by Cassie Miles
“Are you hurt?” Mace asked her
Only in her heart. Her cold black heart. “I’m not hurt.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Now I want you to give me that knife.”
She nodded at him and handed him the blade. The chill sank deeper into her flesh, into her bones. She thought she was safe here, but everything was falling apart, brick by brick.
“Nicole.”
At the sound of her name, she started as if waking from an endless nightmare.
“I need to take care of you before I do anything else,” he said, holding out his hand toward her. Dumbly, she stared at the very masculine appendage, all muscle and tendon. Her gaze lifted to his face. His high cheekbones, dark brown eyes and well-tanned complexion hinted at Native American heritage.
“Come on,” he urged. “Take my hand. You’re going to be okay.”
She pulled herself up and slumped against him. His kindness stirred the lonely emptiness inside her. A tear spilled down her cheek as she buried her face against his coat. It would be so good to have someone to lean on, someone she could trust.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Those April showers go hand in hand with a welcome downpour of gripping romantic suspense in the Harlequin Intrigue line this month!
Reader-favorite Rebecca York returns to the legendary 43 LIGHT STREET with Out of Nowhere—an entrancing tale about a beautiful blond amnesiac who proves downright lethal to a hard-edged detective’s heart. Then take a detour to New Mexico for Shotgun Daddy by Harper Allen—the conclusion in the MEN OF THE DOUBLE B RANCH trilogy. In this story a Navajo protector must safeguard the woman from his past who is nurturing a ticking time bomb of a secret.
The momentum keeps building as Sylvie Kurtz launches her brand-new miniseries—THE SEEKERS—about men dedicated to truth, justice…and protecting the women they love. But at what cost? Don’t miss the debut book, Heart of a Hunter, where the search for a killer just might culminate in rekindled love. Passion and peril go hand in hand in Agent Cowboy by Debra Webb, when COLBY AGENCY investigator Trent Tucker races against time to crack a case of triple murder!
Rounding off a month of addictive romantic thrillers, watch for the continuation of two new thematic promotions. A handsome sheriff saves the day in Restless Spirit by Cassie Miles, which is part of COWBOY COPS. Sudden Recall by Jean Barrett is the latest in our DEAD BOLT series about silent memories that unlock simmering passions.
Enjoy all of our great offerings.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
RESTLESS SPIRIT
CASSIE MILES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
From the balcony of her high-rise, Cassie Miles has a view of the gold dome of the Colorado State Capitol and the front range of the Rockies. If she could find a way to add the ocean, she’d have the best of all possible worlds. The southern Colorado setting for Restless Spirit is a fascinating area with spectacular vistas and a strong Native American influence from the nearby Ute Mountain, Navajo and Hopi reservations.
Recently voted Writer of the Year by Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Cassie attends critique groups specializing in mystery and in romance, the perfect balance for Harlequin Intrigue books. One of her daughters once described her writing this way, “Romantic suspense. You know, kiss-kiss, bang-bang.” If only it were that simple.
Books by Cassie Miles
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
122—HIDE AND SEEK
150—HANDLE WITH CARE
237—HEARTBREAK HOTEL
269—ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?
285—DON’T BE CRUEL
320—MYSTERIOUS VOWS
332—THE SUSPECT GROOM
363—THE IMPOSTER
381—RULE BREAKER
391—GUARDED MOMENTS
402—A NEW YEAR’S CONVICTION
443—A REAL ANGEL
449—FORGET ME NOT
521—FATHER, LOVER, BODYGUARD
529—THE SAFE HOSTAGE
584—UNDERCOVER PROTECTOR
645—STATE OF EMERGENCY†
649—WEDDING CAPTIVES†
670—NOT ON HIS WATCH
694—THE SECRET SHE KEEPS
769—RESTLESS SPIRIT
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Nicole Ferris—A waitress at the Elkhorn Cafe. She’s on the run from big cities and dark secrets in her childhood and not-so-distant past.
Mace Sheridan—Sheriff of Sterling County, Colorado. Half Ute and half rancher, he feels responsible for all the folks in his county.
Joey Wentworth—Nicole’s roommate is an irresponsible artist who helped Nicole when she needed a friend.
Blake Wentworth—Joey’s uncle is CEO of Wentworth Oil Exploration.
Luke Heflin—The special agent for the FBI takes over jurisdiction in the Elkhorn crimes.
Barry Thompson—Mace’s dispatcher and former partner is a computer whiz.
Don Blackbird—A local man who knows some of Joey’s secrets.
Jewel Sheridan—Mace’s sister would like to see her big brother settle down.
Derek Brewer—A wealthy Denver attorney who married Nicole as a trophy.
For a brilliant critique group: Janet, Sue, Robin, Peggy, Teresa, Alice and Leslee. And, as always, for Rick.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
The little blue Ford Escort sputtered and died.
Nicole Ferris coasted the car to a stop on the shoulder. Her headlights shone on a two-lane black asphalt road that sliced through snow-dusted fields and disappeared into the mountains.
She pumped the gas pedal and cranked the ignition. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”
The Escort coughed, but the engine didn’t catch. In the glow of the dashboard lights, Nicole read the gas gauge. Empty? But that was impossible! Yesterday there was half a tank, and she hadn’t gone anywhere but to work and back. How could she be riding on empty?
Realization dawned like a slap in the face. “Joey,” she said.
This morning, Joey had borrowed her car to use while his BMW was getting an oil change. Joey Wentworth, her roommate, must have run her car completely out of gas. Damn his inconsiderate hide! She could just kill him!
This wasn’t the first time—not even the second or the third time—that he’d shown himself to be an irresponsible, spoiled-brat, wannabe-artist, rich kid. But what could she do? Nicole couldn’t break up with Joey, because he wasn’t her boyfriend, only a roomie. She couldn’t throw him out, because his family owned the cabin where they lived.
The solution was to pack her bags and move on, but the thought exhausted her. Staying here—in godforsaken Elkhorn, Colorado—was a hundred times better than being on the run again.
Resigned, she cut the headlights, twisted her key from the ignition and stepped outside into the freezing cold. She started walking.
There were no phone booths, no taxis, not even an errant pickup truck. It was after eleven o’clock and nobody else was out this late on a weeknight in October, nobody but Nicole, and she was nothing more than a speck in this vast, vacant, southern Colorado landscape—a pathetic little speck wearing a red parka over her pink tunic and slacks uniform that was wilted and wrinkled after an eight-hour shif
t at the Elkhorn Café where the specialty of the house was fried. Fried potatoes. Fried chicken. Fried bread. After working there for five months, the stench of deep-fat grease clung to her skin, her clothes and her long blond braid.
Peering through the desolate dark, she estimated it was only three miles to the cabin, but she was already chilled. And tired. And hungry. There hadn’t been time to eat during the hectic Monday-night football game with the Broncos on television.
They’d lost. Twenty-four to sixteen. And she took their defeat personally. Losers! We’re all losers on a cold night when sunrise is nothing more than a distant unbelievable promise. She had to keep slogging onward. Icy wetness seeped inside her sneakers. Her clammy socks twined around her toes as she trudged down the winding dirt road that was half frozen and half slush.
Finally she saw the light from the kitchen window of their cabin. Joey’s BMW was parked under a stand of Ponderosa pines, which meant he was here—warm and cozy and unaware of the inconvenience he’d caused her.
Yanking her keys from her purse, Nicole hurried toward the red-trimmed log cabin. But there was no need to unlock the door. It stood slightly ajar, letting the heat escape. How typically wasteful! How typically Joey! She marched inside. “Joey, you little creep! You—”
Her voice echoed in the L-shaped living room. She hit the switch by the door. The overhead light shone on chaos. The bookshelves were pulled down, coffee tables overturned, magazines and books scattered all over the place. The sofa lay on its back. The logs by the moss-rock fireplace were strewn like spilled matchsticks. The TV and VCR sat in the middle of the braided oval area rug.
They’d been robbed! But why was the television set here? Were the robbers still in the house?
Nicole listened hard. She heard nothing but the sound of her own labored breathing.
She ought to run to the neighbor’s, but nobody lived nearby. The cabins in this area were usually vacant in winter. And Joey’s car was parked out front. He might still be in the house. The robbers might have hurt him, left him unconscious. She had to find him. “Joey? Are you here?”
Stepping over a pile of shredded magazines and a sofa pillow that had been slashed open to expose the white batting, Nicole edged toward the kitchen, ready to pivot and run if she encountered anyone.
The kitchen had not been disturbed. The tile countertops shone clean and tidy. The only mess came from her own muddy footprints on the patterned linoleum floor.
She tore open a drawer and pulled out a carving knife to use as a weapon. Holding the steel blade in front of her, she lifted the receiver from the wall phone and punched in the emergency numbers.
After three rings, a male voice answered, “Dispatch.”
“Is this 9-1-1?”
“Sure is. What’s the problem?”
“This is Nicole Ferris. I live at the Wentworth cabin, and I’m—” She was scared and angry. Hot and cold at the same time. She’d felt this way so many times before. A terrible apprehension crawled up her spine.
“Is this Nicole from the café?” the dispatcher asked.
“We’ve been robbed.” She fought the quaver in her voice. “Everything’s torn apart.”
“Calm down,” he said. “Is anybody hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is someone there with you?”
“I don’t think so.” The cabin felt empty. “Should I look around?”
“Don’t go anywhere. Give me your address.”
“Seven-three-three-seven Coyote Road.”
“Stay on the line,” he ordered. “I’m calling the sheriff.”
Over the open phone line, she heard the dispatcher’s mumbled conversation. He must have been listening to a country-western radio station because, in the background, she also heard the classic Patsy Cline song, “Who’s Sorry Now?”
I am. She shuddered. What if this vandalism wasn’t the work of robbers? What if Derek had found her?
A sob caught in the back of her throat. She’d escaped from her husband, had fled from him, hidden from him. She couldn’t face Derek again, couldn’t stand up to his abuse. Oh God, what if he’d been here? What if he’d found Joey and punished him?
Her anxiety heightened. She had to protect Joey. He wasn’t big or tough. He was sensitive. An artist. Though his behavior was annoying and immature, she thought of him as the younger brother she never had.
“Nicole, I’m back,” the dispatcher said. “The sheriff is on his way. You’re going to be okay.”
“I’ve got to look for Joey.”
“Don’t hang up,” he said. “Nicole, this is Barry Thompson. You’ve seen me at the café. I wear glasses.”
Wire-rimmed glasses, a shiny bald head and a beard. “I know who you are.”
“I want you to stay on the phone and look around. Tell me what you see.”
She glanced toward the door that led from the kitchen to the back porch. It was still locked with the dead bolt in place.
“Nicole? Are you there?”
“The back door is locked.”
Barry asked, “What else do you see?”
She couldn’t stand here answering irrelevant questions. She had to search for Joey. “I’ll be right back.”
“Nicole, no! Don’t—”
She placed the telephone receiver on the counter-top. Gripping her knife, she left the kitchen and sidled through the front room.
In her small bedroom at the front of the cabin, the drawers had been yanked open. Her bed covers were torn apart. Her jewelry box on the dresser was empty, which was no big deal. She didn’t own any valuable gems. Not anymore.
Then she saw something else that made her heart sink: a cigar box with an ornate picture of an Aztec princess on the top. The box was usually tucked into the bottom of her hamper under her dirty clothes which were now strewn around the room. In that cigar box, she kept her cash money. Nearly two thousand dollars, it was every hard-earned penny she’d saved since moving to Elkhorn. It was empty. “Damn it!”
Leaving her bedroom, she crept down the hall past the bathroom and stood outside the door to Joey’s combination bedroom and art studio. Though she occasionally posed for him, she never entered this spacious room without his permission. This was his domain. “Joey? Are you in there?”
Her palms were sweating. The knife handle felt slick in her grasp. With her left hand, she twisted the knob, pushed the door open, reached inside and turned on the light.
At first glance the clutter in his studio seemed orderly. Art supplies were scattered over built-in countertops. Long-handled brushes stuck out of glass jars. A whiff of turpentine scented the air. Canvases were stacked against the walls beneath the multipaned windows. Joey’s unmade bed in the corner of the room mocked her. He should have been sleeping there, blithely ignoring the fact that he’d run her car out of gas.
She crossed the gray-tiled floor, which was marked with an unsymmetrical pattern of spills and splatters in myriad shades of green and gold and purple and red. A dark, rich blood-red.
Near the center of the room, there were fresh smears, as if someone had walked through a puddle dragging his heels. Nicole hoped it was only paint, only a splash of red pigment on the floor.
Drawn toward the crimson splotch, she squatted, then knelt. Her sense of balance was shaky. When she reached down, her fingers shook. The instant she touched the red daubs on the floor, she knew it was blood.
Nauseated, she wiped the visceral liquid from her fingertips, leaving prints on the floor. Her gaze circled the studio, taking in several landscape paintings. Sunrise over Sleeping Squaw Mountain. The churning rapids of the Dolores River. Clouds above sagebrush. And a portrait.
When she stood, she felt dizzy. As if walking a tightrope, she approached the acrylic painting of a woman with a long blond braid. The background was a cemetery populated by devils. In the foreground, Nicole recognized her own blue eyes and her wide, unsmiling mouth. Below her collarbone, he’d painted away the skin, exposing her internal orga
ns. Her anatomical heart was black as pitch. Her fingers with the skin peeled back were claws.
Did Joey see her this way? Did he loathe her?
Her stomach wrenched in a painful spasm. She’d lost her last friend. Bile churned at the back of her throat, and she raced to the bathroom where she vomited into the toilet bowl. She flushed. And vomited again.
It was frigid in here. Weakly she pulled aside the shower curtain. The window was broken. This must have been how the intruder got inside. He broke the glass and climbed through the window while Joey was too absorbed in his artwork to notice the noise. Poor Joey! Joey who thought her heart was a cinder of hard black anthracite.
Still clutching her knife, Nicole slumped to the floor and leaned against the porcelain bathtub. Which was how Sheriff Mace Sheridan found her. She recognized him from the café, where he often had lunch and always left a generous tip.
Pistol drawn, he looked down at her. In his black Stetson and shearling coat, he completely filled the bathroom doorway. “Nicole?”
“There’s blood in the studio.”
He focused on the weapon in her hand. “What happened?”
Helplessly, she said, “I don’t know.”
“Are you injured?”
Only in her heart. Her cold black heart. “I’m not hurt.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Now, I want you to give me that knife.”
What did he think she was going to do? Lunge at him? She barely had the strength to hold the knife handle toward him.
He tossed the blade into the hallway and holstered his gun. “You stay in the bathroom while I take a look around.”
She nodded. The chill sank deeper into her flesh, into her bones. She ought to get to her feet, change clothes and face the situation. But these simple acts seemed overwhelming. Shivering, she closed her eyes.
Somehow, she had to find the strength to face a police investigation. She’d been here before. Arrested twice before she was eighteen. Questions from cops made her nervous, even when she’d done nothing wrong. She hated confrontations that made her feel flustered, frightened and furious. The three Fs. She could also add a fourth: failure. An accurate assessment of her life after twenty-six years.
