The sensation in his arms disappeared a few minutes ago. Veronica lies like a dead weight in his grasp. His biceps bulge and pulse. The terrain is rocky, so he peers over her body, keeping a careful eye on his foot placement.

Moyer is quiet, mostly, except for occasional rambling about the bear and statistics of the likelihood of being mauled.

When he starts again, Logan almost snaps at him to shut up. He needs to think. To get these thoughts squared in his head.

What if Veronica doesn't wake up?

What if Moyer finds out they're looking for him?

What if Veronica is so badly injured he can't get her out of there?

Would he leave her alone with Moyer while he went to get help?

Thinking gives him a headache. Every question he asks is fraught with unthinkable answers.

Focus on the pressure in his arms instead. Focus on Veronica's eyelids, lashes idle against her cheek, willing her to open those eyes. What he would give to see them looking up at him now, to know she's okay.

After a seemingly never ending trek, they approach the cabin Logan remembered. It's a small box made of foraged timber, with multiple room additions tacked onto it. The walls are some kind of mud brick, dark and wonky in places. A wide crack runs diagonally along one side. Around the dwelling are yards made of rough timber posts tied with wire. There are two horses, a goat each in their own yard, and brown chickens pecking around. A large vegetable garden sits behind the house to the south. Inside it are foot high bushes, tomatoes, corn and herbs.

The buildings sit on a slight rise, providing an excellent vantage point from all directions. Looking up, the white caps of Granite Peak loom in the distance with voluminous clouds swaddling the base.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" Moyer asks on the final approach.

Logan sticks as close to the truth as possible. "I own Rock Creek Ranch, I think it borders your property. We were out on a trail ride, camping along the way. She is a photographer ." He motions to Veronica with his chin, thinking on his feet, explaining away her camera.

"This is my land. You were on my land." His voice is ascetic, his body rigid with forced calm.

"This entire area is unfenced, we didn't know."

Moyer sighs, loudly. "I didn't mean to hurt her, but you shouldn't have been here. You shouldn't be here on my place. It's trespassin.'"

Logan holds Veronica a little closer.

"It was unintentional. Trust me, this is the last thing we wanted to happen."

Moyer runs fingers through his beard and shakes his shoulders, satisfied that he got his point across. They're on his land, and don't forget it.

"What's ya name?"

"Logan," he answers. Not sure if he should have lied.

"And your wife?"

Logan hesitates.

"Veronica."

Moyer nods. There is a five second moment where Logan could have corrected him. But he doesn't. So much for sticking to the truth.

Almost as an afterthought, Logan asks, "What's yours?"

Moyer considers Logan, the way he's carrying Veronica, no doubt assessing his trustworthiness.

"Joe," he answers briskly.

Logan breathes a small sigh of relief. He didn't use an alias.

'Joe' tugs the horses into the stables and points towards the door of the cabin.

"There's a bed in there. Put her down there if ya want."

Logan uses his shoulder to press the door open. There's a small twin bed in the room's corner and Logan is relieved to release her from his grasp upon it. The mattress is thin and the bed itself is uneven, sloping towards the ground on one side. It's made from rough pine logs, secured by long, thick nails that poke out of the sides. A woolen checkered blanket lies on it, tucked in neatly.

When conjuring images of the inside of this cabin, the reality doesn't align with his imagery. He'd seen a darkened lair, with knives and victims' momentos. But it was plain, threadbare and orderly, with each surface built and used with purpose.

The mud brick fireplace smolders, making the room warm and smokey. Moyer staggers in behind them and prods at the coals with a crowbar. He collects the kettle from the hearth, touching its sides to test the heat. Taking a clean tin bowl from a shelf and pouring the liquid inside, he places it beside the bed and hands Logan a folded washcloth and a towel. Then he wrings his hands together with worry.

"She doesn't look good," he looks at Veronica, then looks away.

Logan pulls the backpacks off and places them beside the bed. He sets the rifle by his legs, kneeling on the bag.

He dips the cloth into the water and wipes it across Veronica's forehead. Moyer bangs around on some shelves, returning with a large canvas medical bag, the kind that comes fully stocked from the drugstore. Logan breathes a sigh of relief.

"Veronica," he says, a hand on her cheek, a brush across her brow.

Her eyes flicker behind closed lids.

"Veronica," he whispers again.


Thoughts come first. They're foggy and broken, swamped by confusion. She can feel that she's laying on her side, on a soft surface. Something is touching her face, but she can't summon the strength to open her eyes. Her name is called, tender and calm. A voice deep and familiar. She can't place it, but she desperately wants to open her eyes to see the person with the voice.

The voice.

Focus on the voice. Not the searing pain in her back, the fact she feels as though she's on fire. Not the pain in her head, the thudding in her ears. Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Veronica," the voice is a little clearer this time and for a heartbeat, she forgets the pain.

Focus on the voice. Something about it.

She tries to move, to sit up, but something is holding her down. The pain. Everywhere. She cries out.

"Can you give us a minute?" The voice asks. Another moment of calm.

"Sure, I'll be just outside if ya need anythin'." Another voice answers. This one is deeper again and gravelly.

"Okay."

A door clicks.

Her eyelids are weights tethered to her face. It takes all her effort to open them, slowly. At first the light is stark, blinding. It reverberates through her skull and her brain thuds.

"It's okay, Veronica. You're okay." The voice is encouraging. The voice is safe. She's compelled to see the voice. She tries again.

Light. Filtered. She seems to be indoors. The edges are distorted. She wants to rub her eyes to clear them but moving her arm doesn't seem possible. The pain.

She cries out again. The effort of crying out, the effort of breathing in and out, only causes more pain.

The voice places a hand on her cheek, gentle. Focus on the hand, the touch.

"Veronica, can you hear me?"

She moves her head ever so slightly. The hand pulls away. She opens her eyes fully, seeking it out. She wants the hand back.

A face hovers nearby, concerned. Brow furrowed, brown eyes pleading.

Logan.

"Veronica," he says again with relief. His hand is on her skin again, so warm.

"Logan?" The word is hard to say, her tongue uncooperative.

"Oh god, Veronica. You're okay? Are you okay?"

She doesn't know how to answer. She doesn't know the answer. Where is she?

A groan is the most she can muster.

"The horse bucked you off, there was a bear, a gunshot. Do you remember?"

She wades through the memory like soup. It's there, but hard to access. The viewfinder to her eye, the bear scrabbling at the log. Then nothing.

She tries to nod. It brings the pain back to the forefront, forcing her eyes closed.

"Your shoulder hit the tree, hard, your head too."

"It hurts to breathe," she chokes out.

"I'm going to get you all fixed up, okay? It's going to be okay."

Logan seems calm, but she notices his hands are trembling. He's reaching for a bag, unzipping it, opening it out across the floor, small plastic packages.

"Are you in pain?" He asks.

She nods.

"How is your head? Are you dizzy?" He drops a bandage and lifts his hand to the back of her head, finding a tender spot on her scalp.

His eyes track over to a door for a moment before going back to his task.

It's a roundhouse to the jaw, the moment of clarity. She's laying on a bed or something like it.

Inside.

Her gaze darts around the space. A small room with low ceilings. The walls are rudimentary, rough wooden planks supported by larger knobbly beams with shelves nailed haphazardly. The floor is dirt. There is one small window, a muted light pouring through it. A kerosene lamp sits beside Logan, wheezing and covering him in a warm glow.

"Where are we?" she asks.

"Do you think you could sit up, or roll over?" He has a pile of swabs and antiseptic ointment in his lap. "I can help you, but will it be too painful? I think it will give me better access to your back."

"Where are we, Logan?"

Her breathing is becoming frantic, uneven and makes her chest ache even more.

Inhale. Pain. Exhale. Pain. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Her head feels so heavy, throbbing.

"I had a quick look at the wound on your shoulder earlier. I think it might need stitches. At the very least I need to clean it, to try and stop the bleeding."

His evasive answer amps up the breathing, the burning. Her eyes search further for the answers that Logan isn't giving. A few books on a shelf. A large, black coat. Three shotguns lined up beside the open door.

"Tell me where I am, right now ," she says, between gritted teeth.

Logan turns, finally letting his eyes settle on hers.

"I need you to stay calm. Please."

"We're in his cabin, aren't we?" she whispers, watching the door.

Logan makes a single nod, holding a finger to his lips.

Veronica sits up abruptly, fingers gripping the blanket beneath her, and howls in pain. Logan outstretches a hand and supports her lower back, wrapping his arms around her. Pressing his cheek against hers, he breathes the words in her ear.

"He doesn't know who we are. He doesn't know we are looking for him. It was his gunshot that spooked the horses. He feels bad. He came up, saw you were injured and offered help. I didn't have a choice, okay. Mickey took off with all the supplies, the medical kit. You weren't responsive."

Tears are spilling down silently. From the pain, from the shock.

"How the fuck are we going to get out of here?" Veronica whispers, lips grazing at his neck.

Logan moves his face directly before hers and mouths, "I don't know. But I'll work something out."

The door opens and a large man enters. He's in camouflage, walking over to them. Veronica digs her fingernails into Logan's back, arms still clinging to him.

"I heard voices," he says, observing Veronica sitting up, "are you alright?" He smiles at her with an unruly beard. She looked at his prison mug shots for so long that this smiling, rounded man doesn't compute. Moyer's teeth are crooked and browned at the roots and his sleeves are pushed around his elbows, exposing a landscape of prison tattoos and scarred track marks glowing purple in the light.

His pale blue eyes await a response that she doesn't give.

Logan keeps a supportive arm behind Veronica, holding her upright. She strives to find her voice, and fails.

"She's okay, sore, and a bit confused," Logan answers for her when the moment has gone on too long.

"I'm going to try and dress the wound. Do you think you could ride out, see if you can find Mickey? He took off in fright." Logan describes his coloring and features. Moyer nods and walks out, closing the door behind him.

Logan and Veronica remain mute, eyes locked as they listen to his movements outside, the crunch of his shoes, a whinney of his horse, a gate opening and closing. Finally, hoofbeats grow softer in the distance.

When they can't hear anything except the light wind seeping through cracks in the cabin walls Veronica pulls herself from Logan's grasp and heaves to standing. The movement takes everything she's got, but it's not enough. The fire in her back engulfs her, and she wails in pain.

"What the hell are you doing? Sit down!" Logan jumps up, holding her steady, struggling to lower her down, but she fights against him.

"No. We're going!" she yells, feeling the blood drain from her face, a whiteness creeping into her eyelids. Her skin is cold. Her skin is hot. She needs to get out.

"Veronica, we can't go anywhere! You can't walk, you're covered in blood. I need to fix you up." Logan's voice is stern, but she remains unconvinced.

"No," her voice is weakening, the white in her eyes is stopping her. Her willpower is there, it's propelling her, but her body has other plans.

It's not that she's unused to being inside someone's place under false pretenses. Or even being here with a murderer. She's no stranger to creepy old men. In fact, you could almost say she thrives on it. But she's injured. The control that she feels with her knowledge and her taser has evaporated. She's flapping about in the wind, a paper lion, with no roar.

"Please, sit, lie down. Please, Veronica."

She doesn't want to, but her body collapses under itself, dizzy from the effort of standing only for a minute. Logan catches her fall. He sits beside her, gently lowering her onto her side. Removing his hand, he looks at his palm.

"You're bleeding through the bandage," he shows her his hand as proof. Then she notices his arm, his neck, his chest, his clothes. Logan is covered in dried blood. Her dry blood.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, weakly, willing herself not to faint. Everyone told her this was crazy. They were all right. The tears keep leaking out and she's not sure if it's from the pain or from the embarrassment.


Logan rearranges the medical supplies from his lap to an orderly line on a narrow table.

"It's a shame we drank all that whiskey, it would probably help right now."

"Have you got my bag?" she asks, wiping her running nose.

He reaches over, holding it up.

"In the left side pocket, I've got some painkillers."

Undoing the zip, he rifles through the unboxed foil packages, feeling a distinct sense of deja vu. He finds a Tylenol package and holds it up.

"I think there is a half used packet of OxyContin in there," she says. Logan pauses for a second but then finds the familiar packet, the small white pills, and pops one out.

"One or two?"

"Two," she answers, adding, "They're just some of dad's leftovers."

Logan obliges. It's none of his business. She's in pain, and about to be in a whole lot more. He won't begrudge her that relief. He pops them out, placing them into her mouth one at a time, giving her swigs from his water bottle in between. He considers taking one himself.

He looks at her, small and hunched, her eyes squinted closed.

"Can you check my phone for service?" She asks.

Logan finds it in the bag and tries to turn it on.

"Battery's dead, sorry."

Veronica groans.

"How do you want me to do this?" He asks, gently, placing a hand on hers.

Her eyes open in slits and peer up at him.

"I can sit up, if it's easier," Veronica offers and he nods.

Taking her hand in his and an arm on her waist, he sits her up, holding her in place.

"Can you keep yourself in that position?"

She nods, ever so slightly, and he steps behind her, looking at her t-shirt, the way it's stuck to her and wet. His half hazard ripped-shirt bandaging is coming loose and seeping blood.

Holding the medical scissors up high, he asks, "how attached are you to that shirt?"

She looks down at it, "I bought this from your fancy cowboy store."

"I'll spring for another one," he smiles and positions himself behind her, taking the bottom of it and starting a cut. The scissors are small and struggle against the fabric. Reaching the collar, he takes the final snip and it falls open, exposing her back.

Veronica pulls at the front of the shirt letting it drop to the floor. She's not wearing a bra, so she takes her breasts in her hands and sighs.

"Is it bad?" she asks.

He observes the wound, still bleeding and angry. Her shoulder and arm have swollen considerably, dwarfing her left side. Something in there is broken, he has no doubt.

"I've seen worse," he answers.

"In movies?"

Logan chuckles, "yeah, in movies,"

"Like horror movies?" she asks.

"No. More like those terrible battlefield ones. The kind with Tom Hanks, or Matt Damon."

Veronica makes a noise that sounds a little like a pained laugh, "Love a good Matt Damon movie, but in those the guy's arm is probably completely missing," she pauses, then looks to the side.

"Don't worry, it's still there."

He stands, bringing the lantern by his side on the ground and kneels on the dirt. Dipping the cloth into the water, he brings it to the wound, dabbing it softly. Veronica winces, her breathing quickens. He places his other hand on her head, ever so gently, "Tell me if it hurts too much," he says.

"Can you distract me?"

"I think I'm a little too preoccupied to display my superior dance moves as distraction," he says, making a gentle wipe down the length of her spine, collecting the cracked dried blood.

"Sing me a song?" she says.

"You're in enough pain as it is, surely?"

"Tell me a story. I need to forget where I am and what the hell you're doing just for a little while."

He dips the cloth into the soak, wringing it out and taking a soft swipe down her side, and she jumps.

"It's cold," Veronica says.

"Sorry," he wrings it out a little more this time. "I don't think I have any exciting stories to tell."

She raises an eyebrow. "I doubt that. The tabloids would have me believe you are indeed very enthralling, from many different angles."

"My life is boring, I assure you," he replies, somewhat proud of himself. It was a conscious decision, this quiet life. Well, it was.

Veronica waits for a moment. He's not sure if she's in pain or getting the courage to say the next words.

"Tell me about when you went to jail," she says, voice forcibly casual, which seems stark considering the circumstances.

Logan grunts, placing the open cloth across the wound, and Veronica makes a controlled exhale. His eyes still sting from lack of sleep, and he squeezes them together to clear his vision. The low light isn't helping, neither is the smoke. He dumps the cloth in the bowl and pats the washed parts dry with a corner of the towel.

He keeps waiting for that time in his life to be forgotten. Those murky months when he became a parody of himself. Most humans do a bad thing, they pay for said bad thing; they move on. Others have it memorialized in print, in flimsy thin technicolor pages of two-dollar magazines by the cash register. People can rarely name the current Secretary of State, but ask them about the blight of a minor celebrity ten years ago and watch their eyes light up.

Distraction or not, he has enough on his mind to begin a re-tell of the past. Explaining one thing would lead him on a winding trail down another. He needs to focus on the blood, even if he really doesn't want to.

When he doesn't answer, she turns her head towards him, face shaded in the darkness. She's searching for something in him. He fumbles with the medical kit.

Veronica changes her own subject, "You better do a good job back there, so we can get the fuck out of here before he gets back."

He stops and looks at her disheveled, swollen body and with opioids now coursing through her bloodstream. She can't keep her eyes open for any length of time or even sit up unaided, but she still thinks they're going to walk right out of here.

Shaking his head, he picks up the cloth.

"Can you lift your arm at all? You have blood all down your side."

She reaches to see it, recoiling from the pain. Twisting her back to the side is the most she can do to give him access. He runs it across the side of her abdomen, up over her ribs and under her arm, skimming the underside of her breast. The room has fallen silent. Veronica's breathing slows, as though she's holding her breath. He wets it and takes another long track down her back, to the top of her jeans. With an unconscious pause in his movements, his fingers trace a circle around the cut, checking for any foreign matter. But really, he just wants to touch her skin. To know she's okay, to feel her with him.

The lamp hisses and sputters beside him, reminding him to focus. Face suddenly hot, he dedicates himself to the cleaning, not the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin, the swell of her breast in her hand. He balls his fingers into a fist and reaches for the antiseptic, pouring it onto gauze and dabbing the edges of the wound.

Veronica hisses in pain and he begins to slowly hum a tune. She wanted a distraction, she was going to get one.

"Are you seriously humming Knockin' on Heaven's door right now?"

"It's the first thing that came to mind," Logan says, swabbing the center with a generous amount of antiseptic.

Through gritted teeth she replies, "If I wasn't worried before, I should be terrified now."

"Don't question the healing properties of Axl Rose."

"You couldn't have gone with November Rain?"

"How does it go again? Nothin' lasts forever, and we both know hearts can change, and it's hard to hold a candle, in the cold November rain," he sings quietly.

"Something like that," she replies.

"Is it possible to hum a guitar riff like that?" he asks and beginning from the start, he hums the entire tune, sans guitar riff.

Veronica remains silent through the rest of the ordeal, just listening to the tuneless music. He finishes with the cream and lays a sterilized gauze pad upon the wound. The medical kit had a needle and thread, but he is in no state for his first attempt at surgery. It would just have to do. He passes the crepe bandage around her body from the back, over and under, over and under until she's tightly wound by the white cloth.

She looks better, her brow less harsh, her eyes less murky. He realizes that it's probably the drugs in her system.

"Have you got any preference for clothing?" He asks finally, holding up the two shirt choices from her bag. One is a white tank top, the other a tight long-sleeved shirt.

"How am I going to get those on?"

Logan scrunches his nose and digs into his own backpack, presenting the creased blue button down he wore the day they set out on this ill-fated adventure.

"This is the only thing with buttons, which is, I think, our best bet to get something on without moving you too much."

"It looks expensive," she replies.

Logan eyes the label. "It is. Ridiculously so. But feel that fabric, like butter."

"You're willing to sacrifice the butter-shirt to possible blood stains?"

"Only the best for my injured acquaintances. But fair warning, it's been worn, so it probably smells of horses and man sweat."

"I'll survive."

He points to her chest, still holding her breasts in her hands. "I'll close my eyes," and squints them shut.

"Okay."

Veronica extends her arm straight and wobbles as it throws off her balance. Logan, through closed eyes, seeks her hand. It's raised only slightly, the highest she can manage and pulls her hand through the sleeve. He gently tries to shuffle it up her swollen limb. All of it seems impossibly difficult with his eyes closed. He keeps jerking to the side and having to carefully feel his way with the other hand. He apologizes at least ten times and they're still not getting anywhere.

When he doesn't progress any further than her elbow, she says softly, "Open your eyes, Logan."

He keeps them closed.

"Are you sure?"

"Seriously, of all the shitty parts of this situation, you seeing my boobs is about the least embarrassing thing."

"For you, maybe."

Veronica sighs. "Please open your eyes and get this shirt on me. I'd prefer you seeing them a million times over to him and who knows when he'll get back."

Logan opens them, crouched before her, still clutching the shirt in his hands. Veronica tries to make eye contact, but he focuses on the shirt, the tiny diamond pattern hidden in the color. He inches it up her swollen arm, and she squints in pain as he pulls it toward her shoulder.

Her hand covers one breast, the other is half covered by the bandage as she holds the arm up for him. It's small and perfectly rounded, the nipple rosy and peaked, her skin sprinkled with tiny goosebumps. Not that he's looking. He's making every effort not to look. Instead, watching the way his own shadow falls across her. Naturally, it follows him in careful, measured movements as he wonders what it would look like if their shadows merged into one. If he brought his face to hers, if he pressed his chest against her bare one.

Finally, the fabric makes its way past her shoulder. The other arm slips in effortlessly. He pulls the collar towards her neck, drawing the two sides together and buttoning the shirt from the top to the bottom.

Veronica watches him, fumbling with the buttons in shaking fingers. Her controlled breathing falls against his cheek and he turns his head to breathe it in. She opens her mouth like she might speak. Logan watches her, waiting. The moment sits like a low cloud, engulfing them. A double-dare to see who can stay the longest in close quarters.

Veronica pulls away and Logan wins the dare. Or loses, he can't tell.

She smoothes the shirt straight and Logan shuffles, busying himself with collecting the plastic bandage wrappers and stands, observing her.

"Women always look better in men's clothes than we do, a fact which is desperately unfair. You look a vision." He says with a grin to diffuse the heavy atmosphere. Her proximity makes his blood feel carbonated, and he shakes his hands out, cracking his knuckles.

She eyes him with skepticism. "Your bullshit machine is in overdrive today, Echolls. I look like a microwaved turd," comes her reply punctuated by hair sticking in all directions, pine needles in the strands. Her jeans are dirt streaked, there's some mud beneath her left ear.

She looks beautiful. Mud, or no mud.

But it's all of two seconds before Veronica tries to stand again, another fitful surge of energy. She sways like a drunkard, then grabs her head in her hands.

"Jesus Christ! Do I have to tie you down?" He guides the determined pain-in-the-ass down to the bed.

"Probably."

He levels his gaze, unamused.

"Logan, this is our opportunity. Get my camera, let's take some photos, indoors and outdoors and leave before he reappears."

"What, so we can make it a whole one mile with you in that state and he finds us, asking why we're running away from a perfectly rational offer of assistance?"

She waves him off with her good arm, "I'll be fine."

He strongly suspects if she was missing a limb, or two, she would still claim to be fine.

"Do you want to explain what we're doing out here, looking for him? Do you want to let him in on that little tidbit, because if we make any strange moves to leave like that, it's going to alert him to it in seconds. Then what? Do you want to get back to your dad? I sure as hell want to get back to Piper!"

His statement stills her, and she slumps down.

"What are we going to do then, Logan? Play happy guests?" she asks, blinking with a protracted, medically induced pause.

"Yeah, we're going to stay until you can stand independently, until you stop bleeding, until that head wound shrinks down. Until it's safe for us to leave. Right now, you'd barely make it a hundred yards, even on horseback. I promise, when you've rested and are feeling better, then we'll head back to the ranch, to the hospital."

He still can't imagine it. How. How the hell he's going to get her home, even now that she's conscious.

"But what about the pictures?" she asks, still clinging to that thread of hope that this trip would change her life, save her dad.

"Let's work on that. We're here now, we might get an opportunity."

"Can you at least look around while he's gone? See if you can find anything interesting?"

Logan sighs and nods to the compromise, the only way to keep her still.

"As long as you lie down. No standing. No moving. No trying to escape. Nothing."

"Deal," she says weakly, a faraway cadence succumbing to the blankets below.

Logan checks outside quickly, assuring himself that Moyer hasn't returned covertly. He wanders the cramped space, looking at the shelves, the few books beside the bed. A Bible sits open at Isaiah, there in blue ballpoint circled around 55:7.

Let the wicked forsake their ways and the unrighteous their thoughts. Let them turn to the LORD, and he will have mercy on them, and to our God, for he will freely pardon.

He reads it out loud to Veronica.

"Seeking redemption?" She muses and he flicks through the pages. Most of them are highlighted or underlined, with notes scribbled in the margins.

"Praying the bad away?"

Logan finds the original page the Bible was open to, placing it carefully back on the table.

"I don't think the DA gives a shit about how much prayer saved you on a Murder One charge of a cop," she says, losing patience with the speed of Logan's casing the joint. She directs him to move on with an incline of the head.

"Relax, would you?"

"Feel free to seek out any signed confessions. That would be a real icing on the cake."

"Roger that. Find icing. Let me find the filing cabinet. I'm sure it's filed under C for confessions, or should I check under M for murders?"

Veronica sniggers. "We joke but one asshole I was tailing had filed seedy motel receipts in his office under A for affair."

"An asshole with filing skills, who'd have thought?" He pretends to look around before laying on his stomach and searching under the bed, dragging out a leather trunk, worn from age. It's four feet long and two feet wide. He hesitates for a moment, briefly pondering its body-like shape. Alas it's full of moth-ridden clothes, no corpse to be found, or evidence for that matter.

"Did you go through it?" She asks.

"I'm very bad at this, I don't like going through people's stuff."

"That's the best part."

Logan scrunches up his nose and swallows the lump of nervousness that he has lodged in his throat.

"Check if the guns are loaded," she says.

He pushes the trunk under, smoothing over the dirt tracks it left on the ground.

"I'm going to hesitate that he who lives on the lam leaves his guns loaded by the door."

"You could unload them, just in case?"

Logan shakes his head. "No. Nothing that would trigger him to our motives for being here."

In the other corner of the room is a frypan, some cutlery, knives and sharpening tools. A wooden chair sits by the fire, lovingly carved with ornamental flowers with a thick, coppery fur draped across the backrest. The space is oddly cozy, if not completely disconcerting. If he could forget the circumstances, it wasn't all bad. Clearly, movie-villains had tarnished his view of murderers. This one seemed to want to live simply, off-grid, whittling and hunting for food and possibly cutting the ropes of his horses in the dark of night.

Nothing was adding up. It was probably the lack of sleep. The shock. The closeness to Veronica. All mixing like a confused haphazard stew in his brain.

Despite Veronica's fastidious, and mildly impatient direction, he finds nothing of consequence. He takes multiple pictures with his phone camera as instructed and checks the signal by holding it up high. Nothing.


Moyer returns as the sun is setting. Veronica has fallen asleep and Logan considers waking her because he remembers something about head wounds and sleep and comas and he's probably trying to distract himself from this predicament they've found themselves in.

She'll be fine, he reassures himself seconds before moving to her side and listening to her breathing. The sound isn't enough and he places a hand on hers until she rouses, huffs and turns her head fitfully, then falling back asleep.

"No luck, sorry," Moyer says, shrugging the jacket off, hanging it on a rusted nail head.

"Thanks for trying," says Logan. The space suddenly feels full with three bodies in it. Moyer glances around the room, as if checking things are still in place. Satisfied, he collects a pile of potatoes from a rusty tin and peels them with a knife.

"Hungry?" He asks.

"Starved," Logan answers. Their breakfast by the river feels like eons ago. His stomach agrees.

"I haven't skinned the fox yet, so it'll just have to be potatoes tonight."

Logan thanks the heavens that he distracted Moyer from that task.

"She gonna be alright?" he asks, flicking potato skins onto the fire.

"I think so. Her shoulder is probably broken. Maybe some ribs too."

"The cut on her back?"

"I did the best I could."

He slices the potatoes thinly, then onions and cooks them in a frypan with a heavy dollop of butter. The smell of them frying re-energizes Logan and he moves closer, sitting beside Moyer on the ground.

"You guys should stay in here tonight," he offers, flipping the slices with a fork.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not much of a sleeper. I've got that thing, ya know, where you can't sleep."

"Insomnia?"

He nods, "At night I go hunting, walk, catch better game at night. Need to stock up before winter."

"How long have you been out here?" Logan asks, a tentative exploration.

Moyer scratches his calf, shuffling his leg out, "Long time."

"Do you go into town, get supplies?"

"Not if I don't have to. Got most stuff now that there's no need. Make my own food, make most of my own stuff."

Logan looks around the cabin. "This place is pretty amazing."

"It's alright. It's warm and it's safe, 'spose that's all that matters." He scratches at his leg again and Logan hears metal.

Another careful flip of the potatoes and Moyer moves to collect a bowl. When he does, Logan can see the outline of the handgun he was itching at, either strapped to his calf or shoved in his sock.

Unconsciously he glances at Veronica, then to his own rifle laying under the bed.

Moyer scrapes the food into a bowl and a plate, leaving a little in the pan.

"I don't have much in the way of plates. I don't have guests much. Well, ever."

He thrusts the plate into Logan's hand and takes the bowl to Veronica, sitting it beside her before perching on the stool and eating directly from the frypan.

Maybe it's the smell of food, or the clanging that rouses Veronica from her sleep. She sees the dinner beside her and rolls awkwardly to collect it from the floor, shoveling it into her mouth.

"Thank you," she says, and it looks as though it pains her to speak as she recoils from her own words.

"Just glad you're awake," says Moyer.

Logan can see Veronica's discomfort. Whether it's from the situation or the pain, he is unsure.

"How you feelin'?" Moyer asks.

She pauses, chewing, and responds only with a gentle shake of the head. Not good.

"Your husband here, he took good care of you today," he says, a nod in Logan's direction.

Veronica turns her head slowly, meeting Logan in a questioning gaze.

Logan heaps the last of the potatoes in his mouth and smiles nervously.

Moyer tidies up the dishes and stokes the fire high, leaving extra logs beside it. It's grown dark outside, the wind has picked up and it now pummels the walls of the cabin in fierce gusts. He sits by the door and puts on his hunting vest, jacket and boots. Shotgun pulled from its place, he checks the barrels with a snap and fills his pockets with more red cartridges. Veronica watches him unblinking, curled on her side in the fetal position. Logan takes out his phone, stands on his tip toes, holding his arm up high, then low, moving around.

Moyer glances at him, "You won't get anything here."

"I'm just trying to send a message to my friend, to let him know where we are. He was expecting us back yesterday," replies Logan.

Moyer jumps up quickly, his complexion suddenly pallid.

"Did it send?"

Logan shakes his head and repockets his phone.

Moyers face conveys swift panic, "Tomorrow, if you're feeling better. I can help you get home, if ya want? If we take it real slow, I can help with the horses, and we can keep her upright, so you can get back home, get to a hospital. We could even make a stretcher. I've got plenty of stuff lying around here."

He's realized that if they're reported missing, that someone might come looking for them. And that someone might be the police. Moyer reaches for a second shotgun and places it over his shoulder.

"Okay, we'll see how she is tomorrow," Logan replies.

"I'm heading off. Have a good night. Hope you're feeling better, Veronica," he barely finishes the sentence before he is out the door.

Veronica and Logan make eye contact.

Moyer presents Logan with confusion. This man, who shot two police officers point blank and then walked away to live alone in the Montana wilderness. He can't seem to draw a line between the crime and the man. Maybe he was fed up, taunted and beaten in prison by Rhys Arnold and then, finally released, took his revenge where he could, Gutierrez was collateral damage. There was once a time that if Logan had a gun and his father in the same room that he may have ended up in Moyer's position. Something snaps inside you after a while, and it's difficult to tie it back together.

Logan carries Veronica in the dark to the composting outhouse to relieve herself. He checks her bandage, gives her more Oxy and tucks her under the covers.

"Sleep, Mars. He's gone for the night. Rest and maybe we can get out of here tomorrow."

Semiconscious she closes the last sliver of her eyes.


Time stretches in invisible markers. It seems like Moyer has been gone for hours, or maybe it's only been minutes.

At first, Logan tried to find a comfortable position in the chair by the fire, but it was fruitless. He dozed on and off, but a rattling noise would stir him and he'd jump up, heart racing. The wind is relentless, pummeling the walls and blowing down the chimney, making the fire flicker and puff.

Like the wind, thoughts rattle around in Logan's mind. Wondering about Piper, about Bill, if they're worried yet, if they've sent out a search party? He's sure that Bill will keep a level head. He knows the terrain, he knows the weather. Many things could have slowed them down. They were only due to have returned this evening.

Over the sound of the storm outside, Logan hears gentle sobs and rushes to the bedside.

"Are you okay?" He reaches Veronica, and she wipes her tears against his shirt.

"I'm just tired and sore and I want to go home."

He perches beside her on the bed. "I know. This will all be over soon. Promise."

"You don't know that," she says.

"I can hope for it, can't I?"

She nods and blinks to clear away the tears. "I'm embarrassed, Logan. I thought this was going to be easy."

"Easy?"

"Yeah. When we found out he was here and you were right next door deep inside I just felt like it was a sign, you know. And I don't even believe in signs, but I felt like I could do this so easily and make this money and just this once in my life that one goddamn thing might go my way. That I could clear things up with you and save my dad and get another asshole off the streets."

She takes a deep breath and continues, "I didn't even bring my taser, or my gun. I was so convinced that this was going to be my break. The universe finally says 'okay Veronica Mars you've been through enough, let's throw you a bone'. Well, I don't think the universe likes me much. Hate might be a better word. It was so stupid, and reckless, and unlike me, and now I can't fucking move without pain. God knows what's broken in there. Everyone told me to be careful, but I just ignored them. Now I can't even get a picture of him with my dead phone or smashed camera without alerting him to what we're here for. I'm screwed. Again."

Logan reaches into his top pocket and pulls out his phone, waiting for it to turn on, then flipping the screen around to show her. A close, clear picture of Moyer. Sitting by the door, gun in lap. He flicks through the images. At least a dozen of them, including the moment Moyer looked at Logan, directly. A perfect shot.

"I wasn't really trying to send messages earlier. I was taking these."

Veronica smiles widely through the pain and the tears. "You did good, Echolls."

"I'm no Veronica Mars, photographer extraordinaire. But, it will do."

"It will," she replies, calmer now.

"I'm sorry you can't catch a break. The universe is a shitty place. There is no rhyme or reason to any of it."

"Despite all this madness. I'm glad I got to see you again, Logan. It's been nice, hanging out. If we just ignore all the sabotage, and the blood."

He tips an invisible cap, "It has been."

"And thank you for looking after me, carrying me, cleaning me up."

"What is a husband's job, but to take care of his wife?" he smirks and Veronica laughs.

"I'm not even going to ask about that one."

"Good idea."

They should be sleeping, but Logan can't find the will to move from her side.

"What if he knows it's us Logan? What if he's known the whole time and he's stringing us along. He probably cut the horses' ropes. What's to stop him from killing us to keep us quiet, then taking off and disappearing again?"

Logan shakes his head, he won't let himself believe that to be true. He can't.

"Don't think like that, he's offered to help us get out, that's a good thing. I think he just wants us gone, so he can feel safe again."

She doesn't reply, still playing out scenarios in her head.

He takes her hand in his, looking down at her, brow creased with worry. She returns a squeeze before running her thumb in slow circles down the side of his hand. A tickle and burn at the same time.

Veronica's pupils are dilated, watching him in the darkness. He lets her hold his gaze, the moment expands into something other than comfort, as though she's communicating with her eyes, and he's unsure he can fathom her language. Hand released, she extends her good arm out to him, running a fingertip across his shirt, taking it in her grasp. She pulls him down toward her. He gives no resistance. The feel of being brought together, his shirt against his shirt, on her.

She drags him as close as she can, the fabric released, her hand finds his hair, wraps the back of his head and draws him down. Her lips seek his and find them with ease. A slow, chaste kiss in which he feels his face flush with heat and shock.

It's over before he can comprehend it, staring down at her, finding his breath.

"I'm sorry, I just …" she begins before he leans down and kisses her again. This time with full cognition. His tongue against her own in tentative, humble sweeps. Wanting to press himself into her, to express in a kiss what he can't with his words but fearful that he will hurt her further, he exercises restraint. Veronica melds into him, the kiss swiftly growing more vehement, he tilts his head for better access. Her skin, hot to the touch as he dances fingertips across her face. Velvet lips make him forget where he is, where he was, all that has transpired until this very moment. Logan's lost in her, barrelling down a rabbit hole that begins and ends with Veronica.

Hot breath moans into his mouth and he pulls back suddenly. He can't kiss her like this, with passion, and not hurt her. The thought of making her injuries worse isn't something he can bear. Heads pressed together he tries to find his breath, some semblance of composure. A lilting smile tinges her flushed lips.


The morning sun has no hope of making itself known. Last night the winds whipped down from the peaks, frigid and piercing. Bill sits on the front porch and pulls on his boots. The leather is worn and soft in his fingers from years of use and the soles caked in earth, cow and horse shit. The wind spits ash from his cigarette onto his jeans and he draws a nicotine hit into his lungs. He doesn't open his mouth and it slowly releases from his nostrils like a dragon.

His pocket vibrates. He ignores it.

Bill gets in the truck, Houdini jumps in the passenger seat, white from his constant mault. The engine starts to idle and he mashes his fingers against the vents to warm them. Invisible lists swirl in his head, never on paper. He's good at remembering them, ticking them off one by one. Each day he peels off yesterdays and starts on todays.

Friday. Two cattle trucks coming into the Northern paddocks. 280 weaners ready for sale and transport. Check the water sources. Weld the broken drafting gate.

He starts up the track towards the workers' shed when his phone vibrates again. Throwing the cigarette butt out the window he fishes out his cell to see's it's Piper calling.

"Hey Pipes," he says, expecting her call.

"Hey Bill, are you sad without me there?" She teases him.

"I cried all mornin'," he teases with a low drawl.

"Dad's supposed to be back, but he's not answering his phone. Have you seen him?" Her voice is casual with an underlying edge of concern.

"Nah, I ain't seen him, but I'm not surprised if they might take a little longer. You know what it's like out there."

"Hmm," she replies, unconvinced. "Can you get him to call me the minute he gets back?"

"Sure thing," he says and something catches his eye in the mist. Something moving fast. It's coming down the open field and towards the barn. At first he thinks it must be one of the horses, but last night he stabled them all, safe from the weather. Cows don't move that fast. Houdini has seen it too, his ears pricking up and head tilting to the side.

He squints, fighting his terrible eyesight, stopping the pickup on the track. It moves closer and Bill can see it is a horse. A horse still wearing a halter, a horse with half a pack still on it's back, the rest of it trailing against the ground behind him.

It's Mickey.

"Piper, I gotta go, I'll give you a call as soon as I see him," he says, hanging up before she can reply.

He drives further up the track and Mickey comes closer, slowing to a trot. Bill heaves himself from the pickup and tells Houdini to stay. Houdini responds by yelping and climbing into the driver's seat.

"Hey Mick," he says, voice level, holding out his hand.

Mickey watches him cautiously. Bill can see he's covered in sweat, still with one bedroll tied to his side, the rest of the items he had packed only a few days ago are gone.

Taking tentative steps forward he takes his halter in his hands and rubs behind Mickey's ear, smooth pats down his muzzle with calm and reassuring tones.

"Where'd ya come from, boy?" He reaches across his belly and unbuckles the girth strap carefully, sliding off the pack and placing it in the bed of his truck.

Bill looks up into the hills, to the mountains beyond before calling Houdini to come and leading Mickey to the stables. He feeds him, brushes him down, checking for injuries. There are none, just a tired horse.

He's uneasy. Something isn't right. Calling the police to report them missing isn't an option. He knows Logan Echolls, bringing unwanted attention is the last thing he would want. A search party. A wanted murderer. No one needed that.

Giving brisk instructions to the ranch hands Bill tells them he's going for a ride. At the house he collects two packets of Marlboro Reds, placing one in each of his top pockets. Then he goes to the kitchen and pulls out his Colt pistol from the cutlery drawer, slides on his waistband holster and snaps it into place. He fills Houdini's food bowl high.

"I'll be home soon, buddy," he pats him affectionately.

At the stables he saddles his horse, climbs into the seat. A single kick and he's galloping towards the cabin.