Free Angel Eyes by Shannon Dittemore Page A

because now a soggy field lies between me and my destination. I’ll have to go around.
    It takes considerably longer than I thought, and what should have been a couple hours of hiking has turned into a day-long affair.
    But at last I reach the stables, my face chafing with exertion. I feel alive, which is more than I can say for the stables. The years of wear and tear and harsh weather have taken their toll, and there isn’t much left. Only the north face of the aging structure remains standing; the rest leans precariously south or has fallen altogether. I begin snapping pictures and continue for over an hour. When I run out of film, I pull the digital camera from my bag and keep going. Finally, when my legs begin to ache and the camera feels heavy, I seek out a dry place to sit. It takes some looking, but I finally settle on a large, flattish rock. I climb up and lie back, looking up at the clouds. They’re getting darker. I’ll have to head back soon.
    I practice my yoga breathing and replay yesterday’s conversation with Jake. The comfortable one. The one in the car.
    It’s foolish to entertain thoughts of this guy. He’s . . . I don’t know . . . mysterious, I guess. And hot—yeah, there’s that. But I know better. This is exactly what she did.
    There’s just something different about him.
    I snort at myself. I’m ridiculous. Surely I’m not the first girl who’s thought that about a guy.
    Probably not even about Jake.
    My eyes close against the fleecy white sky as I banish thoughts of him.
    I should have brought my cell. If Dad calls . . .
    It’s so cold.
    Something hurts.
    My forehead stings.
    My lips.
    My neck.
    My hands fly up to defend the onslaught, and my eyes snap open.
    Man!
    I’ve fallen asleep. The sun has already set behind the gushing clouds, and if there’s one thing I’m more afraid of than being alone at night, it’s being alone at night and lost in the dark. Hail bounces off the large rock, off the ground. I stand and zip my parka, flipping the hood up to protect my head. I grab my camera bag and turn toward the house.
    At least I think I’m turned toward the house. The light is fading and I can’t really tell.
    Stupid short winter days.
    I turn left and right looking for something familiar. This is right, isn’t it? It has to be. My feet pound through the slippery grass as panic curdles in my stomach and turns it sour.
    I don’t have time to be sick.
    I don’t have time.
    I break into a sprint. I won’t be able to keep this pace up, but I have to get home before night falls. Of that I’m certain. My legs burn, and I trip over a rock. Or a tree root? I fall and scrape my hands. The camera bag smacks me in the face, but at least it keeps my head off the ground. Mud splatters my chest and neck.
    I get up. Fast. Fast. I count my footfalls, my breaths, anything to keep my mind off the encroaching darkness. Three hundred and eighteen strides later, the creek comes into view. The clouds shift just enough for me to catch the moon’s light bouncing off the rushing water.
    Halfway there.
    Almost home.
    I can do this!
    It’s completely dark now and my lungs ache. Every breath is a sharpened needle sewing stitches into my side. Ten more footfalls and doubt begins to eat away at the encouragement I’ve given myself. The moon has hidden again behind black clouds, and the hail has turned into a soaking rain. Visibility is diminishing quickly. A sob rips from my chest, and I can’t find the energy to fight back the tears.
    Even through the wind and rain, I can hear the creek ahead—its water splashing over the rocks I’d crossed so easily this morning. I slow to a walk. The creek has risen and nearly overrun its banks. I have to cross now. I walk up and down the rushing water, looking for the narrowest way across. When I find something that seems acceptable, I take three giant steps back and then run as fast as I can. I cross my fingers and launch off the muddy ground.
    There’s a moment