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Three years after the sudden death of her husband, Lucy Blacker Swift has finally got things under control. Leaving behind the cutthroat world of Washington, Lucy and her two children move to a Vermont farmhouse and start to rebuild their lives. But a string of unexplained events—late-night hang-ups, a bullet through a window—threatens her new life.

Unwilling to turn to her powerful father-in-law, Senator Jack Swift, Lucy tracks down Sebastian Redwing, an international security expert her late husband asked her to contact if she ever needed help. Sebastian, though, wants nothing to do with her problems…or with a woman he’s been half in love with since her wedding day.

But Sebastian knows he has no choice, and reluctantly he becomes drawn with Lucy into a dangerous tangle of blackmail, vengeance and betrayal, with Lucy’s powerful family—and Sebastian’s troubled past—smack in the middle.

Praise for the novels of

“Nobody does romantic suspense better than Carla Neggers.”

—Providence Journal

“Well-drawn characters, complex plotting and plenty of wry humor are the hallmarks of Neggers’s books.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Cold Pursuit is the perfect name for this riveting read. Neggers’s passages are so descriptive that one almost finds one’s teeth chattering from fear and anticipation.”

—Bookreporter

“[Neggers] forces her characters to confront issues of humanity, integrity and the multifaceted aspects of love without slowing the ever-quickening pace.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Carla Neggers is one of the most distinctive, talented writers of our genre.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

The

Waterfall

Carla Neggers

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Dick and Diane Ballou…for the house,

the clothes, the fun and the friendship.

Dear Reader,

When I wrote The Waterfall, we had just bought our “fixer-upper” on a hilltop in Vermont not far from picturesque Quechee Gorge. I remember my excitement when The Waterfall hit the New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller lists, a first for me…I was in my makeshift office on a balcony with views of the surrounding mountains. Since then, we’ve renovated the house (let’s talk mice!) and I’ve gone on to write more books, always with a sense of adventure and love of storytelling.

If you’ve never read The Waterfall, I hope you enjoy the story of Lucy Blacker Swift and Sebastian Redwing. I continue to hear from readers who tell me it’s the book that got them “hooked” on my writing.

As I type this note to you, I’m deep into writing Declan’s Cross, the third in my Sharpe & Donovan suspense series, due out later in 2013. Saint’s Gate, where we first meet FBI art crimes expert and ex-nun Emma Sharpe and deep-cover FBI agent Colin Donovan, and Heron’s Cove are available now. I’ve also returned to my contemporary roots with my Swift River Valley novels, Secrets of the Lost Summer, out now, and That Night on Thistle Lane, due out in February 2013.

Please visit my website for news on all my latest books, to enter my monthly draw and sign up for my eNewsletter! I’m also on Facebook and Twitter, and I love to hear from readers.

Thanks, and happy reading,

Carla

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Teaser Chapter

One

“The Widow Swift?” Lucy made a face as she absorbed her daughter’s latest tidbit of gossip. “Who calls me that?”

Madison shrugged. She was fifteen, and she was doing the driving. Something else for Lucy to get used to. “Everyone.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Like, the six people who live in this town.”

Lucy ignored the light note of sarcasm. The Widow Swift. Good Lord. Maybe in some strange way this was a sign of acceptance. She had no illusions about being a “real” Vermonter. After three years, she was still an outsider, still someone people expected would pack up at any moment and move back to Washington. Nothing would suit Madison better, Lucy knew. At twelve, life in small-town Vermont had been an adventure. At fifteen, it was an imposition. She had her learner’s permit, after all. Why not a home in Georgetown?

“Well,” Lucy said, “you can just tell ‘everyone’ that I prefer to be called Lucy or Mrs. Swift or Ms. Swift.”

“Sure, Mom.”

“A name like ‘the Widow Swift’ tends to stick.”

Madison seemed amused by the whole thing, so much so that she forgot that parking made her nervous and just pulled into a space in front of the post office in the heart of their small southern Vermont village.

“Wow, that was easy,” Madison said. “Okay. Into park. Emergency brake on. Engine off. Keys out.” She smiled at her mother. She’d slipped into a little sundress for their trip to town; Lucy had nixed the flimsy slip-on sandals she’d wanted to wear. “See? I didn’t even hit a moose.”

They’d seen exactly two moose since moving to Vermont, neither en route to town. But Lucy let it go. “Good job.”

Madison scooted off to the country store to “check out the galoshes,” she said with a bright smile that took the edge off her sarcasm. Lucy headed for the post office to mail a batch of brochures for her adventure travel company. Requests from her Web site were up. Business was good to excellent. She was getting her bearings, making a place for herself and her children. It took time, that was all.

“The Widow Swift,” she said under her breath. “Damn.”

She wished she could shake it off with a laugh, but she couldn’t. She was thirty-eight, and Colin had been dead for three years. She knew she was a widow. But she didn’t want it to define her. She didn’t know what she wanted to define her, but not that.

The village was quiet in the mid-July heat, not even a breeze stirring in the huge, old sugar maples on the sliver of a town common. The country store, the post office, the hardware store and two bed-and-breakfasts—that was it. Manchester, a few miles to the northwest, offered considerably more in the way of shopping and things to do, but Lucy had no intention of letting her daughter drive that far with a two-week-old learner’s permit. It wasn’t necessarily that Madison wasn’t ready for traffic and busy streets. Lucy wasn’t ready.

When she finished at the post office, she automatically approached the driver’s side of her all-wheel-drive station wagon. Their “Vermont car,” Madison called it with a touch of derision. She wanted a Jetta. She wanted the city.

With a groan, Lucy remembered her daughter was driving. Fifteen was so young. She went around to the passenger’s side, surprised Madison wasn’t already back behind the wheel. Driving was all that stood between her daughter and abject boredom this summer. Even the prospect of leaving for Wyoming the next day hadn’t perked her up. Nothing would, Lucy realized, except getting her way about spending a semester in Washington with her grandfather.

Wyoming. Lucy shook her head. Now that was madness.

She plopped onto the sun-heated passenger seat and debated canceling the trip. Madison had already voiced objections about going. And her twelve-year-old son, J.T., would rather stay home and dig worms. The purported reason for heading to Jackson Hole was to meet with several western guides. But that was ridiculous, Lucy thought. Her company specialized in northern New England and the Canadian Maritimes and was in the process of putting together a winter trip to Costa Rica where her parents had retired to run a hostel. She had all she could handle now. Opening up to Montana and Wyoming would just be spreading herself too thin.

The real reason she was going to Wyoming, she knew, was Sebastian Redwing and the promise she’d made to Colin.

But that was ridiculous, too. An overreaction—if not pure stupidity—on her part to a few weird incidents.

Lucy sank back against her seat, feeling something under her—probably a pen or a lipstick, or one of J.T.’s toys. She fished it out.

She gasped at the warm, solid length of metal in her hand.

A bullet.

She resisted a sudden urge to fling it out the window. What if it went off? She shuddered, staring at her palm. It wasn’t an empty shell. It was a live round. Big, weighty.

Someone had left a damn bullet on her car seat.

The car windows were open. She and Madison hadn’t locked up. Anyone could have walked by, dropped the bullet through the passenger window and kept on going.

Lucy’s hand shook. Not again. Damn it, not again. She forced herself to take slow, controlled breaths. She knew adventure travel—canoeing, kayaking, hiking, basic first aid. She could plan every detail of inventive, multifaceted, multi-sport trips and do just fine.

She didn’t know bullets.

She didn’t want to know bullets.

Madison trotted out of the country store with several other teenagers, swinging her car keys as if she’d been driving for years. The girls were laughing and chatting, and even as Lucy slid the bullet into her shorts pocket, she thought, Yes, Madison, you do have friends. Since school had let out, her daughter had been making a point of being miserable, if only to press her case for Washington.

She jumped into the driver’s seat. “Saddle up, Mom. We’re ready to roll.”

Lucy didn’t mention the bullet. This wasn’t her children’s problem, it was hers. She preferred to cling to the belief that she wasn’t the victim of deliberate harassment. The incidents she’d endured over the past week were random, innocent, meaningless. They weren’t related. They weren’t a campaign of intimidation against her.

The first had occurred on Sunday evening, when she’d found a dining room window open, the curtains billowing in the summer breeze. It was a window she never opened. Madison and J.T. wouldn’t bother. But Lucy had dismissed the incident, until the next night when the phone rang just before dawn, the caller breathing at her groggy hello, then hanging up. Too weird, she’d thought.

Then on Tuesday, while checking the mailbox at the end of her driveway, she’d had the distinct sense she was being watched. Something had alerted her—the snapping of a twig, the crunching of gravel. It wasn’t, she was certain, her imagination.

The next morning, the feeling was there again, while she was sweeping the back steps, and ten minutes later, she’d found one of her tomato plants sitting on the front porch. It had been ripped out of the ground.

Now, today, the bullet on her car seat.

Maybe she was in denial, but she didn’t believe there was enough to take to the police. Individually, each incident could have an innocent explanation—her kids, their friends, her staff, stress. How could she prove someone was watching her? She’d sound like a nut.

And if she went to the police, Lucy knew what would happen. They would notify Washington. Washington would feel compelled to come to Vermont and investigate. And so much for her low-profile life.

It wasn’t that no one in town knew her father-in-law was Jack Swift, a powerful United States senator. Everyone knew. But she’d never made it an issue.

She was his only son’s widow; Madison and J.T. were his only grandchildren. Jack would take charge. He would insist the Capitol Police conduct a thorough investigation and make sure his family wasn’t drawing fire because of him.

Lucy couldn’t imagine why anyone going after Jack would slip a bullet onto his widowed daughter-in-law’s car seat. It made no sense. No. She was safe. Her children were safe. This was just…bizarre.

“Mom?”

Madison had started the engine and backed out onto the main road without Lucy noticing, much less providing comment and instruction. “You’re doing great. My mind’s wandering, that’s all.”

“What’s wrong? Is it my driving?”

“No, of course not.”

“Because I can get someone else to drive with me. It doesn’t have to be you, if I make you nervous.”

“You don’t make me nervous. I’m fine. Just keep your eyes on the road.”

“I am.”

Madison had a death grip on the steering wheel. Lucy realized she’d scared her daughter, who noticed everything. “Madison. You’re driving. You can’t allow yourself to get distracted.”

“I know. It’s you.”

It was her. Lucy took a breath. She could feel the weight of the bullet in her pocket. What if it had worked its way under the seat and J.T. had found it? She shut off the stream of what-if scenarios. She’d learned from hard experience to stick with what was, which was difficult enough to absorb.

“Never mind me and drive.”

Madison huffed, annoyed now. With her blue eyes and coppery hair, her introspective temperament and unbridled ambition, she was so like her father. Even Madison’s two-week-old driving mannerisms were pure Colin Swift.

He’d died, suddenly and unexpectedly at age thirty-six, of a cardiac arrhythmia while playing tennis with his father, his life and a brilliant career at the U.S. State Department cut short. Madison had been twelve, J.T. nine. Not easy ages to lose a father. Six months later, Lucy had plucked her children away from the only life they knew—school, friends, family, “civilization,” as Madison would say. But if they hadn’t moved—if Lucy hadn’t done something dramatic to get her bearings—they’d have been in danger of losing their mother, too, and that simply wasn’t an option.

There’d been nothing from Sebastian Redwing when Colin died. Not a flower, not a card, not a word. Then, two months later, his lawyer showed up on Lucy’s doorstep offering her the deed to his grandmother’s Vermont farmhouse. Daisy had died the previous year, and Sebastian had no use for it.

Lucy threw the lawyer out. If Redwing couldn’t even offer his condolences, she didn’t want his damn house.

A month later, the lawyer was back. This time, she could have the house at a below-market price. She would be doing Sebastian a favor. His grandmother had wanted someone in the family to have the house. He had no brothers or sisters. His parents were dead. Lucy was the best he could do.

She’d accepted. She still didn’t know why. Sebastian had once saved her husband’s life. Why not hers?

In truth, she couldn’t pinpoint one clear, overriding reason. Perhaps the lure of Vermont and starting her own adventure travel business, the stifling fog of grief, her fears about raising her children on her own.

Maybe, she thought, it boiled down to the promise she’d made Colin shortly before he died. Neither had known until that day on the tennis court that he had a heart condition that could kill him. The promise had seemed like one of those “if we’re trapped on a desert island” scenarios, not something she would ever need to act on.

Yet Colin had been so sincere, so serious. “If anything happens to me, you can trust Sebastian. He’s the best, Lucy. He saved my life. He saved my father’s life. Promise me you’ll go to him if you ever need help.”

She’d promised, and now here she was in Vermont. She hadn’t heard from Redwing, much less seen him, since she’d bought his grandmother’s house. The transaction had been handled entirely through his attorney. Lucy had hoped never again to be so desperate that she’d feel compelled to remember her promise to Colin. She was smart, she was capable, and she was used to being on her own.

So why was she packing herself and her kids off to Wyoming—Sebastian Redwing country—in the morning?

“Mom!”

“You’re doing great. Just keep driving.”

With one finger, Lucy traced the outline of the bullet in her pocket. There was probably an innocent explanation for the bullet and all the other incidents. She should just focus on having fun in Wyoming.

* * *

The locals still referred to Sebastian Redwing’s grandmother as the Widow Daisy and the remnants of her farm as the old Wheaton place. Lucy had learned Daisy’s story in bits and pieces. Daisy Wheaton had lived in her yellow farmhouse on Joshua Brook for sixty years as a widow. She was twenty-eight when her husband drowned saving a little boy from the raging waterfall in the hills above their farmhouse. It was early spring, and the snowmelt had made the falls treacherous. The boy had gone after his dog. Joshua Wheaton had gone after the boy. Later, the falls and the brook they were on were named after him. Joshua Falls—Joshua Brook.

Daisy and Joshua’s only child, a daughter, couldn’t wait to get out of Vermont. She moved to Boston and got married, and when she and her husband were killed in a hit-and-run accident, they left behind a fourteen-year-old son. Sebastian came to live with Daisy. But he hadn’t stayed in Vermont, either.

Seven acres of fields, woods and gardens, and the rambling yellow clapboard farmhouse were all that remained of the original Wheaton farm. Daisy had sold off bits and pieces of her land over the years to second homeowners and local farmers, keeping the core of the place for herself and whoever might come after her.

It was said Daisy had never gone back to Joshua Falls after she’d helped pull her husband’s body out of the frigid water.

The Widow Daisy. Now, the Widow Swift.

Lucy grimaced as she walked up the gravel path to the small, classic barn she’d converted into office space. She could feel the decades yawning in front of her and imagined sixty years on this land, alone.

She stopped, listening to Joshua Brook trickling over rocks down the steep, wooded embankment beyond the barn. The falls were farther up in the hills. Here, the brook was wide and slow-moving before running under a wooden bridge and eventually merging with the river. She could hear bees buzzing in the hollyhocks in front of the garage. She looked around her, at the sprawling lawn, lush and green from recent showers, and the pretty nineteenth-century farmhouse with its baskets of white petunias hanging on the front porch. Her gaze took in the stately, old sugar maples that shaded the front yard, the backyard with its vegetable garden and apple trees, and a stone wall that bordered a field of grass and wildflowers, with another stone wall on its far side. Then, beyond that, the wooded hills. So quiet, so beautiful.

“You could do worse,” Lucy whispered to herself as she entered her office.

She had learned most of what she knew about the Wheaton-Redwing family not from closemouthed, elusive Sebastian, but from Rob Kiley, her only full-time employee. He was parked in front of his computer in the open, rustic space that served as her company’s home base. Rob’s father was the boy Joshua Wheaton had saved sixty years ago—one of the circuitous but inevitable connections Lucy had come to expect from living in a small town.

Rob didn’t look up. “I hate computers,” he said.

Lucy smiled. “You say that every time I walk in here.”

“That’s because I want to get it through that thick, cheapskate skull of yours that we need a full-time person to sit here and bang away on this thing.”

“What are you doing?” Lucy asked. She didn’t peer over his shoulder because that drove him nuts. He was a lanky, easygoing Vermonter whose paddling skills and knowledge of the hills, valleys, rivers and coastline of northern New England were indispensable. So were his enthusiasm, his honesty and his friendship.

“I’m putting together the final, carved-in-stone, must-not-deviate-from itinerary for the father-son backpacking trip.” This was a first-time offering, a five-day beginner’s backpacking trip on nearby trails in the southern Green Mountains; it had filled up even faster than he and Lucy had anticipated. Rob looked up, and she knew what he was thinking. “There’s still time for J.T. to join us. I told him I wasn’t a substitute for his real dad, but we can still have a lot of fun.”

“I know. This is one he has to figure out for himself. I can’t decide for him.”

He nodded. “Well, we’ve got time. By the way, he and Georgie are digging worms in the garden.”

Lucy wasn’t surprised. “Madison will love that. I just sent her to check on them.”

Rob tilted back in his chair and stretched. Sitting at a computer was torture for him on a day when he could be out kayaking. “How’d she do driving?”

“Better than I did. She’s still lobbying for a semester in Washington.”

“Grandpa Jack would love that.”

“She’s romanticized Washington. It’s everything Vermont isn’t.”

Rob shrugged. “Well, it is.”

“You’re a big help!” But Lucy’s laughter faded quickly as she slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew the bullet. “I want you to take a look at something.”

“Sure.”

“And I don’t want you to mention it to anyone.”

“Am I supposed to ask why not?”

“You’re supposed to say okay, you won’t.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

She opened her hand and let the bullet roll forward in her palm. “What do you think?”

Rob frowned. “It’s a bullet.”

“I know it’s a bullet. What kind?”

He picked it out of her palm and nonchalantly set it upright on his cluttered desk. He’d grown up around guns. “Forty-four magnum. It’s the whole nine yards, you know, not just an empty shell.”

She nodded. “I know that much. Can it go off?”

“Not sitting here on my desk. If you dropped it just right or ran it over with a lawn mower or something, it could go off.”

Lucy stifled a shudder. “That can’t be good.”

“If it went off, you wouldn’t have any control over where it goes. At least with a gun, you can take aim at a target. You might take lousy aim. But if you run over a live round with a lawn mower, there’s no chance to aim at anything. Thing can go any which way.” He sounded calm, but his dark eyes were very serious. “Where’d you find it?”

“What? Oh.” She hadn’t considered a cover story and hated the idea of lying. “In town. I’m sure it’s no big deal.”

“It’s not Georgie or J.T., is it? If they’re fooling around with firearms and ammunition—”

“No!” Lucy nearly choked. “I stumbled on it in town just now. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, so I picked it up. I was just wondering if I was panicking unnecessarily.”

“You weren’t. Someone was very careless.” He touched the dull gray metal tip of the bullet. “You want me to get rid of it?”

“Please.”

“Do me a favor, okay? Check J.T.’s room. I’ll check Georgie’s. If I find anything, I’ll let you know. You do the same. I don’t keep a gun at home, and I know you don’t, but they wouldn’t be the first twelve-year-old boys—”

“It wasn’t J.T. or Georgie.”

Rob’s eyes met hers. “If you won’t check J.T.’s room, I will.”

Lucy nodded. “You’re right. I’ll check his room.”

“The cellar, too. I nearly blew myself up at that age screwing around with gunpowder.”

“I don’t have gunpowder—”

“Lucy.”

“All right, all right.”

Rob was silent, studying her. She’d known him from her earliest days in Vermont. He and his wife, Patti, were her best friends here. Georgie and J.T. were inseparable. But she hadn’t told him about the weird incidents.

Lucy tried not to squirm. Sweat had matted her shirt to her lower back. So much to do, so many responsibilities. She didn’t need some crackpot targeting her. “Just get rid of the damn bullet, okay?”

Rob crossed his arms on his chest. “Sure, Lucy.”

She could guess what he was thinking—what anyone would be thinking. That she was on edge, frayed and crazed, more than would be warranted by a rapidly expanding business, widowhood, single motherhood and an impending trip west. That he wanted to call her on it.

Lucy took advantage of his natural reluctance to meddle. “I’m sorry if I seem a little nuts. I have so much to do with this whirlwind trip to Wyoming this weekend. You can hold down the fort here?”

“That’s in bold print on my resume. Can hold down forts.”

His humor didn’t reach his eyes, but Lucy pretended not to notice. She smiled. “What would I do without you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Go broke.”

She laughed, feeling better now that the bullet was out of her pocket. These incidents had to be unrelated. It was kooky and paranoid to think they were part of some kind of bizarre conspiracy against her. What would be the motive?

She left Rob to his computer aggravations and bullet disposal, and went outside. She’d ask Rob later what he thought about this Widow Swift business. She had a good life here, and that was what counted.

“I made lemonade,” Madison called from the front porch.

“Great. I’ll be right there.”

Lucy reminded herself it was only in recent months her daughter had come to feel aggrieved by their move to Vermont.

“I’m pretending I’m living in an episode of ‘The Waltons,’” Madison said when her mother joined her amidst the hanging petunias and wicker furniture. Indeed, she had filled one of Daisy’s old glass pitchers with lemonade and put on one of her threadbare aprons. Sebastian hadn’t taken anything of his grandmother’s before he’d sold her house.

“Did you ask the boys if they want any?” Lucy asked.

“They’re still out back digging worms. It’s disgusting. They smell like dirt and sweat.”

“You used to love digging worms.”

“Yuck.”

Lucy smiled. “Well, I’ll go ask them. And since you made the lemonade, they can clean up.”

The two boys were still hard at work on the edge of the vegetable garden, precariously close to Lucy’s tomatoes. Not that she minded. She wasn’t as enterprising a gardener as Daisy had been. She’d added raised beds and mulched paths to take up space and had cultivated a lot of spreading plants, like pumpkins, squash and cucumbers. She had little desire, however, to can and freeze her own fruits and vegetables. This was enough.

“Madison made lemonade. You boys want some?”

“Later,” J.T. said, too preoccupied with his worm-digging to look up.

He, too, had Colin’s coppery hair and clear blue eyes, although his sturdy frame was more Blacker than Swift. Lucy smiled at the thought of her kind, thickset father. She had inherited her mother’s slender build and fair coloring, and both her parents’ love of the outdoors. They’d recently retired to Costa Rica to run a hostel, leaving behind long careers at the Smithsonian. Lucy planned to visit them over Thanksgiving, taking Madison and J.T. with her and working on the details of a Costa Rica trip she wanted to offer to her clients next winter. It was a long, painstaking process that involved figuring out and testing every last detail—transportation, food, lodging, contingency plans. Nothing could be left to chance.

Flying to Costa Rica to see them, Lucy thought, made more sense than flying off to Wyoming to see Sebastian Redwing.

J.T. scooped up dirt with his hands and piled it into a number-ten can he and Georgie had appropriated from the recycling bin. “We want to go fishing. We’ve got a ton of worms. Want to see?”

Lucy gave the can of squirming worms a dutiful peek. “Lovely. If you do go fishing, stay down here. Don’t go up near the falls.”

“I know, Mom.”

He knew. Right. Both her kids knew everything. Losing their father at such a young age hadn’t eroded their self-esteem. They had Colin’s optimism, his drive and energy, his faith in a better future and his commitment to making it happen. Like their father, Madison and J.T. loved having a million things going on at once.

Lucy left the boys to their worms and returned to the front porch, where Madison had brought out cloth napkins and a plate of butter cookies to go with her lemonade. “Actually, I think I’m more Anne of Green Gables today.”

“Is that better than John-Boy Walton?”

Madison wrinkled up her face and sat on the wicker settee, tucking her slender legs under her. “Mom—I really, really don’t want to go to Wyoming. Can’t I stay here? It’s only for the weekend. Rob and Patti could look in on me. I could have a friend stay with me.”

Lucy poured herself a glass of lemonade and settled onto a wicker chair. Her daughter was relentless. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get out of Vermont.”

“Not to Wyoming. It’s more mountains and trees.”

“Bigger mountains, different trees. There’s great shopping in Jackson.”

She brightened. “Does that mean you’ll give me money?”

“A little, but I meant window-shopping. It’s also very expensive.”

Her daughter was unamused. “If I have to sit next to J.T. on the plane, I’m inspecting his pockets first.”

“I expect you to treat your brother with respect, just as I expect him to treat you with respect.”

Madison rolled her eyes.

Lucy tried her lemonade. It was a perfect mix of tart and sweet, just like her fifteen-year-old daughter. Madison untucked her legs and flounced inside, the sophisticate trapped in the sticks, the long-suffering big sister about to be stuck on a plane with her little brother.

Lucy decided to give her the weekend to come around before initiating a discussion on attitude and who wouldn’t get to do much driving until she changed hers.

She put her feet up on the porch rail and tried to let the cool breeze relax her. The trip to Wyoming made no sense. She knew it, and her kids at least sensed it.

The petunias needed watering. She looked out at her pretty lawn with its huge maples, its rambling old-fashioned rosebush that needed pruning. She’d just gone to town with her fifteen-year-old behind the wheel, inspected a can of worms and dealt with her daughter’s John-Boy/Anne of Green Gables martyr act and a bullet on her car seat.

The Widow Swift at work.

Lucy drank more lemonade, feeling calmer. She’d managed on her own for so long. She didn’t need Sebastian Redwing’s help. She didn’t need anyone’s help.

* * *

J.T. permitted his mother to help him pack after dinner. Lucy kept her eyes open for firearms, bullets and secret antisocial tendencies. She found none. His room betrayed nothing more than a twelve-year-old’s mishmash of interests. Posters of Darth Maul and peregrine falcons, stuffed animals, Lego models, sports paraphernalia, computer games, gross-looking superheroes and monsters, way too many Micro Machines.

He didn’t have a television in his room. He didn’t have a computer. Dirty clothes were dumped in with clean on the floor. Drawers were half open, a pant leg hanging out of one, a pair of boxers out of another.

The room smelled of dirty socks, sweat and earth. A dormer window looked out on the backyard, where she could still see evidence of the digging he and Georgie had done.

“You didn’t bring your worms up here, did you?” Lucy asked.

“No, me and Georgie freed them.” He looked at her, and corrected, “Georgie and I.”

She smiled, and when she turned, she spotted a picture of Colin and J.T. tacked to her son’s bulletin board. Blood rushed to her head, and she had to fight off sudden, unexpected tears. The edges of the picture were cracked and yellowed, pocked with tack holes from the dozen times J.T. had repositioned it. A little boy and a young father fishing, frozen in time.

Lucy smiled sadly at the image of the man she’d loved. They’d met in college, married so young. She stared at his handsome face, his smile, his tousle of coppery hair. It was as if she’d gone on, propelled forward in time, while he’d stayed the same, untouched by the grief and fear she’d known since the day his shattered father had knocked on her door and told her that his son—her husband—was dead.

The searing pain and shock of those early days had eased. Lucy had learned to go on without him. So, in their own ways, had Madison and J.T. They could talk about him with laughter, and remember him, at least most of the time, without tears.

“You can pack the extra stuff you want to take in your backpack,” Lucy said, tearing herself from the picture. “What book are you reading?”

“A Star Wars book.”

“Don’t forget to pack it.”

She counted out shirts, pants, socks, underwear, and debated whether to bother looking in the cellar and the garage. J.T.’d had nothing to do with the bullet in her car.

She set the clothes on his bed. “You’re good to go, kiddo. Can you shove this stuff into your suitcase, or do you need my help?”

“I can do it.”

“Don’t forget your toothbrush.”

She went down the hall to her daughter’s room. The door was shut, her music up but not at a wall-vibrating volume. If Madison needed help, she’d ask for it. Lucy left her alone.

Her own bedroom was downstairs, and on the way she stopped in the kitchen and put on a kettle for tea. She’d pack later. It was an old-fashioned, working kitchen with white cabinets, scarred counters and sunny yellow walls that helped offset the cold, dark winter nights. The biggest surprise of life in Vermont, Lucy had discovered, was how dark the nights were.

She sank into a chair at the pine table and stared out at the backyard, wondering how many nights Daisy had done exactly this in her sixty years alone. A cup of tea, a quiet house. The Widow Daisy. The Widow Swift.

It was dark now, the long summer day finally giving way. Lucy could feel the silence settle around her, the isolation and loneliness creep in. Sometimes she would turn on the television or the radio, or work on her laptop, write e-mails, perhaps call a friend. Tonight, she had to pack. Wyoming. Good God, she really was going.

She made chamomile tea and took her mug with her down the hall to the front door, locked up. Shadows shifted on the old wood floors. She had no illusions the ancient locks would stop a determined intruder.

A sound—the wind, maybe—took her into the dining room.

She hadn’t touched it since moving in. It still had the old-fashioned button light switch for the milk-glass overhead, Daisy’s faded hand-hooked rug, her cabbage-rose wallpaper, her clunky dining room set. A 1920s upright piano stood along one wall.

A breeze brought up goose bumps on Lucy’s arms.

Someone had opened a window. Again.

The tall, old windows were balky and difficult to open. Since she almost never used the dining room during the summer, Lucy didn’t bother wrestling with them. She’d meant to have them looked at before the good weather, but hadn’t gotten around to it.

She felt along the wall with one hand and pressed the light switch. It had to be a kid. Who else would sneak into her house and open the windows?

Light spilled into the room, casting more shadows. It could be a great room. One of these days she’d have the piano tuned, the rug cleaned, the wood floors sanded and oiled. She’d hang new wallpaper and refinish the table, and have family and friends over for Thanksgiving. Even her father-in-law, if he wanted to come.

The floor seemed to sparkle. Lucy frowned, peering closer.

Shards of glass.

She jumped back, startled. The window wasn’t open. It was broken, its upper pane spider-cracked around a small hole. A triangle of glass had hit the floor and shattered.

Lucy set her mug on the table and gingerly touched the edges of the hole. It wasn’t from a bird smashing into her window, or an errant baseball. Too small.

A stone?

A bullet?

She spun around, her heart pounding.

It couldn’t be. Not twice in one day.

She saw plaster dust on the chair next to the piano, directly across from the window. Above it was a hole in the wall.

Holding her breath, Lucy knelt on the chair and reached up, smoothing her hand over the hole. The edges of the wallpaper were rough. Plaster dust covered her fingertips.

The hole was empty. There was no bullet lodged there.

She sank onto her hands and knees and checked the floor. She looked under the piano. She flipped up the edges of the rug. She could feel the hysteria working its way into her, seeping into her pores, sending poison into every nerve ending.

She flopped back onto her butt and sat there on the floor. So, she thought. There it is. Some bastard had shot a hole in her dining room window, sneaked into her house, removed the bullet and sneaked back out again.

When? How? Why?

Wouldn’t someone—Madison, J.T., Georgie, Rob, the damn mailman—have heard or seen something?

They’d run up to Manchester last night. It could have happened then, when no one was home.

The windows faced east across the side yard and the garage, the barn, Joshua Brook. A hunter or target shooter could have been in the woods near the brook and accidentally landed a stray bullet in her dining room, panicked, slipped inside and dug it out.

“Ha,” she said aloud.

This was no accident.

Lucy was shaking, sick to her stomach. If she called the police, she’d be up all night. She’d have to explain to Madison and J.T. Rob’s grandmother had a scanner—she’d call Rob, and he and Patti would come over.

And that was just the beginning. The police would call Washington. The Capitol Police would want to know if the incidents had anything to do with Jack Swift. He would be notified.

She staggered to her feet and picked up her tea.

Now was she desperate enough to ask Sebastian Redwing for help?

She ran into the kitchen, dumped her tea down the sink and locked the back door. She went into her bedroom to pack. “You need a dog,” she muttered to herself. “That’s all.”

A big dog. A big dog that barked.

“A big, ugly dog that barks.”

He’d take care of intruders, and she could train him to go fishing with J.T. Even Madison would like a dog.

That settled it. Never mind Redwing. When she got back from Wyoming, she’d see about getting a dog.

Two

Sebastian slipped off his horse and collapsed in the shade of a cottonwood. He was out on the far reaches of his property where no one could find him. Still, the bastards had. Two of them. In a damn Jeep. It was bouncing toward him. He could take his horse through the river, but the idiots would probably come after him.

He sipped water from his canteen, took off his hat and poured a little water over his head. He could use a shower. The air was hot and dusty. Dry. He hoped the dopes in the Jeep had water with them. He wasn’t planning on sharing any of his canteen. Well, they could drink out of the river.

The Jeep got closer. “Easy,” Sebastian told his horse, who didn’t look too worried or even that hot.

A man jumped out just as the Jeep came to a stop about twenty yards off. “Mr. Redwing?”

Sebastian grimaced. It was never a good sign when someone called him Mr. Redwing. Not that chasing him in a Jeep was a good sign.

He tipped his hat over his eyes and leaned back on his elbows. “What?”

“Mr. Redwing,” the man said. “I’m Jim Charger. Mr. Rabedeneira sent me to find you.”

“So?”

Charger didn’t speak. He was a new hire, probably waiting for Sebastian to get up and act like the man who’d founded and built Redwing Associates, a premier international security and investigative firm. Instead he kept his hat over his eyes, enjoying the relief from the Wyoming summer sun.

Finally, he sighed. Jim Charger wasn’t going anywhere until he delivered his message. Sebastian liked Plato Rabedeneira. They’d been friends since their early twenties. He’d trust Plato with his life, the lives of his friends. But if Plato had been the other man in the Jeep, Sebastian would have tied him to this cottonwood and left him.

“Okay, Mr. Charger.” He tipped his hat back and eyed the man in front of him. Tall, blond, very fit, dressed in expensive western attire that was no doubt dustier now than it had ever been. A Washington import. Probably ex-FBI. Sebastian could feel the blood pounding behind his eyes. “What’s up?”

If Sebastian Redwing wasn’t proving to be what Jim Charger had expected, he kept it to himself. “Mr. Rabedeneira asked me to give you a message. He says to tell you Darren Mowery is back.”

Sebastian made sure he had no visible reaction. Inside, the blood pounded harder behind his eyes. He’d left Mowery for dead a year ago. “Back where?”

“Washington.”

“What’s Plato want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know. He asked me to deliver the message. He said to tell you it was important.”

Darren Mowery hated Sebastian more than most of his enemies did. Once, Sebastian would have trusted Mowery with his life, with the lives of his friends. No more.

“One other thing,” Charger said.

Sebastian smiled faintly. “This is the thing Plato said to tell me if I didn’t jump in your Jeep with you?”

No reaction. “Mowery has made contact with a woman in Senator Swift’s office.”

Jack Swift, now the senior senator from the state of Rhode Island. A gentleman politician, a man of integrity and dedication to public service, father-in-law to Lucy Blacker Swift.

Damn, Sebastian thought.

At the reception following Lucy Blacker and Colin Swift’s wedding, Colin had made Sebastian promise he’d look after Lucy if anything happened to him. “Not,” Colin had said, “that Lucy will want looking after. But you know what I mean.”

Sebastian hadn’t, not really. He didn’t have anyone in his life to look after. His parents were dead. He had no brothers and sisters, no wife, no children. Professionally, though, he was pretty damn good at looking after people. That mostly had to do with keeping them alive and their pockets from getting picked. It didn’t have to do with friendship, a promise made to a man who would be dead thirteen years later at age thirty-six.

Colin must have known. Somehow, he must have guessed he would have a short life, and his wife and whatever children they had would end up having to go on without him.

When Sebastian had made his promise, he’d never imagined he’d have to keep it.

“What do you want me to tell Mr. Rabedeneira?” Charger asked.

Sebastian tilted his hat back over his eyes. A year ago, he’d shot Darren Mowery and thought he’d killed him. It was carelessness on his part he hadn’t known until now whether Mowery was dead or alive. In his business, that kind of lapse was intolerable. There was no excuse. It didn’t matter that Darren had once been his mentor, his friend, or that Sebastian had watched him send himself straight into hell. When you shot someone, you were supposed to find out if you’d killed him. It was a rule.

But this was about Jack Swift. It wasn’t about Lucy. Plato would have to handle Darren Mowery. Given his personal involvement, Sebastian would only muck up the works.

“Tell Plato I’m retired,” Sebastian said.

“Retired?”

“Yes. He knows. Remind him.”

Charger didn’t move.

Sebastian pictured Lucy on the front porch of his grandmother’s house, and he could almost feel the Vermont summer breeze, hear the brook, smell the cool water, the damp moss. Lucy had needed to get out of Washington, and he’d made it happen. He’d kept his promise. He no longer owed Colin.

He decided to stop thinking about Lucy. It had never done him any good.

“You’ve delivered your message, Mr. Charger,” Sebastian said. “Now go deliver mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man left. Sebastian suspected he hadn’t lived up to Jim Charger’s expectations. Well, that was fine with him. He didn’t live up to his own expectations. Why should he live up to anyone else’s?

He’d quit, and that was the end of it.

* * *

Barbara Allen fumbled for the keys to her Washington apartment. Acid burned in her throat. Sweat soaked her blouse, her dozens of mosquito bites stinging and itching. Part of her wanted to cry, part to scream with delight. Incredible! At last, she’d acted. At last!

She unlocked her door and pushed it open, gasping at the oppressive heat. She’d turned off the air-conditioning before she’d left for Vermont. Vermont had been cooler than Washington, wonderfully exhilarating. She quickly shut her door and leaned against it, letting herself breathe. She was home.

She had no regrets. None. This surprised her more than anything else. Intellectually, she knew what she’d done was wrong. Her obsession with Lucy was even, perhaps, a little sick. Normal people didn’t spy on other people. Normal people didn’t stalk and terrorize other people.

But if anyone deserved to live in fear, it was Lucy Blacker Swift. She was the worst kind of mother. Self-indulgent, impulsive, reckless. Colin had provided a necessary check against her worst excesses, but with his death, there was no one to rein her in.

For more than a year, Barbara had taken a secret thrill in sneaking up to Vermont on a Friday night to watch Lucy, heading back to Washington on Sunday. She was Jack Swift’s eyes and ears, his confidante, his trusted personal assistant. She’d given twenty years of her life to him, suffered every loss with him. The ups and downs of his political career, the assassination attempt, the long, slow, painful death of his wife, the sudden death of his son.

Then, Lucy’s galling decision to move to Vermont. It was the last straw. Barbara knew Jack was appalled at how she was raising his son’s children. Madison, aching for a real life. J.T., running wild with his dirty little friends. But Jack would never say anything, never do anything to force Lucy to wake up.

Well, Barbara had. At last, at last.

Let people underestimate her. Let them take her for granted. She knew. She had the courage and self-discipline to do what needed to be done.

With one foot, she nudged her suitcase into the corner by the coat closet. She’d unpack later. She turned the air-conditioning on high and went into her living room. Like the rest of her apartment, it was simply decorated in contemporary furnishings, its clean lines and clean colors reflecting her strength of character. She despised anything cute or frilly.

She sat in a chair by the vent. Her apartment was in a nondescript building on the Potomac; it was one of the smallest units, with no view to speak of. Not that she spent much time here. She was in the office by eight and seldom out before seven.

She closed her eyes, feeling the cool air wash over her. She’d worn long pants and a long-sleeved shirt to hide her bug bites. Each one deserved a tiny Purple Heart. They were her badges of courage. It wasn’t weakness that had made her act—it was strength, courage, conviction.

She’d been meticulous. She wasn’t an idiot. She hadn’t felt the need to do anything dramatic to conceal her presence. She’d stayed at a Manchester inn and driven a car she’d rented in Washington. She’d had a plausible cover story in case she had been discovered.

Oh, Lucy, I was just stopping in to see you and the kids. I took a few days off to go outlet shopping, do a little hiking. By the way, did you hear gunfire? I saw someone going up the dirt road over by the brook with a rifle. They must have been target practicing awfully close to your house.

It had never come to that. She’d conducted exhaustive surveillance before implementing her plan, even something as simple as the late-night hang-up. Lucy was too self-centered, too stupid, to catch her.

Firing into the dining room had been Barbara’s supreme act. It was even better than the bullet on the front seat. That was just the proverbial icing on the cake. Barbara had waited until Lucy and the children left for Manchester. She was parked up on the dirt road, as if she were off to check out the falls. She crossed Joshua Brook, jumping from one rock to another, and dropped down low, working her way up the steep, wooded bank until Lucy’s house came into view. She lay flat on her stomach in the brush. Mosquitoes buzzed in her ears, chewed on every inch of exposed skin. Her tremendous self-discipline kept her focused.

If she’d been caught then, at that moment, with her rifle aimed at Lucy’s house, she’d have had no cover story. The risk—the challenge—was part of the thrill, more exhilarating even than she’d imagined.

Her father had taught her and her three sisters how to shoot. He had never said he wished he’d had a son, but they knew he did. Barbara was the youngest. The last, shattered hope. She’d become a very good shot. No one knew how good—certainly no one in Jack’s office. Not even Jack himself. They knew her only in relation to her work, her devotion to her job and her boss.

Only after she’d fired and lay in the still, hot, prickly brush did she decide to go after the spent bullet. It wasn’t concern over leaving behind evidence that propelled her across the yard behind the barn—it was the idea of further terrorizing Lucy, imagining her coming into her dining room and seeing the shattered window, then realizing someone had slipped inside to dig the bullet out of the wall.

The back door wasn’t locked. Lucy often didn’t lock all her doors. Perhaps, Barbara thought, this would teach the silly twit a lesson.

The acid burned down her throat and into her stomach, gnawing at her insides. The urge to scare Lucy, throw her off her stride, had gripped her for days, consuming her. With each small act of harassment, Barbara felt a little better. The pressure lifted. The urge subsided. Now, she could think straight.

“So. You’re back.”

She jumped, suppressing a scream. “Darren, my God, you startled me. What are you doing here?”

He stepped over her feet and sat on the sofa. “Waiting for you.”

Even knowing Darren Mowery, Barbara thought, was a calculated risk. She’d heard the rumors in Washington. He’d gone bad, he’d lost his company, he’d been killed in South America. He was dangerous. She knew that much. She smiled uneasily. “You could have turned on the air-conditioning.”

“I’m not hot.”

“You must be half lizard.”

They’d bumped into each other a few weeks ago at a Washington restaurant and ended up having dinner a couple of times, although Barbara had no serious romantic interest in him—or he in her, as far as she could tell. She didn’t know where their relationship would lead, but her instincts told her he was important. Somehow, Darren Mowery would help her get off the grinding treadmill that had become her life. Perhaps it was because of him that she’d finally taken action against Lucy.

“You disappeared for a week,” he said.

“I didn’t disappear. I took a few days off. I told you.”

“Where did you go?”

She didn’t answer right away. Darren was a man who’d want to believe he was in charge, that he had the upper hand. He was very handsome, she had to admit. Early fifties, silvery haired. He could have stood out in Washington if he’d wanted to. Instead, he chose to blend in with his conservative dark suits and country club casuals, his only distinguishing feature his superb physical condition. He was in better shape than many men half his age, but his reflexes were the real giveaway. This was not a man who’d spent the past thirty years behind a desk.

“I went outlet shopping,” she said.

“Where?”

“New England.” Let him think she was being evasive. She didn’t care. She wanted him to know she was strong while at the same time believing he was stronger. It was a delicate balancing act.

He scratched one side of his mouth; he always looked relaxed, at ease with his surroundings. Yet he was observant, alert to every nuance around him. Barbara knew she couldn’t make a misstep with such a man. He’d probably searched her apartment, she realized; but she’d anticipated as much.

No, she had no illusions. She wasn’t yet sure of the exact nature of the game they were playing, but she knew Darren Mowery would kill her if she crossed him. She had to be careful, strong, sure of herself. And smart. Smarter than he was.

“We’ve been dancing around each other long enough,” he said. “Let’s put our cards on the table. I want to know everything. No surprises.”

What did that mean? Did he know about her and Lucy? Barbara dodged the little needle of uncertainty and suppressed the surge of excitement that finally they were getting down to it. She shrugged, nonchalant. “All right. You first.”

He studied her. He had very blue eyes. Stone-cold blue eyes. “Lucy Swift left for Wyoming today.”

It wasn’t what Barbara expected. Another, weaker woman might have panicked, but she sat back in her chair and yawned. She was the personal assistant to a powerful United States senator, a professional accustomed to managing the unexpected. She already knew about Lucy’s trip to Wyoming; she’d found out when she’d checked in with Jack’s office yesterday. Lucy must have told Jack, and a member of his staff had left Barbara a routine message. The unexpected was that Darren knew. “Yes, I know. Something to do with her adventure travel business, I believe.”

“Redwing Associates is based in Wyoming.”

“Ah, yes. Sebastian Redwing sold Lucy her house in Vermont. It belonged to his widowed grandmother. From what Jack tells me, he and Lucy aren’t very good friends. Didn’t Sebastian once work for you?” She was tempted to pick at an itchy mosquito bite, but resisted. “I gather his company is doing very well.”

Mowery didn’t react. Barbara liked that. It meant he had self-control. According to Washington gossip, there was no love lost between Sebastian Redwing and his old mentor. There was even talk that Mowery blamed Sebastian for the downfall of DM Consultants, Darren’s private security firm.

Barbara supposed it was theoretically possible that Lucy would go whining to Sebastian about what had happened to her this week, but she doubted it. Lucy was quite determined to prove herself capable, independent—which, of course, she wasn’t. Barbara had already calculated that Lucy wouldn’t go to Jack or to the Capitol Police. Lucy wanted no part of being a Swift.

“I get the impression you don’t like Lucy Swift very much,” Darren said.

“I don’t see what concern that is of yours.”

He leaned forward. “Cards on the table, Barbie. I have a bone to pick with your boss. I want to make him sweat. And I want your help.”

“My help?”

“I think you’ve got something on him,” Mowery said, smug and confident.

“No. Senator Swift is a man of sterling integrity.”

Mowery threw back his head and laughed.

Barbara pursed her lips. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah, well, so am I. Barbie, Barbie.” He shook his head at her, sighing. “Office gossip says you threw yourself at the old boy a couple weeks ago, and he laughed you out of his office.”

Her stomach flipped over on her. “That’s not true.”

“What part? You didn’t throw yourself at him or he didn’t laugh?”

“You’re disgusting. I want you to leave.”

“No, you don’t want me to leave. You want to help me settle a score with Jack Swift. You want to see him sweat. You want him to suffer for humiliating you.”

“He—he wasn’t prepared for the level of intimacy I offered, that’s all. He was scared.”

“Scared, huh?”

“He knows I’ve been there for him. Always. Forever.”

Mowery’s gaze bored through her. “What do you have on him?”

“Nothing!”

“Barbie, I’m going to put the squeeze on Senator Jack. I’m going to bleed him. You’re going to watch, and you’re going to enjoy the show.” He reached over and touched her knee. “Revenge can be very sweet.”

She said nothing.

His eyes narrowed, and he smiled. “Only it’s not revenge you want, is it, Barbie? I get it now. You want Jack to suffer and come to you, the one woman who loves him unconditionally. This is precious. Truly precious.”

“My motives,” Barbara said, “are irrelevant.”

“In twenty years, has old Jack ever made a pass at you?”

“He wouldn’t. For much of that time he was a married man.”

Mowery laughed out loud. “God, you’re a riot. This is going to be fun.”

She was on dangerous ground. Deadly ground.

Her stomach heaved, and she ran to the bathroom and vomited.

Oh, God. I can’t do this.

But she had to. She’d given Darren Mowery all the signals. He knew this was what she wanted. Not just a chance to get back at Jack for spurning her, but a chance to provide him with the opportunity to come to her for help, to find solace in her strength and wisdom. She’d driven up to Vermont and harassed Lucy, hoping it would relieve the pressure of wanting to hurt Jack, too. But it hadn’t. She loved him, and she wasn’t one to give up easily on those she loved.

When she’d confided her love to him, Jack hadn’t gotten angry with her or shown any passion, any heat, any depth of emotion. He’d been kind. Solicitous. Professional. He gave her the predictable speech about how much he appreciated her, how he felt affection for her as a member of his staff, and how together, over the past twenty years, they’d done so much good for the people of this great nation.

Blah-blah-blah. He’d even offered her a way out of her embarrassment, saying they’d all been under tremendous pressure and she should take a few days off.

Well, she had, hadn’t she?

She splashed her face with cold water and stared at herself in the mirror. Her gray eyes were bloodshot from the effort of vomiting, the lashes clumped together from water and tearing. She was just forty-one, not old. She still could have children. She knew plenty of first-time mothers in their forties.

But she couldn’t have Swift children. Jack didn’t want her. Twenty years of dedicated service, and what did she have to show for it?

Lucy was the one with the Swift children.

Barbara dried her face. She could have had Colin. She could have had the Swift children. Instead, she’d waited for Jack.

Darren opened the door behind her, and she placed a hand on the sink to steady herself. “I’m sorry. My stomach’s a little off. It must be the heat.”

He was so smug. “Blackmail’s not a game for someone with a weak stomach.”

That was what they were tiptoeing around—and had been right from the beginning. Blackmail. She nodded, cool. It was to her advantage for him to think he was the security expert with the murky past, the dark and dangerous insider convinced he knew how the “real world” worked better than a super-competent, desk-bound bureaucrat possibly could.

“Colin and I,” she began. She swallowed, met Mowery’s cold gaze. “We had an affair before he died. Jack doesn’t know. Neither does Lucy. No one does.”

“And?”

“And I have pictures.”

Mowery nodded thoughtfully. “Kinky pictures?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Well, if it’s pictures of you two on his daddy’s campaign trail—”

“By your standards, the pictures would be considered ‘kinky.’ By mine, they’re proof of the physical and emotional bond we shared.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want to see them?”

He rubbed his chin. “So you fucked the son, and the widowed daughter-in-law and the innocent grandkids don’t know it.”

“Must you be so coarse?”

“Listen to you, Barbie. You’re the one who had an affair with another woman’s husband. The boss’s son. And this you tell me not two weeks after you threw yourself at the boss, presumably because you’d like to get some of him, too. Let’s talk about who’s ‘coarse.’”

She was silent. Stricken.

“Well,” Mowery said, “it’s not pretty, but it could work.”

“It will work. Jack will pay dearly to keep such information quiet.” She straightened, eyed him coolly. She wanted him to think he was in control, not that she was a complete ninny. “If you’re not convinced, walk out of here now. I’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

He gave a curt laugh and started back down the hall to the living room. Without turning around, he motioned with one finger for her to follow.

Barbara joined him. She had to stiffen her muscles to keep herself from trembling. Goose bumps sprang up on her arms from the air-conditioning. She was cold now. Dehydrated. Not nervous, not afraid, she told herself. She was absolutely positive this was the best—the only—course of action.

“Here’s the deal, Barbie. In for a penny, in for a pound. I don’t do cold feet.”

She raised her chin and met his gaze directly. “I’m not some weak-minded twit.”

She sat stiffly on a chair and crossed her legs and arms, steeled herself against the cold of the air-conditioning, the itching, stinging bug bites, the insidious feeling that Mowery knew more about her than she realized. She had to remember the kind of work he did, remain on her guard.

Slowly, her shivering subsided.

“Did you fuck the son,” he asked, “or are you just making that up because Jack doesn’t want you?”

She remained calm, practicing the restraint she’d learned in twenty years as Jack Swift’s most trusted aide. “Men like you don’t understand loyalty and service, true commitment.”

“Damn right we don’t.” He grinned, deeply amused by his own wit. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You can have whatever little fantasies you want, Barbie.”

“I’m not a woman taken to fantasizing.”

Indeed not, she thought. She wouldn’t have gone to Jack if she hadn’t believed with all her heart, soul and mind that he wanted her to speak up, finally, after all these years. She didn’t invent this sort of thing, not after two decades in Washington. She hadn’t misread the cues. Jack Swift simply wasn’t prepared to act on his own feelings. He had run. And now she needed to turn him back in the right direction, back to her.

Darren jumped up, grabbed both her hands and lifted her onto her feet. Her breath caught. What now? What was he doing? He was very muscular and strong. She could never physically overpower him. She had to rely on her wits, her intelligence and incredible self-discipline.

There was nothing sexual in the way he held her. “How long has it been, Barbie? How long since you’ve had a man?” He squeezed her waist, choking the air from her. “Not since Colin Swift? Not ever?”

“That’s none of your business.” She kept her tone deliberately cold, in control. “Our relationship is strictly professional. We are partners in a scheme to blackmail a United States senator. That’s all.”

He squeezed harder, painfully. She couldn’t move. “No surprises, Barbie. Understand? If this is going to work, I know everything.”

“I told you—”

“Did you have an affair with Colin Swift?”

“Yes.”

This had to be a test. She didn’t know what to do to pass. Run screaming? Beg him to make love to her? Slap him?

No, she thought. Hold your ground. She wanted him to underestimate her, not to think he could roll over her.

“You stereotype me at your own peril, Mr. Mowery,” she said. “I’m not some dried-up prune pining for a man I can’t have.”

“Where were you last week?”

“On vacation. I hit outlet stores all over New England.”

“Vermont?”

“What?”

He moved his hands higher, squeezing her ribs. “Did you go to Vermont?”

“I can’t breathe—”

“You can say yes or no.”

She nodded, gasping. “Yes.”

“Did you see Lucy Swift?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“She decided to go to Wyoming at the last minute. She paid top dollar for the tickets. She took her kids. I want to know why.”

“I can’t—breathe—I—”

He eased up, just slightly.

Barbara coughed, gulping in air. “Goddamn you—”

“Tell me about Lucy.”

“I don’t know anything. You’ll have to ask her yourself. I went outlet shopping in Manchester one day. That’s all.”

Lying to him was dangerous, Barbara thought, but telling the truth had to be more dangerous.

He traced the skin just under her breasts with his thumbs. He had no sexual interest in her. His focus on his mission was total. He wasn’t that complicated a man, Barbara thought, and she wasn’t that undesirable a woman. Obviously his obsession with Jack Swift was something she needed to better understand.

His gaze was cold even as he released her. “Arnica,” he said.

She rubbed her sides. “What?”

“Rub in a little arnica oil for the bruises.”

She headed back to the bathroom. This time she didn’t throw up. She washed her hands, closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. She was risking everything. She had a stimulating career, a nice apartment, a fabulous set of friends. There were men who wanted her. Good, successful men.

She didn’t have to let a scummy Darren Mowery fondle her in her own living room.

After Jack had dispatched her, so politely, as if she were pathetic, she’d learned he was seeing Sidney Greenburg, a curator at the Smithsonian—fifty years old, never married, no children. Why her? Why not Barbara?

Sidney was one of Lucy’s Washington friends.

I could have married Colin. I didn’t have to wait for Jack.

“Barbara?”

Darren was outside the door. She didn’t move.

“Here’s how it’s going to go down,” he said. “I’ll approach Jack. I’ll put the squeeze on him. He’s not going to risk his own reputation or sully his dead son’s reputation. He’ll pay. And you’ll get ten percent.”

She jumped up and tore open the door. “Ten percent! Forget it. I’ll call the police right now. You’d have nothing without me. I had the affair with Colin. I have the pictures.”

“You won’t call the police,” Darren said calmly.

“I will. You’re threatening a United States senator.”

“Barbara. Please.” He was cold, supercilious. “If you make one wrong move once this thing gets started, I’ll be there. Trust me. You won’t want that.”

Her stomach turned in on itself. She clutched it in silent agony. What if Lucy went crying to Sebastian Redwing because of her harassment campaign? “Bastard.”

“Bingo. You got that one right.”

Barbara held up her chin, summoning twenty years of experience at using other people’s arrogance to her own advantage. And to Jack’s. “Jack couldn’t survive a week in this town without me, and he knows it. When he comes to me, you’d better be far away. That’s your only warning.”

“Oh, is it? Get this straight, Barbie.” Mowery leaned in close, enunciated each word clearly. “I don’t care if you fucked Swift father and son at the same time. I don’t care if you made up the whole goddamn thing. We’re putting this show on the road, and we’re doing it my way.”

Acid rose up in her throat. “I can’t believe I let you touch me.”

He laughed. “And you will again, Barbie. Trust me on that.”

He swaggered back down the hall. She spat at his back, missing by yards. He laughed harder.

“Fifty percent,” she yelled.

He stopped, glanced back at her.

She was choking for air. Dear God, what had she done? “I want fifty percent of the take.”

“The take? Okay, Dick Tracy. I’ll give you twenty-five percent.”

“Fifty. I deserve it.”

He winked at her. “I like you, Barbie. You got the short end of the stick with the Swifts, and you keep on fighting. Yep. I like you a lot.”

“I’m serious. I want fifty percent.”

“Barbie, maybe you should think this through.” He rocked back on his heels. “I’m not a very nice man. I expect you know that by now. My sympathy for you only goes so far.”

She hesitated. Her head was spinning. This wasn’t a time for cold feet, any sign of weakness. “Twenty-five percent, then,” she said.

* * *

Jack Swift poured himself a second glass of wine. It was a dry apple-pear wine from a new winery in his home state. He toasted Sidney Greenburg, who was still on her first glass. “To the wines of Rhode Island.”

She laughed. “Yes, but not to this particular bottle. I love fruit wines, Jack, but this one’s pure rot-gut.”

He laughed, too. “It is, isn’t it? Well, I’ve never been much of a wine connoisseur. A good scotch—that’s something I can understand.”

It was a very warm, humid, still evening. They were sitting out in the tiny brick courtyard of his Georgetown home. Rhode Island, his home state, the state he’d represented first in the House, then in the Senate, seemed far away tonight. This was where he’d raised his son, where he’d nursed his wife through her long, losing battle with cancer. They were both gone now. He’d been tempted to sell the house. He’d bought it in his early days in Washington; it’d go for a mint. He’d even debated quitting the Senate. Barbara Allen had talked him out of both. Over twenty years, she’d saved him from many a precipitous move.

“I don’t know what to do, Sidney.” He stared at the pale wine. He and Sidney had been discussing Barbara Allen most of the evening. “She’s been with me since she was a college intern.”

“You’re not going to do anything.”

“I can’t just pretend—”

“Yes, you can, and you’ll be doing her a favor if you do.”

Sidney set her glass on the garden table. That she had such affection for him was a constant source of amazement. He was an old widower, a gray-haired, paunchy United States senator who wasn’t eaten up with his own self-importance. She was a striking woman, with very dark eyes and dark hair liberally streaked with gray. She wore little makeup, and she complained about carrying more weight than she liked around her hips and thighs; Jack hadn’t noticed. She was intelligent, kind, experienced and self-assured, comfortable in her own skin. She’d worked with Lucy’s parents at the Smithsonian and had known Lucy since she was a little girl, long before Lucy had met Colin.

“Listen to me, Jack,” she said. “Barbara is not a pathetic woman. You are not to feel sorry for her because she’s forty and unmarried. If she’s given herself to her job to the exclusion of her personal life, that was her choice. Allow her the dignity of having made that choice. And don’t assume just because she doesn’t have a husband and children, she must not have a full life.”

“I haven’t! I wouldn’t—”

“Of course, you would. People do it all the time.” She smiled, taking any edge off her words. “If Barbara Allen’s feeling a little goofy and off-center right now, accept it at face value and give her a chance to get over it.”

Jack sighed. “She practically threw herself at me.”

“And I suppose you’ve never had a married woman throw herself at you?”

“Well…”

“Come on, Jack. If Barbara’s nuts unmarried, she’d be nuts married.”

He held back a smile. As educated and refined as Sidney was, she did know how to cut to the chase. “I didn’t say she was nuts.”

“That’s my point exactly.” Her eyes shone, and she spoke with conviction, laughing at his frown. “You are a very dense man for someone who has to go before the people for votes. Jack, the woman made a pass at you. It’s been three years since Colin’s death, five years since Eleanor’s death. You’ve only just begun dating again. I see her actions as—” She shrugged. “Perfectly normal.”

He drank more of his wine. The damn stuff all tasted the same to him, whether it was made from pears, apples or grapes. “Maybe so.”

“But?”

“I don’t know.”

“The unmarried forty-year-old in the office makes people nervous. They never know if she’s a little dotty, living in squalor with twenty-five cats.”

“That’s archaic, Sidney.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It’s true. If Barbara were married and made a pass at you, you’d be flattered. You wouldn’t sit here squirming over what to do. You’d think she was a normal, healthy woman.” She grabbed up his hand. “Jack, I’ve been there.”

“No one could ever think you were off your gourd.”

She smiled. “I have two cats. I’ve been known to feed them off the china.”

He saw the twinkle in her eye and laughed. That was what he treasured about Sidney most of all. She made him laugh. She was quick-witted, self-deprecating, irreverent. She didn’t take her job, herself, or life inside the Beltway too seriously.

But Jack couldn’t shake a lingering sense of uneasiness. “There’s still something about Barbara.”

“Then there’s something about Barbara. Period.”

“I see what you’re saying—”

“Finally!” Sidney fell back against her chair, as if his denseness had exhausted her. “Now, can we change the subject?”

He smiled. “Gladly.”

She gave him an impish grin. “Let’s talk about my cats.”

Sidney didn’t stay the night. They both had unusual Saturday meetings, but Jack knew that really wasn’t the issue. “I’m just not ready to hang my panty hose in a senator’s bathroom,” she said breezily, kissing him good-night.

He remembered her counsel the next morning when he arrived in his office at eight and Barbara Allen, as ever, was at her desk. Before he could say a word, she gave him a bright smile. “Good morning, Senator.”

“Good morning, Barbara. I thought you were still on vacation.”

She waved a hand. “It was a few days off, not a vacation. I always planned to be back for this meeting. I know it’s important.”

He smiled. “Well, then, how were your few days off?”

“Perfect,” she said. “Just what I needed.”

She flipped around in her chair and tapped a few keys on her computer. She looked great, Jack thought—relaxed, polished, professional, with none of the wild desperation that had made them both so uncomfortable the week before.

Relief washed over him. A little time away had done the trick. He would follow Sidney’s advice and pretend nothing had happened. It wasn’t just a question of doing Barbara a favor—he was doing himself a favor, too. He needed her efficiency, knowledge and competence, her long years of experience.

He headed into his private office. Thank God, she was back to her old self.

Three

“Bastian Redwing saved Daddy’s life?”

Madison sighed at her brother with exaggerated patience. “It’s not Bastian. It’s Sebastian. And he saved Dad and Grandpa. Some other guy saved the president.”

J.T. frowned. “How come I don’t remember?”

“Because you weren’t born.”

“Madison doesn’t remember, either,” Lucy said. “It happened before your dad and I were married.”

“I read the articles,” Madison reminded her mother.

J.T. kicked the back of her seat. They’d rented a car when they’d arrived in Jackson yesterday, and this morning Lucy had dutifully met with the western guides, who were wonderful and all but told her outright she had no business trying to expand out west. No surprise there.

Afterwards, she’d almost talked herself out of following her hotel desk clerk’s directions to see Sebastian. Almost. She still had time to turn around and go back to Jackson.

“Was it an assassination attempt?” J.T. asked. “Tell me!”

Madison was horrified. “Mom, how does he know something like ‘assassination attempt’? That shouldn’t be in a twelve-year-old’s vocabulary.”

J.T. snorted from the back seat. “Oh, yeah? Then how am I supposed to know about Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King? And President Kennedy and Julius Caesar?”

“Julius Caesar?” Madison swung around at him. “You don’t know anything about Julius Caesar.”

“He was stabbed in the back.”

“You’re sick.”

“You’re sick.”

Lucy gripped the steering wheel. She was on a stretch of clear, straight road, trying to enjoy the breathtaking Wyoming scenery. The mountains surrounding the long, narrow valley, she thought, were incredible. She’d pointed out the different vegetation to Madison and J.T., explained about the altitude, the dry air. But they wanted to discuss Sebastian Redwing and how he’d saved their father’s life.

Lucy gave up and told the story. “The president was giving a speech in Newport, Rhode Island. Someone got in with a gun and started firing. Sebastian knocked Grandpa and Dad to the floor, while the man he worked for at the time, Darren Mowery, tackled the shooter.”

“Was anyone hurt?” J.T. asked.

“Sebastian spotted a second shooter, who’d actually helped the other guy get inside. Sebastian, your dad and another man, Plato Rabedeneira, a parachute rescue jumper who was being honored, went after him. The man shot Plato in the shoulder, but it wasn’t serious.”

“What happened to the shooter?”

Lucy hesitated. “Sebastian killed him.”

“Sebastian had a gun? Why?” J.T. was into the story now. “What was he doing there?”

How to explain Sebastian Redwing? All J.T. knew about him was that he’d sold them their house. Lucy slowed the car. “Sebastian was a security consultant. He was very young—he and Darren Mowery, his boss, were after the shooter for some other reason. They had no idea they’d get mixed up in an attempt to assassinate the president of the United States.”

“Dad, Plato and Sebastian all became friends,” Madison added. “Sebastian was the best man at Mom and Dad’s wedding.”

J.T. was hopelessly confused. “I don’t get it.”

His sister moaned. “What is there to ‘get’?”

“Sebastian has his own company now, J.T.,” Lucy said. “Redwing Associates. It’s based here in Wyoming. He and Plato and Dad weren’t able to see as much of each other as they’d have liked.”

That seemed to satisfy her son.

“At least Sebastian had the sense to get out of Vermont,” Madison said.

They came to a cluster of log buildings set in a grassy, rolling meadow. No marker announced this was the base and main training facility for Redwing Associates, an international investigative and security firm with clients ranging from business executives and government officials to high-profile entertainers and sports figures. Many came here, to Wyoming, to learn for themselves how to assess, prevent and manage the risks they faced, whether it was kidnapping, assassination, corporate espionage, disgruntled ex-employees, obsessed fans or computer fraud.

Security was subtle but not unnoticeable. When Lucy came to the end of the long, winding driveway, a man in casual western attire introduced himself. “I’m Jim Charger, Mrs. Swift. I’ll take care of your car. Mr. Rabedeneira is expecting you.”

She tried to smile. “Plato Rabedeneira?”

Jim Charger didn’t return her smile. “That’s right, ma’am.”

What was Plato doing here? And why was he expecting her? Lucy fought off a rush of uneasiness. “Well, I guess you guys really are that good, aren’t you?”

Still no smile. “Your children can stay out here with me or go in with you. Your choice.”

“They’ll go with me.”

He motioned for her to go into the sprawling main house, its rustic log construction deceiving. This was no ordinary ranch house. No expense had been spared in its furnishings of wood, leather and earth-colored fabrics. The views were astounding. Not one square inch of it reminded her of Sebastian’s roots in southern Vermont.

Plato joined her in the living room, in front of a massive stone fireplace. He took both her hands and kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, Lucy. I heard you were in the area.”

“You must have spies on every corner.”

“Not every corner.”

He laughed, dropping her hands. He was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, intensely handsome man who’d worked his way out of a very tough Providence neighborhood into a very tough profession, where he’d excelled. He’d helped his mother, who’d raised him alone, earn her college degree; she was now a professor at a community college, and one of Jack Swift’s constituents.

Colin, Lucy thought, had never been tempted to jump out of a helicopter into the teeth of a storm to rescue fishermen and yachters. He had been content with his work at the State Department and testing himself on the tennis court—which had killed him.

“When did you start working for Redwing Associates?” Lucy asked.

“I was injured in a rescue jump eighteen months ago. When I woke up from surgery, my summons from Sebastian was waiting for me.” He turned to Madison and J.T., both obviously enthralled. “Well, you two have grown up. It’s great to see you.”

He was so charming, Lucy thought. She would feel safe if she had to dangle from a rescue helicopter over churning seas with him. Colin had been well-mannered and kind, a man people tended to like automatically. Sebastian Redwing, she thought, was none of the above. He wasn’t charming, well-mannered, kind or likeable. He wouldn’t care about making her or anyone else feel safe. That, he would say, was up to them. He was just very, very good at what he did.

“You kids want a grand tour of the place?” Plato asked. “Go back out front. Tell Mr. Charger I’d like him to show you around.”

The prospect of a tour clearly excited J.T. more than it did Madison, who seemed transfixed by her father’s ultra-fit, very good-looking friend. But she went along with her brother, and Lucy suddenly felt self-conscious, even a little foolish. Redwing Associates dealt with real threats and real dangers. Kidnapping, extortion, terrorist attacks. Not late-night hang-ups and bullets dropped through an open car window.

“You’re looking well, Lucy,” Plato said, eyeing her.

“Thanks.”

“How’s Vermont?”

“Great—I have my own adventure travel company. It’s doing surprisingly well for a relatively new company.”

“I don’t get adventure travel, I’ll admit.”

She smiled. “That’s because you’ve had to clean up after too many adventures gone wrong. Safety is our first priority, you’ll be glad to know.”

He moved to the leather chair, and she noticed his slight limp. It would never do in the demanding world he’d left, and at Redwing Associates, it would keep him behind a desk.

He dropped onto the couch, his expression turning serious. “You want to tell me why you’re here?”

“I had business in Jackson. I just thought I’d stop in and say hello.”

“You didn’t know I’d be here,” he pointed out.

“I know, but Sebastian—”

“Lucy. Come on. Since when would you or anyone else make a special trip to say hello to Sebastian?”

She sat on the edge of a wood-armed chair, thinking it would be nice if she could just sit here and visit with an old friend, reminisce about the past, forget the bullet hole in her dining room wall.

Of course, Plato would see through her halfhearted story. Cold feet were probably common in both his past and current work.

At least Plato had sent flowers and written a card when Colin died. He couldn’t get away for the funeral, he said, but if she ever needed anything, she had only to let him know. He’d be there. Colin had trusted him, too. But, possibly because of the different nature of their work—or their personalities—it was Sebastian he’d made her promise to go to if she ever needed help.

“Has he changed?” she asked.

“That depends on your point of view. Look,” Plato said, “why don’t you tell me what’s going on. Then we can figure out what to do about it.”

Meaning, whether she needed to bring it to Sebastian’s attention.

Lucy twisted her hands together. At home, in her business, she was at ease, confident, capable. This was foreign ground for her. Sebastian Redwing and Plato Rabedeneira had been her husband’s friends. She and Colin had fallen in love so fast, marrying within two months of their first date. Madison had come along the next year. Then J.T. And then Colin was gone.

She really didn’t know Plato or Sebastian.

“Lucy?”

“It’s silly. I’m being silly, and I know it. So please feel free to pat me on the head and send me back to Vermont.” She leveled her eyes on him. “Trust me, you’d be doing me a favor.”

“Well, before I do any head-patting, why don’t you tell me what’s going on first. Okay?”

She nodded, gulped in a breath and told him everything. She kept her tone unemotional and objective, and left out nothing except her own reactions, the palpable sense of fear, the nausea.

When she finished, she managed another smile. “You see? Pure silliness.”

Plato rose stiffly, his limp more noticeable as he walked to the massive stone fireplace. He looked back at her, his dark eyes serious. “You won’t go to the local police?”

“If you’re convinced it’s the best thing to do, I’ll consider it. But they’ll call Jack.”

He nodded. “That might not be such a bad idea.”

“These incidents—whatever they are—have nothing to do with him.”

“Maybe not. The point is, you don’t know why they’re happening.”

Lucy ran a hand through her hair. She felt light-headed, a little sick to her stomach. Jet lag, the dry air and the altitude were all taking their toll. So was reliving the events of the past week.

“Either there’s no connection at all between these incidents,” she said, “or someone’s just trying to get under my skin. If I go to the police, it proves they succeeded.”

“And if they don’t get the desired reaction from you, the incidents could escalate.”

“Damn.” She sank back against the couch and kicked out her legs. “I don’t have a clue what the ‘desired reaction’ is. Coming out here? Fine, the bastard can declare victory and get out of my life. Running screaming into the night? Forget it.” She jumped to her feet. “I won’t fall apart for anyone.”

“What does your gut tell you?” His voice was quiet, soothing. Plato was very good at caring.

“I don’t know.” Lucy paced on the thick, dark carpet. “Plato, I’m not a normal person. I’m the widowed

daughter-in-law of a United States senator. You know damn well Jack will send in the Capitol Police.”

“Lucy—”

“I have a business to tend. I have kids to raise. Damn it, I’m all Madison and J.T. have. I’m not going to put myself in undue danger, but I won’t—Plato, if I can possibly avoid it, I’d rather not have Jack and a bunch of feds mucking around in my life.”

Plato placed an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay. I understand. Look, I have to be in Frankfurt this next week—”

“I wasn’t hinting you should drop everything and come to my rescue. I just wanted an expert opinion.” She smiled a little. “It felt good to tell someone.”

He smiled back, but shook his head, giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “You didn’t come for my expert opinion.”

“I would have if I’d known you were here. I’d much rather tell my troubles to you than Sebastian.”

He laughed. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll trust my gut instincts. I’ll go home and hope nothing else happens—”

“No, Lucy, you’re going to see Sebastian and tell him everything.”

“Isn’t he going to Frankfurt?”

“No way. He’s…” Plato frowned, walking her toward the door. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “He’s on sabbatical.”

“Sabbatical? Come on, Plato. It’s not like he’s some kind of professor. How can he—”

“You’ll have to drive out to his cabin,” Plato said. “It’s not that far. I’ll give you directions.”

Lucy slipped from his embrace and stood rock-still in the middle of the hall. He kept walking, his back to her. She was blinking rapidly, as if that might somehow clear her head.

“I don’t want to see Sebastian,” she said.

Plato turned back to her. “He can help you, Lucy. I can’t.”

“I told you, I didn’t come here for help.”

“I know why you came here.” His dark, dark eyes seemed to burn into her. “You promised Colin you would.”

Her throat caught. “Plato…”

“Colin was right to send you to Sebastian. Lucy, I did rescues, and now I keep this company out of hot water. Sebastian’s a son of a bitch in a lot of ways, but he’s the best.”

Lucy stood her ground. “What if I drive on out of here without seeing him?”

“Then I’ll have to tell him what you told me.”

She eyed him. “I have a feeling that would be worse.”

He gave her a devilish smile. “Much worse.”

* * *

Plato’s directions were simple. He put Lucy on a dirt road and said to keep going until she couldn’t go anymore. She’d know when she reached Sebastian.

Lucy wasn’t encouraged. However, not finishing what she’d stupidly started seemed to carry more risks than finishing. If he told Sebastian her story, Plato might exaggerate. Then Sebastian might end up in Vermont, and she’d really be in a mess. Sebastian might be worse than the feds. He might be worse than the occasional stray bullet through her dining room window.

So why had she dragged herself and her two children out to Wyoming?

The road was winding, dry, hot and dusty. The scenery was spectacular. Wide-open country, mountains rising up from the valley floor, a snaking river, horses and cattle and wildflowers. Despite its other uses, this was still a working ranch.

J.T. loved it. Madison endured. “I’m pretending I’m Meryl Streep in Out of Africa,” she said. “That might keep me awake.”

“The high altitude is probably making you sleepy,” Lucy said.

“I’m not sleepy, I’m bored.”

“Madison.”

She checked herself. “Sorry.”

The road narrowed even more, their car kicking up so much dust Lucy made a mental note to run it through a car wash before taking it back to the rental agency. Finally, they came to a tiny, ramshackle log cabin and small outbuilding tucked into the shade of a cluster of aspens and firs. The road ended.

Lucy pulled in behind a dusty red truck. “Well,” she said, “I guess this is it.”

“Oh, yuck.” Madison surveyed the pathetic buildings. “This is like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven.”

From Out of Africa to Unforgiven. Lucy smiled. Madison kept the local video store in an uproar trying to track down movies for her. It was an interest one of her teachers, in the school she so loathed, encouraged.

Three scroungy, big mutts bounded out from the shade and surrounded their car, barking and growling as if they’d never seen a stranger. J.T., his seat belt off, nervously stuck his head up front. “Do you think they bite?”

“I bet they have fleas,” Madison said.

Lucy judiciously decided to roll down her window and see how the dogs reacted. They didn’t jump. Possibly a good sign. “Hello,” she called out the window. “Anyone around?”

She checked for any venomous, antisocial bumper stickers on the truck, like Vermonters Go Home. Nothing. Just rust.

The dogs suddenly went silent. The yellow Lab mix yawned and stretched. The German shepherd mix plopped down and scratched himself. The smallest of the three—an unidentifiable mix that had resulted in a white coat with black and brown splotches—paced and panted.

“You kids hear anyone call them off?” Lucy asked.

J.T. shook his head, his eyes wide. This was more adventure than he’d bargained for, out in the wilds of Wyoming with three grouchy dogs and no friendly humans in sight. “No, did you?”

Madison huffed. “Plato should have sent us with an armed guard.”

Lucy sighed. “Madison, that doesn’t help.”

“You’re scaring me,” J.T. said.

“You two stay here while I go see if we have the right place.” Lucy unfastened her seat belt and climbed out of the car. The air seemed hotter, even drier. The dogs paid no attention to her. She smiled at her nervous son. “See, J.T.? It’s okay.”

He nodded dubiously.

“Relax, Lucy.” The male voice seemed to come from nowhere. “You’ve got the right place.”

J.T. swooped across the back seat and pointed at the cabin. “There! Someone’s on the porch!”

Lucy shot her children a warning look. “Stay here.”

She mounted two flat, creaky, dusty steps onto the unprepossessing porch. An ancient, ratty rope hammock hung from rusted hooks. In it lay a dust-covered man with a once-white cowboy hat pulled down over his face. He wore jeans, a chambray shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, cowboy boots. All of it was scuffed, worn.

Lucy noted the long legs, the flat stomach, the muscled, tanned forearms and the callused, tanned hands. Sebastian Redwing, she remembered, had always been a very physical man.

The yellow Lab lumbered onto the porch and collapsed under the hammock in a kalumph that seemed to shake the entire cabin.

“Sebastian?”

The man pushed the hat off his face. It, too, was dusty and tanned, and more lined and angular than she remembered. His eyes settled on her. Like everything else, they seemed the color of dust. She remembered they were gray, an unusual, surprisingly soft gray. “Hello, Lucy.”

Her mouth and lips were dry from the long drive, the low western humidity. “Plato sent me.”

“I figured.”

“I’m in Wyoming on business. I have the kids with me. Madison and J.T.”

He said nothing. He didn’t look as if he planned to move from the hammock.

“Mom! J.T.’s bleeding!”

Madison, panicked, leaped out of the car and dragged her brother from the back seat. He cupped his hands under his nose, blood dripping through his fingers.

“Oh, gross,” his sister said, standing back as she thrust a paper napkin at him.

Lucy ran toward them. “Tilt your head back.”

The German shepherd barked at J.T. Sebastian gave a low, barely audible command from his hammock, and the dog backed off.

J.T., struggling not to cry, stumbled up onto the porch. “I bled all over the car.”

Madison was right behind him. “He did, Mom.”

Sebastian materialized at Lucy’s side. She’d forgotten how tall and lean he was, how uneasy she’d always felt around him. Not afraid. Just uneasy. He glanced at J.T. “Kid’s fine. It’s the dry air and the dust.”

Madison gaped at him. Lucy concentrated on her bleeding son. “May we use your sink?”

“Don’t have one. You can get water from the pump out back.” He eyed Madison. “You know how to use an outdoor pump?”

She shook her head.

“Time you learned.” He was calm, his voice quiet if not soothing. “Lucy, you can bring J.T. inside. Madison and I will meet you.”

She shrank back, her eyes widening.

Lucy said, “It’s okay, Madison.”

Sebastian frowned, as if he couldn’t fathom what about him would be a cause for concern—a dusty man in an isolated cabin with three dogs and no running water. He started down the steps. Madison took a breath and followed, glancing back at Lucy and mouthing, “Unabomber.”

Lucy got J.T. inside. The prosaic exterior did not deceive. In addition to no running water, there was no electricity. It was like being catapulted back a century to the frontier.

“It’s just a nosebleed,” J.T. said, stuffing the paper napkin up his nose. “I’m fine.”

Lucy grabbed a ragged dish towel from a hook above a wooden counter. The kitchen. There was oatmeal, cornmeal, coffee, cans of beans, jars of salsa and, incongruously, a jug of pure Vermont maple syrup.

In a few minutes, Madison came through the back door with a pitted aluminum pitcher of water. Lucy dipped in the towel. “I think you’ve stopped bleeding, J.T. Let’s just get you cleaned up, okay?” She glanced at her daughter. “Where’s Sebastian?”

“Out taming wild horses or hunting buffalo, I don’t know. Mom. He doesn’t even have a bathroom.”

“This place is pretty rustic.”

Madison groaned. “Clint Eastwood, Unforgiven. I told you.”

Sebastian walked in from the front porch. “What’s she doing watching R-rated movies? She’s not seventeen.”

“That’s without a parent or parental permission.” Lucy stifled an urge to tell him to mind his own damn business, but since he hadn’t invited her to come out here, she kept her mouth shut. “Madison’s a student of film history. I watched Unforgiven with her because it’s so violent.”

He frowned at her. “I’m not violent.”

Lucy had always considered him a man of controlled violence in a violent profession, but before she could say anything, Madison jumped in. “But you live like Eastwood in that opening scene with his two children—”

“No, I don’t. I don’t have hogs.”

That obviously settled it as far as he was concerned. Lucy shook her head at Madison to keep her from arguing her point. For once, her daughter took the hint.

“How’s J.T.?” Sebastian asked.

“He’s better,” Lucy said. “Thanks for your help.”

J.T. kept the wet towel pressed to his nose. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good.” Sebastian didn’t seem particularly worried. “You two kids can go down to the barn and look at the horses while I talk to your mother. Dogs’ll go with you.”

“Come on, J.T.,” Madison said, playing the protective big sister for a change. “The barn can’t be any worse than this place.”

She and her brother retreated, both getting dirtier with every passing minute. If the dry air, dust and altitude bothered Madison, she’d never admit it.

Sebastian grunted. “Kid has a mouth on her.”

“They’re both great kids,” Lucy said.

He turned to her. She was intensely aware of the silence. No hum of fans or air-conditioning, no cars, not even a bird twittering. “I’m sure they are.”

“Plato said you were on some kind of sabbatical.”

“Sabbatical? So that’s what he’s saying now. Hell. I have to remember his mother’s a professor.”

“You’re not—”

Something in his eyes stopped her. Lucy could count on one hand the times she’d actually seen Sebastian Redwing, but she remembered his unnerving capacity to make her think he could see into her soul. She expected it was a skill that helped him in his work. She wondered if it was part of why he was living out here. Perhaps he’d seen too much. Most likely, he just didn’t want to be around people.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he said.

“I promised Colin.” It sounded so archaic when she said it. She pushed back her hair, too aware of herself for her own comfort. “I told him if I ever needed help, I’d come to you. So, here I am. Except I really don’t need your help, after all.”

“You don’t?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good. I’d hate for you to have wasted a trip.” He started back across the worn floorboards toward the porch. “I’m not in the helping business.”

She was stunned. “What?”

“Plato’ll feed you, get you back on the road before dark.”

Lucy stared at his back as he went out onto the porch. In the cabin’s dim light, she saw an iron bed in one corner of the room, cast-off running shoes, a book of Robert Penn Warren poetry, a stack of James Bond novels and one of Joe Citro’s books of Vermont ghost stories. There was also a kerosene lamp.

This was not what she’d expected. Redwing Associates was high-tech and very serious, one of the best investigative and security consulting firms in the business. Sebastian’s brainchild. He knew his way around the world. If nothing else, Lucy had expected she might have to hold him back, keep him from moving too fast and too hard on her behalf.

Instead, he’d turned her down flat. Without argument. Without explanation.

She took a breath. The dust, altitude and dry air hadn’t given her a bloody nose like they had J.T. They’d just driven every drop of sanity and common sense right out of her. She never should have come here.

She followed him out onto the porch. “You’re going to take my word for it that I don’t need help?”

“Sure.” He dropped back into his hammock. “You’re a smart lady. You know if you need help or not.”

“What if it was all bluster? What if I’m bluffing? What if I’m too proud and—”

“And so?”

She clenched her fists at her sides, resisting an urge to hit something. “Plato fudged it when he said you were on sabbatical, didn’t he? I’ll bet Madison was more right than she realized.”

“Lucy, if I wanted you to know about my life, I’d send you Christmas cards.” He grabbed his hat and lay back in the hammock. “Have you ever gotten a Christmas card from me?”

“No, and I hope I never do.”

She spun around so abruptly, the blood rushed out of her head. She reeled, steadying herself. Damn if she’d let herself pass out. The bastard would dump a pitcher of well water on her head, strap her to a horse and send her on her way.

“I’m sorry, Lucy. Things change.” She couldn’t tell if he’d softened, but thought he might have. “I guess you know that better than most of us.”

She turned back to him and inhaled, regaining some semblance of self-control. She was furious with herself for having come out here—and with Plato for having sent her when he had to know the reception she’d get. She was out of her element, and she hated it. “That’s it, then? You’re not going to help me?”

He gave her a half smile and pulled his hat back down over his eyes. “Who’re you kidding, Lucy Blacker? You’ve never needed anyone’s help.”

* * *

Plato didn’t come for Sebastian until early the next morning. Very early. Dawn was spilling out on the horizon, and Sebastian, having tended the horses and the dogs, was back in his hammock when Plato’s truck pulled up. He thumped onto the porch, his gait uneven from his limp. It’d be two years soon. He’d have the limp for life.

“You turned Lucy down?”

Sebastian tilted his hat back off his eyes. “So did you.”

“She didn’t come out here for my help. She came for yours.”

“She hates me, you know.”

Plato grinned. “Of course she hates you. You’re a jackass and a loser.”

Sebastian didn’t take offense. Plato had always been one to speak out loud what others were thinking. “Her kid bled on my porch. How am I going to protect a twelve-year-old kid who gets nosebleeds? The daughter’s a snot. She kept comparing me to Clint Eastwood.”

“Eastwood? Nah. He’s older and better-looking than you.” Plato laughed. “I guess Lucy and her kids are lucky you’ve renounced violence.”

“We’re all lucky.”

Silence.

Sebastian felt a gnawing pain in his lower back. He’d slept in the hammock. A bad idea.

“You didn’t tell her, did you?” Plato asked.

“Tell her what?”

“That you’ve renounced violence.”

“None of her business. None of yours, either.”

If his curtness bothered Plato, he didn’t say. “Darren Mowery’s hanging around her father-in-law.”

“Shut up, Rabedeneira. You’re like a damn rooster crowing in my ear.”

Plato stepped closer. “This is Lucy, Sebastian.”

He rolled off the hammock. That was what he’d been thinking all night. This was Lucy. Lucy Blacker, with the big hazel eyes and the bright smile and the smart mouth. Lucy, Colin’s widow.

“She should go to the police,” Sebastian said.

“She can’t, not with what she has so far. Jack Swift would pounce. The Capitol police would send up a team to investigate. The press would be all over the story.” Plato stopped, groaning. “You didn’t let her get that far, did you?”

“Plato, I swear to God, I wish you were still jumping out of helicopters rescuing people. I could sell the company and retire, instead of letting some dipshit busybody like you run it.”

“You didn’t even hear her out? I don’t believe it. Jesus, Redwing. You really are an asshole.”

Sebastian started down the porch steps. He was stiff, and he needed coffee. He needed to stop thinking about Lucy. Thinking about Lucy had never, ever done him any good. “I figured she told you everything. No need to make her go through it twice.”

“Lucy deserves—”

“I don’t care what Lucy deserves.”

Sebastian could feel his friend staring at him, knowing what he was thinking, and why he’d slept out on the porch. “Yeah, you do. That’s the problem. You’ve been in love with her for sixteen years.”

That was Plato. Always speaking out loud what was best left unsaid. Sebastian walked out to his truck. It was turning into a beautiful day. He could go riding. He could take a run with the dogs. He could read ghost

stories in his hammock.

The truth was, he was no damn good. About all he hadn’t done in the past year since he’d shot a friend gone bad was kick the dogs. He’d renounced violence, but not gambling, not carousing, not ignoring his friends and responsibilities. He didn’t shave often enough. He didn’t do laundry often enough. He could afford all the help he needed, but that meant having people around him and being nice. He didn’t have much use for people. And he wasn’t very nice.

“I can’t help Lucy,” he said. “I’ve forgotten half of what I knew.”

“You’re so full of shit, Redwing. You haven’t forgotten a goddamn thing.” Plato came and stood beside him. The warm, dry air, he said, helped the pain in his leg. And he liked the work. He was good at it. “Even if you’re rusty—which you aren’t—you still have your instincts. They’re a part of you.”

Then the violence was a part of him, too. Sebas-

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