There was no way to second-guess a killer who changed the rules in the middle of a game

When FBI profiler Amberly Nightsong is sent to Mystic Lake to consult with local cops about three ritualistic murders, the last thing she expects is to be a piece in a madman’s sick puzzle. Luckily, she has a sexy lawman on her side. Sheriff Cole Caldwell offers his protection—and stirs an awareness that leaves her breathless.

Cole, a widower, had shut himself off from the possibility of loving again. But as he works side by side with the single mom, he’s drawn to Amberly and will do anything to erase the fear in her eyes. And as the danger intensifies in the form of a killer’s twisted calling card, his vow to keep her and her young son safe will be put to the ultimate test....

“This shook you up pretty badly,” Cole said softly.

Her gaze met his. “I’d be lying if I said anything else.” She sank down on the edge of the bed and set her bag next to her. “Seeing it right here, in the place where I live, in the place where my son sleeps and eats. I don’t think I’ve really processed it until now, while I’m packing up to leave everything.”

“It’s going to be all right,” he said as he shifted from one foot to the other. “We’re going to get this guy.”

She nodded, her head still down. She looked momentarily broken and he ached for her. Since the moment he’d met her, she’d radiated an inner strength, a wealth of spirit that had drawn him to her. But he found himself equally as drawn to the woman seated on the bed who looked like she needed nothing more than a pair of strong arms around her.

He walked over to stand directly in front of her. “Amberly,” he said softly.

She looked up at him then and her beautiful brown eyes were filled with tears. He opened his arms and she shot off the bed and into them as if she’d just been waiting for him to make the offer.

Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake
Carla Cassidy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carla Cassidy is an award-winning author who has written more than fifty novels for Harlequin Books. In 1995, she won Best Silhouette Romance from RT Book Reviews for Anything for Danny. In 1998, she also won a Career Achievement Award for Best Innovative Series from RT Book Reviews.

Carla believes the only thing better than curling up with a good book to read is sitting down at the computer with a good story to write. She’s looking forward to writing many more books and bringing hours of pleasure to readers.

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CAST OF CHARACTERS

Cole Caldwell—Sheriff of Mystic Lake and not thrilled to be working with the beautiful Amberly Nightsong.

Amberly Nightsong—A Native American FBI agent who comes to Mystic Lake to help solve three murders with ritualistic overtones.

Max Nightsong—Amberly’s bright and loving six-year-old son.

John Merriweather—Amberly’s ex-husband and a successful Western painter, who is having difficulty letting go of the Indian princess he’d considered his muse.

Jeff Maynard—A bartender who dated the first victim. He’s a hothead with a nasty reputation.

Raymond Ross—A ladies’ man and friend of Jeff’s, who provided his friend an alibi for the night of the murder. Is it possible he not only lied, but also participated in the murders?

Jimmy Tanner—It’s rumored his marriage is on the rocks and he had a brief affair with one of the victims. Did he kill her to save his marriage?

To Jackie, who gave me two beautiful grandchildren and, for the last four months, has kept my coffee cup full while I work. Thanks and I love you.

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

Epilogue

Chapter One

Amberly Nightsong watched the children pouring out of the grade school, the variety of shapes and sizes and colors decorating the last of the summer grass as they raced to awaiting school buses and parked cars.

As always, her heart swelled as she saw the small, slender dark-haired boy running toward her, his face lit with a beatific smile. Max. At six years old, he owned her heart in a way no other male ever had before.

He opened up the passenger door, threw his bright blue backpack onto the backseat and then got into the car. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Max, how was your day?” she asked as she waited for him to buckle in and then pulled away from the curb.

“Good, except for at recess Billy Stamford called me a sissy boy because I wear a necklace.”

Amberly glanced over at her son and the necklace she’d placed around his neck when he was three years old. It was the same necklace Amberly’s grandmother had placed around her neck when she’d been three years old.

The silver owl had been hand pounded and crafted by her grandfather and was a talisman against evil. The rawhide string that it hung from had been replaced many times over the years, and even though Amberly didn’t live the Cherokee way of her ancestors, when she’d draped it around Max’s neck, she’d figured a lucky charm from her grandfather, intended for protection, couldn’t hurt.

“Did you tell him it isn’t just any necklace but a very special protection necklace? Did you explain to him that the owl and the cougar were the only creatures that stayed awake for the entire seven days of Creation?” she asked.

“Nah, I just told him he was a poo-head, and then we played baseball.”

Amberly bit back a smile, wishing all conflicts could be resolved so easily. But as an FBI profiler, she knew that wasn’t the way life worked. Conflicts got messy and people could be twisted, and by the time she was called to work a case, somebody was almost always dead.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” Max said, a touch of eagerness in his voice.

“Okay.” Amberly slowed the car a bit as they drove by a coffee shop where several people were seated outside, enjoying the early-September sun. “The man in the red shirt,” she said. Their car drove slowly past the shop, and then she stepped on the gas. “Go.”

Max frowned thoughtfully and then began. “His shirt was red and he had on blue jeans. One knee was ripped out and he had on blue-and-white sneakers. He had blond hair and a mustache.”

“Excellent, Max,” Amberly said proudly. “You’re going to be the best FBI agent in the whole world when you get old enough.”

It was a game they played every day on the way home from school, honing his powers of observation. He loved it, especially when he noticed something about somebody or someplace that she hadn’t noticed at all.

They were almost home when her cell phone beeped to indicate a text message. She dug it out of her purse and frowned.

“Looks like I’ll be going to Dad’s,” Max said as he saw her expression.

“Looks like,” she agreed and hit one on her speed dial. Her ex-husband, John, answered on the second ring. “What’s up?” His deep voice, as always, whispered an edge of guilt through her.

“I just picked Max up from school and then got a message that I need to go in.”

“Bring him by. Tell him we’ll order pepperoni pizza for dinner.”

“Okay, be there in ten.” She clicked off and glanced at Max. “Dad said he’ll order pepperoni pizza for supper.”

“Awesome, that’s my favorite. Am I going to spend the night there?”

“Hopefully not, but you know how this goes. I need to find out what’s going on, and then I’ll call later and let you know the plan.”

“Okay,” Max agreed easily.

Amberly thanked the stars that when she and John had divorced four years ago they had remained close friends, both committed to maintaining a healthy relationship for Max’s sake. She was also incredibly lucky that John worked from home and was always available to keep Max, as her work hours were so unpredictable.

Within ten minutes, she pulled into the driveway of the neat ranch house where she had once lived as John Merriweather’s wife. She’d kept her maiden name when they married as an honor to Granny Nightsong, the grandmother who had raised her. Max was a Merriweather by name, but definitely a Nightsong in spirit.

John greeted them at the door, his handsome face wreathed in a smile as he gave Max a fist pump and then smiled at Amberly. “Just dinner or overnight?”

“I don’t know yet. I got a text to see Director Forbes as soon as possible. I’m not assigned right now to anything specific, so I have no idea what to expect. I’ll call you?”

“We’ll be here,” he said as he scuffed the top of Max’s gleaming black hair.

Twenty minutes later, Amberly walked into the downtown Kansas City FBI building. She flashed her badge and identification to the security guard on duty, despite the fact that she’d been coming into the office at least five days a week for the past eight years, since four weeks after her twenty-second birthday.

The passion she should have felt for John when they’d married had always been superseded by her passion for her job. She’d known in her heart as she’d walked down the wedding aisle that she was making a mistake, but three months pregnant and desperate to create a family unit for the baby she carried, she’d said “I do.”

For the next three years she had tried to make it work. But she’d known her own unhappiness with the marriage and had sensed John’s. Ultimately, she’d left the marriage behind when Max was two, with the determination to keep the divorce as friendly and healthy for her son as possible.

All thoughts of John and her failed marriage fled her head as she knocked on Director Daniel Forbes’s door. “Enter,” his deep voice boomed.

She opened the door to see her boss seated at his desk. Even sitting, he was an imposing figure with his steel-gray hair and matching eyes.

“Agent Nightsong.” He gestured her into the chair in front of his desk. “Mystic Lake.”

Amberly blinked. It always took her a minute or two to adjust to Director Forbes’s form of abrupt communication. There were times she wasn’t sure if he knew nouns and verbs could be used to form a complete sentence. She waited for him to continue.

“You know it?”

“Not well. Small town about twenty miles from here.” When she was with Director Forbes she found herself talking in sentence fragments, as well, as if he had a communication disease that was contagious. “Problems?”

“Three murders. Ritualistic overtones. The third victim was found forty-five minutes ago.”

“Have we been invited in?” Amberly asked.

Forbes frowned, a deep vertical cut appearing in the center. “The mayor called me. Doesn’t want us in officially but would like somebody there to unofficially aid law enforcement.”

“So, local law enforcement isn’t eager.”

“That’s probably an understatement,” he replied. “You’re assigned in a consulting capacity, and they’re holding the latest scene for your arrival. It’s in the city park. Your contact is Sheriff Cole Caldwell.” He gave a curt nod of his head toward the door, his official dismissal.

Minutes later, Amberly was back in her car and headed to the small town of Mystic Lake. All she knew about the little town was that it was built at the edge of a small lake and that its Main Street had a reputation for quaint antique shops, crafty boutiques and intriguing eateries, which drew tourists during the summer months.

As she drove, she reached into the center section of her car console and withdrew a length of red licorice from a package she kept stashed there. She’d quit smoking on the day she’d found out she was pregnant with Max, changing that addiction to one for red licorice.

Sheriff Cole Caldwell. She chewed thoughtfully. She could just imagine what she would be up against, some good old boy who ran the place with an iron fist and wore a fat belt buckle to hold in his immense beer belly.

In her experience, small-town sheriffs hated two things—anyone questioning their authority and FBI agents. She glanced at her watch. It was already almost five. She might as well give John a call and tell him it was going to be an overnighter with Max.

She had no idea what she was walking into, but if it was serial kills with ritualistic overtones, then she had a feeling there were going to be a lot of overnighters with John for Max in the near future.

She took the highway exit that would lead to the town north of Kansas City. One of the things she loved about this city was the fact that within a fifteen-minute drive, you could be out of the concrete jungle and into rolling pastures and shady woodlands.

There were times she thought about moving out here, someplace outside the city limits, where Max could have room to maybe have a horse, but she couldn’t discount the convenience of having John living a mere three blocks from the small house where she and Max now lived.

As she turned onto Main Street of Mystic Lake she wondered where, exactly, the city park might be. As she looked up and down each side street she passed, she steeled herself for joining a party where she was, in effect, an uninvited and unwanted guest.

“The willow tree bends but rarely breaks in the force of a gale.” It was Granny Nightsong’s voice that whispered through her head. Amberly smiled, the warmth of her memory tempered by grief.

Granny Nightsong had been a curious blend of Cherokee and flat-out crazy. Although she’d passed some of the traditions of her heritage to Amberly, Granny was also prone to making up legends and old, wise sayings to fit the circumstance. When Granny had taught Amberly the Stomp Dance of their people, Amberly had recognized more than a little bit of jitterbug in it.

Granny Nightsong fled from her mind as she looked down a side street and spied what appeared to be the city park. As she turned and headed in that direction, she knew she was right. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung from one tree to another, and several official cars were parked in the graveled lot.

She pulled up next to them and got out of her car, immediately halted by a stern-faced young deputy. “Crime scene working, nobody is allowed in this area,” he said.

She flashed her badge and continued forward. As she got closer to the scene, her mind processed several things at one time…the victim, a pretty, blond-haired young woman, lay beneath the overhanging branches of a tree, and in the tree limb above her head was a bright red-and-yellow dream catcher…and Sheriff Cole Caldwell was a tall, dark-haired hottie without a belly bulge in sight as he leaned closer to the dream catcher for a better look.

He suddenly snapped his head around as if he’d somehow sensed her approach. She had one instant of noticing strong, handsome features before they twisted with anger and the blue of his eyes went icy cold as he straightened to his full height.

“Lady, can’t you see this is a crime scene? Deputy Walkins, escort this woman away from here.” His voice was deep, authoritative, as if he was accustomed to people jumping immediately to obey his orders.

Amberly held up a hand to stop the deputy, who moved toward her with a sense of purpose. She showed her identification and flashed the sheriff a bright smile. “Don’t worry, I might look like a Native American, but actually I’m the Cavalry sent to save the day.”

It was at that moment that she realized Sheriff Cole Caldwell had absolutely no sense of humor.

“I DIDN’T CALL FOR FBI assistance,” Cole said. Cole hadn’t been fond of the FBI since they’d botched a kidnapping job eight years ago that had resulted in the murder of his wife. “It was our mayor who called.” And that call had held up the entire process while they all stood around and waited for Ms. I’m-Going-To-Fix-Your-Work-FBI-Agent to arrive.

“Yeah, I wasn’t exactly expecting the welcome wagon to be drawn up for me,” she replied dryly. “Agent Amberly Nightsong,” she said and held out a hand to him.

“Sheriff Cole Caldwell.” Her skin was soft, but her handshake was firm.

One thing was clear: the FBI agents of his memory were nothing like the stunning woman standing before him. It was obvious she was Native American. Her skin was a dusty bronze, and her cheekbones were high and well-defined.

She had doe eyes, round and dark and long lashed, and her hair was a rich, deep black that was captured in a braid that fell down the length of her back.

Worn jeans hugged long legs, and the bright yellow T-shirt she wore seemed to make her eyes darker and her skin glow with an inner light.

She took a step closer to the victim, and he watched her through narrowed eyes. “First of all, I’m not sure what your thinking is, but no self-respecting Native American would have done this and left those cheap Made In China dream catchers at the scene,” she said.

In truth, he’d wondered if perhaps the perp was a Native American, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. “You have an ID?” she asked.

“Victim is twenty-seven-year-old Barbara Tillman.”

“A local?” she asked.

Cole nodded. “She worked as a teacher’s aide at the grade school and lived in an apartment complex just off Main Street.”

“And there have been two others before her?”

A fire of frustration burned in Cole’s gut as he nodded once again. “Twenty-six-year-old Gretchen Johnson was found in front of a trash can next to a pizza place, and twenty-five-year-old Mary Mathis was found in front of the library.”

“And dream catchers were hung at all three scenes?”

“Yes. When Gretchen Johnson was found, my first suspect was her boyfriend, but I couldn’t break his alibi for the time of death. Then Mary showed up. Both women had been stabbed multiple times at some unknown location, then left at the sites, and the dream catchers were hung at both scenes. Both bodies had Taser marks and indications that they’d been bound and gagged.”

“So, he Tasers them to incapacitate them and then ties them up and takes them someplace else, where he stabs them and then stages the dump scene with the dream catchers.” She frowned thoughtfully. “And how long has it been since Mary’s murder?”

“Two weeks. And it was four weeks between Gretchen’s and Mary’s murders. Have you seen enough? I’d like to start processing the scene. We haven’t even allowed the coroner in yet.”

“Knock yourself out,” she said with a step backward.

As the coroner, a fat, balding man named George Thompson, moved in to assess time and method of death, Cole called to the three deputies who he’d meticulously trained in crime-scene procedure.

He gathered them in a group just far enough from where Agent Nightsong stood that he hoped she wouldn’t hear the conversation. “Do your jobs and do them well,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t want any mistakes.” Especially with the eyes of the FBI watching…judging their every move.

Once the coroner was finished with his examination of the body, he announced that he believed the murder had occurred at some point the night before, probably between the hours of midnight and three. Method of death was obvious, multiple stab wounds to the chest. He then stepped back to allow the deputies to begin their work.

Cole moved to stand next to Agent Nightsong. Beneath the odor of death that hung in the still air, he could smell the faint scent of her, a welcome smell of blooming exotic flowers.

The scent, so distinctly feminine and wafting from such a beautiful woman, stirred him on a base level that made him slightly uncomfortable.

“I suppose you already have a profile of the killer, neatly tied up with a bow,” he said, vaguely aware that he sounded a bit surly.

She turned to look at him, her eyes filled with an edge of amusement. “You aren’t the vision of a small-town sheriff that I had in mind while I was driving here, and hopefully you’ll discover I’m not the uptight, upright FBI agent that you assume I am.”

He narrowed his gaze as he stared at her. “And what vision did you entertain of me on your drive here?”

“Definitely shorter and rounder.” She turned her attention to his men, meticulously moving around the crime scene with evidence bags and tweezers, their feet covered in booties. “I anticipated nobody who knew the first clue about a murder investigation, because I doubt if you see much of this kind of crime in this size of town, but it looks like your men all know what they’re doing.”

He didn’t know if she expected him to be pleased about her assessment of him or his men’s work. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t much give a good damn about what she thought.

“And no,” she continued, “I don’t have a profile all neatly tied up with a bow in my head. It’s far too early in the game for a full profile. Once this scene has been processed, I’d like copies of the files of the other two murders.”

“Once we’re finished up here, you can follow me to the office, and I’ll see to it that you get copies.” He was confident she would find nothing wrong with the way he’d conducted his investigations so far.

Unfortunately, there weren’t many leads to follow at the moment. He’d already had one of his deputies find out the availability of the dream catchers and discovered that they were sold in most dollar stores and some craft and hobby shops in and around the area.

“The dream catchers…they’re supposed to keep bad dreams away or something like that, right?”

She smiled and the beauty of that gesture shot an unexpected heat through Cole. It had been years since he’d allowed himself to feel anything for any woman, and the fact that a little lick of lust stirred in him for this woman didn’t improve his mood at all.

“The legend is that the dream catcher was used by the Woodland Indians to catch all dreams, both good and bad. The bad dreams get caught in the webbing and burn off with the morning sun. The good dreams are caught and make their way to the hole in the center, where they filter down the feathers and are dreamed.”

He looked back at the victim and the dream catcher hanging over her head. “So, our perp wants to make sure our victims have only good dreams in death?”

“Or he wants you to believe that he’s of Native American descent,” she replied.

“But you don’t think he is,” he countered.

She frowned thoughtfully. “At this point, there’s no way of really knowing. Certainly most Native Americans I know who own dream catchers have the real thing made with their own hands with either soaked willow or grapevine. They’re usually very personal and made with lots of love.” She flashed him another quick smile. “But of course, that’s the old way.”

He wondered if the FBI powers-that-be had specifically chosen her for this job because of her Native American background.

They fell quiet as the men continued their jobs, and the victim was eventually taken away. It was growing dark when the last of the work was done at the scene of the crime, and Agent Nightsong followed Cole to the sheriff’s office.

He’d found her an irritant all evening. It wasn’t anything she’d said. For the most part, she’d been silent. It had been the way she’d watched them with those intelligent, enigmatic eyes.

Cole had found himself snapping at his men, feeling as if both he and all of them were on display and Agent Nightsong was just waiting for errors to occur so she could step in and take over.

As he drove toward the office, with her in her own car just behind him, he drew in a deep breath to ease the tension that had crackled through him since the moment she’d arrived on scene.

He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he didn’t need some kind of help. This latest murder had definitely shaken him up. Not only did he lack the manpower for the kind of investigation these murders required, but he also lacked resources. Mystic Lake was a small town with very little crime, and it had been years since Cole had done the kind of police work that was now required of him.

He probably would have asked for help, but it ticked him off that the mayor hadn’t even discussed the issue with him and instead had just gone behind Cole’s back and then told him he’d called the feds.

As far as Cole was concerned, it had shown a lack of respect, which heated his insides along with the other feeling that fired inside him each time his gaze landed on Amberly Nightsong.

He’d give her the copies of the files of the other murders, and then she’d be on her way back to Kansas City. She wasn’t officially a part of the case. She was just here as a consultant of sorts. She’d read the files, call him with her thoughts, and that would be the end of it.

His hands relaxed on the steering wheel as he turned into the parking lot behind his office. Funny that his lust hormones hadn’t been active for eight long years and now had suddenly decided to awaken for the one woman he wanted absolutely nothing to do with.

She parked beside his car and joined him at the back door of the building. “It should take about twenty minutes or so to get copies of those files ready for you,” he said as he used his key to unlock the back door of the building.

He gestured her into the hallway. A door on the left led to a conference room, a second to a small break room, and to the right was his private office. There was also an interrogation room. Ahead were the reception area and the deputy desks, with the jail in the basement of the building.

He took her into the conference room, where the old wall-size bulletin board was covered with crime photos of the two previous murders. It had become their war room, devoted specifically to the murders since the second one had occurred.

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll be back with copies of the files,” he said.

She nodded absently, already engrossed in the photos on the board.

She was still standing in front of the board when he reentered the room fifteen minutes later. She appeared to be so deep in thought she didn’t hear his return.

He took a brief moment to admire the curve of her butt in her tight jeans, the waist-length braided rope of thick hair that seemed to beg to be released from its binding. He cleared his throat, not liking the drift of his thoughts.

She whirled around to face him. “I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t some sort of a mercy-killing element to these. He killed them and then tried to assure that they would have happy dreams through eternity. Were any of the women sick? Maybe terminally ill?”

“According to the autopsy reports, both Mary Mathis and Gretchen Johnson were in perfect health, and of course we won’t know about Barbara Tillman until George performs the complete autopsy. I should have something from him by midday tomorrow.”

She frowned. “Well, that shoots my potential initial theory right out the window.” She smiled. “But then it isn’t unusual for me to throw out several of my theories before settling on the one that’s right.”

The room was too small and filled with that evocative scent of her. He was suddenly far too focused on her lips, which were covered with a nude, glossy lipstick. He should be thinking about the photos of the victims on the board, not the vibrant, beautiful woman in front of him.

“Here are the files,” he said briskly and thrust them toward her. He wanted her gone, away from him. She unsettled him in a way that was distinctly uncomfortable.

“Thanks. Once I plow through these, I’ll feel like I’m up to speed.”

He gestured her out of the conference room and down the hallway toward the front of the building. When they reached the main area, he introduced her to Linda Scott, who served as receptionist/secretary and dispatcher.

“Where do you send your forensic evidence for analysis?” she asked when they stepped out the front door and into the warm September night.

“We use a lab in Kansas City. We don’t have any facilities here.”

“I could get you access to the FBI lab.”

“That’s not necessary,” he replied. “I’m satisfied with the lab we’re already using.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

“Do you sleep under a dream catcher?” he asked, the personal question leaping from his mouth before he’d actually considered asking.

“My son does. The day he was born my granny Nightsong made him one to hang above his bed. I don’t sleep beneath one.” Her chocolate-brown eyes seemed to grow a tad bit darker. “I need to allow myself to have nightmares. It’s one of the ways I get in touch with people who do things like this.” She held up the files.

“You must have terrible dreams,” he observed.

“Sometimes I do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He watched as she got into her car. He wasn’t surprised that she had a family. A woman as bright as her, as beautiful as her, would have been snapped up by some man as quickly as possible.

As her car disappeared in the distance, he felt a touch of relief that she was definitely off-limits. Not that he was interested, not that he cared.

Cole had locked his heart away eight years ago when he’d lost his wife and every dream he’d ever entertained of being a husband and a father, and he had no intention of ever unlocking it.

If he was lucky he wouldn’t see Agent Amberly Nightsong again. She’d phone in a report to him and that would be the end of her involvement in this case.

He turned on his heels and headed back into the office. He had three murders to solve and didn’t have time to entertain thoughts of a hot-looking, married FBI agent who, for a moment, had stirred emotions long dead inside him…emotions he intended to remain dead for the rest of his life.

Chapter Two

Amberly swigged the last of the coffee in her cup and then got up from her table as she eyed the microwave clock. Almost seven-thirty. She needed to get out of here if she wanted to stop by John’s house and see Max before he left for school.

She grabbed the files that had kept her up most of the night and her purse and then left the house. As she drove the three blocks, she tried to slough off the exhaustion of a night of too little sleep.

These murders in Mystic Lake had already grabbed her by the throat, and she had a feeling they wouldn’t let her go until somebody was behind bars.

She’d always been grateful that she usually had a level of detachment to the cases she worked that made her most effective and allowed her to leave the crime and the crime scene at work, keeping it from bleeding into her personal life.

These crimes felt different already. As she’d gone through the files she’d been unable to maintain that emotional distance that had always made things easier.

Maybe it was because the victims were not much younger than her own thirty years of age. Maybe it was the brutality alongside the beauty of the dream catcher, which was such a part of her heritage.

She shoved all thoughts of the files and the murder victims out of her mind as she pulled into John’s driveway.

For the next few minutes, her thoughts and attention would be solely focused on Max. He greeted her at the front door, dressed for school in a pair of jean shorts and a white-and-red-striped pullover shirt. She fought the impulse to reach out and tamp down the cowlick at the back of his head.

“Mom,” he said in surprise and threw himself into her arms.

Amberly hugged him tight, knowing that all too quickly the day would come when he would think it was uncool for his mommy to hug him. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning,” he said as they finally disengaged from each other.

“I couldn’t start my day without seeing my favorite boy,” she replied. “Where’s your dad?”

“In the kitchen, making French toast. You gonna eat with us?”

“I’m not hungry, but it sure smells good.”

John appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Bacon and French toast, and I’ve got plenty.”

“Thanks, but no. However, I wouldn’t turn down a quick cup of coffee while you two eat.”

He gestured with the pancake turner in his hand. “Come on, then. Max, wash your hands, it’s on the table.”

As Max ran for the bathroom, Amberly followed John into the kitchen. He pointed her to a chair and then poured her a cup of coffee. “You look tired,” he said.

“Late night. There’s a serial murderer working in Mystic Lake, and I’ve been assigned to consult.” She told him no more, having learned early in their marriage that John didn’t want to hear about her work as a profiler.

John was an artist who’d made his name painting Western pictures with a glow of splendor. His world was one of beauty and history, and he’d never wanted her to bring the ugliness of her world inside their home.

At that moment, Max returned to the kitchen and slid into the chair where his breakfast awaited. As he ate, he chattered about the math test his dad had helped him study for the night before, his dream that he was riding in a car and excited about where they were going but being disappointed when he woke up before they’d arrived at their destination. By then it was time for Max to brush his teeth and finish getting ready for school.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Amberly said to John as he walked her to the front door.

“Anytime. So, I’m assuming we’re going to play things by ear when it comes to where Max is staying.”

Amberly nodded. “I just don’t have a good handle right now on where this is all going to lead. My plan right now is to be home by five or so tonight. If you can pick up Max from school, then I’ll try to be here around then to pick him up and take him back to my place for the night.”

John nodded. “Just let me know. You know I love it when he’s here.” There was a slight censure in his voice, as if what he wanted to say was that they all should be together under this roof, still a united family.

“Thanks again, John. I’ll be in touch.” She left, refusing to shoulder the guilt he’d subtly tried to put on her. As much as she would have loved for Max to have a mother and father that were together, the marriage hadn’t worked. She and John should have remained good friends and never crossed the line into intimacy.

As she pulled out of the driveway to head to Mystic Lake her thoughts returned to the files in the seat next to her. One thing was clear after reading the reports and interviews that had been conducted after each murder: Cole Caldwell was good. In fact, he was better than good.

As she made the drive to the small town, she played and replayed the information she’d read the night before. Building a profile of a killer wasn’t an easy task. Not only did the method of kill and the crime scene hold clues to coming up with a working profile, but the victims and their lives usually held clues, as well.

By the time she reached Mystic Lake and found a parking place in front of the sheriff’s office, she was wishing for another cup of coffee to help jolt her into full-performance level.

She was dressed less casually today, clad in a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeved white button-down blouse. She’d been caught off guard yesterday, but today she felt more prepared to look and act the role of FBI consultant.

She entered the office and smiled at the woman Cole had introduced to her the night before. “Hi, Linda, is Sheriff Caldwell in?”

“I’m Lana, Linda’s twin sister. She works nights and I work days. And you are?” She raised one of her dark eyebrows.

“Special Agent Amberly Nightsong.”

“Is Sheriff Caldwell expecting you?” There was an obvious protective tone in her voice.

“I’m not sure if he is or not, but I’m here,” Amberly replied.

“I’ll see if he’s available.” She picked up the phone and swirled her chair so that her back was to Amberly. She whispered for a moment and then whirled back around and hung up the phone. “He’s in his office. You can go on in.”

Amberly walked through the gate that divided the public area from the more private space and headed directly to Cole’s office. She knocked and heard his gruff response. She opened the door to find him seated behind his desk, a scowl doing nothing to detract from his handsomeness.

“I didn’t expect to see you here today,” he said.

“Why not? This is an active case and I intend to be here every day until you have the killer in jail.” She closed the office door and took a seat in the chair across from him. “Granny Nightsong would take a look at your expression right now and say that the grouch bird bit you on your butt while you slept last night.”

He stared at her in surprise. “And Granny Nightsong is…”

“My grandmother. She raised me from the time I was three until she died four years ago.” She’d accomplished what she’d intended: his scowl was gone, at least for the moment.

“That’s right, you mentioned her before.”

“So, what have you learned since I left here yesterday?” she asked.

“I’ve been back to the crime scene to see if anything was missed but found nothing. There is a kill site somewhere, but we have no idea where it might be. My deputies have been pounding the streets interviewing Barbara’s friends and family members. I’ve been going over the interviews as they bring them back to me.”

“Anything specific jump out at you?” she asked.

He shook his head and leaned back in his black leather chair. “Nothing. It’s just like the other two. Method of death was five stab wounds to the chest. According to the coroner who did the autopsy last night, the wounds were made with a six-inch straight blade and were in a downward motion, indicating that the killer was taller than the victims.”

“Probably male,” she replied.

“That’s definitely the path I’m pursuing. Not only is there a height difference that would indicate a male killer, but it also takes a tremendous amount of strength to stab a chest as deeply as these victims were stabbed. She also had Taser marks and was bound at her wrists and ankles at some point before her death.”

“After studying the files, I have a few more thoughts to add to the mix,” she said.

He sat forward. In the small office, she could smell the scent of his cologne, a pleasant woodsy scent that fired her feminine hormones. His eyes were the blue of still waters, deep and fathomless, and his intense stare made her slightly uncomfortable.

“First of all, the killer obviously wants attention. He makes no attempt to hide his kills but rather displays them in public places. If I were you, I’d try to control the information any media outlet is getting. He’ll feed on anything that’s about the murders.”

“I’d already thought about that, but in this day and age, it’s fairly difficult to control the flow of information about anything,” he replied, his frown threatening to return.

“The usual profile is that he’s probably between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. He’s probably a Caucasian, although I’ll admit I’m not ruling out that it could be somebody of Native American descent.”

“Is that why you were chosen for this particular assignment?”

She looked at him in surprise. To be perfectly honest, she hadn’t considered it before this moment. “Maybe,” she admitted. “I suppose it makes sense that the director would utilize me if he thought there was any kind of Native American overtones to the crimes.”

“But except for the dream catchers, there aren’t any other overtones,” he replied.

“At least none that we’ve initially seen so far,” she replied and then smiled. “I try to keep all my options open this early in an investigation.” She crossed a leg and leaned forward. “And tell me, Sheriff Cole, you aren’t a local here, right?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your investigative skills are too sharp, your reports too well written for a man who’s spent his entire career in a small town.”

“I grew up here and then left to go to college in St. Louis. Once I graduated, I joined the police force there and within two years had worked myself to detective.”

That made sense, and she patted herself on the back for recognizing that he was more than a small-town sheriff, that he’d had his real training on the mean streets of St. Louis. “So, what brought you back here?” she asked, curious.

His blue eyes deepened in hue, becoming the haunting color of midnight. “I was working a murder case, a triple homicide. The FBI had been called in for some assistance, and of course, once they got involved, they completely took over the case.”

He hesitated a moment and drew in a long, deep breath. “For some reason, the killer focused in on me personally. He managed to kidnap my wife.”

Although his words were delivered in a flat, emotionless tone, Amberly sensed a wealth of pain beneath the words, a pain too great for expression. She felt a tightening in her chest as she recognized his story probably didn’t have a happy ending.

“The killer, Jeb Wilson, held her in an abandoned house for two days. We finally managed to find the place and had it surrounded. I had found a way in through a broken window in the basement, but the FBI refused to let me go in. They had decisions to make, red tape to cut or whatever, and so the rescue process was delayed by twenty minutes. When we finally got inside, my wife was dead, but her body was still warm. She’d been killed within minutes of us getting inside. As far as I’m concerned, the FBI was as responsible for her death as Jeb Wilson.”

DESPITE THE FACT THAT EIGHT long years had passed, the agony of that moment, of finding his wife dead, had never eased, had never lessened. And there had always been a part of him that blamed the FBI agents for not having the capability of moving fast enough when his wife’s life had hung in the balance.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, obviously aware that her words of consolation meant nothing. “You know, we don’t always get it right.”

Surprisingly, these words, the knowledge that she knew the agency she worked for sometimes screwed up, somewhat satisfied him. “Well, I don’t intend to screw up these cases,” he said. “The families of these women have a right to know what happened to them and why.”

“The why isn’t obvious yet,” she said, a tiny frown dancing across the center of her forehead. “I’d like to see the reports and interviews your deputies have gathered together since I left last night. We need to somehow find a common denominator among these women. That would be the first step in identifying a possible motive and suspect. And we need to do it fast. There were four weeks between his first kill and his second and only two weeks between the second and third. We have no idea how quickly his time line is escalating.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said dryly. He got up from his desk, finding the small office stifling with her scent wafting in the air and her presence far too close to his desk. “Why don’t we move to the conference room? Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Absolutely. My belief is you can’t have enough coffee, and you can’t have enough red licorice.” He looked at her in surprise. “Changed the nicotine habit to a licorice habit years ago and have yet to kick the licorice addiction.”

“Personally, I’m a black-licorice kind of guy,” he replied, as if he needed to remind her, assure himself of how different they were.

They stepped out of his office, and as she headed down the hall to the conference room, he went into a break room that held a round table, a minifridge and a coffeepot.

As he poured the coffee into two foam cups, an edge of irritation swept through him. He’d told her too much about himself. He didn’t want her to know his personal information, and he certainly didn’t want to know hers, but he’d spilled his guts to her, and he wasn’t sure why.

He had three murders to solve, and he couldn’t allow his head to get muddied with the evocative scent of her, the intelligent depths of her beautiful eyes.

She had a family, she was here to help him solve murders and not to awaken feelings that had been dead for eight years, feelings he never wanted to experience again.

By the time he walked into the conference room, he felt as if he was once again under control. He placed a cup of coffee in front of her at the table. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I brought some sugar packets along.”

“Black is fine,” she replied. “Did you know the victims personally?”

He took the chair next to hers so they were both looking at the bulletin board. “Mystic Lake is a small town. I know most everyone here personally.”

“Tell me about the victims, information that wasn’t in the official reports. What kind of women were they? What did they like to do in their spare time?”

He knew what she was attempting to do—she was hoping to find a connection between the three women, a connection that might lead them to the killer, a connection he had yet to make.

“First victim, Gretchen Johnson, worked as a bartender at a place at the edge of town called Bledsoe’s. She was tough, had been around the block a few times and lived in an apartment behind the bar. Mary Mathis was a hairdresser at the beauty shop, lived at home with her parents and was dating Craig Brown at the time of her death,” he began. “She liked to gossip, loved to shop and seemed well liked by everyone.”

“Either of the other two victims go to that beauty shop?” she asked.

“According to the owner of the salon, neither Gretchen nor Barbara got their hair done there.”

“So, we can mark that off as a potential connection for the victims.”

He nodded, wishing he’d chosen the other side of the table to sit, where he wouldn’t be so close to her. She wore no wedding ring, although he supposed there were plenty of married women around who didn’t wear a ring.

He frowned and refocused. “I’ve tried to connect their lives, but these three women didn’t know each other well. They didn’t socialize together, they weren’t involved in the same activities and hobbies. Mary was a chatty hairdresser, Barbara was a shy teacher’s aide and Gretchen was a bartender at a rough-and-tumble place on the north edge of town. I can’t find where their lives intersected.”

“If these are just random victims, then it’s going to make our job that much more difficult,” she replied as she stared at the board.

Our job.

She’d already taken half possession of the crime. He tried to be angry about it, but the truth of the matter was he wanted this killer caught before he killed again, and if it took Agent Amberly Nightsong’s help to accomplish that, then he’d accept it. The stakes were too high to get into a territorial dispute.

“They might be random, but they have their approximate ages in common. However, Mary had light brown hair, Gretchen was dark haired and, as you know, Barbara was a blonde. So, at this point, we don’t know that he has a specific type of woman, other than that they were all around the same age.”

She pulled her braid over the front of her shoulder and toyed with the end of it, a gesture he found ridiculously sensual, as he could imagine the spill of that thick, shiny hair across his bare chest.

He jumped out of his chair, nearly upending his cup of coffee in the process. “I need to get out on the streets and check in with some of the townspeople. You’re welcome to stay in here as long as you want.”

“I’d much prefer to go with you,” she said as she also rose from the table. She grabbed her purse, pulled the strap over her shoulder and then looked at him expectantly.

He’d be a total tool to insist she stay here. Besides, he had to stop fighting the fact that, at least for now, she was part of his team.

“Suit yourself,” he replied. “I usually walk Main Street about this time of day. It’s more important than ever this morning. Everyone will want to give me their take on the murder, and somewhere in the minutia of their gossip, I might glean a clue.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed. “And maybe by the time we get back here, your deputies will have some more interviews for us to go over.”

“I’ve got a meeting set up with everyone at one this afternoon so we can sort through all the information that’s been gathered,” he replied.

They stepped out into the bright morning sunshine, and Cole felt the tension that had ridden his shoulders since she’d first walked into his office finally begin to ease.

He’d worked most of the night, making notification to Barbara’s family, seeking out potential witnesses and then studying the photos that had been taken at the scene.

Maybe it was because he was tired that he seemed so acutely aware of Amberly, not just as an FBI agent but as a beautiful woman. As he drew in a lungful of fresh air, he centered himself, pulling his mind from her and instead focusing on connecting with the people he served and trying to gain any information that might help him catch the killer who had struck not just once, but three times.

The sheriff’s office was located smack-dab in the middle of the main drag of the small town. It was just before ten o’clock, and the stores were preparing to open.

He’d come back to Mystic Lake to escape his pain, and he’d found a home among good people who seemed to genuinely care about each other.

“It’s a nice town,” she observed after they’d walked a little ways.

“You hadn’t been here before yesterday?” he asked.

“Never, although I’ve heard about the cool antique and craft shops. Some of my friends have gotten terrific stuff from here at great prices.”

“And you aren’t an antique bargain hunter?” He slid her a quick sideways glance.

“It seems like for the last four years I’ve been putting together a house where the most important room’s décor has gone from dinosaurs to stars and planets and now to all things law enforcement. My living room is still half-done, my bedroom has nothing more than a bed and a dresser, but Max has the room that every six-year-old boy dreams about.”

“What about your husband?” He couldn’t help himself. He had to ask.

“Ex-husband. John is an artist. He does quite well painting Western pictures that sell for obscene amounts of money. He lives close to me, and we’ve remained friends, hoping that the divorce won’t leave too many scars on Max.”

“John Merriweather?”

She looked at him in surprise. “You know his work?”

He nodded. “I like his work. I just can’t afford it.” He paused as Bill Walton, who owned an old-fashioned barbershop, stepped outside his shop’s door and motioned to him.

“’Morning, Bill,” he said to the thin, middle-aged man with a glorious mane of golden hair.

“Sheriff… Ma’am.” His gaze lingered a moment on Amberly and then snapped back to Cole.

“Heard about Barbara Tillman. You got a suspect in these murders yet?”

“Yeah, and you’re right on the top of the list,” Cole said wryly.

Bill snorted. “Right. As if Erin would ever let me out at night to wander around for anything, and I guess by your answer that you don’t have anyone on the suspect list.” His gaze slid back to Amberly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He held out his hand. “Bill Walton, the one and only barber in town.”

“Amberly Nightsong,” she replied as she shook his hand and then released it.

“Amberly is with the FBI. She’s helping me with the case,” Cole said.

“Lucky you,” Bill exclaimed. “Getting to hang around with a gorgeous woman all day. All I get is old men with hairy heads and ears.”

Amberly smiled. “I’m just here to help Sheriff Caldwell solve the crimes.”

Cole noted that her cheeks held a heightened color as if the compliment had embarrassed her. That single fact made her more human, and he felt a bit more of the tension around his shoulders slip away.

They moved on from the barbershop, talking to people and shopkeepers they met along the way. The topic of conversation was always the murder the night before.

Cole listened to their impressions and theories about the murders—and everyone had their own theory.

By the time they’d finished their walk down Main, it was close to noon. “I usually eat lunch at the café,” he said and pointed down the street to a red awning. “Want to join me?”

“Sure. To be honest, I’m running strictly on coffee this morning and could definitely use something more substantial.”

Within minutes, they were seated at a booth in the busy café, waiting for their orders to arrive. “I especially like the theory that it is space aliens coming into town to commit the murders and hang the dream catchers,” she said, repeating what Wilma Townsend had said as they’d stopped at her craft store.

Cole smiled. “Every town has a resident kook, and Wilma is ours.” His smile lasted only a moment. “What bothers me is that it’s possible we spoke to the killer this morning, that he greeted us with a smile on his face.”

“It’s also possible he isn’t a local,” she replied. “You get a lot of transient traffic through town because of the unique shops and restaurants.” He tried not to notice how the sunshine drifting through the window caught and gleamed on her hair. “We often find that the first victim holds most of the clues as to what drives the perp. You mentioned that Gretchen Johnson had a boyfriend?”

“Jeff Maynard. A hothead with a nasty reputation. They worked together at the bar, and the night of Gretchen’s death, had a public fight before leaving work. I was so sure he was my man, but several of his friends swear that they all left work together and played poker until near dawn.”

“Are these men who would lie for him?”

“Absolutely, but I haven’t been able to break one of them. Then when Mary showed up dead, I couldn’t find any connection between her and Jeff Maynard.”

She frowned thoughtfully and took a sip of her water. As she placed the glass down, her gaze met and captured his. He’d never been a fan of brown eyes before, but hers seemed to draw him in. “Is it possible Jeff killed Gretchen, and then feeling the heat of your investigation and being your main suspect, he killed the other two to take the heat off him?”

Cole shrugged. “I suppose anything is possible at this point.”

“I’d like to talk to Jeff. Can you make that happen?”

“Jeff kind of drifts during the week. He spends time staying at different friends’ places, both here and in Kansas City. The best time to catch up with him is on a Friday or Saturday night at Bledsoe’s, the bar where he works.”

“Tomorrow is Friday. I’ll plan on heading to the bar around ten. In my experience, nothing much happens before that time in bars.”

“Why don’t you meet me at my house and we’ll go together?” he suggested.

“That isn’t necessary,” she protested.

“Oh, but it is. A beautiful woman like you would be eaten alive in that dive.”

She leaned forward and gave him a smile that torched through him. “Have you forgotten, Sheriff Caldwell, I’m an FBI agent and I carry a gun?”

“And might I remind you that you don’t know the players, you won’t know who else in the bar might be carrying, and as a responsible member of the law enforcement of this town, I can’t allow you to go in there alone.” There was more than a hint of steel in his deep voice.

He had no idea what the hell he was doing. He hadn’t wanted her here in the first place, he didn’t like the way she made him feel, and yet here he was, insisting he go with her to a rowdy bar on a Friday night.

He told himself he’d use her to help solve the crime and that was all he wanted from her, but even as this thought shot through his mind, it battled with the question of what her lips would feel like beneath his own.

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