Free In the Woods by Merry Jones Page A

They’d separated into pairs and fanned out, checking the clearing and the two trails heading to Angela’s campsite. No Phil. When they reconvened, Angela frowned. ‘I don’t understand where he could be,’ she began again.
    Harper chewed her lip, told herself to be tolerant. It wasn’t Angela’s fault that she was upset. Or that she had a voice like a rabid hamster.
    Daniels radioed his other search teams. They’d had no luck either. His face was strained as he faced the group. ‘We’re getting tired, and we have only a couple hours of daylight left. So let’s stay split in two groups. Angela, you’re with me. We’ll head north.’
    â€˜Good idea.’ Angela nodded. ‘Except I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should go check out the bog.’
    Everyone looked at her.
    â€˜I remembered something. While I was over there, looking into those thistles, I remembered that last night, Phil and I were talking about the bog trail. He said he wanted to hike it. So maybe he got tired of hunting …’
    â€˜And maybe he took it in his head to go check it out?’ Daniels finished her sentence for her.
    â€˜You want to split up first?’ Hank asked.
    â€˜No, let’s all go,’ Daniels said. ‘We’ll divide up there and search the bog area. If there’s no sign of Phil, you two can backtrack on the main trail, and I’ll go on with Angela the opposite way.’
    It took about twenty minutes to walk there, and the trail got narrower and muddier as they went. The ranger narrated their trek as if they were a tour group, telling them that they were surrounded by 430,000 acres of remote and wild state forest. That Black Moshannon State Park, where they were, was in the heart of that forest, and that it got its name from its black-watered bog. The water wasn’t actually black, but was stained a dark tea color by sphagnum moss and plant tannins. The other part of the park’s name, ‘Moshannon’, came from the Indian words ‘Moss Hanne’, which had nothing to do with moss, but meant Moose Stream.
    Harper was grateful for the narration. As long as Ranger Daniels talked, Angela didn’t. But she only half-listened, concentrating instead on her annoyance with Hank. She walked apart from him, not holding his hand or even making eye contact. After everything they’d been through, didn’t she deserve a weekend of his undistracted time and undivided attention? Why did she have to share him with samples and tests and passion for his career? Hell, she didn’t even have a career to have a passion for. She was dangling, disconnected. And there it was again, her sense of being lost and useless. Of having no purpose aside from being Chloe’s mom.
    Maybe it wasn’t Hank she was angry at; it was herself, for losing her direction. She kicked a rock, heard it plop into a puddle. Felt alone.
    â€˜Bastard!’ Angela bellowed. She took off running up the path, her boots splashing mud. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, you damned bastard!’
    â€˜Phil?’ Daniels ran after her. ‘You found him?’
    Harper tried not to slip in the muck as she followed. She didn’t look at Hank, heard him sloshing behind her.
    â€˜You sonofabitch!’ Angela yelled. ‘Stan? Where are you? Get some pants on and come out here.’ She kept hollering, taunting someone named Stan.
    Harper came to a small, circular cove. She stayed back, quickly scanning the area, assessing it. Tarps covered the ground, separating the mud from a high orange tent and adjacent canopy. Underneath the shelter was a small propane stove. Two collapsible chairs. At least two gun cases. A portable cabinet that might hold more. Hank caught up with her, stood close.
    A shaved head emerged from the tent. ‘Angela? What the hell?’ The head disappeared again.
    â€˜Come on, Stan. I got a ranger with me. Get your sorry