About the Author

Though born in Chicago and raised in L.A., CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Seviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

Unforgettable
Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Sara Hanson, the next writer in the family.

As always, to Rick.

Chapter One

Morning sunlight sliced into the rocky alcove where he had taken shelter. A blinding glare hit his eyes. The sun was a laser pointed directly into his face. He sank back into the shadows.

If he stayed here, they’d find him. He had to move, to run … to keep running. This wasn’t the time for a nap. He shoved himself off the ground where he’d been sleeping and crouched while he got his bearings.

Behind him, the rock wall curved like bent fingers. Another boulder lay before him like a giant thumb. He had spent the night curled up inside this granite fist.

How did I get here?

Craning his neck, he peered over the edge of the thumb. His hideout was halfway up a slope. Around him were shrubs, lodgepole pines, more boulders and leafy green aspen trees. Through the trunks, he saw the opposite wall of a steep, rocky canyon.

Where the hell am I?

His head throbbed. The steady, pulsating pain synchronized with the beating of his heart.

When he raised his hand to his forehead, he saw a smear of dried blood on the sleeve of his plaid, flannel shirt. My blood? Other rusty blotches spattered the front of his shirt. Was I shot? He took a physical inventory. Apart from the killer headache, he didn’t seem to be badly hurt. There were scrapes and bruises but nothing serious.

By his feet, he saw a handgun. A SIG Sauer P-226. He checked the magazine. Four bullets left. This isn’t my gun. He preferred a Beretta M9, but the SIG would do just fine.

He felt in his pockets for an ammunition clip and found nothing. No wallet. No cell phone. Not a useful packet of aspirin. Nothing. He wasn’t wearing a belt or a holster. Though he had on socks, the laces of his steel-toed boots weren’t tied. Must have dressed in a hurry.

He licked his parched lips. The inside of his mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on a penny. The coppery taste was a symptom, but he didn’t know what it meant. I could ask the paramedics. Oh, wait. Nobody’s here. Nobody’s coming to help me.

He was on his own.

His fingers gingerly explored his scalp until he found the source of his pain. When he poked at the knot on the back of his head, his hand came away bloody. Head wounds tended to bleed a lot, but how had that blood gotten on the front of his shirt?

He remembered shots being fired in the night. A fist-fight. Running. Riding. On a horse? That can’t be right. He wasn’t a cowboy. Or was he?

No time for speculating. He had to move fast. In four days …

His mind blanked. There was nothing inside his head but a big, fat zero.

In four days, something big was going down, something life-changing and important. Why the hell couldn’t he remember? What was wrong with him?

The chirp of a bird screeched in his hypersensitive ears, and he was tempted to go back to sleep. If he waited, the truth would catch up to him. It always did. Can’t escape the truth. Can’t hide from reality.

He closed his eyes against the sun and gathered his strength. A different memory flashed. He wasn’t in a forest but on a city street. He heard traffic noise and the rumble of an overhead train. Tall buildings with starkly lit windows loomed against the night sky. He fell on the pavement. Shadows devoured him. He fought for breath. If he lost consciousness, he would die.

His eyelids snapped open. Was he dead? That was as plausible an explanation as any.

This mountain landscape was the afterlife. Through the treetops, he saw a sky of ethereal blue. One thing was for damn sure. If he was dead, he needed to find an angel to tell him what came next.

CAITLYN MORRIS STEPPED onto the wide porch of her cabin and sipped coffee from her U.S. Marine Corps skull-and-crossbones mug. A crisp breeze rustled across the open meadow that stretched to the forested slopes. Looking to the south, she saw distant peaks, still snowcapped in early June.

A lock of straight blond hair blew across her forehead. She probably ought to do something about her messy ponytail. Heather was going to be here any minute, and Caitlyn didn’t want to look like she was falling apart.

She leaned her elbows on the porch railing and sighed. She’d moved to the mountains looking for peace and solitude, but this had been a busy little morning.

At daybreak, she’d been awakened by an intruder—a dappled gray mare that stood outside her bedroom window, nickering and snorting, demanding attention. The mare hadn’t been wearing a bridle or saddle, but she had seemed tame. Without hesitation, she’d followed Caitlyn to the barn. There, Caitlyn kept the other two horses she was renting for the summer from the Circle L Ranch, which was about eight miles down the winding dirt road that led to Pinedale.

After she’d tended to the wayward horse, sleep had been out of the question. She’d gotten dressed, had breakfast, put in a call to the Circle L and went back to the horse barn to check the inventory slip for the supplies that had been delivered from the hardware store yesterday.

A handyman was supposed to be starting work for her today, even though it was Saturday. Most of her projects didn’t require two people, but she needed help to patch the barn roof. She checked her wristwatch. It was almost nine o’clock, and the guy who answered her ad had promised to be here by eight. Had he gotten lost? She really hoped he wasn’t going to flake out on her.

When she saw a black truck coming down the road, her spirits lifted. Then she noticed the Circle L logo and the horse trailer. This wasn’t her handyman.

The truck pulled into her drive and a tall, rangy brunette—Heather Laurence, half-owner of the Circle L—climbed out. “Good to see you, Caitlyn. How are you doing?”

There was a note of caution in the other woman’s voice. Nobody from this area knew exactly why Caitlyn had come to live at this isolated cabin, which had been a vacation home for her family since she was a little girl with blond pigtails and freckles.

She hadn’t wanted to tell her story, and folks from around here—even someone like Heather, whom she considered a friend—didn’t push for explanations. They had a genuine respect for privacy.

Caitlyn held up her skull-and-crossbones mug. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The heels of Heather’s cowboy boots clunked on the planks of the porch as they entered the cabin through the screen door.

When Caitlyn arrived here a month ago, it had taken a week to get the cabin clean enough to suit her. She’d scrubbed and dusted and repainted the walls of the front room a soothing sage green. Then she’d hired horses for company. Both were beauties—one palomino and the other roan. Every day since, she’d made a point of riding one in the morning and the other in the afternoon. Though she certainly didn’t need two horses, she hadn’t wanted to separate one from the others at the Circle L. No need for a horse to be as lonely as she was.

Sunshine through the kitchen windows shone on the clean-but-battered countertops and appliances. If she decided to stay here on a more permanent basis, she would resurface the counters with Turkish tile.

“Looks nice and homey in here,” Heather said.

“It had been neglected.” When she and her brother were living at home, the family spent every Christmas vacation and at least a month in the summer at the cabin. “After Mom and Dad moved to Arizona, they stopped coming here as often.”

“How are they doing?”

“Good. They’re both retired but busy.” Caitlyn poured coffee into a plain blue mug. “Cream or sugar?”

“I take it plain and strong.” Heather grinned. “Like my men.”

“I seem to remember a summer a long time ago when you were in love with Brad Pitt.”

“So were you.”

“That sneaky Angelina stole him away from us.”

Heather raised her coffee mug. “To Brad.”

“And all the other good men who got away.”

They were both single and in their early thirties. Caitlyn’s unmarried status was a strategic career decision. She couldn’t ask a husband to wait while she pursued her work as a reporter embedded with troops in war zones around the globe.

“That crush on the gorgeous Mr. Pitt must have been fifteen years ago,” Heather said. “A simpler time.”

Fifteen years ago, September eleventh was just another day. Nobody had heard of Osama bin Laden or the Taliban. “Before the Gulf War. Before Afghanistan.”

“You’ve been to those places.”

“And it doesn’t look like I’ll be going back any time soon.” A knot tightened in her throat. Though Caitlyn wasn’t ready to spill her guts, it wouldn’t hurt to tell her old friend about some of the issues that had been bothering her. “The field office where I was working in the Middle East was closed down due to budget cuts.”

“Sorry to hear it. What does that mean for you?”

“I’ve got a serious case of unemployment.” And a lot of traumatic memories. Innumerable horrors she wanted to forget. “I’m not sure I want to continue as a journalist. That was one of the reasons I came here. I’m taking a break from news. No newspaper. No TV. And I haven’t turned on my laptop in days.”

“Hard to believe. You were always a news junkie, even when we were teenagers.”

“Your brother used to call me Little Miss Know-It-All.” Her brother was four years older and as cute as Brad Pitt. “I had such a huge crush on him.”

“You and everybody else.” Heather shook her head. “When Danny finally got married, you could hear hearts breaking all across the county.”

Danny was still handsome, especially in his uniform. “Hard to believe he’s a deputy sheriff.”

“Not really. Remember how he always played cops and robbers?”

“Playing cowboy on a ranch is kind of redundant.”

After days of solitude, Caitlyn enjoyed their small talk. At the same time, she felt an edge of anxiety. If she got too comfortable, she might let her guard down, might start welling up with tears, might turn angry. There was so much she had to hold back.

She looked through her kitchen window. “Do you know a guy named Jack Dalton?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“He answered my ad for a handyman. And he was supposed to be here over an hour ago.”

“Caitlyn, if you need help, I’d be happy to send over one of the hands from the ranch.”

She wanted to remain independent. “This guy sounded like he’d be perfect. On the phone, he said he had experience as a carpenter, and he’s a Gulf War veteran. I’d like to hire a vet.”

“You spent a lot of time with the troops.”

“And I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t mean to be rude, but I just can’t.” Suddenly flustered, she set down her mug on the countertop. “Let’s go take a look at the horse that showed up on my doorstep.”

After years of being glib and turning in daily reports of horrendous atrocities, she hated to find herself tongue-tied. Somehow, she had to get her life back.

WEAVING THROUGH THE BOTTOM of the canyon was a rushing creek. He sank to his knees beside it and lowered his head to drink. Ice-cold water splashed against his lips and into his mouth. It tasted good.

No doubt there were all kinds of harmful bacteria in this unfiltered water, but he didn’t care. The need for hydration overwhelmed other concerns. He splattered the cold liquid into his face. Took off his flannel shirt and washed his hands and arms. His white T-shirt had only a few spots of dried blood.

As far as he could figure, he’d been sleeping in his boxers and undershirt. He’d been startled awake, grabbed his flannel shirt and jeans, jammed his feet into his boots and then …

His scenario was based on logic instead of memory. The remembering part of his brain must have been damaged by the head wound. His mind was like a blackboard that had been partially erased. Faint chalk scribbles taunted him. The more he concentrated, the more they faded. All he knew for sure was that somebody was trying to kill him.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been on the run, but he didn’t know why. Was he an innocent victim or an escaped felon? He suspected the latter. If he’d ever rated a guardian angel, that heavenly creature was off duty.

His first need was for transportation. Once he’d gotten away from this place, he could figure out what to do and where to go.

He tied the arms of his flannel shirt around his hips, tucked the SIG into the waistband of his jeans and started hiking on a path beside the creek. Though it would have been easier to walk along the nearby two-lane gravel road, his instincts warned him to avoid contact.

The canyon widened into an uncultivated open field of weeds, wildflowers and sagebrush. This landscape had to be the Rocky Mountains. He’d come to the Rockies as a kid, remembered hiking with a compass that pointed due north. It was a happier time.

A black truck hauling a horse trailer rumbled along the road. He ducked behind a shrub and watched as the truck passed. The logo on the driver’s side door read: Circle L Ranch, Pinedale, Colorado.

Good. He had a location. Pinedale. Wherever that was.

He trudged at the edge of the field near the trees. His head still throbbed but he disregarded the pain. No time for self-pity. He only had four days until …

He approached a three-rail corral fence in need of repair. Some of the wood rails had fallen. Two horses stood near a small barn which was also kind of dilapidated. The log cabin appeared to be in good shape, though.

He focused on the dark green SUV parked between the cabin and the horse barn. That would be his way out.

A woman with blond hair in a high ponytail came out of the barn. Around her waist, she wore a tool belt that looked too heavy for her slender frame. At the porch, she paused to take a drink from a water bottle. Her head tilted back. The slender column of her throat was pure feminine loveliness. That image dissolved when she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her denim shirt.

He didn’t want to steal her SUV. But he needed transportation.

Coming around the far end of the corral, he approached.

When she spotted him, she waved and called out, “Hi there. You must be Jack Dalton.”

It was as good a name as any. “I must be.”

Chapter Two

Caitlyn watched her new handyman as he came closer. Tall, lean, probably in his midthirties. He wasn’t limping, but his legs dragged as though he was wading through deep water. Rough around the edges, he hadn’t shaved or combed his thick, black hair. His white T-shirt was dirty, and he had a plaid shirt tied around the waistband of his jeans.

When he leaned against the corral fence, he seemed to need the rail for support. Was he drunk? Before ten o’clock in the morning? She hadn’t asked for references. All she knew about Jack Dalton was that he was a veteran who needed a job.

“On the phone,” she said, “you mentioned that you were in the army.”

“Tenth Mountain Division out of Fort Drum, New York.”

Colorado natives, like Caitlyn, took pride in the 10th Mountain Division. Founded during World War II, the original division was made up of elite skiers and mountain climbers who trained near Aspen. “Where were you stationed?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

After the time she’d spent embedded with the troops, she had a great deal of empathy for what they had experienced. To be completely honest, she had self-diagnosed her own low-grade case of post-traumatic stress disorder. But if Jack Dalton had come home from war an alcoholic, she had no desire to be his therapist. “Have you been drinking, Jack?”

“Not a drop, ma’am.”

In spite of his sloppy clothes and posture, his gaze was sharp. He was wary, intense. Maybe dangerous.

She was glad to be wearing her tool belt. Hammers and screwdrivers were handy weapons. Just in case. She looked behind him toward the driveway leading up to her house. “Where’s your car?”

“I had an accident. Walked the rest of the way.”

“Are you hurt?”

“A bit.”

“Oh my God, I’m a jerk!” She’d been treating him with suspicion, thinking he was a drunk when the poor guy was struggling to stay on his feet after a car accident. “Let’s get you inside. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Caitlyn. I feel terrible for not realizing—”

“It’s all right.” He pushed away from the fence, obviously unsteady on his feet. “I was hoping you could loan me your car and your cell phone so I could go back to my truck and—”

“You’re not driving in your condition.” She went to him, grabbed his arm and slung it over her shoulder. “Come on, lean on me.”

“I’m fine.”

He tried to pull away, but she held on, adjusting his position so none of her tools poked into his side. Jack was a good seven or eight inches taller than she was, and he outweighed her by sixty or seventy pounds. But she could support him; she’d done this before.

As they moved toward the back door to her cabin, she flashed on a memory. So real, it felt like it was happening again, happening now.

The second vehicle in their convoy hit a roadside bomb. The thunder of the explosion rang in her ears. Still, she heard a cry for help. A soldier, wounded. Reporters weren’t supposed to get involved, but she couldn’t ignore his plea, couldn’t stand by impartially and watch him suffer. She helped him to his feet, dragged him and his fifty pounds of gear to safety before the second bomb went off.

Her heart beat faster as adrenaline pulsed through her veins. If she closed her eyes, she could see the fiery burst of that explosion. Her nostrils twitched with the remembered stench of smoke, sweat and blood.

At the two stairs leading to the door, Jack separated from her. “I can walk on my own.”

With a shudder, she forced her mind back to the present. Her memories were too vivid, too deeply carved into her consciousness. She’d give anything to be able to forget. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

His shoulders straightened as he gestured toward the door. “After you.”

The back door opened into a smallish kitchen with serviceable but elderly appliances and a beat-up linoleum floor of gray and pink blobs that she would certainly replace if she decided to stay at the cabin through the winter. Mentally, she started listing other projects she’d undertake. Repair roof on the horse barn. Replacing the railing on the porch. Staying busy kept the memories at bay.

She led Jack to the adjoining dining room and pointed to a chair at the oblong oak table. “Sit right there, and I’ll bring you some water.”

“Something’s wrong.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

He stood very still, watching her, waiting for her to talk. Not going to happen. She knew better than to open the floodgate and allow her nightmare memories to pour into the real world.

Deliberately, she changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

“I could go for a sandwich.”

Up close, he was disturbingly handsome with well-defined features and a dark olive complexion. His eyes were green—dark and deep. Not even his thick, black lashes could soften the fierceness in those eyes. He’d be a formidable enemy.

She noticed a swelling on his jaw and reached toward it. “You have a bruise.”

Before her fingers touched his face, he snatched her wrist. His movement was so quick that she gasped in surprise. He had the reflexes of a ninja. Immediately, he released his grasp.

As he moved away from the table, she could see him gathering his strength, pulling himself together. He went through the dining room into the living room. His gaze darted as though assessing the room, taking note of where the furniture was placed. He ran his hand along the mantle above the fireplace. At the front door, which she’d left open, he peered outside.

“Looking for something?” she asked.

“I like to know where I am before I get comfortable.”

“Reconnaissance?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Trust me, Jack. There’s nothing dangerous in this cabin.” He wasn’t entering an insurgent hideout, for pity’s sake. “I don’t even have a dog.”

“You live alone.”

Women living alone were never supposed to admit that they didn’t have anyone else around for protection, especially not to a stranger. Her hand dropped to the hammer on her tool belt. “I’m good at taking care of myself.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Though he kept his distance, she didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Like a predator. “Would you please stop pacing around and sit?”

“Before I do, I need to take something out of my belt.” He reached behind his back. “I don’t want you to be alarmed.”

Too late. “Of course not.”

He pulled an automatic pistol from the waistband of his jeans. The sight of his weapon shocked her. She’d made a huge mistake by inviting him into her cabin.

THE THROBBING IN HIS HEAD made it hard to think, but he figured he had two options. Either he could shoot Caitlyn and steal her car or he could talk her into handing over the car keys voluntarily.

Shooting her would be easier.

But he didn’t think he was that kind of man.

He reassured her again, “Nothing to worry about.”

“I’d feel better if you put the gun down.”

“Not a problem.” He placed the SIG on a red heart-shaped trivet in the center of the table, took a step to his left and sat in the chair closest to the kitchen. From this angle, he had a clear view of the front door.

She asked, “Do you mind if I check your weapon?”

“Knock yourself out.”

She wasted no time grabbing the gun. Expertly, she removed the clip. “Good thing you had the safety on. Carrying a gun in your waistband is a good way to shoot your butt off. Why are you carrying?”

There were plenty of lies he could tell her about why he was armed, but an efficient liar knows better than to volunteer information. “It never hurts to be prepared.”

She gave a quick nod, accepting his response.

Apparently, he was good at deception. When she’d asked about his military service, he hadn’t hesitated to cite the 10th Mountain Division, even though he didn’t remember being in the army or being deployed.

His story about the car accident had been a simple and obvious lie. Everybody had car trouble. Claiming an accident prompted automatic sympathy.

If he’d planned to stick around for more than a couple more minutes, he would have felt bad about lying to her. She was a good woman. Kindhearted. When he’d said he was hurt, she’d rushed to help him, offered her shoulder for support.

Taking his gun with her, she headed toward the kitchen. “I hope egg salad is okay.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I told you before, call me Caitlyn. I’m not old enough to be a ma’am.”

And you can call me Jack, even though I’m pretty sure that’s not who I am. He rolled the name around in his memory. Jack Dalton. Jack. Dalton. Though the syllables didn’t resonate, he didn’t mind the way they sounded. Henceforth, he would be Jack Dalton.

Caitlyn poked her head into the dining room. “If you want to wash up, the bathroom is the first door on the right when you go through the living room.”

He followed her directions, pausing to peek into the closet near the front door. If he was going to be on the run for any period of time, he’d need a jacket. A quick glance showed a couple of parkas and windbreakers. Nothing that appeared to be his size. A rifle stood in the corner next to the vacuum cleaner.

At the bathroom, he hesitated before closing the door. If the men who were chasing him showed up, he didn’t want to be trapped in this small room with the claw-footed tub and the freestanding sink. He checked his reflection in the mirror, noting the bruises on the right side of his face and a dark swelling on his jaw. Looked like he’d been in a bar fight. Was that the truth? Just a bar fight? The simplest answer was usually the correct one, but not this time. His problems ran deeper than a brawl. There were people who wanted him dead.

He searched the medicine cabinet. There was a wide selection of medical supplies. Apparently, a woman who swaggered around with a tool belt slung around her hips injured herself on a regular basis. He found a bottle of extra-strength pain reliever and took three.

After trekking through the forest, his white T-shirt was smeared with dirt, and he didn’t exactly smell like a bouquet of lilacs. He peeled off the shirt and looked in the mirror again. In addition to patches of black and blue on his upper right arm and rib cage, a faded scar slashed across his chest from his clavicle to his belly button. He had a couple of minor scratches with dried blood. A deeper wound—newly healed—marked his abdomen. What the hell happened to me? These scars should have been a road map to unlock his memory.

Still, his mind was blank.

He washed his chest and pits. His worst injury was on the back of his head, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. No matter how he turned, he couldn’t see the damage.

There was a sound outside the bathroom door. A car approaching? They could be coming, could be getting closer. Damn it, he didn’t have time to mess around with bandages or sandwiches. He needed to get the hell away from here.

He slipped through the bathroom and looked out the front window. The scene in front of her house was unchanged. Nobody was coming. Not yet.

Caitlyn called out, “Hey, Jack.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She charged into the living room and stopped when she saw him. A lot of women would be repulsed by his scars. Not Caitlyn. She stared at his chest with frank curiosity before lifting her gaze to his face. “White or rye?”

“Did you get a good look?”

She shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”

Her attitude intrigued him. If he hadn’t been desperate to get away from this area, he wouldn’t have minded spending time with her, getting to know what made her tick. “Are you a nurse?”

“I used to be a reporter, embedded with the troops.” She moved closer. “I know some basic first aid. I could take care of those cuts and bruises.”

He didn’t like asking for assistance, but the head wound needed attention. He went to his chair by the table and sat. “I got whacked on the back of my skull.”

Without hesitation, she positioned herself behind him. Her fingers gently probed at the wound. “This looks bad, Jack. You should be in the hospital.”

“No doctors.”

“That’s real macho, but not too smart.” She stopped poking at his head and pulled a chair around so she was sitting opposite him. Their knees were almost touching. “I want you to look at my forehead. Try to focus.”

“You’re checking to see if my pupils are dilated.”

“If you have a concussion, I’m taking you to the hospital. Head injuries are nothing to fool around with.”

He did as she asked, staring at her forehead. Her eyebrows pulled into a scowl that she probably thought was tough and authoritative. But she was too damn cute to be intimidating. A sprinkle of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Her wide mouth was made for grinning.

In her blue eyes, he saw a glimmer of genuine concern, and it touched him. Though he couldn’t remember his name or what kind of threat brought him to this cabin, he knew that it had been a long time since a woman looked at him this way.

She sat back in her chair. “What really happened to you? You didn’t get that head injury in a car accident.”

How could he tell her the truth? He didn’t have the right to ask for her help; he was a stranger. She didn’t owe him a damn thing. “I should go.”

“Stay.” She rested her hand on his bare shoulder. Her touch was cool, soothing. “I’ll patch you up as best I can.”

For the first time since he woke up this morning, he had the feeling that everything might turn out all right.

Chapter Three

Caitlyn only knew one thing for sure about Jack. He was stoic—incredibly stoic. His ability to tolerate pain was downright scary.

Moments ago, she’d closed the wound on his head with four stitches. Though she’d used a topical analgesic spray to deaden the area, the effect wasn’t like anesthetic. And she wasn’t a skilled surgeon. Her clumsy stitching must have hurt a lot.

He hadn’t flinched. When she had finished, he turned his head and calmly thanked her.

After that, he had wanted to leave, but she insisted that he stay long enough to eat something and have some water. After sewing him back together, she was invested in his survival.

Also, she was curious—an occupational hazard for a journalist. She wanted to get Jack’s true story.

They sat at her dining room table, and she watched as he devoured an egg salad on light rye. She’d found him a faded black T-shirt that belonged to her brother, who wasn’t as big as Jack but wore his clothes baggy. The fabric stretched tight across Jack’s chest. Underneath were all those scars. How had he gotten wounded? In battle? The long ridge of puckered flesh on his torso was still healing and couldn’t have been more than a couple of months old. If he’d been injured in military service, he wouldn’t have been discharged so quickly.

She nibbled at her own sandwich, trying to find a nonintrusive angle that might get him talking. In her work, she’d done hundreds of interviews, some with hostiles. The direct question-and-answer approach wouldn’t work with Jack.

“You’re not from around here,” she said, “What brought you to the mountains?”

“Beautiful scenery. Fresh air.”

Spare me the travelogue. “Where did you grow up?”

“Chicago.”

Was he a kid from the burbs or a product of the mean streets? Instead of pushing, she offered an observation of her own. “One of the best times I had in Chicago was sailing on Lake Michigan at dusk, watching as the lights of the city blinked on.”

He continued to eat, moving from the sandwich to a mouthful of the beans she’d heated on the stove.

“Your turn,” she said.

“To do what?”

“I tell you something about me, and then you share something about yourself. It’s called a conversation.”

His gaze was cool, unreadable and fascinating. The green of his eyes contained dark prisms that drew her closer. “You have questions.”

“We’re just having a chat. Come on, Jack. Tell me something about growing up in the Windy City.”

“The El,” he said. “I don’t care for underground subways, but I always liked riding the elevated trains. The jostling. The hustle. Made me feel like I was going someplace, like I had a purpose.”

“Where were you going?”

“To see Mark.” As soon as he spoke, his eyebrows pinched in a frown. He swallowed hard as though he wanted to take back that name.

“Is Mark a friend?”

“A good friend. Mark Santoro. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Me, too.”

His friend’s name rang a bell for her. Even though she hadn’t been following the news regularly, she knew that the Santoros were an old-time but still notorious crime family. For the first time in weeks, she glanced longingly at her laptop. Given a few minutes to research on the internet, she might be about to solve the mystery of Jack Dalton.

“I haven’t been honest with you, Caitlyn.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t have a car accident.”

“What else?”

“There are some guys looking for me. They’ve got a grudge. When I came here, I thought I could use your car for a getaway. But that’s not going to work.”

“Not that I’m volunteering my SUV for your getaway, but what changed your mind?”

“If I have your car, it connects you to me. I don’t want anybody coming after you.”

She agreed. Being targeted by the Santoro family wasn’t her idea of a good time. “We should call the police. I have a friend, Danny Laurence, who’s a deputy sheriff. He’s somebody you can trust.”

“I’m better off on my own.”

He rose from the table, and she knew he was ready to depart. She hated the thought of him being out there, on his own, against powerful enemies. She bounced to her feet. “Let me call Danny. Please.”

“You’re a good person, Caitlyn.” He reached toward her. When his large hand rested on her shoulder, a magnetic pull urged her closer to him. Her weight shifted forward, narrowing the space between them. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “It’s best if you forget you ever saw me.”

As if that would happen. There weren’t a whole lot of handsome mystery men who appeared on her doorstep. For the past month, she’d been a hermit who barely talked to anyone. “You won’t be easy to forget.”

“Nor will you.”

“For the record, I still think you need to go to the hospital.”

“Duly noted.”

From outside, she heard the grating of tires on gravel.

Jack had heard it, too. In a few strides, he was at the front window, peering around the edge of the curtain.

A 1957 vintage Ford Fairlane—two-toned in turquoise and cream—was headed down her driveway. She knew the car, and the driver was someone she trusted implicitly. His vehicle was followed by a black SUV with tinted windows. “Do you see the SUV? Are these the people who are after you?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “They’ve seen your car so you can’t pretend you’re not here. Go ahead and talk to them. Don’t tell them you’ve seen me.”

“Understood.” She gave him a nod. “You stay in the house. I’ll get rid of them.”

Smoothing her hair back into her ponytail, she went to the front door, aware that she might be coming face-to-face with the enforcers for a powerful crime family. Panic fluttered behind her eyelids, and she blinked it away. This wasn’t her first ride on the roller coaster. She’d gotten through war zones, faced terrorists and bloody death. A couple of thugs from Chicago shouldn’t be a problem.

From the porch, she watched as the Ford Fairlane parked near her back door. The black SUV pulled up to the rear bumper of her car before it stopped.

She waved to Bob Woodley—a tall, rangy, white-haired man who had been a longtime friend of her family. He was one of the few people she’d seen since moving back to the cabin. A retired English teacher, he had been a mentor to her when she was in her teens. “Hi, Mr. Woodley.”

He motioned her toward him. “Get over here, Caitlyn. Give an old man a proper hello.”

When she hugged him, he must have sensed her apprehension. He studied her expression. His bushy eyebrows pulled into a scowl. “Something wrong?”

“I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “What brings you here?”

“I was visiting Heather at the Circle L when these two gentlemen showed up. Since I’m a state congressman, I figured it was my duty to extend a helping hand to these strangers by showing them how to find your cabin.”

She looked past him toward the SUV. The two men walking toward her were a sinister contrast to Mr. Woodley’s open honesty. Both wore jeans and sports jackets that didn’t quite hide the bulge of shoulder holsters. Dark glasses shaded their eyes.

Woodley performed the introductions. “Caitlyn, I want you to meet Drew Kelso and Greg Reynolds.”

When she shook their hands, their flesh was cold—either from the air-conditioning in their car or because they were reptiles. “What can I do for you?”

Woodley said, “We understand that you had a visitor this morning.”

How did they know about Jack? Had her cabin been under surveillance? “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“The dappled gray mare,” Woodley said. “You had Heather come over and pick it up.”

“Oh, the horse.” She rolled her eyes in an attempt to look like a ditzy blonde. She didn’t want these men to take her seriously, wanted them to dismiss her as harmless. “Silly me, I’d already forgotten about the horse.”

The one named Reynolds said, “It belongs to someone we know.”

“Your friend needs to be more careful,” she said. “The horse showed up on my property without a saddle or a bridle or anything.”

The friendly smiles she offered to the two thugs went unanswered. They meant business.

The taller, Drew, had sandy hair and heavy shoulders. His mouth barely moved when he spoke. “We’re looking for the guy who was riding that horse.”

“I didn’t see anybody.” She widened her eyes, even fluttered her lashes. “Like I said, no bridle or saddle.”

Drew said, “If you saw him, it’d be smart to tell us.”

His comment sounded a bit like a threat. “Who is this person? What’s his name?”

“Tony Perez.”

With complete honesty, she shook her head. “Never heard of him. But I’ll be on the lookout. Is there a number I should call if I see him?”

Drew handed her a business card that contained only his name and a cell phone number.

“I guess that wraps up our business.” Woodley checked his wristwatch. “I’d better shove off.”

She wanted to cling to him and plead for him to stay until these two men were gone. “Can’t you stay for coffee?”

“Sorry, kiddo. I’m running late for an appointment in Pinedale.” He strolled toward his vintage Ford Fairlane. “I hope you gents can find your missing friend.”

They gave him a nod and headed toward their SUV. Caitlyn breathed a little sigh of relief. They were leaving. The crisis was averted.

Before Woodley climbed behind the steering wheel, he said, “Don’t be a stranger, Caitlyn.”

He drove down her driveway and turned onto the road. The two men stood beside their SUV talking. With every fiber of her being, she wanted them gone. These were two scary guys. Why hadn’t Mr. Woodley been able to see it?

They came back toward her. Drew said, “We want to take a look around. To make sure he’s not hiding around here.”

“That’s not necessary.” She positioned herself between him and her front porch. “There’s nobody here but me.”

Drew glanced over his shoulder at the other man, Greg Reynolds. He was neat and crisp. His boots were polished. His charcoal sports jacket showed expensive tailoring, and his thick black hair glistened in the sunlight. She guessed that he was a man of expensive tastes, definitely the boss.

Greg gave a slight nod, and Drew walked toward her cabin. Short of tackling him, there was no way Caitlyn could stop him. Still, she had to try.

“Hey.” She grasped his arm. “I told you. There’s nobody here.”

Slowly, he turned toward her and removed his sunglasses. He didn’t need to speak; the curl of his upper lip and the flat, angry glare from his eyes told her that he wouldn’t hesitate to use violence. And he would most likely enjoy hurting her.

She stepped back. Silently, she prayed that Jack had hidden himself well or had managed to slip out the back door.

“This is for your own safety,” Drew said. “Tony Perez is dangerous.”

As she entered her cabin, her heart was pumping hard. She shoved her hands into her pockets so no one would notice the trembling.

Jack had cleaned up every trace of his presence. On the dining room table, there was only one plate and one bottled water. She watched as Drew went into the bathroom. Jack’s discarded clothing had been in there. Apparently, his shirt and undershirt were gone because Drew emerged without saying anything.

When Tony brushed past her, she caught a whiff of his expensive cologne. It smelled like newly minted hundred-dollar bills. He rested his hand on the door handle of the front closet and yanked it open. She noticed that her rifle was gone.

IN THE LOFT ABOVE the stalls in the horse barn, Jack lay on his belly and sighted down the barrel of Caitlyn’s rifle. This weapon lacked the sophistication of the sniper equipment he was accustomed to using. Her rifle scope was rudimentary and so poorly mounted that he had removed it. At this range, he trusted his marksmanship. His first shot would show him the correction for this particular weapon, after which he would be accurate.

His plan was simple. Take out the tall man with sandy hair; he was the most deadly. Then the boss.

Holding the rifle felt natural, and he easily comprehended the necessary strategy in an assault situation. These skills weren’t inborn. He couldn’t remember where he’d learned or who taught him. But he knew how to kill.

When Caitlyn and the men entered the house, Jack adjusted his position, trying to keep track of their movements through the windows. So far they hadn’t threatened Caitlyn, except for that moment when she touched the sandy-haired thug. The bastard looked like he wanted to kill her. If he’d hurt her, Jack would have squeezed the trigger. He’d gotten Caitlyn into this mess, but he wouldn’t let her be harmed.

The optimum scenario would be for them to make their search and then go. She wasn’t a part of this.

Not being able to see what was going on inside the house made him edgy. If they didn’t come outside soon, he needed to move in closer to protect her. He started a mental timer for five minutes.

In the corral below him, the two horses—one light and one dark—stood at the railing. Their ears pricked up. They nickered and shifted their hooves. Animals could sense when something was wrong. The horses knew.

He was nearing the end of his countdown when the small group emerged from the back door. Caitlyn looked angry. Earlier, she’d tried to act like a dumb blonde and had failed miserably. Her intelligence showed in every move she made and every word she spoke.

The two men walked ahead of her toward the barn. Jack got ready to shoot. His position gave him an advantage, but he needed to time his shot so there was no chance they could retaliate. He wished there was some way to signal Caitlyn to keep her distance from them.

They walked toward the corral. Coming closer, closer. They were less than fifty yards from his position. The tall man was in front. His hand slid inside his jacket, and he pulled his handgun.

Jack aimed for the center of his chest, the largest target. If he’d been using a more sophisticated weapon, he would have gone for a head shot.

He heard Caitlyn object. “What are you doing? Why do you have a gun?”

The other man assured her, “We have to be prepared. The person we’re looking for is extremely dangerous.”

Damn right. Jack knew he was capable of lethal action. A trained killer. Damn it, Caitlyn. Get out of the way. The slick-looking man with black hair, the boss, stayed close to her. Too close.

Jack adjusted his aim. He’d kill the boss first. As he stared, he realized that he knew this man. Gregorio Rojas. He was the younger son of a drug cartel family that supplied the entire Midwestern United States.

Hatred flared in Jack’s gut. His finger tensed on the trigger. Rojas was his sworn enemy. Take the shot. Rid the world of this bastard whose actions have been responsible for so much misery, so much death.

Rojas paused, took a cell phone from his pocket. After a brief conversation, he motioned to the other man. They headed back toward their vehicle.

Still, Jack didn’t relax his vigilance. Rojas was still within range.

His memory was returning. The blank spaces knitted together in a tapestry of violence. Take the shot.

Chapter Four

Jack knew he had killed before. As he stared down the barrel of Caitlyn’s rifle, his vision narrowed to his target. The center seam of Rojas’s tailored jacket. His hands were steady. He was focused. Cool and calm, as always.

He remembered another time, another place, another killing.

He was in the city, the seedy part of town. On the fourth floor of a dirty brick hotel that rented rooms by the hour, he set up his sniper’s nest and assembled his precision rifle with laser scope, silencer and tripod. With high-power, infrared binoculars, he observed the crappy apartment building directly across the street. Fourth floor, corner unit. Nobody home.

He checked into the hotel at sundown. Hours passed. Dusk turned to nightfall when lights flickered on throughout the city. Not that he had a glittering view.

When the lamp in the apartment across the street came on, he eased into position. Though he sat in the dark, the glow from a streetlight reflected dully on the barrel of his rifle and silencer.

He peered through his scope. Through the uncurtained window of the apartment across the street, a man with fiery red hair paced from room to room with his gun in his hand, looking for danger.

“I’m here,” Jack whispered. “Come to the window, you bastard.”

This man deserved to die.

But his target hadn’t been alone. A small woman with brassy blond hair and a child entered Jack’s field of vision. Two witnesses.

The killing had to wait.

From the loft in the barn, Jack watched as Rojas and his companion got into the SUV and drove away from Caitlyn’s cabin. She turned on her heel and rushed back into her house, moving fast, as though she had something burning on the stove.

When the black SUV was out of sight, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling in the barn that needed patching.

He knew who he was.

A stone-cold killer.

INSIDE HER CABIN, Caitlyn wasted no time. She dove into the swivel chair behind her small desk in the living room and fired up her laptop. It felt good to see the screen come to life. Back when she was a working journalist—especially in the field—her computer had been an ever-present tool, almost an extension of her arm.

Her hands poised over the keyboard. But I’m not a journalist anymore. Not right now. She had no assignment, no story to investigate, and she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted to go back into the fray.

Her main reason for moving to this cabin had been to purposely distance herself from the 24-hour-a-day news cycle. During this time of self-imposed seclusion, she hoped to regroup and decide what to do with the rest of her life.

Her parents and nearly everyone else who cared about her had encouraged Caitlyn to seek out a safer occupation. Not that they wanted her to quit writing, but they hoped she would leave the war zones to others. As if she’d be satisfied reporting on garden parties? Writing poetry about sunshine and lollipops?

She wasn’t made that way. She thrived on action.

Jack’s arrival at her doorstep might be fate. She hadn’t gone looking for danger, but here it was. She had armed thugs searching her cabin. If Jack Dalton had a story to tell, she wouldn’t turn away.

She jumped on the internet and started a search on the name of Jack’s supposed “friend,” Mark Santoro. Expertly, she sorted through news stories, mostly from the Chicago Tribune, and put together the basic facts.

As Jack had said, Mark Santoro was dead. He and four other members of the Santoro crime family had been killed in a shootout on a city street five months ago. One of the men had his hands cut off. Mark had been decapitated. A gruesome slaughter; it was intended to send a message.

Allegedly, the Santoro family handled narcotics distribution in the Midwest, and they had angered the powerful Rojas drug cartel—the suppliers of illegal drugs.

Agents from the DEA and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives were all over this incident. They arrested and charged several members of the Rojas cartel, including the top man, Tom Rojas. The federal murder trial was due to start on Tuesday, four days from now, at a district court in Chicago.

Reading between the lines, Caitlyn suspected that much of this story never made it to print. She used to date a reporter who worked at the Trib—a sweet guy who had taken her for that romantic sailboat ride on Lake Michigan and begged her to stay in the States. She’d refused to settle down, and he’d moved on. A typical pattern for her relationships. The last she’d heard, her former beau was happily married with an infant daughter. If she needed to find out more about the trial, she could contact him.

Rapid-fire, she typed in the names of the two thugs: Drew Kelso and Greg Reynolds. A quick search showed several people with those names, but nothing stood out. She wasn’t surprised. Drug lords and thugs don’t generally maintain websites.

Next, she searched for Tony Perez. After digging through a lot of worthless information, she tightened her search and linked it to Mark Santoro. In one of the articles about the shootings, Tony Perez was mentioned as a bodyguard for Santoro. Perez had been killed at the scene.

But Jack Dalton was very much alive.

Slowly, she closed her laptop. Though she hadn’t heard him enter the house or walk across the living room floor, she sensed Jack’s nearness. She knew that he was standing close, silently watching her.

A shiver prickled down her spine. She wasn’t afraid that he would physically harm her. There wasn’t a reason, and he was smart enough to avoid unnecessary violence. But she was apprehensive. Jack was pulling her toward a place she didn’t want to go.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.

She swiveled in her desk chair to face him. “You look pretty healthy for a dead man.”

He crossed the room and returned her rifle to the front closet. “I brought your gun back.”

The smart thing would be to send him on his way and forget she ever saw him. But finding the truth was a compulsion for her. “Those men were looking for Tony Perez. Is that your real name?”

“Tony’s dead. Call me Jack.”

“They said you stole a horse, and that you’re dangerous.”

“Half right.”

“Which half?”

“I didn’t steal the horse. I borrowed it.”

He approached her, braced his hands on each of the arms of her swivel chair and leaned down until his face was on a level with hers. “Those men are unpredictable. There’s no telling what they might do. I strongly advise that you stay with a friend for a couple of days.”

“What about you? Where are you going?”

“Not your problem.”

He was so close that she could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She wanted to rest her hand against his black T-shirt, to feel the beating of his heart. Instead, she picked a piece of straw off his shoulder. “You were hiding in the barn. In the loft.”

“I couldn’t leave until I knew you were safe.”

“Who were those guys?” She searched his eyes for a truth he might never tell her. “They said their names were Drew Kelso and Greg Reynolds.”

“Not Reynolds. That was Gregorio Rojas.” He reached toward her desk and flipped her computer open. “You know the name. You were reading all about him and his pals.”

“And his brother, Tom. His murder trial starts in four days.”

He stepped away from her. “I have to go.”

“Not yet. I’m still putting the pieces together.” She left her chair and stood between him and the front door. “I’m asking myself why Rojas is after you. Something to do with his brother’s trial, right?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“But I do, Jack. I’m a reporter.” And she was damn good at her job. He’d thrown out just enough bread crumbs for her to follow this trail. “Let’s suppose that you are this Tony Perez and that you survived the attack on the street. That makes you a witness.”

“I told you before. Tony is—”

“Dead.” Yeah, sure. “I’m just supposing here. I can only think of one reason that an eyewitness to a crime in Chicago would be hiding in the Colorado mountains.

WitSec.”

The Witness Security Program provided protection for those who might be in danger before a trial. There must be a safe house in the area.

“Suppose you’re correct,” he said. “If a protected witness was attacked at a safe house, it must mean that he was betrayed by the marshals who were supposed to be looking out for him. They gave the location of the safe house to Rojas.”

She hated to acknowledge that law enforcement officials—in this case, U.S. Marshals—could be corrupted. But she knew it was possible. While embedded with the troops, she’d run across similar instances. Somebody taking a payoff. Somebody acting on a grudge instead of following orders.

With a shrug, she said, “It happens.”

“If it did happen that way, there’s nobody this witness can trust. Rojas is after him. And the marshals can’t let him report them. He has to go on the run and find his own way to make it to the trial in Chicago.”

“I can help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

He stepped around her and went out the front door.

JACK STRODE AWAY FROM her house toward the corral fence. Angry at himself for telling too much. Angry at her for wanting to know. How the hell could she help him? And why? Why should she give a damn? As a reporter with the troops, she was accustomed to being surrounded by heroes. Not somebody like him.

At the fence, he paused to settle his mind into a plan. He wasn’t sure how he’d make his way out of this sprawling mountain terrain where a man could disappear and never be seen again. That might be the solution. Drop out of sight and start over.

But he had promised to appear in court. His eyewitness testimony would put Tom Rojas and some of his top men behind bars. Little brother Gregorio didn’t have the guts or the authority to hold the cartel together. Jack’s testimony could make a difference.

He looked toward the road that ran past her house—the only direct route into and out of this area. His enemies would be watching that road. He’d be better off taking a cross-country path, walking until … Until he got to Chicago?

“Jack, wait!” Caitlyn dashed toward him. She thrust a canvas backpack into his hands. “Take this.”

Inside the pack, he saw survival supplies: a couple of bottled waters, some energy bars, a sweatshirt and a cell phone. He’d be a fool to refuse these useful items, but he wasn’t going to admit that she’d been right about him needing her help.

She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a wad of cash. “It’s a hundred and twenty-seven bucks. That’s all I have on hand.”

“Caitlyn, why—”

“And this.” She handed him a cowboy hat. “To protect the wound on your head.”

Jack tried on the battered brown hat with a flat brim. Not a bad fit. “Why are you so determined to help me?”

Her face was as open as a sunflower, deceptively innocent. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t know me. You don’t know the life I’ve led.”

“You were part of the Santoro crime family,” she said. “I’m assuming that you’ve done a lot of things I wouldn’t condone. You could have been a hit man, an assassin or even a drug pusher.”

“No,” he said, “never a pusher. I hate drugs.”

“That’s the past, Jack. You made a change. You decided to testify against some very bad men.”

“Maybe I didn’t have a choice.”

“I don’t care.”

He was surprised to hear a tremble in her voice, an undercurrent of strong emotion. She was feeling something intense. About him? He didn’t think she was the kind of woman who formed sudden attachments. Over and over, she’d said she was a reporter. In her profession, she couldn’t allow her passions to rule. “What’s going on with you?”

“You’re risking your life to testify, to do the right thing.” She inhaled so deeply that her nostrils flared. As she exhaled, she regained control of herself. “I need to believe that when people fight for the right thing and put their lives on the line, it’s not for nothing. Their sacrifice has significance.”

Spoken like someone who had been to war and had seen real suffering. His irritation faded behind a newfound admiration. She was one hell of a woman. Strong and principled. For the second time, he wished they had met under different circumstances. “Don’t make me into something I’m not.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “As long as you don’t downplay what you’re doing. You’re giving up your former life to do the right thing.”

“I’m no hero.”

She cocked her head to one side. A hank of straight blond hair fell across her forehead. “Neither am I.”

“I have to go.”

“First, let me show you how to use the GPS on the cell phone. It won’t give you a detailed topographical map, but you’ll have an idea where the roads are.”

Instead, he handed the phone back to her. “If the GPS shows me where I am, it’ll show other people my location. They can track me from the signal.”

“Of course. I knew that.” She shoved the phone into her pocket. “You said you didn’t want to use my car, but you could take one of the horses.”

On horseback, he’d make better time than if he was on foot. He nodded, accepting her offer. “I’ll find a way to return the horse to you.”

“You should take the stallion. His name is Fabio because of his blond mane. And he’s a real stud.”

Entering through the corral gate, she motioned to the handsome palomino horse and made a clicking with her tongue. Both animals responded and obediently trotted toward the barn door.

As he followed, he noticed her athletic stride. There was nothing artificial about her. No makeup. No fancy styling to her hair. Her body was well toned, and he suspected that her fitness came from outdoor living rather than a regular workout at a gym. Her jeans fit snugly, tight enough to outline the feminine curve of her ass.

Until now, he hadn’t really taken the time to appreciate how attractive she was. When he first stopped at her cabin, he thought he’d be there for only a couple of minutes. He hadn’t expected to know anything about her.

While she saddled the stallion and rattled off instructions for the care of the horse, he watched. Her energy impressed him. She was unlike any woman he’d known before. He regretted that after he rode away from her cabin, he would never see her again.

He harbored no illusions about coming back to her after the trial. His life wasn’t his own. He’d be stashed away in witness protection, which was probably for the best. Right now, Caitlyn had a high opinion of him. If she knew the reality of his life, she wouldn’t want to be in the same room with him.

She finished with the saddle and came toward him. “Fabio is ready to go.”

“I’m not.”

He placed his hand at the narrowest part of her body and gently pulled her closer.

Chapter Five

When Jack laid his hand possessively on her waist, Caitlyn knew what was coming next. Awareness gusted through her like a moist, sultry breeze that subtly pushed her toward him.

His green eyes shone with an unmistakable invitation, but he gave her plenty of time to back off and say no. During the past several years, she’d spent most of her days in the company of men and had learned how to make it clear that she wanted to spend her nights alone. But she wanted Jack to kiss her. His story had touched the very core of her being and reminded her of important truths. As if she wanted to kiss him because of her principles? Yeah, right. There was a whole lot more going on when she looked into Jack’s handsome mug. The man was hot. Sexy as hell.

She leaned toward him. Her breasts grazed his chest as she tilted her head back. Her lips parted. Her eyelids closed.

The firm pressure of his mouth against hers started an earthquake inside her. She gasped, enjoying the tremors. Her arms wrapped around him, her body molded to his and she held on tight. It had been a long time since she felt so totally aroused. Way too long.

His big hands slid down her back and cupped her bottom. He fitted her tightly against his hard body. The natural passion that she usually suppressed raced through her.

If they had more time, she would have gone to bed with him. But that was purely hypothetical. He had to depart immediately. Maybe that was why she could kiss him with such abandon. She knew she’d never see him again.

With obvious reluctance, he ended the kiss and stepped back. “I should go.”

Every cell in her body wanted him. She struggled to be cool. “I wish you’d let me call my friend Danny.”

“The deputy?”

She nodded vigorously, trying to ignore her intense desire and be logical. “After what you told me, I understand why you don’t want to contact anybody in law enforcement. But I’ve known Danny since we were kids. I trust him.”

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t call him.” He reached toward her and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “If he helped me, I’d be putting him and everyone he knows in danger.”

“From Rojas,” she said.

“You’re a reporter. You know how the drug cartels deal with people who get in their way.”

Though it was difficult to imagine grisly violence in the Colorado mountains under peaceful blue skies, she knew he was right. Revenge from the drug cartels was equal to the horrors she’d seen in the Middle East. Whole families—women and children—were brutally slaughtered, their bodies dismembered and left to rot.

Those images completely doused her desire. Jack had to go. He had to find his way to safety.

“I’m worried for you,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d consider taking me along.”

“Not a chance.” He grinned, and she realized that it was the first time she’d seen him crack a smile. “Why would you even ask?”

“A federal witness on the run? It’s a damn good story.”

“Not unless it has a happy ending.”

He mounted the palomino stallion. Though Jack wasn’t a cowboy, he looked real good on horseback. She hated that he was on the run, couldn’t accept that she’d never be with him. There had to be a way to see him again.

Of course there is. She knew where the trial was taking place. If she pulled some strings and used her press credentials, she could wangle a seat inside the courtroom. “I’ll see you in Chicago.”

“If I make it.”

With a wave, he rode from the barn.

She was left standing in the corral, watching as Jack rode into the forest behind her cabin. If she’d been riding beside him, she would have told him to go the other way. Across the meadow, he should have headed southeast. The terrain was less daunting in that direction, and there was water. Eventually, he would have found the Platte River. What if he doesn’t make it?

Being left behind while someone else charged into danger wasn’t the way she operated. She had to do something.

Taking the cell phone from her pocket, she called Heather to get her brother’s phone number.

DANNY LAURENCE WASN’T as yummy as she remembered from her high school years. Though he looked sharp in his dark blue deputy uniform shirt, he was developing a bit of a paunch—a testament to being settled down and eating home-cooked meals every night.

He took off his cowboy hat as he sat at the head of her dining room table. His short hair made his ears look huge. Had he always had those ears?

“Good to see you,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to drop by and talk about old times.”

“Same here. And I want to meet the woman who finally got Danny Laurence to take that long walk down the aisle.”

“Sandra.” He spoke her name fondly. “You’d like her. She’s kind of a goofball.”

“Is she Baby Blue or Green Light?”

He laughed. “It’s been a long time since I heard those code words you and Heather made up to describe the guys you met. Baby Blue means a sissy, right? And Green Light is good to go.”

“And Red Fire means trouble ahead.” A particularly apt description. The English translation for Rojas was “red.”

“My Sandra is Green Light all the way.”

She was glad he’d found happiness. Not that a rosy future was ever in doubt; Danny had always been the most popular guy around—the captain of the football team, the president of the senior class.

Joining him at the table, she set a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade in front of him. This was exactly the same seating arrangement she’d had with Jack, but the atmosphere was utterly different. With Danny, she felt friendly—as if they should tell dumb jokes and punch each other on the arm. There was none of the dangerous magnetism she experienced with Jack. The thought of him reminded her of their kiss and made the hairs on her arm stand up. Somehow, she had to help him.

She wished that she could come right out and ask Danny the questions she needed answered: Was there a WitSec safe house in the area? Did he know about a federal witness on the run? How could Jack be protected from a drug lord bent on revenge?

The direct approach wasn’t an option. If Danny knew nothing, she wouldn’t be the one to tell him and bring down the wrath of the Rojas. Caitlyn didn’t want to be responsible for a bloodbath in Douglas County.

Danny took a swallow of lemonade. “What’s up?”

“I was concerned about that horse I found.” Jack had used the gray mare for his escape. Finding the owner meant locating the safe house. “Has anybody claimed her?”

“We haven’t had a report of a stolen horse. Which isn’t surprising. Livestock gets loose now and then. Nobody wants to make a big fuss only to have the horse come trotting back home.”

“Have you checked the brand?”

“Not yet. A runaway horse isn’t top priority. I’ve got other things to do.”

“Such as?”

“The usual.”

His attitude was way too laid-back to be dealing with the aftermath of a shootout at a WitSec safe house. She doubted that the marshals had reported Jack’s disappearance, especially not if they were in collusion with Rojas. As far as she knew, federal marshals weren’t required to check in with local law enforcement. It defeated the purpose of a safe house if too many people were aware of its existence.

“I was wondering,” she said, “if there’s been any kind of unusual activity around here?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know. Strangers in town. Suspicious stuff.”

“You’re working on some kind of news story, aren’t you? You haven’t changed a bit, Caitlyn. Always have to have the scoop.” He sipped his lemonade and licked his lips. “Little Miss Know-It-All.”

His teasing annoyed her. “You haven’t changed, either. You’re still the mean big brother, looking down his nose.”

“I remember that time when you and Heather followed me and my date to a party in Bailey and I ended up having to escort you home. You two used to drive me crazy.”

“Ditto.” She actually did punch him on the arm. “Suppose I was working on a story. I’m not saying I am, just suppose. Would you have anything to tell me?”

“Could you be more specific?”

Not without putting him in danger. “I’m wondering if the FBI or maybe the federal marshals have any current operations in our area.”

His expression turned serious. “If you have some kind of inside track on FBI activity, I want to hear about it.”

“Nothing. I’ve got nothing.”

“Why did you want me to come over?”

Aware that she’d already said too much, Caitlyn changed directions. “Do you know a guy named Jack Dalton?”

“As a matter of fact, I arrested that sorry son-of-a-gun last night at the Gopher Hole. Drunk and disorderly. He’s sleeping it off in jail.”

That solved the mystery of her missing handyman—the real Jack Dalton. “I almost hired him to work for me.”

“Aw, hell, Caitlyn. Don’t tell me this Dalton character is some kind of FBI agent.”

“He’s just another troubled soul.” And not her responsibility. “When he wakes up, tell him he lost the job.”

“You’re acting real weird. You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m just nervous. Because of the horse.” She thought about mentioning the two armed thugs and decided against it. There wasn’t anything Danny could do about them. “Lately, I’ve been jumpy.”

As he studied her, his expression changed from irritation to something resembling compassion. He reached over and gently patted her arm. “Heather told me that you’d been through a lot, reporting on the war. She’s kind of worried about you.”

The last thing she wanted was pity. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay to be nervous.”

“I told you. I’m doing just fine.”

“Whatever you say.” He drained his glass of lemonade, stood and picked up his hat. “I want you to know, it’s all right for you to call me any time.”

“If I run into any Red Fire situations, I’ll let you know.”

He stepped outside onto the porch and waited for her to join him. “The sheriff just hired a new guy who was in Iraq. He happens to be single. If you want to talk, he’d—”

“Whoa.” She held up her hand. “I never thought I’d see the day when Danny Laurence started playing matchmaker.”

“That’s what happens when you get settled down. You want everybody else to pair up.”

“When I’m ready to jump into the singles pool, I’ll let you know.”

“Fair enough.”

“Thanks for coming over.” She gave him a warm smile. “Be careful, Danny.”

“You, too.”

She watched as he drove away in his police vehicle with the Douglas County logo on the side. Asking him to come here hadn’t given her any new information, except to confirm the identity of Jack Dalton. The real Jack Dalton was not the man who had showed up on her doorstep. Her Jack Dalton was actually Tony Perez. But he didn’t want to use that name. Because he’d changed? She wanted to believe that when Tony Perez agreed to testify, he abandoned his old life.

Her gaze wandered to the hillside where she’d last seen him. By now he’d be miles away from here.

She missed him.

For that matter, she also missed the real Jack Dalton. Without a handyman, patching the barn roof was going to be nearly impossible. Who cares? Did it really matter if her barn leaked? Earlier today, she’d thought so.

For the past weeks, she’d filled her waking hours with projects—cleaning, painting, doing chores and making repairs. Those jobs now seemed like wasted energy. Not like when she’d been talking to Jack, figuring out his identity. Tracking down a story made her feel vital and alive. At heart, she was a journalist. That was what she needed to be doing with the rest of her life.

Her decision was made. The time had come for her self-imposed seclusion to end. Looking across the road, she scanned the wide expanse of sagebrush and prairie grass that led to the rugged sweep of forested hillsides. A rich, beautiful landscape, but she didn’t belong here.

Her job was to follow the story. Packing a suitcase would take only a couple of minutes; she was accustomed to traveling light. She could be on her way in minutes, driving toward Denver International Airport, where she could catch the next flight to Chicago.

But what if Jack ran into trouble and came back to the cabin? She needed to stay, if only for twenty-four hours. As long as she was here, she might as well patch the barn roof.

She went back into the cabin and picked up her tool belt. Though she never locked her house when she was home, the recent threats emphasized the need for security. After she’d locked the front and back doors, she headed toward the barn.

The midday sun warmed her shoulders. Her life here was idyllic, but it wasn’t where she needed to be. Why had she doubted herself? It was so obvious that she was a reporter. What was she afraid of? Oh, let’s see. A million different things. Not that she was Baby Blue—a sissy. She’d always been brave, and living in a war zone had hardened her to the sight of blood and gore. She had faced unimaginable horror, and she’d learned to stifle her terror. But those fears never truly went away.

Though she’d never told anyone, she had experienced fits of uncontrolled sobbing, nightmares, even delusions. Once, she’d heard a helicopter passing overhead and panic overwhelmed her. She’d dropped to her knees and curled into a ball. Her mind wasn’t right; she wasn’t fit to be on the front line.

But she could still be a reporter; not every assignment required her to rush headlong into danger.

Inside the barn, she fastened the tool belt around her hips and looked up at the roof. One of the holes was so big that she could see daylight pouring through.

From the stall nearest the door, the bay mare snorted and pawed at the earthen floor.

“Oh, Lacy.” Caitlyn went toward the horse. “I’m sorry. We missed our morning ride. Maybe later, okay?”

Lacy tossed her head as though angry. When she looked sadly at the empty stall beside her, Caitlyn felt guilty. Poor Lacy had been left behind, locked in her stall and deprived of her morning exercise.

“All right,” Caitlyn said, “a short ride.”

She had just gotten the horse saddled when she looked out the front door of the barn and saw the black SUV approaching her driveway. Rojas was back.

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