The road veered around the turn and into the long, narrow passage, curved to follow the arc of the river below. On the left lay a long limestone outcrop like a buttress holding back the hillside. On the right was the eroded bluff edge, thin sandy soil over the same weathered rock, the only reason this skinny strip of land hadn’t already fallen into the water a hundred feet down.

The gravel flew beneath their wheels. A half mile, then a mile. The curve made it impossible to see too far forward. Still nothing in the rearview. Maybe another mile to the blacktop.

“Dammit,” she said.

Something blocked the road ahead. A big pickup, this one gray with a high cap on the back, parked sideways across the gravel between the wall of stone and the edge of the headland. Two figures stood in the grass. Long guns hung down from their hands.

That was when Peter knew that he hadn’t outrun the black truck. He’d been allowed to pull away so that he’d drive into this trap. The husband and his friends had radios or some local cell service that got a signal out here, far from the highway towers.

One of the figures raised his weapon.

“Hang on.” Peter hit the clutch and brake and the Chevy slewed to a stop. Their dust cloud caught up and washed over them, pouring through the open windows like dirty river water. Coughing, Peter reversed to the rock outcrop, wheels spinning in the gravel, then cranked the pickup around to head back the way he’d come, hoping the dust might hide them. He needed to get the hell out of this shooting gallery before the black truck blocked the other end. There was more than one way to the blacktop.

“What does your husband want?”

“He wants me.” Her fingers worried at the hem of her skirt. The dress was a pale print, but the hem had a faint blue pattern, like embroidery.

“What will he do?”

“Take me back to the home place.” Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her shoulders curled forward over her belly like all the air had gone out of her. “He’s a bad man. I was leaving him.” She didn’t look at Peter. “Sorry. You shouldn’t have stopped to help.”

“Somebody had to,” Peter said. “Might as well be me.”

As if he had a choice in the matter. He wasn’t built to turn away from someone else’s trouble. As far as he knew, he’d been that way since he was born. The Corps and the war had only sharpened the edge.

The road curved away from them, the bluff now on his left with the river running fast below. The air was thick with dust. He was in third gear with his foot to the floor and the engine’s power rising in his ears. No sign of the black truck. For a moment, he allowed himself to hope.