ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE by Cindi Myers

his own labored breathing.
    Slowly, he made his way along the tree to the trunk, and felt some of the tension ease out of him when he saw the bare roots stretching toward the sky. This tree hadn’t been cut, as he’d first suspected, but had fallen, toppling over in a storm, or from the weight of snow and age.
    He holstered his weapon and balanced on the tree trunk to peer over the branches at the road beyond. The snow on that side looked much deeper, the route barely discernible. The tree had probably been here awhile. He jumped down and tramped back toward the car.
    Stacy climbed out of the passenger side and met him halfway. “What were you looking at up ahead?” she asked. “What did you see?”
    “Looks like the tree blew over in the last storm. The road’s completely blocked. We’ll have to turn around and go back the way we came.”
    “Couldn’t we move the tree or something?”
    “Even if we could, the road up ahead hasn’t been plowed. We’d never make it through.”
    “I can’t believe we’ve wasted so much time coming all this way only to have to backtrack,” she said.
    “Me, too. But it can’t be helped. And maybe doing so convinced the kidnappers that we’ve given up.”
    “How could anyone believe a mother would ever give up looking for her child?”
    “Maybe they don’t have children.” He reached for the door handle as the glass in the door shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
    “Get down!” he shouted, as he dived beneath the car. The sharp report of gunfire echoed through the canyon, the sound folding in on itself until the crescendo crackled like thunder. Bullets slammed into the side and top of the vehicle, rocking it from side to side and shattering the front windshield and mirrors.
    “Stacy!” He turned his head, searching for her, but nothing moved in the limited area he was able to see from his place beneath the car. He slid sideways on his stomach, gravel digging into his elbows and knees. The silence following the gunfire pressed down on him, the only sounds the pinging of the cooling engine and the scrape of his body as he dragged it across the gravel.
    He emerged on the opposite side of the car, using the vehicle as a shield between himself and the shooter. “Stacy?” he called again.
    “Over here.”
    He followed her voice to a narrow space between two boulders on the side of the road, but when he started toward her, another barrage of gunfire sent him diving for the cover of the vehicle.
    “Patrick?” Her voice rose in alarm. “Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
    “I’m okay. What are we going to do?”
    He levered himself up just enough to peer over the hood of the car at the opposite side of the canyon. Nothing stirred in the red-and-gold rock cliffs, but the shots had definitely come from that direction. But where, exactly?
    He slipped out of his coat, then searched the side of the road until he found a broken tree branch. He draped the coat over the branch and raised it up above the hood of the car. Shots erupted from an outcropping of rock opposite. Was it his imagination, or were these shots from a lower trajectory than the previous barrage? Was the gunman working his way down to them? Or was he simply moving in closer for a better chance to pick them off?
    He glanced back over his shoulder toward the niche where Stacy sheltered. He couldn’t see her, and he couldn’t risk crossing the open space between her and the car. “Stacy, can you hear me?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
    “Yes.”
    “I’m going to try to climb up and come in behind the shooter. But I need you to distract him while I get away.”
    “How can I do that?”
    “I’m going to give you my gun and I want you to shoot up at the canyon wall—just enough to draw their fire. While they’re focused on you, I’ll get on the other side of the fallen tree and start up the canyon on the other side. I should be far enough down there that they won’t be