Title:
WILD WITHIN
Author: Christine Hartmann
Publisher: Limitless Publishing
Pages:
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Author: Christine Hartmann
Publisher: Limitless Publishing
Pages:
Genre: Romantic Suspense
A year
after a family tragedy, Grace Mori embarks on the journey of a lifetime…
Two
thousand, six hundred miles of blistering heat, wilderness, and soul
searching—that’s what Grace signed up for when she decided to hike the Pacific
Crest Trail. It’s not a voyage for beginners, but with no husband and her
family still recovering from her bother’s death, Grace is more alone than
ever.
This
trail meant something to her brother, and she’ll hike it in his memory, but she
can’t do it alone. So with her brother’s gear and a small group, Grace takes
the most important first steps of her life.
Grace
finds something more than peace and magic on the trail…
When her
first day of hiking ends in heat stroke, Grace is rescued by a handsome,
red-haired hiker who calls himself Lone Star. Grace has an immediate connection
with him, and their brief encounter leaves her fearing her soul mate has
slipped through her fingers. Although he vows to keep in touch, Grace doubts
she’ll ever see him again.
When
fears become reality, the only people Grace can rely on may be killers...
Grace is
surprised to find notes left at supply posts along the trail. Lone Star’s
eloquent letters keep Grace going, clinging to the hope she’ll find him—and
happiness—at the end of her journey. But as the trail becomes more perilous,
menace grows within the group. And when Lone Star’s letters mysteriously stop
coming, Grace fears the worst.
As tensions flare and a killer
emerges, Grace must battle to survive…and reunite with the man she’s sure is
her future.
For More Information
First Chapter:
Early morning sun scorched the
grimy car hood and forced its way through the window to burn Grace’s bare arms.
She fidgeted as she watched the arid plane of sagebrush and light brown dust
roll past. The landscape differed completely from the grassy hills, eucalyptus
trees, and fog around her native San Francisco. Occasional yucca plants
shouldered their way between low scraggly bushes with more branches than leaves.
Small boulders peppered the area, looking like enormous grey cottage cheese
curds among rolling, sere hills.
This countryside puts the wild
in wilderness.
The car bounced past dry
pastures and scruffy woods.
Maybe I should have spent more
time reading those trail guides?
A glimpse of the Mexican
border made her sit up straight.
Who cares? I’m here.
Grace bounced in her seat with
excitement.
This is it.
Grace and her friend Celine
were the only people at the five square wooden posts that marked the southern
terminus of the 2,665-mile Pacific Crest Trail, a route leading from Mexico to
Canada. A few yards away, wind forced its way through the steel border fence
like the sound of screeching tires. Celine snapped a few pictures as Grace
removed the spiral hiker register from its protective metal box. On the first
empty page she wrote: Kenji, you’re with me.
She signed with more bravado
than she actually felt.
Grace spurted back to the car.
“I want to get going.” But her backpack, resting in the backseat, was in less
of a hurry. She coaxed it onto her shoulders with much grunting and straining
and stood, slightly bent, for one final snapshot.
“I’ve never lifted anything
this heavy. What was I thinking? It’s not a trip to Macy’s where I can throw
all the heavy stuff into the trunk.”
“You were thinking you might
need some supplies.” Celine surveyed her. “Because you’re going to be in the
middle of nowhere. For months.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
Grace straightened with effort. “I’ve been waiting almost a year for this. They
say your pack gets lighter as you get used to it. So where’s the trail?”
Celine shrugged. Grace
searched the monotonous sand and brush.
“I’ve got the map on my cell.”
But the phone wouldn’t turn
on. Grace depressed the controls repeatedly. The screen remained as black as
its case.
Come on. My paper maps are
buried in my pack.
She took a mental inventory of
what lay above them: a one-person tent, a sleeping bag and mat, a wide-brimmed
sun hat, extra socks, the head of a toothbrush, all-weather matches, a
travel-size deodorant stick, her mother’s homemade rice cakes, and Kenji’s
apartment key fastened with a twist tie to the zipper of a first aid kit. The
idea of spreading everything out at the base of the monument made her ill.
She pushed more buttons.
Don’t die now.
The screen flickered. She
fiddled more and the contrast increased.
“Typical me.” Her hands shook
a little as she pinched the trail map to zoom in on her location. “I turned
down the brightness last night to save energy. For a second there, I thought I
was going to faint. That would’ve made a good Facebook post. Grace Mori’s one
second thru-hike of the PCT.”
Celine grinned and poked
Grace’s arm. “It’s good to get all the mistakes out of the way at the
beginning. Now try to make it through the rest of the day without any more.”
Grace stepped into the sparse
brush.
“I already miss you as much as
I miss your brother,” Celine called after her. But the wind whipped away her
words.
On the trail, Grace’s pent up
excitement gave wings to her hiking shoes. They floated across baked earth that
meandered through scrub and around boulders. She raced securely down descents
and sailed up ascents.
This is so easy.
She covered the next two miles
in under an hour. Her initial destination was Lake Morena County Park, eighteen
miles away. But her thoughts were of the Canadian border.
Twenty miles a day, for the
next four months, before the northern mountains become impassable with snow. In
this heat, that idea feels like a mirage.
She looked at her watch.
Nine thirty. Ten more hours of
daylight. So I’ll get to Lake Morena with time to spare.
At first, the white circle
rising in a cloudless blue seemed a happy part of the scenery. But bit by bit,
the sun blazed an ever fiercer hole in the sky. Her short black hair melted
into her head and burned her fingers when she touched it.
I should never have given up
lightening my hair. Apparently blondes do have more fun, even in the desert.
Her legs pistoned in long
strides that searched for cover. But nothing afforded shade.
A tree. A bush. A houseplant,
for goodness sake. I’ll take anything.
The trail eventually crossed a
highway and meandered through a grove of cottonwood trees. There, Grace slung
off her pack, dropped beside it, and dug through her gear.
She squashed a cream-colored
hat onto her sweaty brow. Her parched lips drained a water bottle. A rough
trunk supported her back.
My shoulders ache. My feet
hurt. And this pack weighs a ton. Why
did I throw in everything I thought might come in handy? Pre-moistened body
wipes? Am I really going to need those out here?
The previous night, she and
Celine had discussed her strategy. “I read somewhere a person hiking in direct
sun needs at least a gallon of water for every ten miles.” Grace laid out her
water containers on the hotel bed. “But one gallon weighs eight pounds. I’ve
got a two-gallon collapsible water container and two one-liter bottles. Do you
think I should fill them all? That’s close to twenty extra pounds.”
“I think you should follow the
rules.”
“That’s a lot of extra
weight.” Grace hefted a container from the hotel sink. “Maybe I’ll fill two
bottles and leave my larger container partially empty. I’ll drink a lot before
I start. And Hauser Creek is on the trail. I can get more water there.”
Celine pursed her lips contemplatively and tossed an empty bottle to
Grace. “What if there’s no water in the creek?”
“Then they wouldn’t call it a
creek.” Grace chucked the bottle back at her. “It’ll be fine. Like I said, I’ll
hydrate like crazy before we set out.”
In the morning, after a brief
rest under cottonwoods, Grace continued her hike. She chased lazy clouds in
search of shade. They vaporized before she reached them.
Why did I wear pants?
She longed for the hiking
skirt in her pack. Then the trail narrowed, and waist-high chaparral brush
clung and tore as she battled through. Rough, aggressive limbs and thick,
unforgiving leaves pulled at her hiking poles. Grace held them above her head,
unable to see her feet. After five minutes of struggle, she reached the other
side. Her face dripped with sweat. She looked down.
I love you, pants.
Grace drained her second water bottle as she climbed. At the top of the
hill, she paused. Perspiration dripped into her eyes and mouth, but she was too
hot to care. In the distance, the border wall and Mexican mountains were still
clearly visible. She thought of fishing out her phone for a picture.
Too much effort.
The path leveled out. Her pace
slowed. The heat irritated her.
I should have had my hat on
from the beginning. Why didn’t I start hiking earlier in the day? Where the
heck is Hauser Creek? I need more water.
She wiped a hot tear from her
cheek.
What a mess. But there’s no
point in crying. Come on Grace.
Grace was the kind of person who
prided herself on being someone people could count on. When her mother’s first
attempt at baked Alaska set the kitchen window curtains aflame, teenage Grace
doused the inferno in chocolate syrup, then helped her mother take down the
gooey mess.
“People in Alaska originally
lived in igloos. They probably didn’t have window curtains.” She wiped the
counter with a Lysol-soaked dishrag. “Some desserts don’t translate well across
climate zones.”
As an adult, Grace volunteered
her services as a psychologist for the Friday overnight shift at the Berkeley
women’s crisis hotline. There, she comforted agonized rape victims, beaten
girlfriends, and conflicted housewives with a sympathetic ear, sensible advice,
and a list of referrals she’d personally vetted.
“You’re ready to move out?
Don’t forget to take his Rolex. He owes you big time.”
And when tragedy struck her
family a year ago, it was Grace who negotiated with the funeral home and the
florist. Phoned relatives in San Diego, New Brunswick, and Tokyo. Late at
night, in bed alone, she lay exhausted but sleepless.
“How am I going to get through
this by myself?”
That blistering day on the
trail, she began to lose faith. The merciless, prodding sun became her enemy.
It evaporated her enthusiasm, diminished her stamina, and gnawed at her
judgment. Her feet dragged along the sandy path without any of their initial
eagerness. She refilled her water bottles from the large container in her pack
and ignored the voice that told her she would soon run out of fluids.
After another mile, the trail
merged with a Jeep road. In the distance, Grace saw a disappearing cloud of
dust.
That was a car. I could have
asked them for a ride. Maybe they had air conditioning. Some extra water. Maybe
they were on their way back to San Diego and would have taken me to a hotel. I
could have started the trail again in a few days, when it’s cooler.
She checked the phone’s GPS.
Four miles to Hauser Creek.
I’ll make it if I ration my
water.
By the time the trail dove
into Hauser Canyon’s shaded grove of oaks and sycamores, Grace hated the sun
more than she’d ever hated anything. She squinted at the wooded valley. But the
only hint that a creek had ever flowed across the parched land was a strip of
slightly darker sand meandering through a pile of rocks. Grace’s knees wobbled.
Even in the shade, sweat
poured down her face.
It’s past noon. I should eat.
She felt nauseous. Her head
pulsed like molten lava in a live volcano crater.
I need to rest.
Her shoulders shrugged out of
the pack straps and she sank to the ground. Before thinking better of it, she
drank the rest of her water. A small Japanese folding fan, the parting gift
from her sister, offered some relief. The hot desert air drew out the fan’s
sandalwood scent. The breeze evaporated her perspiration.
She kicked off her shoes and
socks, then changed into her skirt. But after thirty minutes of inertia, sweat
still dripped from her chin. Sitting made her dizzy, so she lay down. The
violent sun tortured her through the leaves, shafts branding her face and body
like flames.
I need more water. Have to
keep going. A road’s not far ahead. If I lie down in the middle, somebody will
find me.
But the idea of crawling out
of the partial shade into the glaring sun was too much.
Bees droned near her head.
What’s that? Airplane? Maybe
they can see me down here. Call in a rescue.
Her mind drifted up, into the
sparse tree branches. It hung there briefly. Then ascended into the smoldering,
cloudless sky.
Later, another idea broke
through her confusion.
I’m going to die. On my first
day on the trail. Kind of a waste. All this equipment. All that money. Geez, I
could have spent it on those cell phone-operated blinds for the living room
instead. There was that coupon in the Saturday clipper magazine…
Her tongue ran along dry lips.
Hmm. I’m licking a lizard. I
wonder if he’ll lick back.
Then Grace thought of nothing.