Nothing seemed out of place at Maggie Leland’s campsite–until she saw a pale form sprawled on the ground about thirty yards from her tent. She blinked. It looked like a naked human whose body was partially obscured by dead leaves and underbrush. With the gun in a two-handed grip, she approached cautiously, deliberately stepping on a couple of twigs to make a little noise. The figure didn’t stir, and when she reached his side, she saw it was a naked man lying prone. She took in his dark hair, his powerful muscles, the curve of a well-toned ass. He looked to be in top physical shape except that scratches from brambles and twigs marred his skin, and a red circle on his left lower leg oozed blood.
She caught her breath, recognizing a gunshot wound. An entry wound, which meant that he’d been running away when he’d been hit.
Someone had clipped him, and she had no idea who or why. Had he fled from the cops? From thugs? Or had he been in an argument that had gotten out of hand?
With her weapon concealed, she came down beside the man’s bed of leaves and put a hand on his shoulder. His skin was cold, but not icy. She was about to turn him over when he wrenched away.
She gasped as he pushed himself up, twisting to face her.
It looked like he was about to lunge, and for a terrified moment, she fumbled behind her for the gun. Then she saw puzzlement in his dark eyes–-followed by relief.
“You’re not one of them?” he gasped out.
“Drug lab guys.” As he flopped back against the ground, his eyes closing.