On the Run in the Wild
It was supposed to be a romantic camping trip on the Colorado River. When things go horribly wrong, Phoebe must escape deep into the wilderness. Alone in her canoe, with only her dog for help, Phoebe fights sickness and her own mind to survive. Haunted by the ghosts of her past, she fights bitterly against the viciousness of the forest.
Danger lurks behind every bend of the river and Phoebe must fight for her life or become prey.
A gripping thriller full of adventure, faith and psychological twists that will keep you guessing and burning through pages long into the night. You'll cry, you'll cheer and you'll think twice about camping again.
Thriller readers, like you, say, "This book had me thinking about it long after the last page."
Enjoy this excerpt:
The smell of the gunpowder burns my nose in the enclosed space of the tent. The kick of the handgun knocked my arms hard, the butt of the gun slamming into my already probably-broken hand. My ears ring from the shot, dimming the cry from Ty, but not blocking it out completely.
The single shout of surprise mixed with pain is forever etched in my brain. Another scar to carry.
I scramble across the sleeping bags to the door of the tent. The zipper is run half way around, jammed near the top. I don’t know why I thought the flimsy tent door would stop him from getting to me. In my panicked mind, I had room for only one thought.
Get the gun to stop him.
On my knees, I raise my face to the opening of the tent door and look into the night. The moon bathes our campsite, so bright the fading fire in the pit wasn’t necessary. Ty just thought it would be romantic.
My German short hair pointer sniffs at Ty’s dying body near the dying fire.
“Get away from him, Rigsby,” I command the dog. Always obedient, he whines and steps away from the body of my boyfriend. I watch Ty’s chest closely to see if he’s still breathing, still a threat.
He lays still, his arms thrown wide, one leg bent, the other straight out. It reminds me of the sprawling way he hogs the bed at night.
My hands shake so badly I have to fight the tent door zipper for a few moments until it slides down. The zipper is unusually loud in the quiet of the surrounding forest.
“Ty?” I whisper, wondering if he’s just playing, waiting for me to get close so he can pounce.
The bloody stain on his chest is real. He’s not playing.
I climb out of the tent on hands and knees close enough to shake his foot. He doesn’t moan, doesn’t move.
I’ve killed him.
Sitting in the dirt next to the body of the man I loved, I brace myself for a flood of emotions. The emotions do not come. At least not the ones I expect.
With my non-probably-broken hand, I touch my left eye. It’s puffing up, swelling to a slit.
“You or me,” Ty had growled only a few moments ago.
I won this battle.
I sit on the ground and stare a him. A stick is poking into my rear and the unmistakable feel of a bug crawls up my leg. A small beetle is ambling up my thigh. I take aim at the beetle with my forefinger and flick it away. It lands in the dying embers of the fire. The thought makes me smile.
Then I throw my head back and laugh. Deep, painful peals of laughter shake my belly, rumble through my chest. Rigsby whines and cowers near the tent, no doubt thinking his momma has lost her mind.
I stare at the moon, the bright white disk that sees all. Like an animal, I open my mouth and howl.
Rigsby howls along with me, a deep mournful sound.
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Find out what happens next, curl up with "The Moon Has a Name" today.
