“Yes you can.” He tightened his grip, yanked her up to her knees and gave her a quick, shocking shake. “Breathe. Look at me, Fiona. Right here. Breathe! Now!”
She sucked in air on a short, shaky gasp.
“Let it out. Do what I tell you. Let it out, take it in. Slow it down. Slow it the hell down.”
She stared at him, wondered at him. Who the hell did he think he was? She shoved at his chest, met an unmoving wall even as he shook her again.
And she breathed.
“Keep going. Bogart, sit. Just sit. In and out. Look at me. In and out. Better, that’s better. Keep it up.”
He let her go. Focused on inhaling, exhaling, she sank back to sit on her heels as Bogart nudged his nose against her arm. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Drink. Slow.” Simon cupped her hands around a water bottle. “Slow.”
“I know. I’ve got it. I’m okay.” She blew out a long breath first, then sipped carefully. “Thanks, sorry, whatever altogether. Wow.” She sipped again. “I guess I wasn’t too tired for that panic attack after all. I had a flashback. It’s been... God, a really long time since I had one, but I guess the circumstances were pretty fertile ground.”
Breathing steadier, she draped her arm around Bogart’s neck. “You were mean,” she said to Simon. “And exactly what I needed to snap me out before I passed out. You could give lessons.”
“You scared the fuck out of me. Goddamn it.”
Before she could speak he held up a hand to stop her, then spun away to pace over the soggy ground. “Goddamn it. I’m not any good at this kind of thing.”
“Beg to differ.”
He whirled back. “I like you better tough.”
“Me too. Panic attacks and hyperventilating to the edge of unconsciousness are embarrassing moments.”
“It’s not a damn joke.”
“No, it’s reality. My reality.” She swiped her arm over her clammy face. “Fortunately, it’s not something I have to deal with regularly anymore.”
“Don’t,” he said when she started to rise. “You’re white as a sheet. If you try standing by yourself, you’ll fall on your face.”
He moved to her, took her hands to help her up. “You’re not supposed to be pale and fragile,” he said quietly. “You’re bright and bold and strong.” He pulled her close. “And this makes me want to kill him.”
“It’s probably wrong, but God, I appreciate that. Still, Perry’s worse off than dead.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. But maybe beating him half to death would be more satisfying.”
His heart, she realized, beat harder and faster than her own. And that, she realized, was another kind of comfort.
“Well, if you want violence, I broke his nose kicking him in the face when he opened the trunk.”
“Let me focus on that a minute. It’s good. Not complete, but not bad.”
She eased back. “Are we okay?”
He stroked her cheek, his eyes intense on hers. “Are you?”
“Yes. But I’m glad it’s nearly dawn, because I’m not going back in that tent. If you could get my pack, I’ve got some bouillon cubes we can heat up.”
“Bouillon at dawn?”
“Breakfast of champions, especially when you add a power bar.” Better, she thought, so much better to focus on what came next than what had happened before. “Once we eat and break camp, I’ll call in to base for the status, and a weather report.”
“Fine. Fiona? On the off chance I ever do this with you again, we’re getting a bigger tent.”
“Bet your ass.”
The bouillon was bland, but it was warm. As far as her nutrition bars, or whatever the hell you called them, Simon vowed if he ever came out again, he’d bring Snickers.
She broke camp as she did everything else, he noted. In an organized and precise fashion. Everything had to be put away exactly where it had come from.
“Okay, the forecast is good,” she announced. “Sunny, low seventies for a high—and we won’t reach that until this afternoon—light winds from the south. We’re moving into the northern section of the wilderness area. It’s not too rough. We’ll have some hills, slopes, some rocky ground. The understory may get thick in places, especially off the marked trails. I’m guessing after the hike they’d already put in, they wouldn’t choose the more mountainous terrain, or have kept going southeast into the higher elevations and rougher ground.”
“I can’t figure out why the hell they’d have come as far as this.”
“Again, I’m guessing, but he’s competitive, he’s pushing. Even if he was a little turned around, he probably wouldn’t admit it at first. And that type wouldn’t take the easier ground—wouldn’t necessarily head downhill instead of uphill.”
“Because he’s got something to prove.”
“More or less. I asked the woman they’re traveling with if he was the type who’d stop and ask directions—and she laughed. Nervous laugh, but a laugh. He’d drive to hell before he’d ask for directions. So you figure by the time he, or they, realized they were seriously screwed, it was just too late.”
“A lot of space out here to get lost in.” Which would he have done, he wondered, uphill or down, call for help or push on?
He wasn’t altogether sure, and hoped he wouldn’t ever have to find out.
“And if you’re not familiar with it, one fir or hemlock looks like the other hundreds. Anyway, we’re expanding the search area.” She glanced up. “Do you want me to show you on the map?”
“Do you plan on ditching me in the wilderness?”
“Only if you piss me off.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Then we saddle up.” She shrugged on her pack, gave Bogart the scent and juiced him up for the game.
Watery sunlight sparkled on mists and filtered through to shine on leaves that shed their rainwater from the night’s storm. Simon couldn’t say what Bogart smelled, but for him, it was clean and damp and green.
The ground roughened and rose, and still wildflowers, tiny stars of color, carved their way through cracks to bask or ranged themselves along skinny streams like waders about to dip their toes.
A downed tree, hollowed out by weather, tooth and claw, had him crossing over.
“Do you see something?”
“A bench,” he muttered. “Curve the seat, just like that. Back and arms, all out of one log. Carve a mushroom motif maybe on the base.”
He surfaced to see both her and Bogart waiting for him. “Sorry.”
“Bogart needed water anyway.” She offered the bottle to Simon. “I could use a bench.”
“Not that one. Too solid, too hefty for you. It wouldn’t—”
“Suit me. Got it.” Shaking her head, she checked in with base.
Despite the strengthening sun, Fiona continued to use her flashlight, running the beam over brush and trail as the dog trotted along.
“He’s picked it up. The rest did him good.”
“Isn’t the world basically a banquet of smells for a dog? How come he doesn’t get distracted? Hey, a rabbit! Or whatever. Jaws’ll chase a blowing leaf.”
“It’s training, practice, repetition. But basically, that’s not the game. The game’s to find the source of the scent I gave him.”
“The game’s moving off the trail,” Simon pointed out.
“Yeah.” She followed the dog, climbing the rough slope, maneuvering through brush. “They made a mistake here. Bogart may not get distracted, but people do. They left the marked trail, maybe they saw some deer or a marmot, or wanted to take a photo. Maybe they decided they’d try for a shortcut. There’s a reason the trails are marked, but people veer off anyway.”
“If the dog’s right, so were you. Competitive Kevin would go up instead of down.”
Bogart slowed down for the humans as they negotiated the climb. “Maybe they figured they’d get a cool view if they went up this way. But... Wait. Bogart! Hold!”
She turned her light on a berry bush. “He caught his jacket,” she murmured, and gestured to a tiny triangle of brown cloth. “Good dog. Good job, Bogart. Flag the find, will you?” she asked Simon. “I’m going to call this in to base.”