It was a beautiful morning. Sun shone bright through the trees, their branches just beginning to show green pips. The short flowers were strewn along the trail with wild abandon, glorious in white and gold and purple. I walked quietly, marveling at the Breeces’ efforts. “It’s wonderful,” I whispered, staring at the ground, not paying much attention to anything else, because how could I, when the flowers deserved my full concentration?

And it was because I was staring at the flowers that I noticed a smaller trail joining the one I was on. I stopped, frowning.

That was odd. Felicia had told me there was “no way you can get lost.” That there was only the one looping trail that went around the eighty acres of their property. So . . . where did this go?

I took one hesitant step onto the theoretically nonexistent path. Then another. It wasn’t much of a trail, but it was certainly there, and too straight to be something deer would create. Puzzled, I kept walking. I needed to find out where this was going. Felicia clearly didn’t know about it, and needed to, because she’d need to give out different directions, but surely there was some reasonable explanation. Maybe one of their employees had created a small path to a brush pile?

The narrow trail curved around the base of one hill and crested another. From there I could see a small cabin. An old one that looked as if it had been created out of logs 150 years ago. Mesmerized, I went closer, because the trail was leading directly to the front door. Maybe I was still on the Breece Farm property, and they used the place for storage. Or—

The door opened and a man walked out. My mouth dropped open and I must have made a small squeak of surprise, because he jumped and turned to face me. Yes, my first impression had been correct.

It was Ryan Anderson.

Chapter 10

Ryan started to go back inside the cabin, then suddenly changed direction. He rushed straight toward the deep and dark woods, straight into more fear and pain, running with panicked, frantic movements that broke my heart.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Ryan, it’s me! Minnie Hamilton!”

The explosive run eased to a trot, then a walk, then nothing. He stood still, his shoulders heaving, and even from where I stood, I could hear his heavy, panting breaths.

“It’s okay,” I said, moving toward him slowly. “It’s just me. Julia and Hunter and I have been worried about you.” I spoke calmly and softly, a lot like I had a few weeks ago to Eddie after a friend had stopped by with an energetic golden retriever puppy. “We just want to know you’re okay.”

Ryan half turned. “You’re not going to tell the cops where I am, are you?” His face, rather than showing its customary cheerful humor, was instead lined with tension and wariness.