Undercover Protector. Elizabeth Goddard
SIX
Siskiyou Mountains, southwest Oregon
Gemma Rollins shifted gears as her beloved Jeep CJ bounced over the narrow gravel road carved from the mountain. With this torrential downpour, she was glad she’d opted for the hard cover and doors on this older model.
But she should have gotten the mud tires too.
This was just like when the Pineapple Express came through southern Oregon a decade ago. Except spring was the wrong time of year for the tropical moisture to be sweeping in from the Hawaiian Islands. The meteorological phenomenon occurred in the winter.
And the tigers in her sanctuary, fifteen beautiful creatures she knew by name, wouldn’t be happy in this inclement weather either.
Gemma downshifted, slowing at the curve on the steep one-lane road, her pulse edging up as the rain pounded harder. This was a lot more like the kind of weather she’d see in Houston, Texas, rather than southwest Oregon. And too much rain might cause flooding in the sanctuary. With a USDA inspection coming up in three weeks, she so did not need more hurdles in her goal of getting Tiger Mountain accredited as a big cat sanctuary.
She pressed her foot against the brakes as she came up on the switchback. Suddenly, the steering refused to turn. What was happening? The sharp bend approached. She would never make it!
Throwing her entire body into turning the steering wheel, Gemma’s effort paid off. The CJ slid around the bend, though still much too close to the edge of the ravine.
Trees and rocks would slow anything trying to take a fall, but that didn’t reassure her. Nearing the next curve, she pumped the brakes. They weren’t working so well either.
She was behind in vehicle maintenance, no doubt there, but her CJ had never let her down before. Another curve in the road approached, and she shifted to the lowest gear, gripped the wheel with both hands and groaned with the effort to make the turn.
She’d driven the road that bordered the fenced-in area of the sanctuary enough times to know what to expect—more switchbacks. The road was dangerous on a good day. She hit the brakes harder. Still the CJ picked up more speed. She turned the steering wheel left, barely making another switchback.
Her beloved CJ was out of control.
Heart hammering, the realization slammed her—this was a matter of survival.
She might actually die. The possibility sucked her breath away.
Mud oozed from the rocky wall to her left as it poured from the hillside above. God, please help me! I don’t want to die today. And please keep the sanctuary intact. Please don’t let those fences give way.
She couldn’t imagine that would happen, but, then again, she hadn’t dreamed her steering would give way on the same day as her brakes. What were the chances? A question rose from the shadows in her mind. Had this been intentional?
And on a treacherous, rainy day.
Images from that night long ago accosted her. Headlights glinting off a wall of water. The grinding crunch. The wreck that left her uncle dead, the Tiger Hills sanctuary her father had founded dismantled and Gemma with nerve damage and a limp.
Focus, Gemma! She gripped the steering wheel tighter, mentally skimming the road ahead. Another bend. She’d never make it with her steering out like this. But if she could make it around the next outcropping of the rocky wall—before the dangerous bend—and remain on the road, there was an incline to her right, a turn out that she could use to slow the CJ to a stop.
Would it be enough?
Come on, come on, come on...
“God, if You’re listening, and You don’t want me to die today, I need some help.” Gemma wrestled the wheel even harder and yanked the emergency brake, getting no return for her efforts.
Up ahead, mud and rocks washed over the road.
A mudslide!
Though it could be dangerous, deadly even, she could use the mudslide to slow the CJ, except she would have another battle for survival. But it was moving slowly enough she might just be able to make it.
Was that the answer to her prayer?
The incline appeared ahead in the thick of the mud. She pumped the brakes again, but they were completely dead. Gemma shifted into a higher gear and sped over the mud before it carried her away.
The roar of the torrential rain and the sight of the mudslide filled her with dread and morbid memories, erasing all other rational thought. Gemma fought the rising terror.
She gripped the wheel and steered toward the incline, shifting down once she’d gained enough momentum because she’d need to stop this vehicle, once and for all, on the other side of the mud.
Regardless of her momentum, the CJ shifted as the mud gripped the tires, but Gemma persevered and evened out the pressure on the accelerator, adjusting her steering until the vehicle lifted up, the front tires gaining traction on the ground that rose above the mud, and sped forward.
But fast, much too fast.
The CJ slammed into a tree. Her body ricocheted against the seat belt. There were no airbags in an old Jeep CJ.
Stunned, Gemma blinked. Sucked in a breath. I’m alive!
Then she groaned.
“I’m alive.” She breathed slowly to calm herself. “I’m...alive.” It could have been much worse.
Gemma squeezed her eyes shut as memories overwhelmed her. Déjà vu. Her uncle had been driving the night he lost control of the vehicle and they hit a tree. He’d died and Gemma had lived. Why had she lived—then and now?
Drawing in a few more calming breaths until she could breathe normally, she shook away the daze. Felt the ache from her skin to her bones. But that was good news. She could feel everything, even the nerve damage pain in her left leg from the wreck that took Uncle