Safe Haven. Hannah Alexander

      Taylor Jackson sped along the tree-shrouded road as fast as he dared, and watched for moving shapes in the beams of his headlights. He dreaded what he might find, and he hoped backup was on its way.

      How many times had he warned tourists to avoid driving this stretch of road at night? And how many runs like this had he made in the year he’d been working this area? The local communities needed to buy space on radios and hometown papers daily, alerting the world that humans did not own the roads in the Ozarks, especially at night. The deer, opossums, raccoons and coyotes did.

      Sometimes he thought the four-footed variety of animals obeyed the rules of the Mark Twain National Forest better than the two-footed ones.

      The only times he ever prayed were on runs like this, when he didn’t know what he would find, how many victims would be involved, how much damage there would be. He especially hated finding children hurt. Highway 76 twisted through the hills with such diabolical suddenness it caught travelers unaware, making them think it was veering right, then veering left instead, in hairpin curves that seemed to make no sense.

      Meanwhile, oncoming cars accidentally bright-lighted one another with vicious intensity. On summer days, when traffic was heavy and they got a slow driver bottle-necking thirty sightseers in a hurry to see Hideaway in a couple of hours, people got injured, even killed. Hideaway Road had earned a bad reputation in the past few months, since tourists had discovered its beauty.

      But on a weeknight he knew he could probably blame a deer.

      The glow of two flashlights hovered ahead of him in the darkness, and he cut his speed. Sure enough, fresh deer scat on the road told the story. He was relieved to find no big hairy bodies lying beside the pavement. As far as he could tell, not even any blood. Now, if only the humans had been so lucky.

      He saw the bright red Ford Taurus sedan kissing a maple tree in the darkness. As he maneuvered his vehicle across the road to illuminate the wreck site with his headlights, Taylor saw Mary and Jim, who lived down the road, leaning over someone in the driver’s seat. The door was open. Good. The damage might not be as severe as he had first feared. Also, he saw no passengers other than the driver.

      He pulled in behind the car, left his emergency lights flashing on the dash and got out. As he ran to the car, the guttural scream of a nightmare screeched through the air, and he caught his breath at the animal sound. He’d never heard a deer cry like that before…and then he realized it was coming from inside the car.

      As he approached the others, Jim and Mary stepped back, and the sound accosted him more directly. For a brief moment he hesitated, unwillingly reminded of the horror movie he’d watched years ago about a human possessed by a demon.

      But the woman in the front seat behind the steering wheel did not look grotesque in any way. She looked sane, though slightly dazed. She groaned, and Taylor realized the screech did not come from her but from the back seat. He rushed forward, peered past the driver’s seat, and caught the double gleam of terrified eyes, two black paws stuck through the wire mesh of a pet taxi. It was the biggest black cat he had ever seen—and the loudest he had ever heard.

      “Would you shut up?” The deep, irritable tone of the driver mingled with the cries of the cat.

      Taylor stepped back slightly from the car and bent low enough to get a good look at the victim. She had wildly curly red hair and an unhappy expression in a very pale face. In the residual glow from his headlights he saw a streak of blood outlining the left side of her face.

      “I didn’t mean you,” she said. “It’s Monster.” Her voice was husky and authoritative, though slightly hoarse.

      “Ma’am, it’s okay, we’ll take care of you. Just remain still until I can ascertain the extent of the damage.”

      “No need. I’ll be okay. I just need to get out and stretch my legs a little.” She closed her eyes and groaned again, lifting a shaking hand to her forehead.

      Taylor raised his voice to be heard over the screeches of the cat. “Ma’am, I’d like to check you over first.” He turned to Jim. “Would you go get my medical case out of the truck? I want to get her vitals and—”

      “My vitals are fine.” The victim’s voice deepened. “I just want some fresh air.” She reached down to unfasten her seat belt and fumbled with the release.

      “Here, let me help you with that.” Taylor leaned forward, but before he could assist her, she made her escape from the belt and turned to look into the pet taxi.

      He got a close-up view of a long, graceful neck above shoulders that were surprisingly broad and muscular for a woman. She wore cutoff jeans and a faded blue T-shirt, and her arms and legs were untanned, well-shaped.

      “It’s okay, Monster, you’re safe.” Her husky voice was suddenly melodious and soothing. “Cut the noise a minute, will you?”

      To Taylor’s amazement, the racket lowered to the growl of a stressed-out tiger.

      The woman turned back and looked up at Taylor. “Sorry about that. Is there a vet around the village anywhere? I’d like to get him looked at.”

      “Don’t you think we should concentrate on you first?” Taylor asked as Jim approached with the kit of medical supplies.

      “I told you, I’m fine.” She reached up and grasped the side of the door frame, then swung her feet to the ground. Her face and lips were pale except for the streak of blood that matched the color of her car.

      Taylor placed one hand gently on her shoulder as he reached for the bag Jim held out for him. “Ma’am, please humor me and remain seated for a moment. You don’t look fine. I’m a paramedic, and I’d like to make sure about you first. I need to ask you a few questions.”

      She blinked up at him, then frowned and looked pointedly at the gun hanging at his hip. “Since when do paramedics have to carry guns and wear ranger uniforms?”

      “When they’re also law-enforcement rangers. We’re short staffed.”

      She took a deep, audible breath and leaned against the steering wheel, meeting his gaze squarely. “My name is Karah Lee Fletcher, I’m on Hideaway Road in Missouri, and the date is Wednesday, June 11. Those were the questions you wanted to ask me, right?”

      “Done this before, have you?”

      “You might say that.” A hint of humor flashed across her expression and disappeared almost before he caught it.

      “I can see you’ve hit your head—did you experience any loss of consciousness?” Taylor continued to look into those eyes. They were more golden than amber brown. She had a high forehead and cheekbones, and a strong, firm chin line.

      She glanced away briefly at his question, and he noticed her hesitation. “Ma’am?”

      “Some.” Her voice grew irritable again.

      “Some? Any idea how long you were out?”

      “Couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. That racket in the back seat works better than a sternal rub.” She held her arm out. “Go ahead, take my blood pressure. It stays about 125 over 75. I already took my heart rate. It’s steady and normal. Respiration’s normal.”

      He pulled the cuff out of the bag and did as he was told, curbing his curiosity about her apparent medical knowledge. The cuff made a firm fit around her arm. She had a large frame for a woman, but in spite of her muscular form she didn’t look like a bodybuilder. He pumped the cuff and took the reading, nodded and released the pressure.

      “Elevated?” she asked.

      “It’s 140 over 85.”

      “Not bad after all this excitement,” she said. Her cheeks were gaining some color. “Now do you want to let me up?”

      “If you’d give