by Elle James
Cam’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“I think your problem just got bigger.”
“And I think, since you’re trapped in here with me, I’m not the only one with a problem.” He reached behind his back and took out a second gun. Before she could scream or bolt, he handed it to her. “Do you know how to use this?”
“Yes.” She took it but wished she didn’t have to.
“Good.”
“Not really.” Something collapsed inside her. “I hate this island.”
This time he did smile at her, full and sexy and the exact opposite of threatening. He opened her hand and put the gun in it. “Looks as if we finally agree on something.”
For some reason she didn’t find the look or his cuteness comforting. “Julia White.”
“What?”
“I figure if we’re going to die together you should know my name.” It actually hurt to say those words.
Not that they affected him. No, he winked at her. “You’re not dying on my watch, Julia.”
“You sound confident.”
“You can consider it a guarantee.”
Copyright © 2015 by HelenKay Dimon
ISBN-13: 9781460383001
Navy SEAL Newlywed
Copyright © 2015 by Mary Jernigan
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Memories of rescuing her fueled his dreams. Seeing her again fueled his desire.
Far from the mountains of Afghanistan, Abby Stewart found solace in the wild country of western Colorado. But after finishing one war, she was caught in another. In securing the crime scene, Lieutenant Michael Dance was more surprised to see Abby than the dead body. How could he forget her face after caring for her wounds and saving her life? And yet she didn’t remember him at all. That wouldn’t stop him from embarking on a high stakes investigation leading to much worse than murder. And if it helped jog Abby’s memory and soften her toward him, he wouldn’t leave her side until she was safe once more…
“How did you know my name?” she demanded.
He stood, forcing himself to relax, or at least to look as if he didn’t have all these turbulent emotions fighting it out in his gut. “Hello, Abby,” he said softly. “I’m Michael Dance.”
“I don’t know a Michael Dance,” she said.
“No, you probably don’t remember me. It’s been a while. Five years.”
She searched his face, panic behind her eyes. He wanted to reach out, to reassure her. But he remained frozen, immobile. “You knew me in Afghanistan?” she asked. “I don’t remember.”
“There’s no reason you should,” he said. “The last time I saw you, you were pretty out of it. Technically, you were dead—for a while, at least.”
He’d been the one to bring her back to life, massaging her heart and breathing into her ravaged mouth until her heart beat again and she sucked in oxygen on her own. He’d saved her life, and in that moment forged a connection he’d never been quite able to sever.
THE GUARDIAN
By Cindi Myers
Cindi Myers is an author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.
Books by Cindi Myers
The Ranger Brigade series
The Guardian
Harlequin INTRIGUE
Rocky Mountain Revenge
Rocky Mountain Rescue
Harlequin Heartwarming
Her Cowboy Soldier
What She’d Do for Love
Visit the Author Profile page at
Harlequin.com for more titles.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Abby Stewart—The former beauty queen suffered a devastating injury while serving in Afghanistan. Now a graduate student studying rare plants, she finds peace in the backcountry of
Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. But even this remote location isn’t immune from violence.
Lieutenant Michael Dance—In Afghanistan, he saved lives as part of the elite air force pararescuemen (PJs). Now he’s a border patrol agent assigned to a task force charged with fighting crime on national park lands.
Captain Graham Ellison—The FBI agent heads up the task force known as The Ranger Brigade. A former marine, Ellison must battle both criminals on public lands and the politicians and press who think the task force is a waste of money.
Richard Prentice—The billionaire owns property on the park boundaries and has made a career of thumbing his nose at the federal government. Does he try to thwart the Rangers’ efforts on principle, or does he have something to hide?
Raul Meredes—A criminal with ties to Mexican drug cartels, Meredes oversees a drug and human smuggling operation within the National Park.
Mariposa—The beautiful Mexican immigrant makes friends with Abby, but is she a victim of Meredes, or his coconspirator?
Lauren Starling—The beautiful news reporter has a history of erratic behavior. She’s been reported missing and was last seen in the National Park.
Lieutenant Randall Knightbridge—The BLM agent is the youngest member of the task force and investigates with the help of Lotte, his Belgian Malinois.
Carmen Redhorse—The only female member of the task force works for the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.
Marco Cruz—The DEA agent is former Special Forces and the task force’s best tracker.
Simon Woolridge—The acerbic ICE officer is the task force’s computer whiz, but he and Michael don’t see eye to eye on the treatment of illegal immigrants.
Lance Carpenter—The Montrose County sheriff’s deputy is the task force’s liaison with local law enforcement.
For Katie
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Excerpt
Chapter One
Abby Stewart was not lost. Maybe she’d wandered a little off her planned route, but she wasn’t lost.
She was a scientist and a decorated war veteran. She had GPS and maps and a good sense of direction. So she couldn’t be lost. But standing in the middle of nowhere in the Colorado
wilderness did have her a little disoriented, she could admit. The problem was, the terrain around Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park tended to all look the same after a while: thousands of acres of rugged, roadless wilderness covered in piñon forests, and scrubby desert set against a backdrop of spectacular mountain views. People did get lost out here every year.
But Abby wasn’t one of them, she reminded herself again. She took a deep breath and consulted her handheld GPS. There was the shallow draw she’d just passed, and to the west were the foothills of the Cimarron Mountains. And there was her location now. The display showed she’d hiked three miles from her car. All she had to do was head northeast and she’d eventually make it back to her parking spot and the red dirt two-track she’d driven in on. Feeling more reassured, she returned the GPS unit to her backpack and scanned the landscape around her. To a casual observer, the place probably looked pretty desolate—a high plateau of scrubby grass, cactus and stunted juniper. But to Abby, who was on her way to earning a master’s degree in environmental science, the Black Canyon of the Gunnison was a treasure trove of more than eight hundred plant species, including the handful she was focusing on in her research.
Her anxiety over temporarily losing her bearings vanished as she focused on a gray-green clump of vegetation in the shadow of a misshapen piñon. She bent over, peering closer, and a surge of triumph filled her. Yes! A terrific specimen of Lomatium concinnum—desert parsley to the layman. Number four on the list of species she needed to collect for her research. She knelt and slipped off her pack and quickly took out a digital camera, small trowel and collecting bag.
Intent on photographing the parsley in place, then carefully digging it up, leaving as much of the root system intact as possible, she missed the sounds of approaching footsteps until they were almost on her. A branch crackled and she started, heart pounding. She peered into the dense underbrush in front of her, in the direction of the sound, and heard a shuffling noise—the muffled swish of fabric rubbing against the brush. Whoever this was wasn’t trying to be particularly quiet, but what were they doing out here, literally in the middle of nowhere?
In the week Abby had been camped in the area she’d seen fewer than a dozen other people since checking in at the park ranger station, and all of those had been in the campground or along the paved road. Here in the backcountry she’d imagined herself completely alone.
Stealthily, she slid the Sig Sauer from the holster at her side. She’d told the few friends who’d asked about the gun that she carried it to deal with snakes and other wildlife she might encounter in the backcountry, but the truth was, ever since her stint in Afghanistan, she felt safer armed when she went out alone. Flashes of unsettling memories crowded her mind as she drew the weapon; suddenly, she was back in Kandahar, stalking insurgents who’d just wiped out half her patrol group. As a woman, she’d often been tasked with going into the homes of locals to question the women there with the aid of an interpreter. Every time she stepped into one of those homes, she wondered if she’d come out alive. This scene had the same sense of being cut off from the rest of the world, the same sense of paranoia and danger.
Heart racing, she struggled to control her breathing and to push the memories away. She wasn’t in Afghanistan. She was in Colorado. In a national park. She was safe. This was probably just another hiker, someone else who appreciated the solitude and peace of the wilderness. She inched forward and pushed aside the feathery, aromatic branches of a piñon.
A small, dark woman bent over the ground, deftly pulling up plants and stuffing them into the pockets of her full skirt. Dandelions, Abby noted. A popular edible wild green. She replaced the gun in its holster and stood. “Hello,” she said.
The woman jumped and dropped a handful of dandelions. She turned, as if to run. “Wait!” Abby called. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She retrieved the plants and held them out to the woman. She was young, barely out of her teens, and very beautiful. Her skin was the rich brown of toffee, and she had high cheekbones, a rosebud mouth and large black eyes framed by lacy lashes. She wore a loose blue blouse, a long, full skirt and leather sandals, with a plaid shawl draped across her body.
She came forward and hesitantly accepted the dandelions from Abby. “Gracias,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
Latina, Abby thought. A large community of Mexican immigrants lived in the area. She searched her mind for what schoolgirl Spanish she could recall. “Habla inglés?”
The woman shook her head and wrapped her arms around what Abby had first assumed to be a bag for storing the plants she collected, but she now realized was a swaddled infant, cradled close to the woman’s torso with a sling made from the red, blue and green shawl. “You have a baby!” Abby smiled. “A niño,” she added.
The woman held the baby closer and stared at Abby, eyes wide with fear.
Maybe she was an illegal, afraid Abby would report her to the authorities. “Don’t worry,” Abby said, unable to remember the Spanish words. “I’m looking for plants, like you.” She broke a stem from the desert parsley and held it out. “Donde esta este?” she asked. Where is this?
The woman eyed Abby warily, but stepped forward to study the plant. She nodded. “Si. Yo conozco.”
“You know this plant? Can you show me where to find more? Donde esta?”
The woman looked around, then motioned Abby to follow her. Abby did so, excitement growing. So far, specimens of Lomatium had been rare. Having more plants to study would be a tremendous find.
The woman moved rapidly over the rough ground despite her long skirts and the burden of the baby. Her black hair swung behind her in a ponytail that reached almost to her waist. Where did she live? The closest homes were miles from here, and the only road into this section of the park was the one Abby had come in on. Was she collecting the dandelions because she had an interest in wild food—or because it was the only thing she had to eat?
The woman stopped abruptly beside a large rock and looked down at the ground. Desert parsley spread out for several feet in every direction—the most specimens Abby had ever seen. Her smile widened. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much. Muchas gracias.” She clasped the woman’s hand and shook it. The woman offered a shy smile.
“Mi nombre es Abby.”
“Soy Mariposa,” the woman said.
Mariposa. Butterfly. Her name was butterfly? “Y su niño?” Abby nodded to the baby.
Mariposa smiled and folded back the blanket to reveal a tiny dark-haired infant. “Es una niña,” she said. “Angelique.”
“Angelique,” Abby repeated. A little angel.
“Usted ha cido harido.” Mariposa lightly touched the side of Abby’s face.
Abby flinched. Not because the touch was painful, but because she didn’t like being reminded of the scar there. Multiple surgeries and time had faded the wound made by shrapnel from a roadside bomb, but the puckered white gash that ran from just above her left ear to midcheekbone would never be entirely gone. She wore her hair long and brushed forward to hide the worst of the scar, but alone in the wilderness on this warm day she’d clipped her hair back to keep it out of the way while she worked. She had no idea what the Spanish words Mariposa had spoken meant, but she was sure they were in reference to this disfigurement. “Es no importante,” she said, shaking her head.
She turned away, the profile of her good side to the woman, and spotted a delicate white flower. The three round petals blushed a deep purplish pink near their center. Half a dozen similar blooms rose nearby on slender, leafless stems. Abby knelt and slipped off her backpack and took out her trowel. She deftly dug up one of the flowers, revealing a fat white bulb. She brushed the dirt from the bulb and handed the plant to the woman. “Este es comer. Bueno.” Her paltry Spanish frustrated her. “It’s good to eat,” she said, as if the English would make any more sense to her new friend.
Mariposa nodded, then knelt and began digging up a second lily. Maybe she was just humoring Abby—or maybe she really needed the food. Abby hoped it was the former. As much as her studies had taught her about wild plants, she’d hate to have to depend on them for survival.
She turned to her pack once more and took out another collection bag, then remembered the energy bars stashed on the opposite side of the pack. They weren’t much, but she’d give them to Mariposa. They’d at least be a change from roots. She found three bars and pressed them into the woman’s hands. “Por usted,” she said.
“Gracias.” Mariposa slipped the bars into the pocket of her skirt, then watched as Abby took out the camera and photographed the parsley plants. On impulse, she turned and aimed the camera at Mariposa. Click. And there she was, captured on the screen of the camera, face solemn but still very beautiful.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Abby asked. She turned the camera so that the woman could see the picture.
Mariposa squinted at the image, but said nothing.
For a few minutes, the two women worked side by side, Mariposa digging lilies and Abby collecting more specimens of parsley. Though Abby usually preferred to work alone, it was nice being with Mariposa. She only wished she spoke better Spanish or Mariposa knew English, so she could find out more about where her new friend was from and why she was here in such a remote location.
Though the army had trained Abby to always be attuned to changes in the landscape around her, she must have gotten rusty since her return to civilian life. Mariposa was the first to stiffen and look toward the brush to the right of the women.
Abby heard the movements a second later—a group of people moving through the brush toward them, their voices carrying in the still air, though they were still some distance away.
