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Finally I see the stream. I hobble to a part where the bank rolls into the water. I sit on the edge of the bank and dip my feet in. I flinch when the water touches my feet. I double over, my breathing heavy. But I keep my feet in the water, swishing them around, washing them off so I can see how bad they're hurt. They're bad. I put them back in the water and leave them there. The cool water begins to ease the pain.

I look around and try to decide which way the cabin is from here. I still don't recognize anything, but I know if I follow the stream I'll eventually find the log where I normally cross and then I'll know where I am.

I look up and down the stream and decide to go down. I don't know why but it just seems accurate.

acc·u·rate—adjective
1. free from error or defect; consistent with a standard, rule, or model; precise; exact.

For awhile the stream is shallow and sandy, so I walk right up the middle of it, which feels better on my feet than walking along the bank. But when the water reaches the tops of my knees and I see rocks on the bottom, I climb back up to the bank and sit for a minute.

For the first time since last night, I let myself think about what will happen if he's there when I get back. But then I remember that he doesn't come home every night.

Maybe last night was a night he stayed out.

Maybe I can sneak in and he'll never know I was gone.

I get up and start walking along the bank. I stay close to the stream so I'll see the log. Things are starting to look familiar maybe—like I'm getting close. Then, up ahead, I see the place where the stream bends like an
S.
That's it—that's where the log is! I run—well sort of run and sort of hobble until I reach the log. I sit down on my bottom and scoot across the log just like Sierra did. When I reach the other side, I know I'm almost there.

What if he's there?

I wish I had a dog like Van. He could protect me. I could train him to attack. This thought makes me smile. When I smile, my forehead feels like it straightens out, like it's been scrunched up all night. That's how my mom would look when she was worried about something—usually when she was looking into her wallet and it was empty—then she'd scrunch her forehead and squint her eyes.

The closer I get to the cabin, the harder I strain to see if his truck's there. But I can't see through all the trees. Finally I get a clear look at the cabin. His truck isn't in the driveway.

He's not there!

If everything didn't hurt so bad, I'd do a little dance.

I climb up the steps of the stoop and open the door to the cabin. When I walk in, my heart feels like it drops to my knees. I can't move. I just stare. Five empty beer cans lay on top of my mattress.

He knows.

He was here and he knows.

I bend, push the cans off my mattress, and lie down. I pull the blanket tight—the smell of beer surrounds me and reminds me what I've come back to.

I've come back to him.

He'll be back.

And he'll be mad.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Sierra

We've made drug busts up here. There's a dirt road—an old logging road—that runs through this area." Officer Mackenzie points to the map that's spread atop the squad car. Officer Jameson and the other two officers nod. They know the road.

"Ms. Bickford—Sierra—you think the cabin is about here?" He points to the spot I indicated earlier—earlier when I'd had them dispense with the
Ms. Bickford.
"If that's the case, let's loop back and catch the dirt road and go in from here." He points to the squiggly line that marks the road. "If we don't find it, then we'll have you walk us in from the clearing you showed us."

"We'll find it. We were up here last month—there's millions of dollars' worth of marijuana growing in this coastal range. We arrested a pot farmer just last month. We've seen the old logging cabins. There are six or seven of them right in this area." Officer Newton points at the map. "Growers and dealers love it up here—it's remote but close enough to a main road that there's electricity and other services."

"Let's hit it." Jameson reaches for the map and folds it up.

As I follow the squad cars back to where the dirt road cuts in, I wonder again about Kaylee. Have drugs played a part in what she's suffered? Maybe, like Annie, she's a victim of someone else's addiction. The thought saddens me, but the guilty verdict—the gavel pounding in my head—doesn't come as it usually does.

What happens if they find her today?

Officer Jameson told me they'd check with CWS for previous reports regarding her. But what if there isn't evidence of anything? What happens then? Maybe the jerk she lives with has a legal right to her—maybe he's her father or a guardian or something. What then?

And if there is evidence of abuse? What had Bonnie told me? CWS would place her in a children's home or foster care.

The thought pricks my heart. So that would be it then? Kaylee would become a ward of the county and my role in her life would be . . . what? Finished?

The satisfaction I thought I'd feel when I'm finished with all this doesn't happen.
Come on, Sierra, you've done your job. You found her, brought in the authorities. Once they find the cabin, you're free of this mess. That's what you want, right?

The answer to the question I ask myself surprises me. No. No, that's not what I want at all.

Confusion swirls through my soul like a tornado, upending feelings long buried—love, hope, desire. I reach for the radio, turn it on, and crank the volume.

But my twisting soul won't still. It begs for attention.

I reach for the radio again and turn it off. I sit in silence. Feelings fly to the surface and I try to pin them down—examine each one. But I'm unpracticed. I pay attention to the emotions stirring and finally, I recognize the most prevalent feeling: Fear.

Fear incriminates:
This child is wounded—she needs more than you can give. You don't have what it takes. You'll end up hurting her like you've hurt everyone else.
I ponder the charges and then put them aside. Yes, there may be some truth there, but at the very least, I'm better than what Kaylee's had. I'd take care of her.

Fear changes tactics:
If you let yourself care for her—love her—you'll get hurt. You don't need to lose another child. You know that pain all too well. There's no happily ever after in this story. You'll end up alone again. Don't give her your heart.

This argument traps me and there's no time to unravel the truth from the lies. The brake lights of the squad car ahead of me signal our arrival. I pull the Jeep to the side of the dirt road, take a deep breath—and get out.

I walk to the group of officers and listen for my instructions.

"Sierra, the first cabin in the cluster is about a hundred yards up the road. You walk in with us and point out the cabin you were in. Agreed?" Officer Newton looks at the others who nod their heads.

"Then, Mackenzie and Jameson, you drive in and make the arrest if the guy's there. We'll hold back and wait for your instruction. We know he's armed, so if you need backup—we're here."

"Good. Let's take a look." Officer Mackenzie motions for me to take the lead.

Walking the dirt road behind the cabins, I can't tell them apart. They all look the same. I don't remember cabins on either side of the place I saw last night, but maybe I just didn't notice—they are spread apart. Most of the places look vacant.

Jameson must sense my hesitation because he slows. "Sierra, whadya think?"

"I think it might be the last one. I was facing the cabin last night. When the truck pulled out this morning he backed out and then went around the right side of the cabin. I didn't notice another cabin on the right. I think his driveway curves around the side of the place out to the road."

"Jameson, why don't you and Sierra cut through there"—Mackenzie points to a trail between two cabins—"and take a look from the front. Make sure we've got the right place."

Jameson follows me down the shadowed trail. We wind our way in between trees until we're standing in front of the row of cabins. I head to the right, off the trail, and trudge through ferns and undergrowth until I see a familiar sight—a truck parked in front of the last cabin.

"That's it. He's there. That's the truck." The fluttering in my chest feels like the beating wings of a trapped hummingbird. I take quick, short breaths, unable to find a natural rhythm. Is Kaylee there? Is she okay? What will happen?
Oh, Lord, are You here? Do You have a plan?

My pulse slows again and peace, like a sheet of assurance, drapes my soul. I don't know what comes next, but I know it's completely out of my control. This is God's plan. It's in His hands.

Jameson clicks his radio. "Found it. We're on our way back. Looks like the guy's there."

We follow the trail back to the road and listen as Mackenzie gives instructions. "We know this guy is armed, so let's not take any chances—take both cars. I'd rather have you guys on site with us. Sierra, you stay put. Wait here at your car. I want you out of the way for your own safety."

"What if she's—what if Kaylee's there? I mean—she knows me. Maybe it would help if I'm there."

"We don't know what we're dealing with and we don't need you in the mix at this point. If the child's there, we'll bring her to you. Understood?" Officer Mackenzie puts his hand on my shoulder. "We appreciate your help, but it's our job to keep you safe. Got it?"

"Got it." I don't like it, but I get it. I watch the four men get into the squad cars and drive off. I walk back to my Jeep, open the driver side door, and climb in. I sit for several minutes—as long as I can stand. I hop back out and pace the length of the car—back and forth, back and forth. Finally I stop at the front of the car and look toward the trail I just walked with Jameson.

I need to know what's happening.

I'm content to let God have control, but I don't see how watching will hurt as long as I stay out of the way. I just need to know if Kaylee's there. I head for the trail and make my way to where Officer Jameson and I spotted the truck. Although I can see the truck—and now the squad cars in the driveway—I can't see the front door of the cabin from this vantage point.

I weave through the trees, making sure I keep my distance from the cabin. I want to find the tree where I spent last night. From there I can see, and hopefully hear, everything.

By the time I find the tree and can see the front porch, no one's visible except Officer Newton and his partner standing beside their car in the driveway. The cabin door is open and I don't see Officers Mackenzie or Jameson. They must be inside.

I press my face to the bark of the pine tree and breathe deep. The spicy scent speaks to me of strength, power. "Thank You." I whisper my gratitude to God for His peace. "And please protect Kaylee, wherever she is."

A loud crack shatters the silence and I jump.
Oh, no . . .

Then the deafening sound comes again, flushing two quail from the dry grass behind me. They flutter so close that I can feel the breeze of their wings on my face. The sounds echo through the valley.

Who is shooting?

I lean into the tree and watch as Officer Newton and his partner draw their weapons and bound the stairs of the stoop in one seamless move.

"Oh, God, help them. Help them!"

I hear shouting from inside but can't make out the words. Then another shot reverberates through the cabin and into the forest, echoing in the distance.

I step away from the tree. Instinct tells me to run, but something stops me. Rooted, I wait. Then I see movement—a flash of yellow. Kaylee! She runs out the front door of the cabin. She's alone. Her movements frantic, erratic—like she doesn't know where to go. Her hands cover her ears. Her shoulders hunch, her chin presses to her chest. She's bending at the waist, leaning forward as she runs.

"Kaylee!" I shout and run toward her. "Kaylee!" I see her look up briefly—just long enough to see me. She weaves toward me, her steps uncertain.

I race to her and catch her in my arms. I press into her and hold her tight. Her heart pounds against my hip as she leans into me. Her body shakes and heaves, but no sound comes from her beyond the occasional sniffle and hiccup.

I gather her in my arms, lift her up, and carry her back to the safety of the tree. I'm struck by how light she is. "It's okay, Kaylee. It's okay. Oh, little one, you're going to be all right now. I'm here." Still holding her, I lean back and look at her. I push her hair out of her face and place my palm on her cheek. "Kaylee, little one, look at me." Her eyes are squeezed shut. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

Slowly she opens her eyes and focuses on me. She drops her hands from her ears and throws her slender arms around my neck. She nestles into me and although she's light, because of her size, holding her is awkward.

"Kaylee?" I whisper into her ear. "I'm going to put you down. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. But I want to have a look at you—I want to make sure you're okay." I set her down—feet on the ground—and take a step back. I look her up and down. I notice her jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped and I see what look like scratch marks on her abdomen.

I reach for her T-shirt, keeping my eyes on hers. "I'm just going to lift your shirt a little bit. I won't touch you. I just need to look." Her eyes never leave mine. I lift her shirt just above her waist and see five long, bleeding scratches on her lower abdomen—like someone tried to tear her pants off. I drop the shirt and look back at her face. Her eyes are focused on the ground and her face is flushed.

"Oh, sweetie . . . I'm sorry." Emotion chokes me and the words, I know, are barely audible.

Then I look down and notice her feet. She's standing on the outside edges of them and I see what looks like dirt and blood caked on the undersides.

"Kaylee, here—let's zip your pants and button them." I help her do this. "Now, sit a minute, get off your feet." As I help lower her to sit on the ground, I notice the scratches and bruises on her arms—two black and blue handprints encircle her upper arms.

I sit next to her and, with my arm draped across her shoulders, I notice the way her shoulder blades protrude at sharp angles beneath her shirt. There is no fat on her—not an ounce.