The Christmas Target. Shirlee McCoy

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      “We’re out here,” he said, turning on a penlight and flashing it across the creek bed. Something pink sat near a rock a few yards away.

      “Not just us. Someone attacked me.”

      He stilled, the light holding steady on that pink thing, his gaze suddenly on Stella. “Who?”

      “I don’t know. He came out of nowhere. One person. Maybe two.”

      “Did you see his face?”

      “No.”

      “Did he speak? Say anything to you?”

      “No.”

      “How long ago was that?” He strode to the object, lifted it.

      Her grandmother’s slipper.

      Stella had bought them for Beatrice three Christmases ago, knowing her grandmother would love the faux fur and sparkly bows. Funny that she could remember that, but she had no idea how long she’d been out in the snow.

      “That’s my grandmother’s,” she said, that thickness back in her throat again.

      “Stella,” he said, the calmness in his voice the exact opposite of the panic she felt, “how long have you been out here?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

      “Were you unconscious at any point?” His gaze drifted from her eyes to the bleeding cut on her head.

      “Yes.”

      “So it could have been longer than fifteen minutes?”

      “Yes. Now how about we stop talking about it and start looking?”

      “Okay,” he said. Just that, but she felt better hearing it.

      Because of all the people she knew, Chance was the one she trusted most to get things done.

      His light illuminated the shadowy bank at the far side of the creek. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the forest was tinged with grayish light. No sign of Beatrice that Stella could see, but, then, her eyes didn’t seem to be working well, everything shifting in and out of focus.

      In the distance, sirens wailed.

      Help coming too late?

      Please, God. Not too late.

      The prayer was there. Just on the edge of her thoughts, and she tried to follow it with more words, more pleas, but her mind was spinning, her thoughts scattering. Her stomach heaved, and she was on her knees retching into dusty snow and pine needles.

      “It’s okay.” Chance crouched beside her, his cool palm on the back of her neck, his coat dropping around her shoulders. She felt him tense, knew he’d realized that she had another head wound. Double the potential for severe injury, and he’d be calculating the risk to her versus the risk of leaving the creek while Beatrice was still wandering around in the snow.

      If they went back to the house, Beatrice would probably die before anyone found her.

      The temperature was below freezing, the snow falling faster and heavier. And Beatrice’s slipper had been in the creek. Which meant she’d been in the creek, too.

      “I want you to wait here,” Chance said quietly. “I’ve already texted our coordinates to Boone and Simon. They’ll be here soon. One of them will wait with you until the medics get here.”

      Not a question.

      Not a suggestion.

      He really thought that she was going to wait at the edge of the creek while Beatrice wandered through the snowy forest.

      She struggled to her feet, following him as he stepped across the burbling water. He didn’t tell her to go back. He didn’t waste time or energy arguing with her. It was one of the things she’d always liked about Chance—he didn’t spend time fighting battles when he had wars to win.

      “There’s a print there.” His light settled on an impression in the muddy bank. “Let’s see how many more we can find.”

      He started walking parallel to the creek, and she followed, her heart beating hollowly in her ears, her legs weak, her body still numb.

      Voices carried through the woods, men and women calling out to one another. A search party forming, but Stella could only think about taking one step after another, following the tracks that Chance’s light kept finding. Bare feet pressed into the muddy earth. Bare feet in below-freezing temperatures.

      Stella was shivering uncontrollably, and she had Chance’s coat. Beatrice probably had nothing but her cotton nightgown and the gauzy robe she put on each morning when she got out of bed.

      She tasted salt on her lips and realized hot tears were mixing with icy snow. She never cried around other people. Ever. She was crying now, because she’d already lost her grandfather, and she wasn’t sure she could bear losing her grandmother, too.

      She swiped the tears away, tried to clear the fog from her mind at the same time. She had to think. She had to imagine being in Beatrice’s shoes, walking outside, making her way to the creek. Had someone been with her? Maybe the person who’d attacked Stella?

      Or had she gone off by herself? Maybe reliving some long-ago day? A trip to the creek with Henry, a picnic in the moonlight? Had some memory sent her wandering?

      Had she—

      “There!” Chance shouted, the word sending adrenaline coursing through Stella again.

      He sprinted forward, and she followed, tripping over roots and rocks, trying desperately to see what he was seeing.

      There! At the edge of the creek! White against the dark ground and glistening water. Gauzy fabric, a thin pale leg peeking out from it.

      “Nana!” Stella sprinted forward, grabbing her grandmother’s hand as Chance lifted her lifeless body from the water.

      * * *

      They’d always been a good team.

      Always.

      Worst-case scenario, best-case, didn’t matter. Chance and Stella knew how to move in sync. He wasn’t sure that was going to save Beatrice. Stella’s grandmother was as limp as a rag doll, her skin icy cold. No respiration. Pulse—thready and weak.

      “She’s not breathing,” he said, laying Beatrice on flat ground and checking her airway.

      “Nana?” Stella said, giving her grandmother’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Can you hear me?”

      Beatrice remained silent, her face bone-white.

      “Let Boone know where we are so the medics can find us more quickly. She needs help now. Not ten minutes from now.” Stella wrapped Beatrice in his coat and began CPR. No chest compressions. Just rescue breaths that made Beatrice’s chest rise and fall.

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