CHAPTER THREE

      THE HERMIT FILLED a canteen with water from a primitive pump attached to the sink, then went to the bed and pulled a box from beneath the cot. Inside were smaller boxes. Ammunition. Extra ammunition. He removed one and shoved it into the backpack. Miranda’s blood ran cold as she absorbed the full impact of her situation.

      Life or death.

      Her life or her death.

      With the hermit she stood a chance. She had to do what he wanted. For the first time in her life, she’d find out what type of person she was: weak or strong, courageous or cowardly, pampered or self-reliant. It was a daunting prospect. She had to shake the spoiled rich-girl persona, because it was the way the hermit seemed to see her. But then, he hadn’t really seen her at all. So far he’d treated her like a pesky bug he wanted to swat.

      As the shadows outside grew longer, the hermit lit a coal-oil lamp and set it in the middle of the table. He whistled for the dog, who quickly came through the dog flap in the door. Then he slipped on his coat and hat.

      “That should burn for about thirty minutes,” he told her, pushing his arms through the straps of the backpack. “Button your coat and put on the cap,” he said, and grabbed his rifle.

      Miranda immediately did as she was told. There were slots for her eyes, nose and mouth. She wiggled her nose in distaste at the musty woolly smell.

      He noticed the gesture. “Remember, no questions, tears or complaints,” was all he said as he opened the back door and they stepped out into the night.

      A blast of cold wind hit her, reminding her of the low nightly temperatures. The extra clothing prevented her from being miserable with cold yet, but she knew it would get much worse.

      The moon beamed just brightly enough for her to see shapes in the darkness. Sounds she’d never heard before filled the night, soft, cooing, rustling sounds. Fear, her new companion, became distinct and vivid and tightened her nerves into knots.

      “Stay close behind me,” he said over his shoulder.

      She didn’t intend on staying anywhere else. As long as she could see him, she felt safe.

      They walked and walked, trudging up hills through thickets and bushes, then down into valleys of tall dried weeds. Miranda tried hard to keep up. She had to.

      It amazed her that he knew exactly where he was going. Each tree, bush and trail seemed familiar to him. Several times he held a branch so she could walk through without being slapped in the face. At least he was considerate, she decided.

      Leaves crunched beneath her feet, bushes tugged at her clothes, and several times she tripped on something but always managed to steady herself. Her strength was waning, though. An aching weariness gripped every muscle, and her legs began to cramp. Ask him to stop, her brain told her, but his words reverberated in her head. No questions, tears or complaints. She had to go on. She had to show him she wasn’t a whimpering whiny female.

      The wind chilled her to the bone, and the night sounds surrounded her with magnified intensity. Her legs grew tighter and tighter, and she could barely move them. The hermit’s back became a dim shape. She was falling behind.

      As that realization crossed her mind, her legs locked in pain, and she fell flat on her face. “Oh, Lord, just let me die,” she whispered, praying for the pain in her legs to ease.

      “Get up,” a booming voice ordered from above.

      For a moment she thought it was God talking to her, but God wouldn’t have that note of impatience in His voice.

      It was the hermit.

      So much for considerate.

      “Get up,” he said again.

      She struggled to her knees. Words like “I can’t” or “Please help me” hovered on her lips, but she ignored them. She couldn’t fall apart this soon. They’d just started their journey. She was stronger than this, surely.

      The dog licked her nose and she wrapped her arms around him in gratitude. He liked her. That incentive, that warm touch, was all she needed to propel herself to her feet. Pain shot up her back, and she winced in agony, but she wouldn’t complain. She had given him her word.

      The hermit turned and headed off again. Miranda slowly followed, ordering herself to pick up her feet, each step excruciating. After a few minutes he stopped.

      “Time to rest for a while,” he said. He removed the pack and sank to the ground, leaning against a tree, the rifle beside him.

      Miranda collapsed on a bed of dried leaves at his feet and took several gulps of cold air to still her racing heart. Thank God, thank God, she said over and over in her mind. Now her legs could rest.

      As he watched her prone body, he knew she was exhausted and in pain. He’d expected her to ask him to stop, but she hadn’t. It was probably because she recognized the futility of going up against that stubborn nature of his—the one he’d been told about so many times. Especially by Sheila. He shook his head to clear the memory.

      Women. He would never figure them out. Not that he had to anymore, but he’d say one thing for Miranda Maddox. She had guts. The unfamiliar woods, especially at night, were frightening to her, yet she kept walking, determined to go on. He had pushed her hard, but he had to. It was crucial that she be able to withstand the strain of the ordeal ahead of them. Amazingly she’d passed his test.

      Yeah, the lady had guts.

      Miranda lay on her stomach, her head on her arm. As she relaxed, the cramps in her legs began to diminish. Her body became aware of another problem—the bitter cold. An icy chill stung her nose and lips, her fingers. She rolled over, her hands finding the pockets of her coat. As she stared up at the sky, she caught her breath. Through the cobweb branches of the trees, glistening stars sparkled like diamonds, beckoning, beguiling everyone to gaze at