Logan wakes against the tree to find Veronica snapping photos of deer drinking at the river. A mother and fawn, standing split legged to reach. Their graceful necks bowed, taking delicate sips before raising for a lookout and drinking again.
He stands, brushes himself off, takes steady quiet steps in her direction.
"This place is so alive," she whispers and turns her camera, showing him a slideshow of birds she'd observed this morning. A bush turkey, a raven and a black billed magpie taken at close range. It's squat body, shiny and black with iridescent hints of blue in its tail, a long worm hanging from its beak.
"That's a black billed magpie. Did you know they land on the back of elk, cows and deer and they eat the ticks off their hide?"
Veronica smirks, "Unsurprisingly, I didn't. Thanks David Attenborough."
"No problem."
"Shall I add ornithologist to the list of curious skills you've acquired since leaving Neptune?"
"Don't bother. Bill told me that fun fact once, I just remembered it."
Veronica has her hair out, falling unbrushed against her shirt in waves. Something about her face today has changed and he can't quite put his finger on it. They go back to watching the deer in silence.
"I'm sorry I drooled all over your shoulder last night," she says, but doesn't look him in the eye.
"That's fine, it was better than your snoring," he smirks and she whips her head up open-mouthed.
"I don't snore!"
"Okay. Whatever you say."
She swats at his arm, which startles the deer, and they bound into the forest depth.
They'd exchanged lookout duty at around two am, when Veronica's upright spine no longer allowed her any peaceful sleep against the trunk of a tree. Logan fell asleep quickly, but worry interrupted his rest. Worry about Veronica and Keith, worry about the situation they'd gotten themselves into. He rubs at eyes stinging like lemons.
"I don't know about you, but I need a bath," Logan says, pulling the shirt over his head and dropping it onto a rock. He unsnaps his jeans and they join the shirt, leaving him standing only in boxer briefs before he wades into the stream, towards the deep middle, plunging his face into the cold, rubbing back and forth through his hair.
He pops out of the water, "You coming?"
"It has been two nights since I have showered now," she replies, crouching down, pulling off her boots, undoing her jeans.
"I didn't want to say anything," he teases with a mischievous smile. Veronica throws him a look of mock anger.
Dropping her jeans to the ground, her t-shirt stays on and she makes her way into the water with him. The cotton sticks to her as she dives underwater and comes up for air. The flow is rapid and freezing. She strokes her arms against it, blanching against the cold. Logan can see now that she didn't take her shirt off because she's wearing no bra, her nipples raised. He swallows hard and kicks himself up to float, choosing to stare up at the blue sky above. Not a cloud. As if the day has forgotten the tumultuous night.
Veronica's looking at him. He can feel it, but he keeps his eyes to the sky.
"I can't remember the last time I swam," she says, "I can't remember the last time I walked barefoot on grass."
"Does it feel good?" he asks and it feels a little like a dare.
She nods, crouching low, chin to the water.
"It's okay to do things, you know. To live, to enjoy life, to swim. To smile. Your dad would want those things for you."
"I know. But feeling them, makes me angry that he can't."
Logan doesn't know what to say. He knows you can grieve for someone still alive. Death isn't necessarily a requirement. But he feels Veronica's misery. He felt it on his veranda that day, it seeped through the screen door and into his bones.
"I need to make changes, I know that. Maybe I don't know how? Maybe I'm stuck? Mac is sick of trying to get me to change my life. There's no one else, really. I think Leo just finds my misery all the more appealing."
Logan cocks an eyebrow, curious, "Leo?"
Veronica groans, takes a mouthful of water, spits it to the side as if she's washing a bad taste from her mouth. "An ex. If you could call him that. He's married now. Again. Who knows how long for?"
"He sounds appealing," Logan's tone drips sarcasm.
"He's one of those, wrong guy, wrong times. Every time I go back, I regret it the moment I look at his ceiling. He doesn't want me, he wants the idea of me, and it's nothing like the reality."
She's about to go on but stops, realizing she's said too much. Logan faces away, takes a few strokes of freestyle, then backstroke. Veronica watches the cords in his muscles moving in his back, the deep tan on his arms that gradually fades to light under his t-shirt line. It seems that he'd shed the skin of his teenage years. His back, broad and unforgiving. She remembered feeling him through the thin shirt when they kissed, it made her insides twist and warm even then. God knows what touching it now would feel like. It had been too long since her last foray under the sheets with anyone, she feels coiled up tight and watching him isn't helping.
He moves with a strange grace in the water where her own movements feel rigid and tense from the cold. Although it has been years, he is still so familiar to her, like she knew him intimately in another life, not only for a few days and a couple of teenage kisses ago.
Suddenly, Logan stands and walks out, navigating the rocks carefully in his bare feet. He rifles through a bag, grabs a small bottle of body wash and comes back to the water. Opening it, he tips it into his hand and lathers his body, pulling out his boxers to clean underneath. There are bubbles on his chest, through his hair, his left ear. They decorate him like tinsel on a Christmas tree. He submerges, then reappears sparkling clean.
He floats the bottle downstream and she catches it, reading the label. It looks ridiculously expensive, something she would never buy.
"Bergamot and Patchouli - infused with jojoba, avocado and rosehip," she reads the cursive font.
"It's eco-friendly, okay. Safe to use in waterways."
Veronica raises her eyebrows at him, "Sure."
She washes herself, turning to face away as she covertly washes under her clothes. Logan faces away and skulls water, giving her some space. The bubbles float to the surface and disappear downstream.
"We better get going," he says and heads out of the water, using his discarded t-shirt as a towel.
Veronica scurries out behind him, suddenly self conscious in her underwear. She dries and dresses behind their tarp tree as fast as possible, jeans sticking to her legs as she tries to pull them up. Fresh clothes on, she feels lovely and clean. Logan dresses at a leisurely pace out in the open and she makes a conscious decision not to peek around the tree.
Logan prepares a breakfast of dehydrated eggs, which Veronica is happy taste substantially better than they sound. She eats two helpings, still starving from yesterday. Then they begin the task of re-packing all the bags, loading up the horses and saddling. He leaves the rifle out of the bag this time, checking the bullets, putting extra in his front shirt pocket. He slings it over his shoulder. They don't talk about it. About the what if's... if they get seen, if there is a confrontation? It's easier just to smile awkwardly at each other, settle into their saddles, and start the journey.
They walk for two hours at a slow, ambling pace. Logan looks up to the sun, it must nearly be noon. They'd spent too long swimming, packing and chatting. They should have been at the cabin by now, pictures taken and on their way back. But he couldn't force himself to move quicker if he tried.
Walking through a thicket of brush, Veronica is holding the GPS in her hands, her eyebrows knitted.
"According to this, it's only a mile away."
Logan shakes his head, looking around, "No, I think it's about five or so. We still have to cross in front of the escarpment."
Staring at the machine, she raises a sceptical eyebrow, "So, the expensive satellite GPS is wrong, and you're right?"
He chuckles, pulling his horse up beside her, leaning over a little to look at the coordinates, "Precisely."
Veronica delivers an eye roll, "Men!"
"Guess we'll find out very soon," he teases, and she slips it back into her bag.
Logan remembered the territory so vividly. The escarpment easing from the north, the dabble of young scrub pines. He and his first horse, Lightning, would venture on expeditions around the ranch lands in the early days. All this land was in his name. He wanted to know what all of it looked like, smelled like. As they ambled along, he was under the assumption that this was all his, until the rock face raised itself a hundred feet out of the ground and began its climb into Granite Mountain. So when he stumbled upon the cabin, he was sure whoever was inside was a squatter, on his property, no less. That being said, after seeing tufts of smoke curling from the chimney, he wasn't game to approach and ask the inhabitants to move on. The lax firearm laws in this state prevented him from that insanity. So he steered clear and consulted with Bill on his return. That's when he learned of the private pocket of land separating Rock Creek Ranch and the national park. Knowing what he knows now about Moyer he's extremely glad he didn't knock on the door that day, asking questions.
"How about we trot? Get closer quicker. Then we pull up at the escarpment, leave the horses there, take the rest on foot."
"Trot?"
"Yeah, give it a try. I'll have to untie you from Banjo's rope. You'll be on your own. You okay with that?"
Veronica looks slightly wary, but answers, "I'm game."
He gives her a quick explanation of rising to the trot, and she practices for a moment while solitary. Logan stays on the horse, leaning over, untying the rope before taking off. Opie mimics Banjo's pace and the packhorse, Mickey, lumbers behind. After only a few minutes, Veronica complains about the bouncing jolts.
"How about we canter then? It's much smoother," Logan says as he nudges Banjo faster and Veronica follows.
Hair whips wildly behind her and underneath the fear, he can see the exhilaration. Adrenaline bursting each vein on fire from the inside. Veronica is smiling, then screaming with abandon as they canter along, side by side. Opie darts around a bedraggled spruce and she pulls back the reins. A canter becomes a trot, becomes a walk and Logan meets her pace.
"Why didn't we do that the entire way?!" she smiles. "It was awesome!"
He laughs, "You thought your ass was sore before!"
"Good point," she chuckles, breathing as though she'd been running.
Suddenly, Banjo stops mid stride and Opie follows. The horse's ears flick to and fro like radars. Logan watches their cues, they're curious, but cautious about something further ahead. Straining to see through the thick mottled tree trunks surrounding them, the muted browns and greens.
"What is it?" she asks, suddenly serious.
He lays a finger on his lips and points to the grizzly bear ahead of them, searching the hollow of a log, scrabbling against it with long nails.
"Wow," Veronica mouths silently and reaches for her backpack, pulling out her camera, bringing it to her eye and letting off a series of clicks and zoom adjustments.
Its belly is rounded, fat from gorging all spring and summer, preparing itself for the winter sleep. There is a pronounced hump on his back as it bends down, flecks of gold shining through the dark brown fur. Logan saw a bear once before in the wild out here, but never this close. He rubs at his arms; the hairs standing on end. Opie takes a tentative step backward and Logan makes some shushing noises, reassuring the horses of their safety.
The bear turns, waddling away from them, in search of more food. Veronica is still clicking, a huge grin across her face, busy studying the animal through her viewfinder. It's the shock that comes next that causes the camera to slip from her fingers and shatter on the ground.
An almighty boom thunders through the forest from the west.
It's so loud that the birds rage and depart in a wild, screeching flurry. The bear retreats quickly. Logan barely has a chance to look to his side before Opie shies, leaping onto his rear legs, front hoofs flailing into the sky. Veronica, not holding onto anything, flies through the air with the force of the horse's rear. Logan watches it, in slow motion, a hand outstretched and absolutely nothing he can do. She plunges backward, floppy, surprised by the movement and hits the fat trunk of the pine behind her with such force that a horrible sound echoes in Logan's ears much louder than the noise that preceded it. He watches her head make contact with a low branch, then her shoulder take the full force of impact before she flops to the ground, motionless.
Logan jumps off Banjo immediately.
Mickey, tied to Banjo, has jumped in fright at all the commotion. His rope snaps and he runs at full gallop into the woods. Logan barely registers.
"Veronica!" he yells and is at her side in seconds.
She doesn't move.
A crow lets out a loud caw. The only bird remaining, perpetually awaiting death.
He looks around, wondering about the sound. It was a gunshot, no question. A shotgun. Close. Laying a hand upon hers he calls, shaking her gently, quieter this time, "Veronica, please!"
There is no response.
Her chest rises and falls, she's alive. Logan breathes a rapid sign of relief, but it's short-lived.
A soft crunch of leaves sounds behind them. Logan jumps up, spinning around. A man approaches. He's head to toe in green camouflage, a shotgun still in his hands and a large knife strapped to his thigh. A small dead animal hangs limp from his shoulder. A fox, maybe a coyote.
"Why were you shooting at us?" Logan screams at him, pulling his jacket off and resting it under Veronica's head.
"No. No. No," the man yells, shaking his hands. "I wasn't shootin' at you! I shot in the air, to frighten the bear!" He tries to explain himself, running thick fingers nervously through his scraggly beard.
"Veronica," Logan calls again, "Veronica."
He shakes her gently, but her eyes are closed. He can see blood on his hands now, but he can't work out where it's coming from.
"It was the bear." The man repeats, almost to himself, still hovering multiple feet behind, watching Logan scurry in a panic.
"Do you have a first aid kit?" Logan barks. His well-equipped one was carefully strapped onto Mickey. Who now was nowhere to be seen.
"Um. Um." The man looks around himself as though searching for something. "No. No, I don't."
Logan carefully rolls Veronica to the side, to inspect the point where her shoulder had hit the tree. It's damp. He touches the fabric of her black t-shirt and pulling back, realizes his handprint is stained red.
The man sees it and takes a step away.
"I didn't see you there. I'm sorry," he repeats over and over again.
"Shut up!" Logan snaps.
"Is she breathing?" he asks, then squeezes his eyes closed like he doesn't really want to hear the answer.
"Yes."
"Thank god," he says and crosses himself.
Logan runs his clean hand across Veronica's hair, checking her scalp for injuries, dreading feeling a wet patch there, but there is none. Just a lump towards her right side, covered in fine, soft blonde hair.
"Do you have a satellite phone?" Logan asks.
The man shakes his head, "No, no phones work out here."
Logan tries to roll her to the side, to find the source of the blood, to attempt to stop it.
"Give me a hand, will you?" Logan asks, but it comes out like a demand.
The man crouches down beside him, helping to hold Veronica on her left side so Logan can take a better look at her back. He lifts her shirt and exposes a deep gash running parallel to her shoulder blade - the point of contact with the tree. It's angry and red, bleeding but not profusely.
"Hold her there," Logan says, as he rifles through his backpack, pulls out a blue shirt and uses his teeth to start the tear, ripping it into a long, uneven strip.
He's grossly unqualified for this. His repertoire of medical knowledge maxes out at Band-Aids on Piper's scraped knees. Last year a half inch of fencing wire entered his palm and he had to remove it with pliers.
It was nothing like this.
The man awkwardly holds Veronica on her side, while Logan lines up the bandage. A flap of skin hangs loose over the wound and beneath it the blood is almost black. For a moment, Logan thinks he's going to be sick. He swallows it down and binds the ripped shirt around her chest as best he can, hoping it will provide enough compression to stop the bleeding.
They carefully roll her back, stand up and stare down helplessly.
"She needs medical care," the man says.
"I know!" Logan says exasperated. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, or his legs so he kneels back down, placing his hand on her hand, giving it a squeeze, something to bring her back.
"We could take her back to my place. I've got a first aid kit real well-stocked," the man says. But while he's offering help, there is a distinct reluctance in his tone.
"How far away is it?"
"About a mile that way, it's just a small cabin, but I've got bandages, stuff to clean it, she can rest there off the wet ground. She might get hypothermic, go into shock."
Logan hears nothing past the words small cabin. Logan turns and gives the man a good look.
Of course.
Pale blue eyes stare back at him. A full beard now, but still recognizable from the mug shot Veronica had shown him. Aging eight years isolated in the mountains has weathered him.
Moyer.
Logan looks back down at Veronica, focusing on her because he doesn't want to stare, to let Moyer see him reacting.
"Whatyya think?" he asks.
Logan looks around. They are a minimum two-day walk from anywhere with no medical supplies. Moyer's right, it's likely Veronica could go into shock. He has nothing to keep her warm, nothing to help. No cell phone reception. Nothing. Alone, with Moyer and an unconscious, injured Veronica in the middle of fucking nowhere. She needs medical care. Now.
How can he say no? Moyer has offered help and to say no to it would be admitting they know his identity. And then what? Logan didn't want to think about it. He must act as though Moyer is a stranger. Wary, but accepting of help.
They don't know for sure it was him who cut the rope, but Logan still lets his eyes fall to the knife against his thigh. There's no way Moyer could know Veronica was searching for him. No one knew they were there apart from Piper and Bill. Maybe he'd assumed they were on a trail ride, and strayed too close to home and felt threatened? At this point Moyer is hardly screaming murderer. He is agitated and panicked, constantly peering down at Veronica with a furrowed brow of concern.
Logan is convincing himself, and he knows it. Tricking himself into being okay with this situation, rationalizing that this is the right thing to do. If he had more than one option on the table, he'd take it in a heartbeat. But there just isn't anything else he can do.
Logan looks at her again, crumpled on the dirt. He can't leave her here like this. Finally raising eyes from Veronica, he reluctantly nods to Moyer.
Standing, he inclines his head to the two remaining horses. Moyer walks over and takes the reins. Logan readjusts the rifle on his back, throws Veronica's camera into her pack, and slings it over his shoulder along with his own. He pats his pocket, feeling the spare bullets still resting against his chest.
Fear drips down his spine. Fear for Veronica, fear for the situation they'd gotten themselves into. But he can't let that fear spread. He crouches beside her, "Veronica. I'm going to lift you, take you where I can fix you up, okay?"
She doesn't respond.
Logan contemplates the best way to go about this. One hand he slides behind her knees, the other around her back, hooking beside her good shoulder, careful not to touch the bandaged wound. Praying she doesn't have a spinal injury is the most he can do. Pressure on his thighs, he stands, lifting her. She weighs no more than Piper, probably less. He begins to walk slowly, keeping her steady, following Moyer and his horses deeper into the woods.
