Hunted (Dark Secrets Book 1) (7 page)

I woke up early the next morning. Dawn was barely approaching and the dark sky held its breath as the morning light advanced.

I quietly changed into my green cargo pants, yesterday's thermal, a T-shirt and running shoes. I fastened my belt, which held my hunting knife and hatchet, around my waist and grabbed my Take Down case. Noiselessly, I slipped out of the tent and into the still air and stretched my limbs.

I knelt to the ground and quickly assembled my bow. I loved my Bear Take-Down Recurve bow! It was constructed from black maplewood and high strength fiberglass. It was decorated with its original red Bubinga accent stripe, but it also had a beautifully hand painted, black-tipped white feather floating in a small blue oval
—the symbol and colors of the Blackfeet Nation's flag. It was done by the Blackfeet tribal elder who gave it to my mother and me. He had been friends with the designer of the weapon.

After my bow was assembled I slung it onto my back. I kept my iPod's volume low and only inserted one earbud. The other, I tucked into the front of my shirt so I could still hear the sounds around me, checked my compass so I could get myself back and set off running. The forest was quiet, peaceful and safe. I loved running out here, jumping over bulging tree roots, dodging fallen logs and boulders. This type of course awakened your senses and trained your muscles to be ready for anything. I hauled tail for two miles, mentally noting a patch of wild spring strawberries. I only stopped when I reached the lake.

Once there, I sipped some water then doubled back and headed home.

I checked the snares. Empty.

When I got to the campsite, I found Theron sitting next to a small fire he had built.

"Morning," he said. "I thought maybe you left me here. Then I saw your backpack and figured you wouldn't have gone too far without that."

"I try to run every morning," I said. "The snares didn't catch anything so I'm going to fetch breakfast from the Ursack." I walked to where the bear sack hung from the tree limb and brought it down.

I sat down on my log, opened the sack and threw Theron a couple of nutritional bars and an orange and then took the same for myself. The sky had become a shade of pale blue and the sun felt warm.

"It's going to be a nice day," I said, musing into the bright sky.

"Why do you live in the forest on your own?" Theron asked suddenly.

"I always have."

"Aren't the police supposed to protect you?"

I let out a big, low puff of air.

"Why are you on the run?" he prodded.

"It's difficult to explain." I felt my frustration level rising fast.

"Where are your parents?" he asked softly.

"What's with the assault?" I snapped. "What about you, Theron? Where are your parents?" I felt hot anger flush my face.

"I'm just trying to know you better."

"Whatever," I mumbled.

"You called out for your mother while you were asleep," he said with his head down, staring at the fire. When I didn't respond he asked gently, "Did you run away from home?"

"No," I said quietly. "And I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay
—I was just thinking that maybe… the police could help you?" he said slowly.

I barked a sarcastic laugh. "Yeah right! They'd throw me into a detention home or worse. Everything goes back to my mother. She taught me that I had to stay away from the police and Social Services
—that they would be dangerous for me." I wondered what it would feel like to share my secrets—and how fast he'd run away if I told them.

Theron looked like he was formulating his next thought, but I beat him to the punch. "That's why I was on my way to New Orleans
—to try and find my mother and get some questions answered."

"Your mother is in New Orleans?"

"No—I mean—I don't know. She has an old friend that lives there."

"Scarlett," he remembered.

I nodded.

"Where's your father?" he asked.

"Where's your father?" I folded my arms angrily across my chest. "And why are you here following me? You could have any kind of life you want. This is the life I've had thrown at me and I have no way to fix it!"

"What kind of life do you want?"

"A regular one—where I could go to high school and a university, get a career, have a family. Or just go to the movies or the library. Instead my mother abandons me out here to fend for myself for almost five years and tells me, 'I'm sorry Freya. We don't get to live like everyone else—we can't.'" Hot tears threatened to spill. "I'm just a discarded piece of… " I let my voice trail off. "Never mind."

He opened his mouth to interrupt again, but I held up my hand to stop him. "No! I'm done!

Why did you come out here in the first place? Why did I even let you?" I stomped over to the tent then turned back around to face him. "Why don't you just leave? Go home!"

I crawled into the tent and zipped the flap door behind me, muttering, "I said I didn't want to answer any questions!" I lay in my bag and threw the corner up over my head.
Some people have it worse, Freya,
I thought wondering if that was comforting. Still, I cried, having my own private pity party, until I fell asleep.

~

When I finally opened my eyes it was late afternoon. I thought maybe Theron would have taken off. It was so much easier not to think when you didn't have someone asking you a million questions. I could just turn off. I lay there a while longer, soothed by the mountain chickadee's song. I was okay. I was here, safe. After a while, my throat started getting dry and that forced me out of my sanctuary. I sat up and ran my fingers through the tangles in my hair.

I stepped out of the tent. When my eyes adjusted I was taken aback. Theron was still sitting by the fire. He had kept it stoked while I slept, and he had prepared a literal feast.

"I thought you would probably wake up hungry," he said gently. "Please, come sit down and let me serve you." He motioned to the log.

I could hardly meet his eyes
—partly because I was angry and partly because I was embarrassed. He placed the cooled pan onto a log in front of me; it was filled with roasted mango slices, snap peas and fresh fish he must have cleaned on his own and cooked. I scooped up a bite and was pleasantly surprised.

"It's delicious," I mumbled.

"It's the first time I ever cooked." He poked at the burning embers with a stick. "We're not all that different, Freya," he began. "My mother died after I was born. My father couldn't forgive me and sent me, when I was a very young child, to live in an orphanage that was a military camp, churning out child soldiers." He took a deep breath. "Like in Chechnya."

My mouth dropped. I was horrified. I had heard of children being kidnapped in those places and being forced to fight and kill, but I had never heard of a parent who had willingly sent their child there. "That's where you learned to fight like that."

He nodded. "We had very focused training regimes. That's why I've never tasted these kinds of foods before—we were fed only specifically issued rations."

We sat quietly for a few moments, then I ventured, "You don't have an accent."

"My English tutor made sure of it," he said flatly. Then he added, "Earlier, I didn't mean to… bring all that up for you. I'm sorry that I hurt you."

I nodded. "Want to take a walk?"

We were both finished with our meal and were now just holding onto our pot and pan.

"Sure," he said.

We walked silently as if neither of us knew where we wanted to take the conversation now. But I wanted to get out of the heavy feeling.

I led him to the wild strawberry patch I had found that morning on my run and knelt down carefully, so as not to crush any. I plucked one of the succulent fruits.

"Here." I held it up to Theron. "Taste this."

"It isn't poisonous is it?" he teased.

"Yes." I shot him an incredulous look.

"Hey, you can never be too careful," he smiled. "All right then, fire away." He took a few steps backwards, closed his eyes and opened his mouth wide.

"No way!" I laughed. "I can't make that shot."

He squinted one eye open a crack. "Of course you can, Robin Hood. Let's see it."

I tossed the berry and hit him on the side of his face. We both laughed.

"My turn."

"Not a chance," I barked.

"Come on now," he coaxed, "open your mouth."

I rolled my eyes, smiled a little and opened.

Sure enough. "Two points!" he cheered.

I laughed as I chewed and swallowed.

He stooped down, picked a few more berries and popped them into his own mouth. "Wow, these are delicious! What are they called?"

I guess my weird expression made him continue. "I didn't have these where I grew up."

"Strawberries. And I should get another chance," I answered playfully.

"Then do it!" He opened his mouth and I really tried. On my third shot, I got it in.

We made a game of it until the small green meadow was covered in gold light from the setting sun. Then, we walked back happily to camp.

Neither of us brought up the past or asked any loaded questions. Instead we discussed world events—current and historical. We talked about the violence that had tainted human history and about our wars. We chatted about the subject of world rulers, the good and the evil, the insane and the wise. He really knew his stuff. He could recite dates and incidents like a university scholar. He was very interested in my opinions, so I told him what I thought.

"It's really terrifying. You would think humanity would learn from the mistakes of their ancestors, but we haven't." I thought about that. "Well, that's not entirely accurate
—we have to some extent. We've created the United Nations, formed the Geneva Convention to create civilized"—I formed quotation marks in the air with my fingers—"rules for war, and we have the Defamation League to promote and enforce tolerance for people's differences—like religion and nationality. But despite the good, we still have bloody, brutal conflicts, like in Chechnya"—I gestured because I knew he knew what I was talking about— "where children are still used as soldiers. In India children are still used for slave labor, and in so many parts of the world human trafficking is still going on! Why don't people want peace? Why is there always some brute force that desires control above all else? I don't get it; history goes right on repeating itself and we fight wars over the stupidest, pettiest differences like skin color, sexuality, religion or land."

"So you don't like fighting?" he asked, watching me as if what I said mattered.

"Those Takers I shot—that was the first time I ever hit a human being with one of my arrows. Do you like fighting?"

"I'm good at it," he stated matter-of-factly. "How does the saying go? 'People sleep peacefully because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.' That would be me. But I was forced into it."

"I don't even like killing animals for food. But I wouldn't make it long as a vegetarian out here." I laughed a little then thought for another moment. "There are a lot of people who try to make a difference. During World War Two many people were committing atrocities while others hid Jewish people in their own homes or helped to smuggle them out on ships, defying the Nazis. Now that people have come to grips with how the previous generations annihilated the indigenous people of North America and Australia, they've worked to shift it all in the other direction—by preserving Native languages and encouraging the cultures' reestablishment. My mom taught me that. There are food kitchens and shelters for the hungry and homeless. I think that's how we keep surviving—even though there is always terrible evil, there's always good somewhere. I'm rambling. You asked me my opinions!" I accused good-naturedly.

"Yes, I did," he said. "I like your opinions. I like to know what's going on in your head. I want to learn how you think."

My eyes lingered on his. It was a foreign concept to me.
He wants to learn how I think?

"Do you like running alone or would you mind if I ran with you tomorrow?" he asked as he studied my face.

"It would be nice to have the company," I admitted.

The embers in the fire pit glowed orange in their deepest parts and the sky was dark now.

"You know what I love doing?" I asked.

"What?" Theron was attentive.

"Wait here." I jogged to the tent and pulled out an unused tarp, brought it out, stretched it over the ground and laid down on it. "Come, lie down." I patted the tarp.

He relaxed onto it next to me.

"Now, look up. It's so clear here, deep in the woods—no light pollution." I pointed up toward a section of the sky. "You can see the Milky Way and the constellations so vividly."

"Do you know the names of the constellations?"

"Some of them."