith?” she asked him.
She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was smiling.
Gep was right. Keith would help her. He’d bring her antibiotics.
She took her phone off the bed stand and opened the messages. There was one conversation from two winters ago. First the directions to Pink Horses, then four one-sided texts:
December 28: How’s it
