Praise for
LINDSAY MCKENNA

“McKenna’s latest is an intriguing tale…a unique twist on the romance novel, and one that’s sure to please.”

—RT Book Reviews on Dangerous Prey

“Riveting.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Quest

“An absorbing debut for the Nocturne line.”

—RT Book Reviews on Unforgiven

“Gunfire, emotions, suspense, tension, and sexuality abound in this fast-paced, absorbing novel.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Wild Woman

“Another masterpiece.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Enemy Mine

“Emotionally charged…riveting and deeply touching.”

—RT Book Reviews on Firstborn

“Ms. McKenna brings readers along for a fabulous odyssey in which complex characters experience the danger, passion and beauty of the mystical jungle.”

—RT Book Reviews on Man of Passion

“Talented Lindsay McKenna delivers excitement and romance in equal measure.”

—RT Book Reviews on Protecting His Own

“Lindsay McKenna will have you flying with the daring and deadly women pilots who risk their lives… Buckle in for the ride of your life.”

—Writers Unlimited on Heart of Stone

Deadly Silence
Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader:

I was a firefighter for three years in the 1980s. I was the only woman on the West Point Volunteer Fire Department of twenty men. I was the first to break the ice. I learned a lot about fire fighting and what it took to be good at it. As a writer I like to write what I know. That way, my story comes off as living and breathing for the reader. I have a great respect for the women and men firefighters of today. Back in the early 1980s a few courageous women were breaking down the doors of firefighting—proving that it wasn’t just a “man’s” job. In three years I think I saw it all. I won’t go into the gory details. But what I want is to infuse Deadly Silence with my knowledge of firefighting and the rigors and challenges that come with it. Most people live in a city and you don’t think twice about your fire trucks coming down asphalt streets.

Out in rural areas where there are roads, dirt roads and off-vehicle trails, it puts a whole different perspective on firefighting; particularly in the winter and spring when roads get slick or they get so muddy it can actually stop a fire vehicle from advancing to where the structure fire is located. It’s heartbreaking. And I saw it happen. Owners of homes that burned to the ground because a fire truck and firefighters couldn’t get to it, get angry. They had a right to be upset. But when someone took out a rifle and started shooting at firefighters, that was a whole different ball of wax. When people lose their home, it’s devastating. For them and for the firefighters. Everyone feels helpless. And so, with my background in rural firefighting, I’ve used some of my experience to create this story.

For my many Morgan’s Mercenary readers, you will get to meet the heroine of this book, Casey Cantrell, daughter of Alyssa Trayhern-Cantrell. I’m now writing about Alyssa and Noah’s children. I’ve written about all five of Morgan and Laura’s children so I can now write about the other children. Stay tuned; you may see some more of them popping up now and then in my newest saga-series, Jackson Hole, Wyoming. This is Book Three. If you haven’t read the rest, run to Harlequin.com and pick up Shadows from the Past (HQN, December 2009) and Deadly Identity (HQN, December 2010). I hope you enjoy this new series. Drop me a line at muted29081@mypacks.net or visit my website www.lindsaymckenna.com. You can also sign up at Facebook at: www.facebook.com/eileen.nauman. Happy July Fourth!

Lindsay McKenna

To the men I worked with as a

volunteer firefighter in 1981–1983,

West Point Volunteer Fire Department, West Point, Ohio. Chief Wayne Chamberlain, who was open to the first woman joining a twenty-man station.

Lieutenant Gary Amato, ex-Air Force firefighter who supported and taught me so much about the business. Paul LaNeve, volunteer, who saved my life when a floor collapsed out from beneath me at a structure fire. And last but not least, my husband, David, who was the one who convinced me that I could be a firefighter. And this is dedicated to all men and women volunteer firefighters who will give their life to save others. Nowadays, women are welcomed into fire ranks across the U.S.A. You are all heroes in my eyes, regardless of gender.

DEADLY SILENCE

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER ONE

MEGAN JERKED OUT OF A deep sleep. The six-year-old had heard a sound—“pop.” It momentarily startled her. She heard nothing else. Snuggling down in her bed with Elmo, her red Muppet, she closed her eyes once more.

And then she smelled smoke. Was she dreaming? The Muppet clock with Big Bird on it read 3:00 a.m. Sitting up, Megan suddenly felt alarm. Smoke! She wasn’t dreaming! Her daddy was a firefighter. He and Mommy had taught her that if she smelled smoke she should run to the window and escape to safety. Their home was one story. Daddy had taught her how to open the window and climb out.

Maybe she was dreaming. Megan slipped out of bed and clutched Elmo to her red-flannel nightgowned chest. A small night-light gave enough radiance to see her partially opened door. There was a haze of whitish smoke filtering into her room. Blinking, Megan stood in shock, gripping Elmo to her chest and staring at the silent and deadly smoke.

What was wrong? Daddy had gone to a special school in Cheyenne over the weekend. She and Mommy were here alone. Mommy! Running out of the room, Megan raced down the hall toward the bedroom at the other end of the home. As she did, she began to cough violently. The purling smoke became thicker. She couldn’t see. Megan was disoriented, and her eyes watered badly. Coughing violently, she tried to breathe. It was impossible!

There was a dull orange glow pulsating through the thick wall of smoke. Megan heard a window breaking somewhere beyond the smoke.

“Mommy!” she shrilled. “Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! There’s fire!” and then Megan’s voice cracked and she started coughing violently. She couldn’t breathe!

Turning, Megan raced out of the smoke now tunneling down the long, wide hall. It was March; there had been a huge blizzard last night. At least two feet of snow had fallen. Megan ran back to her room, which now was filled with smoke. Mommy! Where is Mommy?

Grabbing her robe, Megan put her toy on her bed and thrust her small arms through the sleeves. Wrapping the red sash of her flannel robe around her, she grabbed Elmo to her chest. Pushing her feet into her fluffy red Elmo-headed slippers, Megan ran out of the room. The smoke was so thick, she couldn’t see anything. Oh, if only Daddy were here! He’d know what to do.

Megan coughed continuously, tears streaming down her face. She hurried down to the other end of the hall that led to the kitchen. There was a phone there. She couldn’t reach Mommy! Sobbing, she picked up the phone and dialed 911. Both her parents had worked with her since age four to teach her how to call for help.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

Megan recognized Claudia, one of the dispatchers at the fire station in Jackson Hole. “Claudia, this is Megan Sinclaire…” She coughed. “Our house is on fire! My mommy…I can’t get to my mommy! She’s trapped in her bedroom! I need help…help…”

The smoke stole silently into the kitchen. Alarmed, Megan saw it billowing in thickly. As soon as she’d got Megan’s information, Claudia told her to get out of the house. She was to put on a coat and warm headgear, if possible. And then she was to stand far away, outside the burning home. Megan said she understood and put the phone back down.

Gripping Elmo, she hurried to the front porch. Breathing was difficult. Mouth open, saliva trickling out the corners of her mouth, Megan shakily pulled on her heavy parka, slid her feet into warm fleece boots and donned her thick knit cap, scarf and mittens. She unlocked the door. The snow had piled up, and though she pushed on it, the door wouldn’t budge.

Fear gripped Megan. She saw the red and orange lurid colors now coming down the hall toward the kitchen. Knowing they were flames, she realized in panic that the whole house was on fire. Crying out, one arm around Elmo, Megan pushed again and again against the door. No use!

Turning, she ran from the porch to the kitchen door. The only light she had to see with was from the flames licking rapidly toward her. With shaking hands, Megan unlocked the door and slammed her fifty-pound body against it—it barely moved. There was ice build-up on the concrete steps. Again, Megan thrust herself and Elmo against the door and felt cold air suddenly filter through the edge.

Heat was rapidly building up in the kitchen. Her skin smarted and she sobbed. Megan screamed out for her parents as she hurled herself again and again into the stubborn door. There was no movement. The thick, accumulating smoke combined with that awful orange color to stalk her like a fire-breathing dragon. She hit the door with her bruised shoulder and felt it move a few inches more against the snow build-up. I have to get out!

Coughing, Megan dropped Elmo at her feet and used both her hands against the oak door. This time, it gave way. It opened just enough to allow her to squeeze through. Somehow, she had to get to Mommy! Leaning over, Megan grabbed Elmo, pushed herself through the door and out into the bitterly cold night air.

She stood on the icy steps, the stars bright and close. It was so cold her breath shot out of her mouth like a white flashlight. As she turned to look back at the house, Megan’s eyes widened enormously. The roof over her parents’ bedroom was on fire! Gasping, Megan ran down the steps. Earlier that night, her mother had cleared the path around the ranch-style home. Now, slipping and sliding, Megan awkwardly ran around to the front of the house.

As she rounded the corner, Megan saw a dark-colored pickup spinning its tires and racing down the dirt road. A yellow streak of lightning was painted horizontally across the tailgate. The truck sloughed drunkenly through the unplowed freshly fallen snow that blocked the road. It weaved back and forth through the drifts, the tires spinning and screaming. Megan didn’t know who it was, and it was too far away to call for help. Racing around the corner of the garage, she headed for the front door of their home. As she reached it, Megan skidded to a halt. Where her parents’ bedroom was located, the house was fully consumed in flames.

With a cry of alarm, Megan ran forward and was instantly surrounded by a noxious odor. It smelled like gasoline! Why would there be the smell of gas out here? Megan slipped and slid on the sidewalk to get to her mommy’s bedroom. Fire licked out in bright, shooting red-and-yellow flames through the only bedroom window. Megan screamed again and again for her mother. There was no answer! The popping and snapping of wood burning, the explosion of other windows breaking filled the night around her.

Panicked, Megan dropped Elmo on the sidewalk. She had to get to Mommy! She ran up to the window, gasping and choking. The flames were breathing as though a dragon was inside that room.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Megan shrilled, as she approached the window. “Wake up! Wake up! You have to get out of there!” Megan leaped up to the window, her small hands on the window sill for a second. She screamed and dropped back into the snow—both her hands burned. Megan struggled out of the snowbank sobbing and confused and backed off.

Turning, she looked down the one-mile-long dirt road. The truck was gone. The bright stars in the night sky blinked overhead. The temperature was at least ten below, and her breath shot out in ragged clouds from her contorted mouth.

Megan ran over and grasped Elmo to her chest. She stood looking anxiously at the window. It would be impossible to get into the bedroom. But there was another way! Sliding and falling on the icy sidewalk, Megan got to her feet and made it around to the back door. All she wanted was her mommy. As she struggled through the build-up of snow on the concrete porch, she saw the flames consuming the rest of the house. The fire raced along the roof with a roar.

Looking out toward the road, Megan whimpered. She knew it would take the fire trucks a long time to get out here—three miles from the center of Jackson Hole. They lived on a dirt road that wouldn’t be plowed until dawn came. Crushing Elmo to her chest, she stood crying and staring at the back door. The snow was too thick and she couldn’t reach the doorknob. And then, the window in the door blew out toward Megan. Shards of hot glass showered around her as the build-up of gases within the home punched out the window like a fist on the other side.

Crying, Megan threw up her hand. Too late! The entire door blew outward. Wood struck the little girl. In seconds, she was flung off the porch and into a nearby snowbank.

That was how the paramedics found Megan when they arrived: stuck in a snowdrift, nearly hypothermic, hands with second-degree burns, her face pockmarked by the shards of glass embedded in her flesh.

MEGAN JERKED AWAKE AND sat up. She was gripping Elmo hard to her heaving chest. The fire! The fire! Looking wildly around, Megan saw that the small lamp nearby was on. Anxiously, she looked toward her partly opened door. She saw no smoke. But she could smell it! Scrambling out of bed, sobbing, she ran to the door. There was a night-light in the hall. There was no smoke visible yet. Hurrying down the hall, her green flannel nightgown flying around her bare feet, she headed for her daddy’s bedroom.

Matt Sinclaire heard his bedroom door fly open. His eight-year-old daughter, Megan, stood in the doorway, sobbing and clutching Elmo to her. Groaning, he slipped out of bed.

“Megan, it’s okay. There’s no fire,” he whispered. He quickly moved to his trembling daughter. Her long blond hair was in wild disarray around her small oval face, her blue eyes wide with shock. Matt crouched down and brought his daughter into his arms to hold her tightly against him. “It’s okay, okay, Meggie. There’s no fire,” he whispered, his fingers moving across her tangled hair and her shoulders. She was trembling. Sounds, strangulated and without meaning, came from her mouth.

Tightly shutting his eyes, Matt held and rocked his daughter. “It’s okay, Meggie. It was just a dream. I’m okay and so are you. There’s no fire, no fire….” His voice cracked with emotion that threatened to engulf him. When would this nightmare end? Matt knew his daughter had post-traumatic stress disorder. As he rocked her, he felt her small, stick-thin body tremble less and less. At least once a week, Megan would relive the horrors from two years ago. Matt had never slept well since the fire had taken Beverly, his wife. Now, it was just him and his daughter, Megan.

“Elmo isn’t afraid,” Matt whispered. “Is he? Have you seen if he’s shaking?”

Megan eased out of Matt’s arms just enough to look down at her doll. Looking up at her daddy’s shadowed face, she shook her head.

“See? Elmo would know if there was a real fire,” Matt soothed. He stood up and brought Megan against him. He was six foot two and his daughter was only just over four feet tall. She huddled against his thigh, head resting against his hip. Keeping a protective hand around her hunched shoulders, Matt said, “There’s no fire anywhere in this house, Megan. Do you want to go back to your room to go to sleep?”

Matt always hoped in these moments that his daughter would rediscover her voice. The paramedics had found Megan unconscious in the snowdrift. She’d become conscious in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and from that moment on, she’d never spoken another word. The psychiatrist in Idaho Falls, Idaho, who had endlessly tested her, told Matt it was “hysterical muteness,” and that someday, Megan would start talking again. Grimacing, Matt knew his daughter would have to get through the trauma of seeing her mother burned to death in an arson fire.

Heart breaking all over again, Matt saw Megan dip her head forward in answer to his question. Leaning down, Matt lifted her into his arms and carried her down the hall. Since the fire, Matt always made sure there was plenty of light so that Megan could see that her room and the hall were not on fire. He always kept his bedroom door partly ajar. Holding his daughter close, he whispered soothing words to her. Megan laid her head on his broad shoulder, Elmo squeezed in between them.

In a way, Matt was glad the little red Muppet was there for his daughter. He could talk to Elmo in order to reach her. Since the murder of his wife, the loss of their home, his world focused only on Megan and her ongoing trauma. His child had never spoken a word in two years. Would she ever find her voice again? Inhaling raggedly, Matt kept his guilt and grief to himself. He didn’t want Megan to know how devastating it had been for him to lose his Beverly, and worse, to compound the tragedy, to have his daughter so affected by the arson attack.

Pushing open the door to her bedroom, Matt gently slid his daughter back into her bed. He tucked Elmo, who was looking terribly ratty and old, next to her. Kneeling down, he gently covered Megan back up. “Listen, Elmo would tell you if there was anything wrong. But there’s nothing wrong, Meggie. The house is fine. I’m here. If there was a fire, I’d know it in a heartbeat and I’d rescue you.” He smoothed several golden strands off her furrowed brow. The worry and anxiety was clearly written in her eyes as she searched his face for some kind of reassurance.

“You know I would smell the smoke, don’t you?” he asked softly, continuing to move his hand across her mussed hair. At times like this Matt knew Megan needed not only physical reassurance, she needed him as security against the nightmare. Even to this day, there were burn scars on her small beautiful hands. Matt’s heart twisted in anguish knowing that his little six-year-old had valiantly tried to climb through the window to rescue her mother. Her courage shook him as nothing else ever would. He saw her eyelids begin to drift closed.

“Let me tell you a story about Elmo and Big Bird,” Matt whispered as he knelt at her bedside. Meggie loved his made-up stories. They always had happy endings and magically diverted Megan so she’d fall back to sleep. She loved the little red Muppet. Matt silently thanked Jim Henson, the creator of the Muppets, for bringing them into existence. Elmo was the only way he could reach Megan. She would respond if he talked to Elmo about her.

In ten minutes, just as he finished the made-up story about Elmo’s latest adventure, Megan’s eyes had drifted closed. Her breathing became shallow and softened. Matt fought the tears that burned his eyes and gulped several times. His daughter couldn’t be allowed to realize how much he was affected by the tragedy. Slowly getting to his feet, Matt made sure the flannel quilt Bev had made for Megan, which had been in the car during the fire, was drawn up snugly to keep her warm and feeling secure. Bev had made the nine-patch quilt from colorful fabrics Megan had chosen three years earlier. Megan loved bright colors, especially red. Elmo was the same color. Reaching out, Matt briefly touched the soft quilt, as if to touch Bev. At least Megan had this quilt, like arms of her mother around her as she slept.

Matt trod silently across the pine floor, the wood stabilizing his torn emotions. He eased through the door and made sure it was opened enough that Megan could see light from the hallway cascading into her room. Awake now, he went back to his lonely bedroom, picked up his plaid flannel robe and pulled it on. Wrapping the sash around his waist, he walked down the hall to the kitchen at the other end of the one-story home.

Looking out the window, Matt saw the stars hanging like white, shimmering jewels in the blackness of the sky. There was no moon tonight. It was late April and the spring thaw was finally starting to take hold. Snow still covered the half-acre lot that surrounded his new home. He rested his hands on the counter, his fingers curving into the aluminum double sinks. God, how he missed Beverly. Closing his eyes and hanging his head, Matt felt his heart tearing apart a little more. When his firefighter friends had found Beverly, she was charred beyond recognition. They’d placed her into a body bag. The coroner, Dr. Jason Armitage of Jackson Hole, later told him Beverly had been shot once, in the head.

Opening his eyes, Matt scowled. He needed a stiff drink, but that wouldn’t solve the mystery of who had murdered his wife and deliberately set his house on fire to kill his daughter. Matt opened the cabinet door and drew out the canister of ground coffee. The coffee was soon perking, and, while he waited, he leaned against the counter, arms wrapped against his chest.

Who had murdered Bev? Matt remembered being in Cheyenne and getting the call at 4:00 a.m. from Captain Doug Stanley, his boss. He’d broken the shocking news as gently as he could. Matt had set off that early morning, fighting snowdrifts and nearly skidding off the interstate many times to get home. He’d gone straight to the hospital in Jackson Hole where his daughter was in good condition. That whole morning had been a nightmare to Matt. He’d lost the love of his life. Bev and he had grown up together, gone through school here in Jackson Hole. They’d always loved one another. He’d gone into the Marine Corps for four years after graduating from high school, taken courses and, by the time he’d finished his service, he had a degree in Fire Science. He’d come home to join the Jackson Hole fire department and marry his sweetheart.

“Where did I go wrong?” he muttered, frowning into the darkness of the kitchen. “Where?” And who had killed Bev and set his house on fire?

The coffee now ready, Matt automatically poured himself a cup and stood in the silence of the kitchen. Mentally, as he sipped the hot, black brew, he went over the cold case. As badly as the local police and the county sheriff’s department had tried, they couldn’t find the killer or the reason for such a shocking attack. Jackson Hole was the Palm Springs of the Rocky Mountain states. It was filled with corporate millionaires, oil tycoons, politicians, Hollywood stars, ranchers, overseas tycoons and national tour operators. The middle class lived on the outskirts or in Driggs, Idaho, across the Grand Tetons or fifty miles south in Star Valley, Wyoming.

Who would want to do this to him? Who had a vendetta against him? Matt had lived here all his life. He made friends, not enemies. The sheriff’s department had gone out of their way to work hand-in-hand with the Jackson Hole police department. They’d found nothing. Nothing. Matt’s mouth was a grim line as he considered the possibilities. There were none. And Matt lived in silent terror of this home and his daughter being attacked once again.

Matt didn’t taste the coffee. He never did at this time of morning. When Megan had her nightmares, his mind would churn with so many unanswered questions. His good friend, Cade Garner, a deputy sheriff, had gone above and beyond the call of duty to try and find out who had done this. Cade had come up empty-handed. The deputy felt the arsonist might have been an itinerant who had wandered through the area, but Matt’s gut told him otherwise.

At thirty, Matt had been a firefighter for four years. He knew fire. He knew its ways. And yes, as Cade had informed him, he knew they had a few amateur arsonists in the valley. But none of them had killed anyone. And the county sheriff had personally confided in him that Bev had been killed by a professional. One shot to the head. That bothered him more than anything else. The coroner, Jason Armitage, had told him his wife had not been molested or harmed in any other way, and that gave Matt some relief. He didn’t think he could stand the thought of Bev being raped and then murdered. Dr. Armitage had postulated that someone had hired a hit man to come in and do the killing.

Shaking his head in frustration, Matt moved restlessly around the large, airy kitchen. The coolness of the pine floor felt good against the soles of his feet. It grounded him, kept him here. Who would hire a hit man to kill his wife? And why hadn’t the hit man walked down the hall to kill Megan, too? It just didn’t make sense!

Growling an obscenity beneath his breath, Matt stopped, turned and stared out the large window above the kitchen sink. It was dark and quiet outside this house. His gut churned. He’d gotten heartburn a lot since Bev’s death. It always kicked up when Megan would run down the hall and wake him, sobbing and clinging to him as if a monster were chasing her.

Megan knew something. Matt sensed it. What had she seen? She couldn’t speak, and a host of child psychologists over the last two years had tried to spring open that door and get her to talk, but all Megan would do was cling to Elmo and stare up at them with huge, terrified blue eyes, her mouth open, lips trembling—but no sound other than animal-like cries would issue forth. Rubbing his wrinkled brow, Matt paced around the island in the kitchen. What could he do to get Meggie to talk again? What?

Guilt that he was gone when this had happened ate daily at Matt. If he’d been here, he’d have heard someone breaking into their house. Bev had always been a deep, hard sleeper. An earthquake could have shaken the place and she wouldn’t wake up. Matt, on the other hand, had always been a light sleeper. The least noise and he sprang awake in a millisecond. He knew he’d have heard the murderous intruder. If only he’d been here and not away at fire school in Cheyenne. He could have saved Bev’s life, stopped his daughter from being utterly traumatized and saved the house he’d built with his own two hands from being burned to the ground.

Halting, Matt sipped the last of the coffee. It was scaldingly hot, but he wasn’t aware of that. His heart and mind were centered on Megan. He would be taking her to school at 7:00 a.m. She would sit in the back of Mrs. Harrington’s class, mute, attentive and taking notes. Sherry Harrington, Megan’s second-grade teacher, was wonderful with his daughter. Matt thanked God for that. Megan was intelligent and caught on quickly. She could read and comprehend, but she never uttered a word out loud. Sherry had even tried getting the children to read from Muppet stories in hopes that Megan would want to take part, but she did not.

And so, Megan would sit mutely in class. Mrs. Harrington was sensitive and attentive, even though she had a class of thirty second-graders. She went out of her way to create unique teaching content for Megan. Matt was forever grateful to the teacher.

What now? Dawn was crawling up the horizon, and the Grand Tetons looked like sharpened dragon’s teeth slowly congealing out of the darkness. Matt placed the cup in the sink. Sherry Harrington had written him a note yesterday. She was going to try something new in hopes of reaching Megan. This morning, Katie Bergstrom, a raptor rehabilitator, was bringing several birds in to the class and would give a talk about them. With her would be a ranger from the Grand Tetons National Park, ten miles outside Jackson Hole. Sherry had written that she hoped this might catch Megan’s attention and maybe, fingers crossed, it might inspire her finally to talk.

CHAPTER TWO

CASEY CANTRELL TRIED to shore up her sagging spirits. She’d been assigned to help Katie Bergstrom, a raptor rehabilitator who had her business on the outskirts of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. They stood in front of Sherry Harrington’s rapt second-grade class. This was her first official duty for the U.S. Forest Service. She had been hired straight after graduation from Colorado State University at Fort Collins. She looked at Katie, who was relaxed and smiling, with a red-tailed hawk named Hank on her leather glove. The eyes of the thirty children were huge with anticipation. She had their full, undivided attention.

“First,” Katie told the children with a smile, “let’s hear from Ranger Cantrell. She’s going to tell us why it’s so important to have raptors in our area. Ranger Cantrell?”

Clearing her throat, Casey gave the reasons for the importance of raptors to the ecological balance of life in the area. She was serious and low-key compared to bubbly Katie Bergstrom. As she spoke, Hank would lift and flap his wings every now and again, much to the children’s delight. She kept her explanation short, understanding that second-graders had an attention span of about two seconds. Glancing over at Katie, Casey said, “It’s all yours, Katie,” and stepped to one side to position herself near Sherry.

“Thank you, Ranger Cantrell,” Katie said, grinning and carrying Hank, who wore soft kangaroo-leather jesses around his yellow legs, closer to the children. Their desks formed a huge semicircle facing the front of the room. Casey thought it looked like a crowded amphitheater. The glow of excitement on the children’s faces lifted the anxiety she felt.

Earlier, Sherry had met them outside the door for a quick chat. She was concerned about Megan Sinclaire, and gave them the story of her being mute. Casey’s heart broke when she heard about the little girl’s tragedy. Sure enough, Megan was at the back of the group. Sherry Harrington was afraid that Megan might be frightened of a hawk flying around the room, so it would be Casey’s job to stand near the little girl when Mrs. Harrington donned the other leather glove on the other side of the room and Hank flew to her from Katie’s glove.

Casey felt comfortable working with the little blond-haired girl. She moved quietly to the rear, her back to the windows. Megan was only three feet away, and she seemed absolutely enraptured over the hawk, just as all the other children were. Megan clasped her hands, smitten by Hank, and Casey tried to relax.

Casey’s boss, Charley Davidson, believed in educating the children from the ground up about nature. He said such programs would serve to keep all species safer. He often had Katie come and give talks with her hawks and owls at the visitor’s center just inside Grand Tetons National Park.

“Okay,” Katie sang out now, “how many of you would like to see Mrs. Harrington put on this glove?” She held it up so the children could see it. “And then, we’ll let Hank fly to her. Raise your hands!”

Every hand shot up, the children wriggling like excited puppies in their seats. Casey saw Megan’s hand shoot up, too. She was so excited that she stood up, jumping up and down. Casey heard excited rasps coming from her. But no words.

“Okay, okay!” Katie laughed, handing the teacher the glove. “You’ve voted for Mrs. Harrington to do this. Let’s quiet down now. Hank doesn’t like a lot of noise. It bothers his flying concentration.”

Instantly, everyone sat down. All except Megan, who remained standing, her small hands clasped to her chest, all eyes.

Casey did nothing. Megan was clear of the flight path, and though Katie saw her, she didn’t direct her to sit down. The child’s cheeks were a bright red, her blue eyes now bright with excitement. Mrs. Harrington pulled on the glove, held it high for the children to see and then walked to the other corner of the classroom.

Casey’s focus was on Megan. Clearly, she loved what was going on. She knew little of the child’s trauma other than that her mother had been murdered and the house set on fire and that she had barely escaped. Casey’s heart bled for Megan.

Everyone ooohhed as Hank flapped and took off from Katie’s glove. He flew low across the classroom to Mrs. Harrington’s outstretched glove. The delight and awe were clearly written on every child’s face.

Mrs. Harrington had a look of pleasure as Hank settled on her arm, his yellow feet and curved talons delicately grasping the leather gauntlet. He settled down, folding his wings and looking around at the thrilled class.

“Wow!” Katie called, laughing. “Wasn’t that something?”

The children whooped, shouted and clapped. Pandemonium reigned for a moment. They could hardly sit still in their seats.

“Okay,” Katie said, raising her voice and holding up her hands. “If you’ll sit quietly, I’ll put a little rabbit meat on my glove and we’ll call Hank back to my glove. Can you do that? Do you want to see him fly again?”

Casey chuckled softly. Every child except Megan sat squirming in anticipation. Katie said nothing about Megan continuing to stand and nor did Sherry. Casey remained where she was. When Hank swooped low across the diagonal breadth of the classroom once more, everyone collectively gasped. Casey saw the awe burning brightly in Megan’s eyes. She was enthralled, as if magically swept away on a carpet to Disneyland. The sounds issuing from her were soft cries of joy. But no words. Just sounds.

Heart breaking for the father of this child, Casey tried to understand his terrible tragedy. This child had not talked since the incident. Two years. How had he been able to deal with it? With his daughter’s psychological scar? Casey remembered her own tragedy in the spring of her sophomore year at university. She had blundered onto a huge marijuana-growing area up near Red Lake in northern Colorado. The growers had jumped her, beaten her nearly to death, tied her up and dumped her unconscious body far away from their drug fields. She was sure they hoped she would be eaten by hungry grizzly bears coming out of winter hibernation. But she hadn’t died; luckily, she’d been rescued by a group of hikers. Casey touched her left temple where a scar still reminded her of that savage day when she’d nearly lost her life.

Looking at Megan, who was clearly enthralled with Hank, Casey wondered if the little girl’s PTSD was the wall that stopped her from speaking again. Casey had spent ten days in a Fort Collins hospital in a coma. She couldn’t remember the incident for nearly a year. Then her brain had downloaded the whole scenario one morning when she was sitting in a wildlife biology seminar. Casey recalled that day, the power of the deed done against her. She saw the five men’s faces. Saw their rage and their desire to kill her. Shivering inwardly, Casey pulled her thoughts back to the present.

Studying Megan’s rapt features, Casey understood as few could how the brain protected someone from such a life-changing trauma. Only when the person was well enough, strong enough, would the brain give up those horrible memories. Casey sensed Megan was not ready to talk yet, because what would come out of that child’s mouth was just too terrible for her to comprehend, understand or accept. She felt deep compassion for Megan.

“Okay,” Katie called, smiling at the group, Hank on her glove, “I’m going to bring out Susie, the barn owl, now. Ranger Cantrell? Would you like to come and assist me?”

“Of course,” Casey murmured. She had trained with Katie for several days before this show so she knew what to do. The bird boxes were large and made of green cardboard. Casey moved to the front of the class and picked up Hank’s box. She placed it on Mrs. Harrington’s desk and opened it up. Inside was a perch wrapped with Astro Turf so Hank could grasp it firmly with his claws and not slip or fall off it.

The children watched with burning silent curiosity. Casey stood to one side after the box door was opened. Hank jumped off Katie’s glove and eagerly went into his box. Katie gave him one last bit of rabbit meat and gently closed and locked the door. She handed the box to Casey. Then, a second box was brought up to the desk by Katie.

“Now, kids, this is a barn owl. We have lots of them here in Wyoming. Do you know where they live?” She turned and smiled at the class.

“Barns!” a boy shouted.

“Yes!” Katie said, grinning. “Barn owls love barns. That’s why they’re called barn owls. Now, Susie here,” she opened the box to show the small, delicate barn owl sitting on her perch, her black, luminous eyes surrounded with white feathers, “was found in the bottom of a rancher’s barn a year ago. She was a baby and had tried to fly out of her parents’ nest when she was too young. The rancher found her flopping around on the floor when he went in to feed his horses one morning. He picked her up and found she had a badly broken leg. So, he called the Game and Fish Department, and then they called me.” Katie put her gloved hand into the box and Susie hopped onto the glove.

Bringing Susie out, Katie held her up on the glove so the children could see the barn owl. “The rancher wanted the barn owls in his barn. Do you know why?”

“They eat mice and rats!” a little girl cried. “They’re good!”

“That’s right,” Katie said, laughing. Susie fluttered her wings, showing the white and soft-caramel coloring beneath her wings. The children oohed and aahed. “The rancher wanted to save Susie. He’d seen the mice and rat population dwindle to nothing because these barn owls were around. They keep a natural check and balance.”

“Do they eat gophers?” another boy asked.

“You bet they do!”

“Good, because my daddy lost his best horse when he was herding cattle last year. His horse stuck a foot into a gopher hole and broke his leg. My daddy cried over it.”

Nodding, Katie said, “I’m so sorry to hear that. But yes, hawks and owls will eat any four-legged critter. The hawks hunt them during the daylight hours and the owls hunt them at night. Did you know that your daddy can call me and if I have a barn owl that is healing up I may be able to put one in his barn?”

The boy gasped. “Really?”

“Sure,” Katie said. “Tell your parents about this tonight. I have a barn owl who is ready to be placed. I’d be happy to talk to them about it.”

The boy rubbed his hands together, glee in his face. “This is rad!” he shouted.

Everyone laughed, the energy of the room amping up.

Casey took her place once more at the back of the room near Megan. The child continued to stand. No one admonished her. The other children were too enthralled with Susie the barn owl to look to the rear of the class to see her standing.

“Now, I need a volunteer,” Katie called out. “Some one who would like to put on a glove and have Susie climb from my glove to their glove.”

Megan shrieked and ran to the front of the class, eagerly waving her hand to take the glove. Casey saw Sherry Harrington’s face go blank with surprise. Katie smiled and handed Megan the glove. Could the raptors be a doorway to Megan’s healing? Casey wondered.

“Okay, we have a volunteer. Megan, right?”

Megan nodded her head and excitedly pulled the child-size falconer’s glove onto her right hand. She could hardly stand still, her gaze rapt on Susie.

“Okay, Megan,” Katie soothed, “the first thing you need to do is stand very quietly. A raptor gets upset if it’s being jostled around. Do you understand?”

Megan instantly quieted and nodded her head, suddenly becoming very serious.

Casey took a small camera out of her pocket. She wanted photos of Megan and Susie for the child’s sake. She would download the photos into her computer tonight and make sure that Megan got copies of them in the mail. Just as Susie was transferred to Megan’s outstretched glove, Casey took several photos.

Megan stood there, her blue eyes huge as she stared wonderingly into Susie’s black, unblinking eyes. The barn owl was relaxed on her glove. The rest of the class gave a collective “ooohhh…”

Katie had Megan turn to the class. “Now, Megan, how does it feel to have Susie on your glove?”

Casey held her breath. The little girl struggled. She opened her mouth, closed it. Frowned. And then tears tracked down her reddened cheeks. Katie gently patted her shoulder. “It’s okay, Megan. Many of us have no words for how wonderful a raptor feels on our glove. Isn’t that right, kids?”

Casey’s heart burst open with sympathy for Megan. The girl nodded briskly and quickly wiped her tears away with her other hand. Susie blinked and seemed to understand what was going on, quietly sitting on Megan’s glove. Casey took several more photos before Susie was transferred back to Katie’s glove.

Just as Katie’s demonstrations were complete, the noon bell rang; it was time for lunch. All the children went to the cafeteria, leaving the three women alone.

Sherry Harrington’s face was filled with excitement. “Katie, Casey, this is a first! Megan Sinclaire has been a ghost throughout the first and second grades. You don’t realize how wonderful this is!”

“Raptors are magical,” Katie murmured, closing Susie’s box. “They can reach in and touch our hearts in a way nothing else can. I thought for sure Megan was going to speak.”

“She tried,” Casey murmured.

“Oh, I know!” Sherry sighed. “Katie, I honestly believe you’ve provided an important breakthrough for Megan. This afternoon I’m going to have the children draw their favorite raptor, and then we’re going to the library computers and they’re going to do research on their raptor.”

“I have photos of Megan with Susie,” Casey told her. “Do you think that it will be helpful to send them to her father?”

“I think so. In fact,” Sherry touched Casey’s arm, “would you do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to call Matt Sinclaire tonight and tell him what happened today. Would you have time to drive over to his house with the photos? You saw Megan here in class. She knows and she trusts you. Maybe if you take the photos over to Megan, he can see for his own eyes the effect it had on her. This could be a way to get her to speak again. Oh, I’m so excited! We owe both of you so much! I was so worried for Megan. I was anxious that the birds would scare her or traumatize her even more. But they didn’t. They opened her up as nothing else has!” Sherry quickly wiped away tears. She took out a tissue and blew her nose.

Katie touched the teacher’s shoulder. “I had heard of Megan’s situation before this. Jackson Hole is a small town and we all knew what happened to the Sinclaires. I was over at Quilter’s Haven when I heard about it from Gwen Garner, the owner.”

Sniffing and laughing, Sherry said, “Oh, yes, our quilting store! If you want to know anything about what’s going on, you go there.”

“You know that Bev Sinclaire was a quilter before she was murdered?” Katie asked.

Casey said, “I’m new here, and I haven’t gotten to know this area yet.”

“Do you quilt, Casey?” Katie asked.

“I sew my own clothes. I don’t have any quilting skills.”

“Well,” Sherry said, “since you’re stationed here for the next five years as a ranger at the Tetons National Park, make yourself known to Gwen at the quilting store. The women all gather over there. They know everything that’s going on in the area. It might do you some good to go there for a visit with Gwen before you see Matt Sinclaire and his daughter.”

Nodding, Casey said, “I’ve just rented an apartment in town with a woman firefighter, Cat Edwin.”

“Oh, I know her!” Sherry said. “She’s the only woman on the fire department. And she’s a quilter. Did you know that?”

Shaking her head, Casey murmured, “I just got the apartment with her because she’d advertised for a roommate. I knew she was with the fire department, but I haven’t had time to get to know her much at all.”

Katie grinned and picked up the two raptor boxes. “Go visit Gwen. She’s the wife of a rancher. The Garner family has been in this valley since the fur trappers came here a hundred and fifty years ago. I think it’s a great idea to take the photos over to Megan, but get the scoop from Gwen first. That way, you can be educated and handle the situation with the father and daughter even better.”

Casey nodded. “Okay, sounds like a plan. I’ll do that.”

Sherry gave them a warm look. “Thank you, ladies. Casey, give me your phone number. I’ll call Mr. Sinclaire tonight and fill him in. He can call you and you two can set a day and time to exchange those photos of Megan holding Susie on her glove.” She clasped her hands. “I just pray to God this is the breakthrough Megan needs. Her father, Matt, is so filled with guilt over his daughter’s condition. It just tears my heart up.”

Casey nodded. She understood tragedy, suffering, grief and guilt. “Sounds like a plan to me. She’s a sweet child. I’d like to see her work through her trauma and start talking again.”

Katie walked to the door and waited for Casey to open it for her. “It’s known as hysterical muteness, Casey. Megan has been through a battery of shrinks and they’ve all told Matt Sinclaire the same thing—it’s hysterical. A little six-year-old doesn’t realize that, of course. And now, two years later, Megan is still mute, which tells you the power of the trauma she experienced.”

Casey opened the door. “Yes,” she murmured, “it does.”

Sherry followed Kate and Casey out into the empty hall and walked with them. The children were all in the lunchroom, but Sherry kept her voice low. “Listen,” she told Casey, “Mr. Sinclaire has his problems, too. I mean, Bev Sinclaire and he were childhood sweethearts from the moment they met in the first grade. She was the love of his life. He’s not over her death. He’s filled with guilt and remorse from what I can see.”

Katie nodded and they turned down the hall toward the exit doors. “He’s blaming himself for what happened. He was in Cheyenne at fire school when it occurred. But look, go to the quilting store. You’ll find out everything you ever needed to know about Matt Sinclaire from Gwen.”

Casey opened the door, the cool April breeze hitting them. There was snow on the ground, but the sky was a bright blue. The sun warmed her a bit. “Okay, I’ll do that.” Casey gave Sherry Harrington her business card. “Call me, Sherry, when you know something.”

“Oh, I will, Casey. Bless you! Thank you!”

Casey didn’t feel very blessed. She walked with Katie out to her SUV and opened the rear door so Katie could put the bird boxes in and strap them down. The asphalt parking area had been cleared of snow and was wet and gleaming under the midday sunlight.

“Do you know anything about Matt Sinclaire?” Casey asked, shutting the door.

Katie fished the keys out of the pocket of her red jacket. “He’s a hunk.”

Casey laughed. “Okay.”

Grinning, Katie said, “He’s thirty years old, black hair, green eyes, square face and about six foot two inches in height. He’s been on the fire department eight years, and he’s a lieutenant. Before Bev was murdered, Matt was a pretty outgoing dude. But now—” Katie opened the driver’s-side door “—he’s pretty serious, unreadable and just about as mute as his daughter.”

“Sounds pretty grim,” Casey muttered, frowning.

Katie nodded and frowned. “How do you get over your wife suddenly being torn from you? And on top of that, your child goes mute and is trapped inside her own trauma? Matt can’t fathom what she has endured. No one can.”

“Really bad stuff,” Casey mumbled, frowning. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her brown nylon Forest Service jacket. Her mint-green USFS truck was parked next to Katie’s vehicle.

“Gwen has said repeatedly that Matt needs psychological help, but he’s refused. He’s gummed up tighter than Fort Knox when it comes to his own grief. All we see is his guilt. He just hasn’t been able to open up and let out all that toxic grief,” Katie said. She climbed into her truck. “Maybe, Casey, you’re a ray of sunlight into his dark world. That was smart of you to take those photos.” She grinned and slipped the key into the ignition. The engine growled to life. “Who knows? Maybe those photos will not only help Megan, but Matt, too. Good luck!”

CHAPTER THREE

CASEY’S HANDS WERE DAMP as she stood at the door of a white, one-story, ranch-style house with green trim. Flexing her fingers, she couldn’t stop the tension that thrummed through her. Nervously, she smoothed her shoulder-length brown hair. The April morning was sunny with a cobalt-blue sky—a rare event for this time of year, she’d been told by her supervisor, Charley, who had given her two hours off to run over to Matt Sinclaire’s home.

Knocking a couple of times, Casey stood back and waited. In her left hand, she held her beat-up brown leather briefcase that had seen her through her university years. What was Matthew Sinclaire like? And how would Megan receive the photos of Hank, the red-tailed hawk?

The door opened.

Automatically, Casey held her breath for a moment. Her eyes widened as a man in a red T-shirt and jeans appeared. Instantly, her heart began a wild, unfamiliar beat. She looked up into his green eyes and felt consumed by his intent gaze upon her. To say that Matthew Sinclaire was a hunk was understating the obvious. The red T-shirt emblazoned with the words Jackson Hole Fire Department emphasized his broad, deep chest. His shoulders were powerful. He stood relaxed, body at a slight slouch; a man who was comfortable with who he was.

“You must be Ranger Casey Cantrell?” he asked in a deep voice.

Giving a nod, Casey rasped, “Yes, sir, I am. Are you Lieutenant Matthew Sinclaire?” She felt, suddenly, like a teenager in front of this guy. Clearly, Sinclaire was a man’s man, and it triggered something deep and hungering within her. Fingers tightening around the handle of her briefcase, Casey tried to appear just as relaxed as he seemed to be.

“Call me Matt. Come on in. Meggie is waiting for you.” He smiled a little and gestured for her to step into the brightly lit home.

Casey walked past him and into the house. It was near freezing on this April morning and she welcomed the warmth inside. She waited on a red and gray Navajo rug. Megan was standing at the other end of the foyer. The girl was dressed in a pair of dark green corduroy pants, a white blouse with long sleeves, her hair in a pair of cute pigtails. In her arms was Elmo, looking pretty bedraggled from a lot of care over the years. Casey smiled at her. She took off her ranger’s hat, which she hated wearing anyway, and quickly ran her fingers through her flattened hair.

“Hi, Megan. Do you remember me? I’m Casey.”

Megan broke into a welcoming smile and waved shyly at her.

Matt turned after closing the door. He saw Megan’s reaction to the woman ranger. Having a strong reaction to her himself, Matt tried to brush it aside. “I want to thank you for coming over on a Saturday morning, Ranger Cantrell.”

“Call me Casey,” she asked. Looking up at Matt, she felt her heart spring open like a flower in bloom. Sinclaire’s face was oval with a strong chin, broad forehead and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Casey knew he was thirty years old from the gossip she’d gotten down at Quilter’s Haven, where Gwen Garner had filled her in on this handsome firefighter. It was so easy to drown in the dark green of his intent eyes. He seemed to Casey to be an eagle, his pupils huge and black as he studied her, a slight tilt to his head. She was only five foot seven inches tall compared to his six foot two, but she was built with good, strong bone, no wilting lily of a stick-like woman. Still, Casey felt overshadowed by Matt Sinclaire’s powerful presence. There was an unspoken care that radiated from him toward her. Casey could see why this man, when in his firefighter gear, would ooze a sense of protection toward anyone in his safekeeping.

Matt gave her a tentative smile. “My friends call me Matt. Come on in. I’ve got coffee waiting for us in the kitchen.”

“Oh…” Casey murmured, “I was just going to drop these photos off, Mr. Sinc—I mean, Matt. I’m on duty today and Charley gave me some time off to deliver these to Megan. I don’t want to intrude on your weekend.”

“You’re not.” Matt held out his hand. “Give me your jacket, Casey. I know your boss, Charley. We’re good friends. I know he won’t care if you have a cup of coffee or two with me and Meggie.”

Hesitantly, Casey slid out of her warm brown nylon jacket and handed it to him. She saw Megan watching her, her eyes shining as much as they had in class five days earlier. “I’ve brought the photos of Megan holding Susie,” she offered. Dressed in her ranger uniform—a tan long-sleeved blouse and dark green trousers—Casey felt very unfeminine. She watched Sinclaire move. He possessed a cougar’s grace, bred from being an athlete. Casey knew firefighters lifted weights and jogged daily to stay in tip-top shape for the demands of their dangerous job. Still, she had to tear her gaze from his powerful back and narrow hips as he hung her coat up on a wooden peg next to the door. She gulped, and her mouth went dry. What kind of reaction was she having around this stranger?

“Come on in,” Matt invited her warmly, reaching down to take his daughter’s small hand that was swallowed up in his.

Quickly looking around, Casey saw a huge wood-stove in one corner with flames dancing behind the glass window. The red-and-yellow cedar floor was waxed and gleaming. There were Navajo rugs here and there. The room was painted a pale yellow; the drapes at the main window were brown with red flowers and green vines woven into the fabric. To her, this was a man’s home. There were no photos or pictures up on the walls. There were no green, living plants anywhere, either. It felt like a shell to Casey, not exactly alive or nurturing. She wondered if their home had exuded more of a woman’s touch when Bev was alive.

Following father and daughter into the kitchen, Casey saw Megan sit in a chair with Elmo in her lap. Her father had given her a glass of orange juice. “I feel badly for interrupting your breakfast,” Casey murmured, standing uncertainly in the doorway. The kitchen was white with blue curtains over the window. The smell of frying bacon filled the air.

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt murmured. “Just take a seat opposite Meggie here at the kitchen table. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

“No…I don’t eat breakfast.” Not anymore, at least. Casey saw him frown and then saw the question in his eyes. She hoped he wouldn’t ask it. Gripping the wooden chair, Casey pulled it out and sat down. “But if you have a cup of black coffee, that would be fine,” she added.

Matt opened his mouth to say something, but shut it. He saw sudden fear come to Casey’s huge, very readable gray eyes. “Sure,” he murmured, going to the counter and pulling down a mug. The last thing he’d expected was a beautiful woman in a ranger’s uniform to be at his door this morning. Oh, Matt knew Charley was sending someone down who had attended Megan’s class last Monday, but he’d had no idea Casey was so stunning. Out of habit, he looked at her left hand. She had long, beautiful fingers, her fingernails blunt-cut and without polish. No ring on her left hand. Of course, nowadays, there usually wasn’t any surefire way to tell if a woman was hitched or not.

Pouring the coffee, Matt found his body responding fiercely to her as a woman. What was this all about? He’d felt numbed from the inside out since Bev’s murder. In fact, he had plenty of opportunity to meet the women of Jackson Hole on a regular basis, but none of them had stirred him. Until Casey Cantrell had shown up at his door just now. He took the mug and set it down in front of her. She had soft sable bangs across her broad brow, her hair shot through with reddish and gold strands beneath the kitchen light. Although she had straight hair, it was softly curled around her proud shoulders. “There you go,” he murmured. Turning, he had to pay attention to the bacon frying in a skillet on the gas stove.

“Thank you,” Casey murmured. She smiled across the pine table. “How are you this morning, Megan?”

Megan shrugged shyly, smiled and gripped Elmo tightly to her chest. She took a sip of her orange juice.

Matt twisted a look over his shoulder. “Did Mrs. Harrington fill you in on my daughter?” he asked, trepidation in his voice. It was always painful to speak about Megan in the third person. Guilt wound through Matt as it always did when a stranger came into their lives. He would have to tell the story of Megan’s muteness all over again, and he dreaded it.

“Yes, she did.” Seeing the anxiety in Matt’s face, Casey also read guilt in his narrowing green eyes. Trying to put herself in his shoes was impossible but she saw he loved his daughter with a fierce protectiveness that made her heart open to him even more. This man was clearly a modern-day warrior. Oh, he might not wear chain mail, carry a sword on his hip or have a war horse nearby, but Casey clearly felt his protectiveness toward his daughter.

Casey added, “She told me everything,” as a hint to Matt to relax. He wouldn’t have to say anything in front of Megan. Relief instantly came to his features.

“Oh…good…good.” Matt turned back to finish frying the bacon. Clearing his throat, he said, “Charley said you’d just been assigned to the Teton’s station. Where were you before that?”

Suddenly, Casey felt as though she was on a hot plate. “Uh…I just graduated. This is my first assignment.”

“Oh? Where did you graduate from?”

“I received a degree in wildlife biology from Colorado State University.” She felt like running. Casey wanted no one to know of her horrific past. She gripped the mug of coffee in both hands and tried to sound as if she didn’t want to speak on the topic anymore.

“I see,” Matt murmured. He lifted the bacon out of the skillet and transferred it to a plate covered in paper towel to soak up the extra grease. “I graduated from there, too,” he said, walking over to the table to put the bacon near his plate. “I took my firefighting courses there.” He looked into her eyes. They were fraught with fear. Why fear? Was she afraid of him? Matt figured because she was new to the forest service, Casey was probably worried she might say the wrong thing. Turning, he went back to the counter and cracked four eggs into the skillet.

“Are you from Colorado?” Casey asked. She’d seen the curiosity in his eyes and didn’t want to answer any more of his questions. The best defense was a good offense. If Casey wanted her past to remain buried and unavailable to anyone, she needed to ask the questions instead.

“No,” Matt murmured, adding salt and pepper to the eggs now frying in the skillet. “I was born here in Jackson Hole. I went there for my training.”

“Did you always want to be a firefighter?”

Nodding, Matt said, “Yes, my father was one. He was the fire chief here for twenty years before he had a heart attack and died at a fire scene.”

Grimacing, Casey murmured, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry….”

“You didn’t,” Matt soothed. He turned and gave her a slight smile meant to reassure her. “You’re new to Jackson Hole. We’re a pretty interesting town. If you haven’t been over to Quilter’s Haven and talked with Gwen Garner, then you probably don’t know all the stuff there is to know about all of us.” He chuckled.

“I met Gwen,” Casey admitted softly. She couldn’t stop looking at the firefighter. He was tall, sinewy, the muscles thick and hard in his upper arms. There was dark hair sprinkled across his lower arms. And she’d seen that hair peeking out above the T-shirt he wore, too. His hair was cut military-short and there was no wasted motion about Matt Sinclaire.

Laughing a little, Matt said, “Then you’ll know all the stories about the residents. Do you sew or quilt?” He lifted the eggs out and put them on a plate. Turning off the gas stove, he removed the skillet and set it aside. Scooping up the blue-and-white plates, he walked to the long, rectangular table and sat down at the end of it. On his left was Megan and on his right, beautiful Casey Cantrell. He gave his daughter a plate and put one down in front of himself. Going to the fridge, he poured Meggie a glass of milk and came over and set it down in front of her.

“Sure you don’t want breakfast?” he asked, sitting down. Opening up his dark green linen napkin, Matt spread it across his lap. He leaned over and helped Meggie arrange the large napkin across her small lap.

“No…no, thank you.”

Shaking his head, he murmured, “I could not move without a big breakfast.” He smiled over at his daughter. “Hey, you’re chowing down today, Meggie. Must be hungry, huh?”

His daughter vigorously dipped her head, her little pigtails moving back and forth across her small shoulders. She relished the scrambled eggs and bacon. Matt had put apricot jam across her toasted spelt bread earlier, and Meggie was dividing her attention between the toast and her bacon right now.

Casey grinned. “Megan looks like she did the day Katie Bergstrom brought the raptor program to Mrs. Harrington’s class.”

Matt ate his eggs and bacon. Between bites he said, “I’ve never seen Megan that excited before.”

“Her teacher noticed that, too,” Casey said, knowing full well Megan probably understood every word they spoke.

“Mrs. Harrington said you had a minor in Education?”

Raising her brows, Casey realized everything was passed around. She’d have to be very careful in the future. “Yes.”

“Did you, at some point,” Matt asked, “want to be a teacher instead of a forest ranger?”

His insight into her was startling. Ever since the trauma she’d endured, Casey had to keep herself hidden from prying eyes. This man, however, seemed to have X-ray vision. Or maybe he could read people’s minds? Moving uncomfortably in the chair, Casey said, “Yes, at one time I wanted to teach first- and second-graders.”

“You love children.”

The statement was filled with curiosity. Casey avoided his momentary burning gaze. Looking down at the mug she had gripped between her hands, she said, “Yes, I love kids….”

Nodding, Matt said, “Megan seemed to really take to you. Her teacher noticed that, too.”

“All I did was stand near her,” Casey protested. And yet, Megan’s blue eyes were always filled with warmth for Casey.

Nodding, Matt quickly finished off his breakfast. “I’d like to speak to you more about that later,” he said, getting up. Picking up his plate and flatware, he carried them over to the sink.

“Of course,” Casey said, fully aware that Matt wanted to talk to her when Megan wasn’t around. “I’d love to give Megan the photos. Are we at a point where I can do that? Charley’s given me two hours off.”

“Right, I know you’re on a deadline,” Matt said, coming back to the table. He put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. His hand was huge in comparison to the child, and Casey found herself wondering what it would be like to have Matt’s hand on her shoulder. The thought was so foreign, so shocking to Casey that she nearly choked on a sip of coffee.

“All done?” Matt asked Megan.

Nodding, Megan held up her emptied plate to her father. She picked up her glass of milk and sipped from it.

Casey’s heart gave a twinge. What would it be like never to hear your child’s voice again? Only grunts, sighs and unintelligible sounds? If it hurt Matt, he didn’t show it. He quickly cleaned the table so that it shone beneath the lamp above it. Casey pulled open her briefcase and withdrew the photos after he’d sat down.

Megan laughed as Casey handed her the four photos. She had made colored eight-by-tens. The joy in the little girl’s eyes made Casey smile. Megan reverently touched them with her fingers, awe in her expression. She would make sounds and hold each of them up for her father to see.

Casey was shocked when Megan scooted out of her chair, left Elmo in it and ran around the table. The little girl threw her arms around Casey’s waist and buried her head against her breasts.

Caught off guard, Casey automatically closed her arms around Megan. She felt the strength of Megan’s thin arms around her. She was surprisingly strong. Leaning down, Casey whispered her name, pressed a kiss to her soft blond hair and gently squeezed her. When she gazed in Matt’s direction, she saw the stunned look on his face. Unsure what his reaction meant, Casey gently untwined Megan’s arms and looked down at her. Megan was crying. Rasping sounds were escaping her contorted mouth.

Heart twisting, Casey whispered, “Come here…” to Megan and brought her back into her arms. Megan instantly crushed herself against Casey, head buried against her. As Megan clung to her, she behaved like a child who was drowning and grasping for a life raft. Casey’s instincts took over. She absorbed the child’s neediness, her hunger to be nurtured and simply cradled. Mind spinning, Casey wondered if Matt had a relationship with another woman who could provide Megan with some maternal care. Obviously, Megan needed to be held by a woman. And probably any woman would do. Gently running her hand across Megan’s flyaway hair, she smoothed the strands down across her head. Rocking her gently, Casey simply allowed the child to stay as long as she wanted in her arms.

Five minutes later, Megan withdrew. Her cheeks were a fiery red and her eyes danced with excitement as she ran around the table, grabbed the photos and then brought them back to Casey. “What is this?” she asked Megan, hoping that she would talk.

Megan made more guttural sounds, like a puppy that was yelping and happy as she waved the photos in front of Casey’s face.

“I think,” Matt said, his voice sounding strangled, “Meggie wants you to help her draw them.” He gave Casey a look that pleaded with her to stay a bit longer.

Casey read his look. “Sure, no problem. Does Megan have crayons and paper in her bedroom?”

Swallowing hard, Matt nodded. His mouth flattened and he tried to hide his shock over Megan clinging to Casey. She’d never done that before. “Yeah…come on,” he said, scraping the chair back and standing.

Casey followed suit. Megan wouldn’t leave her side. Taking the child’s hand, Megan pulled her down a hall and into her bedroom behind her father. Megan’s room was painted a soft pink with ruffled white curtains embroidered with red strawberries. It was a beautiful room that had been painted and decorated with a great deal of care and thought. Matt was standing by the desk getting the crayons out of the drawer for Megan.

Megan dragged Casey over to the desk. She released her hand and sat down, grabbing a black crayon. Matt laid the paper in front of her. Megan then set the pictures next to the paper and rapidly began to draw. As she did, she made excited yelps of happiness.

Casey’s brows rose. She stood inches away from Matt. He looked grave. His mouth was thinned and flexed, as if holding back words or emotions that he couldn’t express right now. Casey could feel the heat of his masculine body and the scent of pine around him. Was it an aftershave lotion he wore? The shampoo he used on his hair? She couldn’t be sure. Dizzied by his nearness, Casey couldn’t move because Megan wanted her at her side.

“Look at that,” Casey whispered, leaning down, her hand resting lightly on Megan’s shoulder. “You’re a wonderful artist!” And indeed, she was. Drawing the barn owl came easily to Megan. She missed nothing, the crayons scattered as she worked feverishly to get the right color of eyes, the tan and creamy feathers on the owl and her bright yellow legs. Looking up at Matt, Casey said, “Wow, your daughter is a real artist. This is amazing!”

Matt took a step back. His gut knotted. Guilt soared through him along with unparalleled joy. Nodding, he didn’t dare try to speak. Swallowing the lump of tears stuck in his throat, he finally managed to say, “Let’s leave Megan alone. She loves to draw. I think she’ll be in here for at least an hour. She’ll draw each of those photos for you. Would you like another cup of coffee?” Matt was desperate to talk with Casey. She had to realize what had just taken place. It was a miracle he’d never dared hoped for. A miracle.

Getting the hint, Casey said, “Yes, I’d love another cup.” Turning to Megan, she patted the child’s shoulder. “You’re doing wonderfully, Megan. Why not draw each photo? I know your dad would love to see them when you’re done. If you need us, we’ll be out in the kitchen.”

Megan was focused on her work. There were no sounds, no recognition, and Casey quietly left the room and followed Matt to the kitchen. There, she found him scowling, a mixture of emotions clearly written on his face. He was leaning against the sink, hands on either side, staring darkly in her direction as she emerged from the hall.

Heart speeding up, Casey walked over to the counter and stood in front of him. She saw he was in a quandary, his mouth working to hold back something, either words or feelings. “Tell me, has Megan ever done this before?”

Matt shook his head. He saw the intelligence burning in Casey’s gray eyes. Hell, if he could, he’d run into her arms just to be held, too. His daughter could do it, but he couldn’t. He whispered, “I guess there’s something special about you, Casey. Megan needed you. I’ve never seen her do this to any other woman.” He didn’t mention there weren’t that many other women who came here. “We go to church every Sunday and there are plenty of opportunities for Megan to run to any woman if she wanted to be embraced and held. But she never has. Not until now…”

He searched Casey’s upturned face. She was beautiful in an arresting way. Her face was broad, oval and she had high cheekbones. He saw a scar on her left temple and realized her nose had been broken. It was no longer straight, but had a bump at the top of it. Her brows reminded him of a bird on the wing. Lashes, dark and thick, framed her glorious gray eyes that reminded him of diamonds softly sparkling.

“I see,” Casey said. She retrieved her coffee cup and filled it. Sitting down at the table, Casey said, “Do you think something good is happening here? Maybe the raptor program broke something loose in Megan? I don’t know her. What do you feel?”

Matt remained leaning against the sink. The coolness of the granite counter calmed him to a degree. His heart was racing. His mind churned. “For whatever reason,” he rasped, keeping his voice purposely low so it wouldn’t carry to Megan’s opened door at the end of the hall, “Megan has finally bonded with someone. Every shrink I took her to said that before she would speak, she’d have to form a bond with another woman. They said at some point, she’d reach out and find a substitute mother. I guess that’s you, Casey….”

CHAPTER FOUR

SHOCKED BY MATT’S STATEMENT, Casey whispered, “I’m not sure I can be that for Megan. I’d like to help her where and when I can, though.”

Rubbing his brow, Matt nodded. There was nothing to dislike about Casey. “Thanks, I realize this is an odd request. I really appreciate anything you can do.” He knew he was asking a lot of her. After all, Casey was a stranger to them, for all intents and purposes. He’d been so startled by Megan’s reaction to Casey, that he’d blurted his request out. Silently chastising himself, Matt realized belatedly he shouldn’t have asked that of Casey. She was a newcomer to the town and this was her first job after college. What a fool he’d been. How to fix it?

Biting down on her lower lip, Casey remained silent. Gwen Garner had told her everything about Matt’s tragedy. It wasn’t up to her to bring it up. She could see the pain in his eyes and had no wish to cause him more.

“I’m sure you know what happened to us,” Matt said without preamble. He automatically looked toward the hall to Megan’s room. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Mrs. Harrington saw such a change in Megan with the owl on her glove that she suggested I call the pediatric psychiatrist in Idaho Falls.” Matt added, “Barbara Ward has been the most help to me in understanding what’s happened to Megan.” He stared darkly down at the mug of coffee in his hands. “And you need to understand what happened, too.”

“Of course,” Casey murmured. Oh, how badly she wanted to reach out and give Matt some sort of solace! She could see his eyes alive with hope and fraught with guilt mingled with fear. His mouth, she was discovering, thinned whenever he was tense. It relaxed when he was not. He had a very kissable mouth. Casey was surprised at her reaction to him. Since her own near-death experience four years ago, she’d lost all interest in men. Until now.

Matt began, “Barbara told me that someday, when Megan’s memory of that night was ready to become conscious, something would trigger it.” He gave Casey a glance. The sympathy written across her features made Matt want to reach out and embrace her. He had no idea where all of that came from and savagely tamped down the unexpected desire. “I believe that the owl incident was a trigger, but I’m not sure. I have a call in to Dr. Ward to discuss it with her.”

“That sounds hopeful,” Casey said.

“Dr. Ward also said that Megan, at some point, might bond with another woman who she perceives as motherlike. A nurturing woman. She felt it would eventually happen.” Matt stared over at Casey and saw surprise flare in her eyes.

Raising her brows, Casey murmured, “Are you thinking Megan has bonded with me?”

Nodding, Matt whispered rawly, “I’ve never seen Megan throw her arms around another woman since her mother’s death. This is a big first, Casey.” Seeing the turmoil and hesitation in Casey’s features, he asked, “How do you feel about that?” He understood not every woman wanted to have children or to be a nurturing mother type. He’d seen other women take career paths where they showered their natural nurturing upon their employees or choosing service work to help others. All women were maternal, he felt, it was just a question of how they expressed it.

“I come from a large family,” Casey explained. “My parents were U.S. Navy pilots for twenty years until they retired from the military. There’s five girls in our family. And two sets of twins.” Casey smiled a little and said, “I’m from the second set of twins and the youngest—I’m twenty-four. My three older sisters say that Selene, my twin, and I, were spoiled rotten because we were the ‘babies’ of our family. I grew up happy in San Francisco. Not all my sisters want a big family.” She smiled fondly. “Selene and I were the ones who played with dolls. The other sisters loved Lego and geek stuff. Someday, I hope to have a family myself, but I’m too young to do that right now. I want to get some roots into my forest-service career.”

Nodding, Matt noticed the softness of her full mouth. “I see. Can I keep in touch with you about Megan after Dr. Ward calls me? I’m in limbo on this, Casey.” He had to give her options. It wasn’t fair to pin her down and insist she had to work with Megan.

Casey felt his desperation. This was a straw to grab at, she realized. His love for his daughter was clearly etched in Matt’s narrow eyes. Despite being a powerful and masculine man, he was being vulnerable with her. She remembered all too clearly her four attackers, big, strapping men in their late twenties, who were Matt’s size and height. There had been no vulnerability in them; they had nearly beaten her to death. Casey remembered some of her attack, but not all of it. She understood as few could about the memories of the trauma being locked away in her brain, too virulent and potentially threatening to her mental stability to be released. That was the way her shrink, Wanda Haversham, had described it to her while she was still in the hospital.

“I understand your position on this,” Casey told him quietly. She glanced over her shoulder toward the hall to make sure Megan couldn’t hear what she was going to say. She handed Matt her business card. “Call me when you hear something from Dr. Ward. I’ll be happy to help Megan if I can.” She saw instant relief come to his rugged features. His mouth suddenly relaxed. His hands released their grip around the coffee mug.

“Thank you,” Matt said, his voice echoing his relief.

SENATOR CARTER PEYTON sat in the rear of the black limo with his red-haired wife, Clarissa. He was continually on his cell phone with his assistants in Washington, D.C. Barely looking out the darkly tinted windows as the driver slowly made his way through the melting slush and traffic on the Easter weekend in Jackson Hole, he continued making his calls. Clarissa looked bored. But when didn’t she? At thirty-five, Carter knew everyone in Wyoming thought he had it made. He didn’t think so.

His life had taken a terrible, twisted turn three years earlier when his first wife, Gloria, and his two young children, Buck and Tracy, had died in a house fire just outside Jackson Hole. Anger grew in him as he thought about it again. And Matt Sinclaire was to blame. The lieutenant had been on duty that night when Gloria had called 911 in a panic. Their multimillion-dollar home that sat perched high on a hill, two miles off the main asphalt road, was on fire. He was stuck in Cody, Wyoming, because of a blizzard, after having attended a meeting of towns-people. The interstates had been shut down and no flights were available. Carter blamed himself for not being at home when it happened. If he had been, he knew his first wife and their children would be alive today. As it was, Sinclaire’s ineptness at getting that fire truck stuck on the muddy dirt road had doomed his family.

“Let’s eat here in town,” Clarissa said. She touched her lacquered red hair to ensure it was in place.

“The housekeeper will have lunch waiting for us,” he growled, flipping his cell phone closed. The limo crawled along. The sky was cloudy and it looked like it was going to snow again. Carter hated going through town because he saw the fire station where Sinclaire worked. It always compounded the rage that was never far beneath the surface.

Pouting, Clarissa said, “All right then, drop me off at the Aspens restaurant on your way home. Bob can pick me up when I’m finished eating.”

Carter felt torn. He’d married Clarissa a year after Gloria’s death. As a senator, he needed a wife at his side. She was a tall, lissome woman who came from a rich banking and ranching family in Cheyenne. She was only twenty-nine to his thirty-five years of age, but astute and selfish as hell. Still, Clarissa was the ideal Washington, D.C., wife. She was cultured, a true political animal like him, and she desired power. Carter felt she had married him because he was a second-term senator for the state of Wyoming. She had her own agenda she wanted to pursue.

“All right,” he murmured. “I know you have quilting friends here you want to chat with over lunch,” he murmured. Tapping Bob on his thin shoulder, he asked his long-time driver to turn and drop his wife off at the Aspens. The driver nodded and turned down another street in the center of town.

Pleased, Clarissa gathered up the snakeskin purse that matched her heels. She was dressed in a black wool pantsuit, white silk blouse and red silk scarf. The red of the silk matched her shoulder-length hair. “Good. After lunch, I’m going to walk over to Quilter’s Haven. I want to see what new fabrics Gwen has gotten in for spring.”

He managed a wry smile. “I imagined you would do that.” In some ways, Carter thanked God for his wife’s passion for embroidery and for her cousin, Julie Neustedder, who was a famous quilting teacher over in Cheyenne. That was how they’d met: there was a quilting fest at the local high school, with two hundred quilts hung for the public to appreciate. Clarissa had been there with her famous cousin. Carter had come because, as a senator, he always went to big events where he could press the flesh and mingle. That was part of the political game. He had found Clarissa a beautiful jewel among the ranching and mining middle class at the quilt festival.

After dropping Clarissa off in front of a restaurant bedecked with a red-and-white-striped awning, Carter climbed back into the car. His wife was happy now. And so was he.

“Home, Bob.”

“Yes, sir,” the fifty-year-old balding, bespectacled man murmured.

Sitting back, Carter felt his stomach knot and unknot. When he was alone and there was nothing to do, the memories of what he’d done always came back to him. He blamed it on guilt. Carter didn’t feel he should feel guilt about a damned thing. The limo sped up as they left the plaza area and headed up the hill toward his home on Moose Road, near the Teton National Forest, and Carter sighed.

When he’d been able to get back from Cody to Jackson Hole, knowing his family had died in that fire, he’d gone straight to the fire chief, Doug Stanley, a forty-five-year-old of German-English descent. Carter had stormed into Stanley’s office to find out why his family had been left to burn alive, and the chief had defended the man at the tip of that spear: Matt Sinclaire.

Carter snorted softly. Firefighters, like lawmen, stuck together and were thick as thieves. Stanley had argued that Sinclaire had done everything humanly possible to save the lives of Carter’s family. There was the blizzard of the century howling through at the time, the roads were not plowed, the country trucks had been ordered to stay off them due to the danger. Snow was piling up so fast and furiously it was impossible to clear the roads. And then, because the spring thaw was underway, Carter’s muddy two-mile-long road was a mire. Sinclaire had ordered the two trucks up the hill and they had both got stuck a mile away from the burning home.

Smiling a little, Carter tapped his fingers on the leg of his expensive black pin-striped suit pants. He’d waited a year after his family’s deaths and then he’d gotten even. Everyone thought a senator was clean, but Carter wasn’t. He knew how to grease the wheels politically and how to manipulate to get whatever it was he wanted. Through Gerald Vern, his most trusted office staffer, Carter had hired a professional arsonist and hit man. Frank Benson, who lived in Driggs, Idaho, about fifty miles from Jackson Hole was paid a hundred thousand dollars and he’d partially fulfilled his contract.

Carter was unhappy when he found out Sinclaire’s daughter had managed to escape the flames; he was very pleased when he found out Megan Sinclaire had gone mute. That was some payback, but not enough.

Flexing his fist, Carter looked to his right to the elk range. The elk always came out of the mountains to be fed and to winter over near Jackson Hole in a range thousands of acres long and fenced. He saw that about half the thousands of animals had already gone back to the mountains. It was, after all, April. The snow wouldn’t melt until early June and the elk were going to the higher elevations to calve.

Rubbing his jaw, he thought about contacting Benson again. It had been two years since Bev Sinclaire had been shot in the head. Carter still wanted Megan dead. He wanted Sinclaire to feel all the anguish and loss he’d felt. Since the fire chief had staunchly defended his employee’s actions, Carter knew a civil trial to sue Sinclaire would do no good. Rubbing his hands together, Carter gloated over the surprise hit on Sinclaire’s family. He smiled a little. Benson was so good at his job that the police had never found the culprit. And he wanted it to stay that way.

“Soon…” he murmured to no one in particular. Peyton had found that timing was everything. Two years had passed and Sinclaire had moved into town and lived in a one-story ranch house a couple of blocks away from the fire station. Things had settled down in this backwater town. Most people now gossiped and talked about other things rather than Bev Sinclaire’s unsolved murder. It was time to strike again. One final, last time…

“I KNOW LIEUTENANT SINCLAIRE is going to be happy about all this,” Cat Edwin said, sitting at the table eating dinner with Casey.

Sighing, Casey shrugged. “I feel ambivalent about it, Cat.” She picked at the romaine and tomato salad Cat had made for them. She’d gotten home an hour earlier, climbed out of her ranger uniform and gotten into a pair of jeans and a green long-sleeved cotton pullover.

“Why?” Cat asked, eating hungrily. She’d been on duty for twelve hours and had the next two days off.

Casey really didn’t know Cat that well; they were new roommates. “It’s just me,” she murmured, chewing on a tomato. She liked the black-haired woman with intense blue eyes. Her square face went with her solid, large-boned build. Cat was no shrinking violet insofar as women went. She was five foot eleven inches tall, weighed a hundred and sixty pounds and was pure muscle. In one room of their large apartment was a complete gym where Cat worked out religiously for at least an hour a day. Casey knew that firefighting was physical and Cat had to be in top shape to work alongside her male compatriots.

“That guy,” Cat said between bites, “is a good dude. What happened to him is a crime—literally.” She wiped her mouth with the yellow linen napkin and settled it back onto her lap. “I’m not assigned to his watch, but all the guys talk favorably about Matt.” She grinned a little and said teasingly, “You know he’s single.”

Casey cringed inwardly; she wanted nothing to do with men. She was still working through the devastation of nearly being beaten to death by five potheads. “My focus isn’t on relationships right now, Cat. I just graduated and I need to do well here at my first assignment.”

Nodding, Cat got up and walked to the kitchen. She’d made spaghetti and meatballs as a main dish. The air was filled with the aromas of tomato, basil and garlic. Coming back with plates piled high with food, Cat handed Casey hers and sat down. “In my job at the fire department there’s no fraternization between me and the guys.” Cat smiled a crooked smile. “That’s okay with me. I’m only twenty-two and frankly, I don’t want to get married young.” She sliced open a huge meatball. “I come from an abusive family. I got out of it as soon as I could. My father beat us with a belt and my mother never stopped him.”

Casey gave her new roommate a sympathetic look. Cat was beautiful in an arresting way. She had slightly tilted blue eyes that gave her broad, square face a subtle exotic look. With her short, dark curls Casey thought she looked like the mythical Greek huntress Artemis. That goddess was a warrior and a hunter and was just as capable as any man.

Casey frowned, thinking that Artemis had never endured hardship like Cat. “I’m sorry to hear of your hardship. I find that among my friends at the university, if any had a father who beat them up or was verbally abusive to them, they didn’t want to get involved in a male relationship any too soon, either.”

Cat held up her hand. “That’s me. Not that I don’t like men, I do.” She frowned. “But in here, in my gut—” she touched her stomach region “—I don’t trust them. I know it stems from my father. I try to work it out in my head and tell myself that not all men are like my father.” Frowning, she twirled the marinara sauce and spaghetti onto a huge spoon with her fork. “So far, I haven’t achieved it. I wish I could. I’ve met some decent men, but my emotions are still stuck back when I was an eight-year-old.”

“Hmm, I understand,” Casey said, sympathetic. She had the same problem, only her distrust of men had started in her sophomore year of college. “Have you seen any progress with yourself as the years go by?” she wondered.

“No,” Cat murmured unhappily. “I look at guys, but don’t touch. My head is stuck in PTSD symptoms, according to what my therapist told me years ago. Until I can grow up emotionally and lose my fear of men, there’s not much I can do.”

“Do you date?”

Cat’s mouth twisted. “I have friends who are men. I do go to dances with them, I share a beer at a local bar sometimes, and I go hiking with them. But real intimacy? No…I’m just not there. Yet.”

Hearing the determination in her roommate’s lowered voice, Casey hoped she wouldn’t have to live her life in that PTSD cage. Someday, after she got to know Cat a lot better, she’d share her story. Truly, they were two peas from the same pod. “You’re pretty, Cat. I don’t know of a guy who wouldn’t give you a second look.”

Laughing sharply, Cat said, “Listen, my looks and my body act as a guy magnet for every man around. Isn’t it sad?” She patted her hip. “I got this fab body and face and I’m scared to death of men! How’s that for pure irony?”

Finishing her salad, Casey nodded. “It is ironic.”

“So? Are you going to work with Lieutenant Sinclaire on behalf of his daughter?” Cat wondered, giving Casey an assessing look.

“I probably will,” Casey slowly admitted. “If I do, it’s for Megan.”

“You’re not interested in him, huh?”

“No.” Casey thought she must be a liar. Matt Sinclaire made her feel things she’d never felt before. He was terribly good-looking, like a rugged model on a magazine cover. There was nothing to dislike about him from what she’d observed so far. “He’s terribly conflicted and guilty over Megan’s condition. He felt that if he’d been home at the time of his wife’s murder, Megan’s muteness wouldn’t have happened.”

Cat snorted. “Listen, you have to attend fire school a couple of times a year. It’s mandatory for all of us. You have to keep up with the evolution of fire suppression and the new equipment coming out. Matt had to go to that school in Cheyenne, Casey. As an officer he can’t just up and decide differently.”

“I understand that,” Casey said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have ulcers over all of this.”

Nodding, Cat savored the meal she’d made for them. She was proud of her culinary abilities. “He doesn’t from what I know, but I see him with dark circles under his eyes from time to time. His men who are on watch with him told me once he has bad insomnia.”

Casey knew that symptom really well. She had restless, sleepless nights, too, particularly around a full moon. She got so she hated that time of the month. Before her concussion and beating, she had always slept soundly and deeply. But no more.

“You know, there’s a new doctor in town,” Cat said, almost to herself, “that I’m thinking of seeing. She’s called a functional medicine specialist.”

“What is that?” Casey asked.

“They deal with PTSD symptoms, from what I understand. And they have a good track record of getting rid of the symptoms from a hormonal level. Her name is Jordana Lawton. I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD, and I thought if there’s a prayer of a chance that she could help me get rid of the symptoms caused by high cortisol levels, I’d give her a try.”

“Let me know what happens?” Casey asked. She’d love to get rid of her PTSD symptoms, too, but no one knew she had them. And no one knew what had happened to her, not even her employer, the USFS. And she wanted to keep it that way. It was a private skeleton in the closet of her life. Casey lived in fear of anyone finding out and then going to her supervisor, Ranger Charley Davidson. There was no telling what the USFS might do. They could fire her because she’d not put down all her medical history on her employment form, for starters. It was a risk Casey had to take.

“Oh,” Cat chortled, “I will.” She smiled over at Casey. “This is the first time I’ve had a roommate. I think it’s going to be nice to share with a sister. I don’t usually share much about myself. We had the elephant of abuse in our family’s living room and I never told anyone at school what was going on. I was so afraid.” Cat reached over and touched Casey’s arm for a moment. “So, if I’m being too talkative and sharing, rein me in, okay? I’m not good at this sharing stuff.” She chortled.

Smiling gently at her roommate, Casey realized how fortunate she’d been to grow up in a safe, loving family. She had four sisters who loved her. “I’m pretty good at chatting myself, so I think we’ll get along fine, Cat.” She saw the woman look a little more relaxed over that admission.

“Great, I think we’re a good pair to be sharing this condo,” Cat said, meaning it. “I know my social graces aren’t the best. I trust women. They aren’t my problem. It’s the men.”

Casey nodded and loaded her spoon with spaghetti. “We share a lot in common, Cat. I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

“Sisters in the battle of life,” Cat said, grinning widely.

Indeed, Casey thought. Right now she had a couple of battles she’d never envisioned: Megan’s unexpected affection and being drawn to Megan’s father, Matt Sinclaire. Casey knew she couldn’t separate one from another. There was a driving force in her to help the eight-year-old. Megan didn’t know it, but they shared much more in common than anyone would ever know.

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