Page 157 of Unruly

Still, he didn’t dare come out of the woods after the first night. He didn’t trust himself to shack up in the first cabin he came across on the second day he was in the woods because he thought for sure it would be his downfall.

He’d fall asleep, maybe.

Succumb to the cold, and get a fire going.

Alert somebody.

No, he didn’t stop.

He just kept moving.

Cross had come out to the main road several times after following quad trails. He was somewhere between New Denmark and Bluebell—small New Brunswick counties with a hell of a lot of trees and fields.

Miles and miles of both, actually.

The county was quite rural. So much so that the houses in the area were spread quite far apart. Tucked away behind trees, and long, narrow driveways.

A few old barns that were starting to show their age with concaved roofs. He almost slipped inside one of those a few hours ago, but thought better of it considering he was still within a few counties from the border.

Was it possible the cops looking for him were still searching a twenty mile radius around the border?

Very likely.

Cross wanted to put another twenty miles in between them just to be fucking sure, though. He was not going to bet they hadn’t moved further out of their inner circle of searching. Not when it meant putting his freedom on the line.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunted into his cold palms.

More than anything, Cross wanted to get warm.

Then, he wanted to get the hell out of Canada and home to his wife and daughter. Somehow …

He just didn’t know how.

Cross picked up his pace as he came down the woods trail. A jog that was brisk enough for him to ignore how fucking cold his hands were, but made the blisters on the bottom of his feet painfully aware that he was moving again.

Fuck it.

A main road was probably coming up again.

Nighttime was falling.

His second night …

Cross refused to spend a third night in these goddamn woods. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t survive it if he had to, anyway.

“Fuck,” Cross muttered, righting himself again.

He looked down to see tracks in the darkness. He’d tripped over railway tracks. The trees had started to thin, which made him think he was coming to another main road.

No.

Railway tracks.

Frustration leaked through his bloodstream. Despite knowing that it was a bad idea to do so, he sat down on the edge of the cold metal track, and buried his face in his palms. He needed to think for five minutes. Plus, his breath against his hands helped to warm them up. Not a lot, but a bit.

Think.

Plan.