Занятия с детьми 2-3 лет. Музыкальное и художественное развитие. М. Ю. Грузова

       SIX

       SEVEN

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       FIFTEEN

       SIXTEEN

       SEVENTEEN

       EIGHTEEN

       NINETEEN

       TWENTY

       Extract

       Copyright

       ONE

      Siskiyou Mountains, southwest Oregon

      Olivia Kendricks slowed the snowmobile as she drew near the house, flakes growing thicker by the minute, etching the roof, fireplace and window seals in white and turning her home into a cottage from a Thomas Kinkade painting. Even after two winters here, that picturesque scene always filled her with peace.

      Except today. Instead of that sense of peace, an eerie feeling crept over her.

      Olivia continued forward. Traveling by snowmobile provided the best way to get here in the winter, unless she wanted to plow the long, curvy drive up the mountain when several feet of the white stuff buried the road. And she didn’t. Besides, Olivia enjoyed the ride.

      She lived for it.

      The whine of the snowmobile resounded through the forest, echoing off the snow-covered trees as she steered the vehicle all the way in. She parked next to the covered garage protecting her old truck, then turned off the ignition.

      Something was wrong. What was it?

      Then she realized the lights were off in the house.

      Strange.

      She removed her helmet, shook out her hair and slid off the vehicle. Flakes accumulated in her lashes and she wiped them away as she entered the front door of the family vacation cabin where she’d taken up residence. There were no relatives left to enjoy it as a getaway anymore—well except her brother, Rich, whom she hadn’t seen since their mother’s funeral three years before.

      That is, until yesterday.

      Stomping her boots at the entrance, she hoped to disturb her brother into letting her know he was still here.

      The dark house that greeted her said differently.

      “Rich? Where are you?” She flicked on the lights as she made her way through the vacation-getaway-turned-cozy-home toward the room he’d slept in last night. The same room he’d used as a boy during their stays. Had he left without even saying goodbye? She hoped she’d find the few things he’d brought with him still in the room. Hoped he would stick around for a while and give them both some time to work through their issues of the past, though Rich might not be as keen to resolve them.

      His backpack lay on the bed, flap hanging open and jeans and gear sprawled out. Relief swooshed through her. At least he hadn’t left for good. Maybe he’d just gone out for a walk or even a snowmobile ride.

      At the kitchen sink, Olivia poured a glass of water and glanced out the window, noting the snowmobile he’d ridden to the house was gone. And something...there was something in the snow.

      Frowning, Olivia hurried out the back door.

      Blood.

      Her breath caught.

      Crimson stained the snow and would soon be buried beneath a fresh layer. She let her gaze follow the path the snowmobile had taken away from the house. A trail of blood lined the tracks.

      Her heart seized.

      Rich!

      But she couldn’t let panic take hold. She had to follow that trail before the blood was hidden forever under layers of snow.

      “Rich!” Olivia’s gaze searched the woods even as she ran around to the front of the house for her own snowmobile.

      She had to catch up to him and make sure he was okay.

      Questions bombarded her as she hurried. What had happened? Why was he hurt?

      Still in her snowmobile suit, she grabbed gloves and a helmet, then got back on the vehicle. Concern ratcheting up her respiration, she started the machine and sped around the house to follow in Rich’s blood-spotted wake before she could no longer see the tracks. Her heart stumbled as the image of the crimson trail accosted her, but she had to focus.

      Off-road and through the ungroomed woods, she’d have to be careful of hidden obstacles and fallen trees. Her eyes strained to follow the tracks and watch where she was going. His zigzagging path showed he had steered haphazardly through the woods.

      “Rich!” she called through the opening in her helmet—she’d left the visor up—though she wasn’t sure if he would hear her over the snowmobile.

      Living this secluded in these woods, she’d traded the safety and security of knowing that she could call 911 and get a quick response for her privacy, peace and quiet. Now she regretted that decision. She had a satellite phone that didn’t work so well on cloudy days, and a radio she shared with the Wilderness, Inc. crew, but that was iffy in the mountains.

      She was on her own up here for the most part.

      They were on their own.

      Calling his name again, she continued between the trees, grateful the thick evergreen canopy prevented the falling snow from breaking through and hiding the tracks as quickly here. At least she hadn’t seen more blood, which meant that somehow he’d been able to slow the bleeding or stop it completely.

      The snowmobile ground over lumps of buried boulders, and skipped along over recently fallen branches covered in fresh powder. She had to be careful that she didn’t get stuck.

      Why would a man who was bleeding like that get on a snowmobile and ride off into the woods?

      Up ahead, Olivia spotted a snowmobile. She sped forward until she was close enough to identify it as the one Rich had used to come to the house. The snow machine was turned on its side up against a tree.

      Olivia let her gaze search for any sign of Rich, fear pricking her neck like icy daggers. He could die from his injury, or he could die from hypothermia, but why had he left the house?

      Had he been running from someone? Olivia