Blind Run by Patricia Lewin

and company look.”
    “How would they even know about it?”
    Ethan shot her a quick glance, eyebrows raised.
    “Never mind,” she said. It had been a stupid question. This was the information age. Any kid with a computer and a talent for snooping could get into state or county tax files and find a record of all property owned by her or her family.
    “I was thinking of Laurel Lodge,” Ethan said.
    The statement surprised her as much as anything else he’d done since storming into her apartment. “Are you serious?”
    “It’s off the beaten track and won’t open for another month or so.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand, balling his fist then reopening it. “Unless—”
    She lost his words as he worked his arm, straightening and bending, demanding its mobility despite the pain shadowing his features. She checked the makeshift bandage for signs of fresh blood but saw none. Not yet anyway. But if he continued pushing himself, it was only a matter of time.
    “Sydney?”
    She met his gaze, fear and something stronger clenching her chest. With a bullet hole in his arm and Dallas falling farther behind, he remained vigilant and determined to protect them no matter the cost. In some ways, he hadn’t changed at all.
    “Has something changed?” he asked.
    Again he’d thrown her, as if he’d been reading her mind. “What?”
    “Laurel Lodge, have they altered their season?”
    “I don’t know.” She forced herself to forget the man and consider his question.
    Laurel Lodge was a small, exclusive resort perched on the rocky bluffs above Lake Texoma. For thirty years it had opened on Memorial Day and closed the day after Labor Day weekend, catering to wealthy Dallasites wanting to get away from the heat. The owner had been a friend and patient of her father’s, and she and Ethan had . . .
    “I haven’t been to the lake since . . .”
since Nicky.
“For a long time.” And she didn’t want to return with Ethan now. Or ever.
    “Will anyone look for us there?”
    “I doubt it.” Laurel Lodge had been their secret, one she’d kept safe amid the rubble of her marriage. She hated admitting it and letting him know how much the memory meant to her. “But someone may already be there, a cleaning or set-up crew.”
    He considered that, then shook his head. “We’ll have to chance it.”
    Everything inside her rebelled at the idea, but she didn’t argue. It wouldn’t have done any good. Once Ethan had made up his mind about something, nothing could change it. Besides, objecting too strongly would only draw more attention to her discomfort at returning to the lodge.
    So the quiet stretched out, punctuated by the rhythmic thump of hard rubber against asphalt and the grumble of an old engine. Miles of spring green grassland flowed past them, watched by the endless blue of a Texas sky. With the silence came an acute awareness of the close quarters: the truck, ripe with the copper of dried blood and the scent of overheated children; Callie, her head lolling in sleep against Sydney’s arm; Danny, his eyes fixed on some unknown point past the windows. And Ethan, mute and tense beside her, his muscular thigh pressed against hers, electric and unsettling.
    A sense of unreality swept through her. If she thought too hard about the last couple of hours or how she came to be here beside Ethan, she might start screaming. Yet she felt more alive than she had in years.
    An hour and a half later, they pulled off the highway and headed toward the lake. As far as she knew, Ethan had never driven to the lodge, but he found the entrance, an unmarked dirt track like a dozen others in the area. A mile or so down a shaded road, Laurel Lodge emerged from the woods.
    On the outside, it looked the same.
    Sitting amid a smattering of oak, elm, and bois d’arc, the two-story structure rose atop a limestone bluff. Clustered beneath the trees and edging the base of the building, spring wildflowers—anemone, blue-eyed grass, and