Survival Instinct by Doranna Durgin Page A

the handle, and the door opened behind her as he flung her back toward the guardrail. “You want to go over again? See if you can get lucky twice?”
    Hell, no. This time when she went down, she stayed low. If he wanted to toss her over the edge, he was going to have to start from scratch. “Mad Sheep disease,” she said sagely, and her heart beat such a race of fear she wondered just how long it could hold out. “See? Feel feverish, don’t you?” Her fingers scrabbled against the hard ground, hunting purchase; instead they landed on knobby chains. Now there was luck. She shoved at them as though still finding her way. Shoved hard.
    They slipped over the crest of the slope, slithering away…still anchored here at the base of the guardrail. Hurry! she thought at him, and then shrieked as the man bent over her and snatched her right off the ground. Her thoughts skittered in terror, certain he’d throw her over the edge again…certain she’d die this time.
    But he slammed her up against the truck instead, eliciting protest from every bruised rib in her body. “This is me in a good mood,” he said, sticking his heavy features far too up close and personal. But he’d put her where she could reach inside the truck. Her bad wrist, yes. But she did it, even as she kicked him away. Not a nice swift martial-arts kick, but the kick of a woman with no strength left and no particular training to start with. Just good heavy farmwork and a fierce desire to survive.
    Actually, more like a woman frantically flailing her sneakers in the direction of someone’s groin, shrieking all the while. Then her hands closed on the old leg-hold trap from the truck and she scrambled away, around the tailgate and then around the end of his own car, crouching there to step the trap open.
    “You’re wasting time,” he said, sounding really annoyed this time. “You can take me to your doctor and live, or I can beat his name out of you and leave you here to die—again.”
    “Someone will see you,” she said, breathless. He just laughed. She didn’t blame him. No one had yet driven by. She hunkered down behind the back fender of his car, the trap in hand—in both hands, actually, no matter how it hurt. Now for the bait. “Dave has a phone, you know. We’re not going to be alone for long.”
    “Long enough,” he said, striding around the end of the car, reaching down for her—
    She leaped up to meet him, thrusting the trap out before her. His hand skidded off the trip plate and the trap slammed closed around his arm and this time he was the one who shrieked. He was the one to lose his balance, stumbling backward to tip over the guardrail at a gentler part of the outcrop. His cry stopped short as he crashed through the branches and finally hit something strong enough to hold him.
    Karin dismissed him, at least long enough to hop around holding her wrist and crying, “Ow, ow, ow, ow, dammit, ow! ”
    “Ellen!”
    And here came Dave, roaring around the end of the car, his face flushed and his hair totally ruffled, his coat still flapping open to reveal a sweatshirt with the absurd logo of a red bird flexing impossible muscles. He stopped short, just as she halted her little pain dance. He said, “Where—”
    Karin gave a haughty little nod at the guardrail. “Turnabout is fair play.”
    In some disbelief, he leaned over the guardrail. When he straightened, he was shaking his head. “He’ll need help getting out of that. ”
    “Call for it,” she said. “But I’m not waiting. I’m all bent up and I’m still cold and I’m starving. I’m driving on to Bluefield.” She headed for her truck.
    “You’re—oh, no. Not alone, you’re not.”
    “Then follow me. You’ve probably got a sneaky way to do that, right? Some other little tracker thing?”
    At first abashed, his expression hardened. “Hey, you want to talk sneaky—what the hell did you put in my drink?”
    Improbably, she felt her cheeks pinking up. Ellen’s Xanax,