Feeling the mare relax beneath her touch, she reached up, grabbing the saddle horn and cantle, then swung aboard in one swift, sure motion. Though the movement had her head spinning again, she swallowed back a groan and leaned over the horn, imagining herself a rock in one of Yosemite’s wildest rivers, a stationary object that pain and panic flowed past.
Jake leaned close to hand her the reins. “You’re hurting, Liane, and a head injury’s nothing to fool with. We need to get you back home.”
Straightening, she forced herself to ignore the worry in his voice. “Listen, Jake, I’m really glad you’re here. But if you came all this way just to tell me to turn around, you’re wasting your breath.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he reminded her. “But it’s not safe here—”
“Which means my family’s in danger.”
“Which means,” he insisted, “that your dad’s more than likely found someplace to take shelter with the kids. Someplace off the trail, where we could ride right past him.”
“I know every cave and overhang, all the spots he uses when a sudden storm comes up. I’ll find them, Jake, I know it. And after I finish hugging them all within an inch of their lives, I swear I’ll never let them out of my sight again.”
A gust of wind had the trees swaying, their scraping, rattling branches making crazy shadows as heat lightning strobe-lit the dark sky.
“It’s getting worse,” Jake said. “There’s no way your father would want you out in this.”
The urgency in his tone had her on alert. “Is there something you aren’t telling me? Something you’ve found out?”
“I haven’t been able to reach anybody—too much static. But I don’t like this wind. It gets high enough, it’ll bring down a lot of this dry timber and feed the fires.”
“We’re wasting time here. Let’s get moving.” As she spoke, she heard her voice going cold and felt herself stiffening, the way she always did around him since her return. Because she’d understood almost from the day she’d moved back to her dad’s house last year that Jake Whittaker was more than an uncomfortable reminder of the past. He was a danger to her, with his handsome face and hard, masculine body, a body so defined and sculpted that the briefest glimpse of him in a tight T-shirt was enough to weaken her knees. And enough to rekindle a memory so bittersweet, it tasted of her own tears.
But there was more, far more than a body born to tempt her, from his willingness to help her dad out at a moment’s notice to the way the two of them would get to grinning—though that deep, open laugh that she remembered had been another of the casualties of last summer’s fire. Jake was so good-natured around her kids, too, happily putting up with Cody’s tendency to talk the ears off anyone who would listen and gently teasing smiles out of her shy daughter. Seeing them together reminded her all too painfully of how often he’d daydreamed aloud of someday having a big family of his own to make up for losing his own parents at a young age.
She’d known instinctively that he was the sort of man who could entice her to forget the years that lay between them, the sort of man who could sneak back into her heart if she didn’t pay attention. But she could never risk forgetting how the man she’d eventually gone on to marry had seemed every bit as kind, as strong, as stable, until, seemingly overnight, he’d changed. Mac was never convicted of embezzling a fortune from the securities firm where he’d been working, but the shame of the public allegation had changed him into a violent, paranoid monster overnight. The sort of monster she could never risk allowing into her life or her bed—much less her children’s lives—again.
“You’re sure you’re okay to ride?” Jake asked, his concern so at odds with her memories of her ex that guilt lashed her.
“I am,” she said, feeling even worse as she recalled the way she’d implied earlier that he would only hold her back. Despite that, he’d come to find her. “And thank you. Thanks for riding out.”
Taking the lead, he nudged his mount into a jog and said over his shoulder, “It’s no problem.”
As she clucked at the pinto to get her trotting, discomfort lit up Liane’s bruised nerve endings like a switchboard. But she kept her mouth shut, not wanting to give Jake another excuse to argue that they should turn around.
Besides, he must be hurting, too, considering that he hadn’t been back on a horse since last summer’s fires, and she didn’t hear him complaining.
She made a mental note to bake him some more of those gooey caramel brownies he was so crazy about once this was all over—neighborly offerings that were far easier for her than conversation. Or maybe she would even invite him over for dinner one night, the way her father and the kids all kept suggesting.
Because she had the strength to manage that and keep her distance. The strength and, most of all, the experience to remind her of just how deceptive, how deadly dangerous, a handsome, helpful, seemingly safe man could prove to be.
* * *
Sheriff Harry Wallace reluctantly admitted to himself that he was getting too damned old for nights like this one. With the sky crackling and the wind howling, his office phones were ringing off the hook, and the few deputies who had survived the most recent round of budget cuts were scattered from hell to breakfast, checking out “smell of smoke” and automatic alarm calls from systems tripped off by power surges. To make matters worse, his heartburn was killing him, probably because he’d been drinking coffee by the pot-full in an effort to stay focused.
He was trying to shovel down another bite from the warmed-and-rewarmed dinner that his sister had dropped by when his hapless young assistant came fluttering through the door, a paper clutched in her hand. Seeing the terrified look on her freckled face, he put down his fork and snapped, “What is it now, Camille?”
Her flush deepened, making him feel guilty. It was his fault, not hers, for hiring some fool kid right out of high school to replace the office manager who’d kept this place running like a top for decades. On nights like this one, he wished he had retired with Gladys rather than settle for the sort of help he could hire for only a whisker above minimum wage. The sort of help he’d had to shake his own damned family tree to find.
“I— I’m so sorry, Sheriff Wallace,” his sister’s granddaughter managed. “I hate to bother you, but—but somehow this fax must’ve slipped behind the cabinet. I just found it, but it’s marked Urgent, so I—”
“Well, give it here,” he said, reaching out to snatch the paper from her. He almost choked on his casserole when he peered through his reading glasses at the header.
The Nevada Department of Corrections
Victim Services Unit
VICTIM NOTIFICATION REQUEST: Urgent
Dated three days earlier, it went on to name Liane Mason, giving her father’s address along with the handwritten notation: Please remind victim to update her phone number for our system!
But it was the message that followed that had Wallace pushing away from his desk and getting to his feet. “Damn it, Camille. I told Liane Mason not to worry. Told her that Deke and her kids would be just fine ’til morning. And we were sitting on something like this?”
Camille shrank back, her green eyes streaming. “I’m really sorry, Uncle Harry,” she said, forgetting her promise not to call him that here at the office.
He held up one hand for silence, grabbing his desk phone with the other. On his call log, he found Liane Mason’s number and pressed the buttons, his mind worrying over how to break the news. While it was still possible—he would even call it likely—that the late return of his oldest friend Deke Mason and Deke’s grandkids had nothing to do with a prison break over in Nevada, he knew Liane wouldn’t buy it for a second. Already scared out of her wits, there was no telling what she might do.
“Hell’s bells. Call’s not connecting,” he grumbled. “What do you want to bet this wind’s knocked a tree ac
ross the phone lines?”
“Is there something I can do to help?” Camille pleaded.
He nodded, grabbing his hat and jacket from the coat rack in the corner. “Yeah, there is. You can dump my dinner in the trash and hold down the fort. If anybody needs me, I’m heading over to the Masons’ place to check on Liane. I’ll call from there to let you know what’s going on.”
With one foot out the door, he paused and darted a look back at his red-faced grandniece. “And one more thing, Camille. Quit wasting your time crying and start praying for the Mason family instead.”
* * *
Jake’s gut tightened with the nagging suspicion that he was making a mistake not snatching the reins from Liane and forcing her to turn back. As worried as he was about her family, he’d known Deke Mason long enough to feel confident that, as long as he still drew breath, the experienced outdoorsman would see to his grandkids’ safety.
He tried to picture his friend sitting cross-legged on a cave floor, regaling his grandchildren with story after story as they snuggled under the old blankets he had cached there for just such an emergency. Knowing Deke, the old man had them convinced that their extended trip, from the broken radio to the storm itself, was all part of some grand adventure.
And if any living creature threatened—whether it was an agitated bear, a rabid coyote or one of the rattlesnakes common to the area—Deke would pull out the .50 caliber revolver he always carried on trips and take care of the situation. He would probably be mad enough to shoot Jake, too, if he let anything happen to Liane.
They continued pressing forward, making better time as the storm diminished. The horses’ steel shoes rang against stone and the leather of their saddles creaked. The air, too, became clearer as the wind shifted direction
“See, this isn’t so bad,” she called to him. “Maybe the weather people got it wrong and the worst is past already.”
“I hope so,” he said.
But the respite didn’t last much longer before a new storm rolled in, the dry wind rising until showers of golden-brown pine needles rained down on their heads. With no other warning, lightning forked across the sky, followed by the distinctive smell of ozone and a boom that shook the air.
At the crash, both horses started, and Jake had to shift his weight abruptly to stay seated.
“You all right?” Liane called, even as her own mount danced and snorted, tossing her head nervously.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, though the healed fracture in his back ached, jarred by the sudden movement. The leg throbbed, too, the phantom pain of severed nerves sending false reminders of the shattering injury. But during his years of wilderness firefighting, Jake had learned to shove his physical discomfort to a locked compartment of his brain where it could be dealt with sometime later. “I don’t know how much more of this these horses will put up with, though.”
As the wind gusted, there was another loud crack, and a large branch hurtled down only steps away. This time the buckskin dropped his head and kicked up, his body twisting with such sudden force that Jake went flying from the saddle.
He landed facedown with a grunt, the shock of the impact rattling every bone and filling. Before he could react, Liane was kneeling beside him, and the dog was in his face, whining and licking at his forehead.
“Jake, are you all right?” she asked. “Out of the way, Misty.”
Pushing himself up on his elbows, he registered the concern in her words—along with the clatter of both their horses’ hoof beats, receding down the trail.
“I’m in one piece, I think,” he said, reaching for his leg to confirm it. Finding the prosthesis still in place, he added, “But I’m sorry about losing the horses.”
“Not your fault—I should’ve known to hold on to my reins, but when I saw you lying down there...” She raised her voice to be heard above the wind as the shepherd paced around her nervously. “Here, let me help you up.”
Under other circumstances, he might have bristled at the offer, but tonight he was grateful to use her for balance. Accepting the hand she offered, he pushed himself upright and held his breath until he was certain he could stand unassisted.
Another bolt of lightning lit the sky, and thunder crashed even closer.
“We can’t keep going in this weather—or risk going back, either!” he shouted. “We need to find one of those caves or overhangs you mentioned before we get fried—or killed by a falling tree.”
Mingled with the smell of smoke, the piney tang of fresh-cut evergreens filled the air around them—an all-too-sharp reminder of the tree that had struck him last year.
“You’re right.” She stooped to pick up his high-impact flashlight where it had fallen, its beam still shining brightly. “But are you sure you’re up for the hike?”
“If you can do it, I can,” he vowed, despite his aching body.
Nodding, she linked her arm through his and started walking, both of them bent low against the smoke-laced wind.
Chapter 3
The climb to the closest of the caves Liane remembered would have been daunting for an able-bodied hiker on a sunny day. With tonight’s wind and darkness, it was a nightmare, but Jake kept up with her far better than she would have expected, even managing to hold her upright when she slid on loose rock.
As they made their way upslope, she soon found herself gasping with exertion. Spent, she stopped to rest, and fresh doubt crept into her mind.
“Jake,” she said, “I’m not—I’m not so sure about this anymore. I thought I knew the way, but—”
He found her hand and took it. “Take a moment. Get your bearings.”
Even now, with the wind whipping and the thunder echoing around them, there was something calming in his voice, something that steadied her, just as her mare had responded to her touch.
“I’m pretty sure you’re right, if that helps,” he said. “I remember the cave. It’s the one you took me to that time.”
She shook her head, her face heating. “No, not that place. It’s—that was such a long time ago. I don’t even remember where that was, exactly.”
But of course she did. She would never forget untying the rolled blanket from behind her saddle, would never forget leading the boyfriend she’d been so certain she would be with forever by the hand and...
She remembered every moment of it in such vivid detail that she was relieved it was too far to walk to in these conditions, even though, for all she knew, her dad might still stash emergency food, water and raingear there the way he once had. She told herself she couldn’t allow her focus to get mired in the past, not with her family out here somewhere, under this same unsettled sky.
“You were right before,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the rush of wind. “Everything looks so different in the dark.”
Even the man she’d been avoiding all these months.
As his flashlight’s beam caught a distinctive, chair-shaped rock, she murmured, “This is right, yes,” and started uphill again, this time moving so quickly that he had to struggle to keep pace.
But all too soon she froze, hearing a new sound from a higher elevation—the splintering crash of a tree falling, then spearing its way downhill, its branches snagging and snapping as it picked up speed and sent rocks plummeting.
“Run, Jake! Hurry!” she cried, adrenaline slamming through her system. “Avalanche!”
* * *
Sure enough, Sheriff Harry Wallace found the lines down in not just one but three places along rural Black Oak Road, where trees had fallen across the power and phone wires, effectively cutting off the Mason ranch and a scattering of vacation cabins. The road, too, was obstructed, but he was able to get around or over everything that stood in his way, thanks to four-wheel-drive.
When he reached the homestead, he didn’t see so much as
a candle burning or hear the generator running, though he found a silver Jeep he recognized as Liane’s parked next to Deke’s truck. A sinking feeling in his gut, Harry took his flashlight and checked out the perimeter, with a pause to knock at both the front and back doors and call out Liane’s name.
No answer, but there were no signs of forced entry, either, and he could see the red lights of the house’s alarm system—which evidently had a battery backup—blinking, showing that it had been armed. All signs, Harry suspected, that the terrified young mother had done exactly as she’d threatened and ridden off to find her family.
On a night like this one, with her thieving, murderous ex-husband on the loose. The same man, if one could call him that, who had stalked and shot her two years back.
As Harry passed the former hotshot’s pickup on the way to the old bunkhouse, he laid a hand on the older Ford’s blue hood. Cool, as he’d expected, since Whittaker rarely left the place after last summer’s fateful fire. Punishing himself, people were saying, though the investigation that followed had cleared him of all fault in the deaths of the men working under him.
Like most people he knew, Harry thought highly of Jake, but he understood the younger man’s decision to move away from town. Harry had felt guilty enough after being forced to lay off four deputies. How much more painful must it be for Jake, knowing that they’d died following his orders—and that a handful of the dead men’s family members had openly, aggressively, questioned the decisions he had made that terrible night?
Taking in the darkened windows, Harry stepped onto the cabin’s front porch. “Jake?” he called.
No answer. But when he tapped at the door, it swung inward with a loud creak. “What the hell?” he murmured as his flashlight’s beam raked the interior.
The place had been ransacked, the mattress and two upholstered chairs shredded, and the contents of every drawer strewn across the floor. But this had been no robbery, because a laptop computer lay among the mess with its screen smashed, along with a television and what looked to have been an expensive stereo system.
Passion to Protect Page 3
