Low clouds pressed over the mountains, and the forest smelled of cold resin, damp bark, and the faint promise of snow somewhere higher up. Ran heard the sound before he saw where it came from. It did not belong in the natural rhythm of the woods. First came the hard metallic snap, then the heavy sound of something striking the ground. A heartbeat later came a low cry of pain, abruptly cut short, as though whoever had made it had forced the sound back down through sheer will.
Ran pulled his horse to a stop. That had not been a deer. It had not been a wolf, either. Whatever had been caught was alive, and it was trying very hard not to make another sound. Ran Treadwell turned his horse between the pines and followed the noise.
What he found 40 yards off the trail made the blood go cold in his veins. A young woman lay on her side among the fallen pine needles. She could not have been much beyond 20. Ran could tell from her clothing, from the way her dark hair had been braided, and from the practical things she carried. The belongings of someone who knew how to move through that country without asking permission from it.
She wore hide leggings, a calico blouse beneath a blanket wrapped close around her body, and soft-soled moccasins made for walking quietly over rough ground. One of those moccasins was trapped inside a massive iron jaw. The trap had closed around her ankle. Its toothed edges had bitten down with enough force to throw her violently off her feet. The palms of her hands were torn from trying to catch herself when she fell.
Blood marked the pine needles. Yet when she looked at Ran from across the clearing, fear was not the first thing he saw in her eyes. Not exactly. She was watching him, measuring him, calculating. She made no second sound of pain.
Her gaze moved first to the rifle resting across Ran's saddle. Then it rose to his face, and Ran understood immediately that she was studying him the way a person studies a darkening horizon before a storm, looking for the smallest sign of what might come next. He stopped the horse well away from her. Slowly, Ran raised one hand and turned the palm outward so she could see it was empty. He knew enough Spanish to make himself understood in a few simple situations, and he used it now, speaking slowly, hoping the language might serve as some kind of bridge between two strangers who had no reason to trust one another.
I'm not going to hurt you. The woman said nothing. Her jaw remained clenched. Whatever the trap had done to her ankle, it was bad. Ran could see that much without touching it.
Still, she held herself completely motionless. She reminded him of a wounded animal that understood one hard truth. That panic could turn a painful injury into a fatal one. Ran dismounted carefully. Every movement was deliberate.
He kept his eyes on hers instead of staring at the trapped leg, wanting her to understand that he was approaching to help, not to take advantage of the fact that she could not run. He let the reins fall loose. His horse was steady enough to remain where it stood. Then Ran moved forward with both hands open and clearly visible. The young Apache woman's hand slid toward a stone lying beside her head, her fingers closed around it.