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State Of Emergency
Cassie Miles
Join these brave men and women for edge-of-your-seat suspense and happily-ever-after romance!HER FUGITIVE…Jordan Shane was in a serious bind. And Search and Rescue nurse Emily Foster was the one woman who could help him prove his innocence–and steal his heart right out from under him!HIS HOSTAGE…Emily Foster had had enough danger to last a lifetime. All she wanted was a quiet life in the mountains. Instead, she got an attractive fugitive who had taken her hostage–and made her believe in love. On their hair-raising mountain trek,did she dare risk everything for Jordan's life–and his love?


“I don’t want to sleep with you,” Emily said
But did she? From the first moment she’d laid eyes on Jordan, she had found him attractive. “If you lay one hand on me, I’ll—”
“I won’t touch you, Emily.” He straightened his spine. In spite of the lingering trail dust and the prison-issue denims, Jordan exuded the dignity of an honorable man. “You have my word as a gentleman.”
“Who do think you are? Rhett Butler?”
The right corner of his mouth quirked in a grin. “At your service, Miss Scarlett. Get in,” Jordan said.
Emily crawled inside, and the warmth of the lightweight sleeping bag snuggled around her. When Jordan joined her inside the bag, there was barely room to move. She couldn’t escape without waking him. And she wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to leave him.
It had been years since she’d been intimate with a man, and she’d forgotten how pleasant it was to lie close to a large masculine body. Tempting fate, she wriggled against him. His breath whispered deep and slow, echoing the rhythm of his heart. His natural male fragrance mingled with the fragrance of her soap. “Jordan?”
He was silent, already sound asleep. True to his word as a gentleman. Damn it.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Welcome to a brand-new year of exciting romance and edge-of-your-seat suspense. We at Harlequin Intrigue are thrilled to renew our commitment to you, our loyal readers, to provide variety and outstanding romantic suspense—each and every month.
To get things started right, veteran Harlequin Intrigue author Cassie Miles kicks off a two-book miniseries with State of Emergency. The COLORADO SEARCH AND RESCUE group features tough emergency personnel reared in the shadows of the rugged Rocky Mountains. Who wouldn’t want to be stranded with a western-born hunk trained to protect and serve?
Speaking of hunks, Debra Webb serves up a giant of a man in Solitary Soldier, the next installment in her COLBY AGENCY series. And you know what they say about the bigger they come the harder they fall…. Well, it goes double for this wounded hero.
Ann Voss Peterson takes us to the darkest part of a serial killer’s world in Accessory to Marriage. The second time around could prove to be the last—permanently—for both the hero and heroine in this gripping thriller.
Finally, please welcome Delores Fossen to the line. She joins us with a moving story of forced artificial insemination, which unites two strangers who unwittingly become parents…and eventually a family. Do not miss His Child for an emotional read.
Be sure to let us know how we’re doing; we love to hear from our readers! And Happy New Year from all of us at Harlequin Intrigue.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
State of Emergency
Cassie Miles


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cassie Mlles lives in Denver, one of the fastest-growing cities in the country, with the traffic jams to prove it. She belongs to the film society and enjoys artsy subtitled cinema almost as much as movies where stuff blows up. Her favorite entertainment is urban, ranging from sports to museum exhibits to coffeehouse espresso. Yet she never loses sight of the Rocky Mountains through the kitchen window.

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* (#litres_trial_promo)
332—THE SUSPECT GROOM* (#litres_trial_promo)
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** (#litres_trial_promo)
529—THE SAFE HOSTAGE** (#litres_trial_promo)
584—UNDERCOVER PROTECTOR
645—STATE OF EMERGENCY† (#litres_trial_promo)



CAST OF CHARACTERS
Emily Foster—The former emergency-room nurse seeks solitude and peace in the Colorado mountains where she works for Search and Rescue.
Jordan Shane—The Florida-based computer chip manufacturer, arrested and accused of murdering his estranged wife, makes a daring escape and is on the run.
Lynette Afton-Shane—The Aspen jet-setter and owner of two ski lodges is shot before she can divorce Jordan.
Brian Afton—Lynette’s brother inherits the bulk of her estate when she dies.
Sean Madigan—The professional skier who lives in the guest house on Lynette’s estate had an intense relationship with the deceased.
Deputy Ed Cooper—Sloppy police work leads to his downfall when he slides off a cliff.
Deputy Frank Kreiger—The overzealous law enforcement officer secretly loved Lynette and wants her murderer punished.
Dr. Spence Cannon—The local doctor, a good friend for Emily, also works for Search and Rescue.
Pookie—The golden retriever puppy is neither a watchdog nor a detective, but he helps solve the crime.
To Rosie. Hi, Mom!

Contents
Prologue (#u3cf6a05f-39db-5e56-9360-ac0009247772)
Chapter One (#u99878709-8b7c-5af3-b887-b4773c2e431a)
Chapter Two (#ucb14842a-4810-5c23-b1a5-e977ee42e32d)
Chapter Three (#u528ae36c-ecb6-5c26-a2c4-7af5d3ba8e65)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue
July 25, Aspen, Colorado
Jordan Shane woke with a shudder. The guest bedroom in his wife’s house was cold as a morgue. The bedsheets and comforter weighed on his legs like a blanket of snow. He always felt half-frozen in the mountains, even now in the middle of summer.
A white sliver of light cut through the midnight dark. The bedroom door stood slightly ajar.
“Lynette?” He whispered his wife’s name. There was no reason for her to come to him in the night. They hadn’t been intimate for eleven months. They didn’t live in the same house. Most of the time, they weren’t even in the same latitude.
Jordan’s home and his business were in sun-baked Florida on the Gulf coast where semitropical breezes played in the lush green palm fronds. Most of the time, Lynette stayed here in Aspen, Colorado, where she owned two ski lodges and lived in the biggest damn house he’d ever seen. She called it a château. He called it a hotel because of the constant stream of friends and relatives who were usually taking up space in the sixteen extra bedrooms, not to mention Sean Madigan, a professional skier who lived in the guest house, or the housekeeper who had a good-size apartment behind the downstairs kitchen. Lynette didn’t like to be alone…not even with her husband.
She had, however, made an effort at privacy for Jordan’s midsummer visit. There were no business associates, no guests, no cousins, no friends. The granite château-hotel was eerily vacant.
Jordan had come to discuss the dissolution of their estranged marriage. This afternoon, when he proposed divorce, she agreed, asking only that he postpone legal action for a month to give her time to clean up a few business details. The end of their marriage would be amicable. No hard feelings. Their relationship just hadn’t worked out.
From the very start, they shared zero common interests. But Jordan had been blinded by Lynette’s astonishing physical beauty—her long, shining black hair, sapphire eyes and perfect creamy skin. Even now—with the marriage basically over—he fondly remembered her lush curves and full breasts. The thought of her naked body warmed him, and he reached across the king-size bed, hoping against the impossible that she might have joined him. For old times’ sake.
Groping at the pillow, he touched metal. His fingers closed around the grip of a handgun. His memory of Lynette’s perfume vanished as he caught the whiff of cordite and powder. This lightweight Glock automatic had recently been fired.
Jordan bolted from the bed, turned on the lamp and scanned the guest bedroom. Lynette’s antique furniture contrasted his laptop, printer and global cell phone. Nothing seemed to be out of place.
But somebody had been here. Somebody had left the gun.
He checked the clip, making sure the pistol was still loaded. He grabbed the cell phone before he opened the bedroom door and peered into the second-floor landing. One side of the hallway was open with a cherrywood railing that overlooked an atrium foyer. On the other side were the closed doors to guest bedrooms, all vacant.
His wife’s master bedroom suite was fifty yards away, at the south end of the house. Her double doors were wide open.
“Lynette!”
His voice echoed against the dark wainscoting and white walls, hung with original artwork. He didn’t call her name again. He was dead certain she wouldn’t answer.
Wearing only his boxer shorts, Jordan raced toward her suite. He burst through the sitting area into her white bedroom, stark as a glacial landscape. Track lighting blazed reflections against a wall of mirrors. At the foot of the four-poster bed, Lynette sprawled on the plush white carpet, stained crimson with her blood. Her lacy white nightgown hiked up to her thighs. She’d been shot in the chest.
Dropping the gun, Jordan fell to his knees beside her. At the base of her throat, he felt for a pulse. Nothing.
“Help!” Jordan yelled. The housekeeper ought to be downstairs. “Rita, help.”
Lynette’s blue eyes stared, blank and gelid. Her skin felt cool. She couldn’t be dead! There was color in her cheeks.
Jordan punched 9-1-1 into his cell phone. “Ambulance! Send an ambulance!” He gave the address. “How do I do CPR? Tell me!”
“Sir, if you will just stay on the line, I can—”
He threw down the phone. If there was life in Lynette’s body, he had to act fast. He straightened her legs. Her bare arms were slippery with blood. When he lifted her upper body, her head tilted back and her glossy black hair tumbled over his arm. For a moment, he cradled her against him. He’d wanted to end it. “But not like this. My God, not like this.”
Rita Ramirez, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway, wearing a yellow chenille robe.
“Rita,” he said, “you’ve got to help her.”
The housekeeper took a backward step. Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “Mios Dio, Jordan. What have you done?”

Chapter One
September 16, Cascadia, Colorado
“This is the wound.” With a red marker pen, Emily Foster drew two parallel dots, representing the fang marks of a rattlesnake, on the arm of a seven-year-old Brownie. The other eight girls and the troop leader stood in a tight circle around the Formica-topped table in the Cascadia Search and Rescue headquarters. “Can anybody tell me what to do next?”
“I know,” said an angelic little redhead. “You gotta shoot the dang rattler.”
“The snake will be gone.” Emily preferred not to discuss snakebite treatment in her first aid lectures. Given her druthers, she’d never talk about reptiles at all—those slimy, sneaky, altogether terrifying creatures. But kids always asked about worst-case scenarios. Potential encounters with rattlesnakes, cougars and grizzly bears were a lot more dramatic than learning how to identify poison ivy. “Anybody know what we do next?”
“Suck out the poison,” said Libby Hanson, the daughter of the troop leader. “Then spit it out.”
The red-haired cherub gave a naughty smirk. “What if somebody gets bit on the butt?”
“Gross,” said a tall, feminine girl with a long braid that hung to her waist. “I wouldn’t ever suck anybody’s rear end.”
“Except for Johnny Jamison,” the naughty angel said.
“Settle down, girls.” Yvonne, the troop leader and mother of four, spoke with the voice of authority, but the Brownies weren’t listening. They’d caught an extreme case of the giggles.
“Settle down,” Yvonne repeated. She held up her hand in the sign for quiet.
Those who weren’t making sucking noises on their arms were wiggling their skinny little bottoms at each other.
“Quiet!” Yvonne threatened, “Or no snacks.”
Immediate silence descended, and Emily nodded an appreciative thank-you. She’d never been comfortable with children, especially not in a group. Controlling them was like juggling spaghetti. “Actually, we don’t recommend the suck-and-spit method, anymore. First, we clean and disinfect the wound.” She pantomimed that action. “Then wrap an Ace bandage above the wound. Not too tightly. Most of all, you want the victim to remain calm.”
The supposedly snakebit Brownie eased into a prone position on the tabletop, and Emily completed the treatment by taping a folded gauze pad over the bite. “This is to apply direct pressure to the wound. Now, what’s next?”
“Get help,” said Yvonne’s daughter.
“That’s right.” Emily gave a thumbs-up. “Any other questions?”
Tall and Feminine raised her hand. “Is that your real hair color?”
Emily touched her curly blond ponytail. “Yes.”
“I wondered ’cause your eyes are kind of a weird green and not blue like most blondes.”
“Let’s get back to first aid, shall we?” Emily loosened the Ace bandage on her volunteer victim’s arm.
The irrepressible angel asked, “Did you have anybody die from getting bit by a rattler?”
“Never.”
“But you’ve seen people die ’cause you’re a nurse.” Before she moved to Cascadia three years ago, Emily had experienced more than her share of senseless, violent death when she worked in a Denver hospital emergency room. God, yes, she’d seen people die. The helplessness and horror branded deep into her soul. Real-life death wasn’t an appropriate topic for seven-year-old Brownies. “The important thing,” she said, “is to avoid danger. Can you tell me the first rule of mountain safety?”
“Think ahead and be careful,” they recited back to her.
“Second rule?” Emily asked.
“Be prepared.”
“And if an accident happens?” she prompted.
“Keep calm. Call 9-1-1. Use first aid.”
“I don’t get it,” said Tall and Feminine. “9-1-1 is Sheriff Litvak’s phone number. Why is it the same for Search and Rescue?”
“The 9-1-1 dispatcher contacts S.A.R.,” Emily explained.
“Does he call you at home? Like, what if you’re busy?”
“Drop everything and come running,” Emily said.
“We usually meet right here, behind Dr. Spence’s office.”
The headquarters for the mostly volunteer S.A.R. unit based in Cascadia, Colorado, was the size of a two-car garage and almost as glamorous. The furnishings included secondhand tables, chairs, desks and an ancient refrigerator. Their rescue equipment, however, illustrated state-of-the-art preparedness with skis, snow shoes, carry litters, pitons and miles of nylon rope. Sophisticated aerial-photograph maps covered every wall. There were walkietalkies, a satellite phone and two computers—electronics that were beyond Emily’s comprehension.
Concluding her demonstration, she passed out miniature first aid kits with the address and phone number for Cascadia S.A.R. attached with a sticky label. From past experience, she knew that most of these kits would be used as toys, but at least the girls would be thinking about safety.
Dr. Spence Cannon, a young and much-loved general practitioner, poked his head through the door that connected with the offices for his regular practice. “I thought I heard some mice down here.”
Excited, the Brownies flocked around him. “We’re not mice!”
“Then how do you explain those big ears?” Spence tugged at a couple of their braids. “And these long tails?”
“I’m an eagle,” said the redhead. She spread her arms and began to soar.
“Yeah? Well, I’m a wolf.” Libby Hanson bared her fangs and snarled.
Tall and Feminine struck a pose. “I’m a supermodel.”
Emily stepped back beside Yvonne, and they watched as Spence and the Brownies settled around a table for Kool-Aid and snacks. “He’s great with kids,” Emily said.
“You bet,” Yvonne agreed. “We’re so lucky he settled here. With that streaked blond hair and those baby blue eyes, Spence could’ve made big bucks with a practice in Aspen.”
Though Cascadia lay only an hour’s drive from the fabled ski area, this small working-class community was a million miles distant in terms of economics. Cascadia couldn’t be described as a resort. It wasn’t a picturesque mountain town with châteaus, chalets and cutsey shops. Most of the people who lived here worked in Aspen. Their homes were humble cabins off the beaten path or trailers or rented rooms in the barracks-like motels.
“Spence fits in here,” Emily said. “He’s a nice guy.”
Coming from her, “nice” represented a genuine compliment when applied to an M.D. In her years as an emergency room nurse, she’d developed a potent hostility toward the usually egotistical doctors.
“Thanks for talking to the kids,” Yvonne said. “Those first aid kits are nifty. How did our underfinanced S.A.R. afford them?”
“We received a contribution that was specifically earmarked for mountain safety training and first aid. Ten thousand dollars.”
“Wow!” Yvonne’s eyes popped wide. In addition to motherhood duties, she raised and trained rescue dogs—an endeavor that could always use extra financial aid. “Who is this benefactor? Somebody from Aspen?”
“Somebody who’s dead. Lynette Afton-Shane.”
“Oh my! You know I hate to brag, but I’ve been to that house. The Afton Château. Big stone monstrosity. Gorgeous antiques.”
“How did you manage that?”
“It was a kid thing.” Yvonne clucked her tongue and lowered her voice, not wanting the Brownies to overhear. “That poor woman. Being killed in cold blood by her own husband.”
“I don’t think Jordan Shane did it,” Emily said.
“Do you know him?”
”Not really. I’ve met him twice.”
The first time had been over a year ago when he attended one of her mountain safety lectures in Aspen. The second time, he came personally to her cabin to deliver the contribution. He insisted the ten thousand dollars be credited to his wife’s name even though the check had been written on his personal account.
“Come on, Emily. I want details. What’s he look like?”
“Dark brown hair. He wears it kind of long.” When she’d met Jordan, he was another woman’s husband. It would have been improper for Emily to notice his cleft chin, high cheekbones and smouldering dark eyes. She had absolutely no right to admire the breadth of his shoulders and the way his snug Levi’s outlined his muscular thighs. “He has a southern accent. I think he’s from Florida or something.”
Yvonne’s dark eyebrows lowered in one of those reproachful mother looks. “Please don’t tell me you have a thing for him.”
“How could I? He’s married.”
“Was married,” she said darkly. “Now, he’s a murderer.”
“He’s accused of murder,” Emily corrected. She’d been following the much-reported case in the newspaper. “The trial hasn’t even started.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t he found standing over the body with a smoking gun in his hand? And there was nobody else in the house? No sign of forced entry?”
“That’s right,” Emily conceded.
“He had motive, too,” Yvonne said. “I heard the couple was talking divorce, and Jordan would lose out on her inheritance.”
Nearly everybody in the surrounding mountain communities had already decided that Jordan Shane, the outsider, was guilty of murdering his popular, wealthy spouse. On the strength of negative local opinion, Jordan’s attorney had obtained a change of venue for the trial.
“I don’t know,” Emily said, “but Jordan Shane just doesn’t act like a murderer.”
“As if you’d know.” Yvonne gestured toward the giggling girls and Spence. “Why not hook up with somebody like him?”
“Spence? No way. There’s one thing I learned as a nurse—don’t fall in love with a doctor.”
“Why not?”
“It never works.” She’d found out the hard way. “Besides, I’ve already selected my favorite beau. His name is Pookie.”
Yvonne gave a disbelieving snort. “Pookie is a golden retriever puppy and not very bright.”
“But he keeps me warm at night,” Emily said. “Which reminds me, I’ve left him home alone too long. I should be going.”
Before Yvonne could launch into a birds-and-bees explanation on the difference between sharing your bed with a dog and sleeping with a man, Emily bid her hasty goodbyes and left the Cascadia S.A.R. headquarters.
Though community service played an integral part in her life and the demonstration with the Brownies justified her minimal monthly stipend from Search and Rescue, she was glad to have this task over. With her Saturday morning errands already accomplished, she was free to spend the rest of the weekend curled up with a good book or hiking with Pookie or starting on the million and one maintenance chores she needed to do before the first snowfall.
Emily slipped behind the wheel of her old Land Rover, a vehicle too ancient to be considered an SUV, and drove through town. In less than twenty minutes, she was bouncing along the seldom-traveled graded road that led to her even more desolate turn-off. Emily’s log cabin—which had been in her family for as long as she could recall—bordered on National Forest land and she had no neighbors, except for the chipmunks, the elk and the hummingbirds. Sometimes, she went for days without hearing another human voice.
Though she occasionally worried about turning into an eccentric tangle-haired hermit, Emily loved her secluded mountain lifestyle. Tucked safely in her cabin, she no longer needed daily doses of antidepressants. Her anxiety attacks seldom occurred anymore. She’d made the right decision when she left behind the frenzy of activity and constant tension of the big city E.R. where life-and-death situations were daily, if not hourly, occurrences. The pressure had been too great. Now, at age thirty-two, solitude was preferable, even necessary.
She parked at her cabin, surrounded by conifers on a ridge warmed by the western sun. Outside the vehicle, she stood for a moment. On this crisp September afternoon the skies stretched above her in deep, endless blue. God, it was beautiful! A brisk wind brushed against her cheeks and tangled in the curly blond wisps that escaped her ponytail. Autumn was her favorite time of year. The changing aspen leaves colored the slopes with shimmering gold. Fresh snow glistened on the distant high peaks near the continental divide.
A flash of caramel-colored fur loped toward her. She’d been trying to train Pookie, following the program that Yvonne outlined, but Emily secretly enjoyed the way her puppy wiggled all over with crazed joy every time he saw her. And she adored his muffled woofs.
“Moof, moof.” Pookie launched himself at her. His overlarge paws groped at her thigh, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth.
“How did you get out?” she asked as she scratched behind his ears. “I know I left you inside.”
“Burf moof.” He sat back and cocked his head to one side, giving her the doggy equivalent of a shrug.
“Raccoons,” she muttered. Those masked vermin could break into anything. They must have pushed open a cabin window.
With Pookie following, she climbed the front steps onto the porch. Her front door was unlocked. Had she left it that way? As soon as Emily stepped inside, she was grabbed from behind. The cold bore of a pistol dug into the small of her back. A harsh voice whispered, “Don’t scream.”
Though she’d taken self-defense classes in the city, her mind went blank. The sudden assault stunned her, and she froze. Her breath caught in her chest. Her heart paused midbeat.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. There was the hint of a southern accent in his voice. “I need your help, Ms. Foster.”
He knew her name. “Who are you?”
He said nothing. His muscular forearm clamped across her throat, exerting slight pressure on her windpipe. Her body pressed against his, and she could tell that he was very tall. The top of her head barely cleared his shoulder. Struggle was futile. Even without the gun, he could easily overpower her.
What did he want? She trembled, unable to accept this harsh reality. She was supposed to be safe here. Her breath returned in a frantic gasp.
Her impending panic had no effect whatsoever on Pookie. The puppy bounced around them, stumbling over his own paws and seeming to enjoy this new game. “Murf, bork, bork.”
“Please,” Emily said, “let me go.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
He was toying with her, reveling in his superiority. An edge of anger cut through her terror. She had to act, to escape from him. Her arms tensed as she prepared to thrust her elbows backward into his midsection. Caution tempered her actions. Remember the gun. The worst thing she could do was to anger this person and cause him to lash out. In a controlled voice she said, “You wanted my help, and I’ll do what I can. Just don’t hurt me or my dog.”
“Fair enough.” He released his grip.
Free from his grasp, she pivoted and faced him. He wore prison-issue denim pants and a blue workshirt with a black number stenciled above the pocket. His dark brown hair hung shaggy and unkempt. His upper left arm was bloody. More blood smeared his face below the cheekbone. Returning her gaze, his expression hardened in dark, silent desperation.
“Jordan Shane,” she whispered. “You escaped.”
She’d been wrong about him. Until this moment, Emily had believed in his innocence. But innocent men don’t run. Jordan Shane was a cold-blooded murderer. In his right hand, he held a .22 caliber automatic, trained toward her midsection. “That’s my gun,” she said grimly.
“Hope you don’t mind if I borrow this peashooter.”
She kept the unloaded pistol in a wooden box on the top shelf in her closet. And the ammunition was stashed in her underwear drawer. He must have searched her house. The thought of a murderer going through her personal belongings disgusted her.
And yet, Pookie snuggled congenially against him. Weren’t animals supposed to have a sixth sense about danger? Emily warned herself not to take Pookie’s judgment too seriously. Coldly, she said, “I didn’t notice a car outside. How did you get here?”
“I parked in that shed behind your house and latched the door. Hope you don’t mind.”
Of course, she minded! She was not in the habit of harboring escaped criminals. His phony politeness didn’t fool her for one minute. Jordan Shane had not dropped by for a spot of tea. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m in need of medical attention. I’ve been shot.”
Even if she hadn’t seen the blood, Emily would have suspected serious injuries from the occasional tremors that shook his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His complexion blanched white.
This was a far different Jordan Shane than the handsome benefactor who had visited her cabin a year ago. When he’d been here before, he had a deep Florida tan. Six weeks in the Pitkin County jail erased that healthy glow. He looked thinner but not at all frail. His features were sharpened, as if his ordeal had sliced close to the bone.
As she stared at him, her instinctive empathy emerged. It was an emotion more deeply ingrained than her fear or rage. For as long as she could remember, Emily had been driven to reach out to those who needed help and nurturing. She was a natural-born nurse. She truly believed in the motto of S.A.R.: “…That Others May Live.” In this case, however, her instincts were dead wrong. Jordan Shane was a dangerous man. “I can’t help you,” she said. “If I did, I’d be aiding and abetting a criminal.”
“Not if I force you,” he said, casually displaying the gun. “I didn’t come here to get you in trouble, Ms. Foster.”
“Then why? Of all the places in the world you could have run to, why did you come to me?”
“It was logical.” Jordan took a step away from her and leaned against the arm of the plaid sofa. He was light-headed, but he didn’t think his condition came from loss of blood. More than likely, he was disoriented by his own audacity. He’d never been the sort of man who acted without thinking, and now he was on the lam from the Pitkin County sheriff. At this very moment, a massive search effort would be getting underway.
“Logical? You came here because it was logical?” “That’s right.”
His mental process was a little fuzzy, almost as if today’s events had happened to someone else. He clearly remembered being left in a windowed room at Sardy Field in Aspen. He was being transported to Denver where his trial was slated to start on Monday. Another prisoner waited with him. With no explanation, Deputy Frank Kreiger had entered the room, removed their shackles and cuffs and left them alone again.
The other guy went to one of the windows, unfastened the latch and pushed it open. Fresh air washed inside, and Jordan was drawn toward the scent of freedom.
“I don’t understand your definition of logical.” He heard Emily speaking. Her voice echoed as if she were talking from the bottom of a deep well. “Would you explain?”
He truly didn’t know. Jordan hadn’t consciously decided to escape, but he was suddenly outside, ducked down and running alongside the hangar toward the tarmac.
Gunshots exploded. A stinging heat penetrated his left arm. He turned halfway around and heard a bullet whiz past his cheek. The other prisoner lay flat on the ground, awaiting recapture.
Jordan ran. He dodged and backtracked through the airport where he’d been dozens of times before. He found the employee parking area. After he hot-wired a late model Dodge, he drove away from Aspen. He had no clear escape route in mind but found himself on the road leading toward Cascadia. He remembered the directions to Emily’s cabin from when he came here to drop off the contribution. He also recalled that this location was remote with no troublesome neighbors.
He offered her a summary explanation. “I remembered that you were a former emergency room nurse, and I figured that you’d know how to deal with a gunshot wound.”
“I do.” Her green eyes narrowed. She was guarded, suspicious and wary. Perfectly normal reactions. She probably believed, like everyone else in Pitkin County, that he had murdered Lynette.
“Patch me up, Ms. Foster, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Please call me Emily,” she said with an admirable show of bravado. “After your armed assault, I think we should be on a first-name basis.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. It had been weeks since he’d smiled. “You have a sense of humor, Emily.”
“A sense of survival,” she corrected. “And I’d feel a whole lot more comfortable if you’d get rid of the gun.”
She held out her hand as if he’d be stupid enough to surrender his weapon. “I think not.”
“Don’t you trust me, Jordan?”
“Hell, no.” She was a law-abiding citizen who would turn him over to the cops in two blinks of an eyelash. “Let’s get this over with.”
Though he suspected the gunshot had resulted in nothing more serious than a painful flesh wound, he wanted her professional opinion. The bullet slice across his cheek was more worrisome—partly because it wouldn’t stop bleeding and partly because the wound was inches away from a fatal shot to his skull.
He pointed toward the kitchen where he had assembled her medical supplies. During the half hour he’d been alone in her house, he’d made friends with the dog and conducted a fairly thorough search of this cosy two-bedroom cabin. She had no television, no VCR and no computer. Her bookshelves were crammed with hardback reference works and an eclectic selection of paperback fiction, including a lot of science fiction and medical thrillers. She had a decent sound system and an extensive collection of blues and classical CDs.
Though most of her furniture was worn around the edges, nothing looked shabby. She decorated with warm, bright colors—a patchwork quilt on her bed, dozens of framed prints on the walls and flowers. Emily had captured the outdoor sunlight with glass vases of wildflowers and a golden arrangement of aspen branches on the kitchen table.
When they entered the kitchen, she assumed the brisk attitude of a nurse. “Take off your shirt.”
His left arm was stiff, but he managed the buttons while still keeping a grip on the gun. Underneath he wore a white cotton T-shirt.
“Take off both shirts.” She stood at the sink with her arms folded beneath her breasts. “I see that you gathered up a lot of bandages and brought them to the table. You shouldn’t have rifled through my things, Jordan.”
“You should’ve kept your front door locked.”
“I hardly ever lock up when I leave.” She shrugged. “There are too many other ways to break into the cabin. If someone intends to rob me, I might as well save myself the trouble of fixing a broken window.”
“Generous,” he said.
“Besides, I’ve been hoping that my ferocious watchdog would be a deterrent to crime.”
“He’s a good little fella. What’s his name?”
“Pookie.”
“Well, there’s your problem,” Jordan said. “If you want him to be a watchdog, you’ve got to name him Spike or Killer.”
“For your information, Pookie comes from pukka which is a term of nobility and respect in India.”
“Why not name him Ghandi? Here, Ghandi.”
“Moof, snoofle, moof.” The dog jumped up, ignoring the gun, and licked Jordan’s bare forearm.
“Weird bark,” he said.
“No worse than his bite.”
As he looked down at the loose-limbed golden retriever puppy, Jordan felt the corners of his mouth curving upward. Another smile.
Slowly, it was beginning to dawn on him that he was free. After six weeks of jail time, he was out in the world again, unshackled, unfettered. Freedom meant he had options, choices, the opportunity to do more than to declare his innocence over and over until the words sounded hollow and empty.
“Your T-shirt,” Emily said. “Take it off and come over here to the sink.”
He did as instructed. Though he wasn’t sure how far he could trust Emily, Jordan believed she’d do a good job of nursing. From the first time he saw her, giving a lecture on mountain safety, he’d been impressed by her professionalism. He remembered sitting at the Aspen Ski Patrol meeting with Lynette at his side. Their marriage had already begun to fall apart, but Jordan had been making an effort to share in her interests. Still, midway through the meeting, he’d become fascinated by Emily Foster. Her curly, maize-colored hair and the vivacious color in her cheeks contrasted his wife’s cool beauty. As a married man, Jordan would never do anything but look, but he certainly had taken in an eyeful. Being in Emily’s presence made him feel like springtime after the winter chill of his ice princess wife. Poor Lynette! She hadn’t deserved a bloody death. It wasn’t right that her killer would go unpunished.
“Ouch!” He reacted as Emily washed his wound with stinging antiseptic.
“Betadine antiseptic to prevent infection,” she said. “It’s a neat exit wound. The bullet burned right through without hitting the bone. You’re lucky.”
“I guess.” Although getting shot in the first place didn’t seem much like a stroke of good fortune, he had reason to hope. His improbable escape gave him a second chance, and he needed to make use of this opportunity.
She sat him down beside the kitchen table. Before she dressed the wound, she went to the refrigerator, took out a carton of orange juice and filled a tall glass. “Drink this. And you should probably eat something.”
“Thanks.” He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was already past two o’clock in the afternoon.
When she went to work on his arm, Jordan barely felt the pain. He was too busy thinking, considering the options. His first priority was to evade capture. “With your S.A.R. work, you’re in contact with the sheriff’s office.”
“That’s right,” she said as she skillfully applied gauze and wrapped the bandages.
“What happens when they go after an escapee?”
“I’m not involved in that kind of search,” Emily said, “but I imagine the deputies will fan out in the most likely areas for searching. They’ll probably bring in bloodhounds.”
“How can they track the scent if I’m in a car?”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “Not all dogs are like Pookie, you know. There was one legendary bloodhound from Denver who found a body days after the murder and miles away from the supposed scene of the crime.”
It sounded pretty far-fetched to him. “What else?”
“Probably helicopters. And roadblocks, of course.”
He’d been thinking about the roadblocks. By now, the sheriff must have determined the make, model and license plate number on his stolen vehicle.
“There,” she said as she finished the bandaging. “The cut on your face is more of a problem. Facial wounds tend to bleed a lot, and you’re going to need stitches.”
She strode toward the kitchen door.
“Hold it!” Jordan raised the pistol. He couldn’t allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of security, no matter how charming Emily seemed to be. She could make a quick call to 9-1-1 and pinpoint his location. She could make a break for her car. “Where are you going?”
“In your search of my house, you apparently missed the closet in the second bedroom. That’s where I keep a lot of my equipment, including a backpack of medical supplies. I have the stuff I’ll need for stitching in there.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll accompany you.”
“I mind,” she muttered. “I don’t like being a hostage.”
He wasn’t exactly thrilled about his role as hostage-taker. But he didn’t have an option.
The closet in the second bedroom was surprisingly large, and she’d neatly stored much of her S.A.R. equipment inside. Jordan’s gaze lit upon a heavy-duty walkie-talkie combined with a battery operated cell phone. With his uninjured right arm, he picked up the communication device. “Can you use this to pick up the police radio?”
“I have no idea,” she said as she grabbed a red backpack. “I hardly know how to turn it on. Electronics aren’t my thing.”
Fortunately, Jordan was an expert in all things mechanical. His company in Florida manufactured high-tech computer chips. As they returned to the kitchen, he activated the walkie-talkie. Within minutes, he was picking up the police band radio.
“I’m impressed,” Emily commented. “When it comes to mountain survival and emergency medical aid, I do a good job. But that thing baffles me. I hate carrying it on searches.”
As she disinfected the wound on his cheek, Jordan focused on the static reports from the walkie-talkie. The sheriff had already set up roadblocks on the main highway and some of the major roads leading away from Aspen. Had they come this far? Had they thought of Cascadia?
“The stitching is going to hurt,” Emily said. “I don’t have anesthetic. Maybe I should just use a couple of butterfly bandages.”
But he might be on the run for days and wouldn’t have a chance for further medical attention. He needed a more permanent solution than a couple of bandages. “Stitch it up.”
He could manage the pain. What he couldn’t stand was being recaptured again. There was no way in hell he’d go back to jail.
She handed him a bottle of ibuprofen. “Take three.”
He washed down four tablets with another swig of orange juice. “I’m ready.”
As she prepared to stitch, he stared at the curved needle. If she wanted, Emily could inflict serious damage on his face. He nudged the nose of the gun against her rib cage as a reminder. “Don’t try anything cute.”
“I’m a nurse, Jordan. And I take pride in my work. I won’t hurt you any more than I have to. Try not to move around.”
He closed his eyes and retreated deep into his head, seeking a meditative core of stillness. Instead of tensing his body, he willed himself to relax. In an almost objective state, he felt the needle pierce his flesh. He acknowledged the stab and, just as quickly, dismissed the resulting pain.
He inhaled a deep breath before she stitched again. Behind his eyelids, he saw cool blue Gulf waters lapping against the Florida sands. He imagined gentle breakers washing over him, soothing his mind and his spirit, lifting him above the throbbing agony.
He didn’t flinch. The stitching was necessary. The hurt was nothing compared to the thought of spending a lifetime in prison for a crime he did not commit.
“Done,” she said.
When he opened his eyes, he glimpsed a fleeting gentleness in her eyes. For an instant, Emily almost looked like she might hug him. He wanted her touch, yearned for her attention, her affection. If he had only one person to believe in his innocence…
“That’s all I can do,” she said. “You promised to leave.”
Stiffly, he nodded.
Jordan’s attention returned to the police radio. They were setting up roadblocks near Cascadia. He couldn’t use the car for his escape.
Logically, a plan fell into place. He would escape on foot across the mountains where it would be harder to find him. He was, however, ill-equipped to handle mountain survival by himself. He needed an expert. He needed Emily.
“Get your backpack,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

Chapter Two
From the start, Emily knew they would have a problem: What would Jordan do with her when he went on the run again? He couldn’t simply wave goodbye and stroll out the door. He couldn’t leave her behind as a witness.
She thought he might tie her up or disable her car. She feared he might knock her unconscious. But she never dreamed his solution would be to take her with him. “Why, Jordan? Why do you want me to go with you?”
“Makes sense,” he said.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Think about it.”
“You want to use me as a hostage.” A helpless pawn, he’d use her as a bargaining chip to gain his freedom. The idea disgusted her. Emily had never been a docile woman. She was descended from warriors. Her father had been in Vietnam, and she liked to think she was like him. “I warn you, Jordan. If you take me with you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re recaptured.”
“Then I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”
Shirtless, he sprawled in the ladder-back kitchen chair with his long legs splayed, gathering his strength after her emergency medical care. His stoic endurance when she stitched his facial wound had astounded her. He hadn’t cried out, hadn’t even twitched a muscle. His intense self-control and determination worried her. This man wouldn’t give up without a fight.
She watched his bare chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. Despite six weeks of jail time, he was in decent physical condition. The span of his shoulders and chest narrowed to a lean torso. She guessed his age to be mid-thirties, a few years older than she was.
He was damned attractive, she ruefully acknowledged. When she’d been dressing the wound on his arm, his flesh warmed beneath her hands. When she’d inadvertently brushed against the black, springy hair on his chest, the texture enticed her. For a moment, her fingers yearned to stroke that hair, to glide across his muscled body. With a jolt, she’d returned to her senses.
Emily couldn’t allow herself to entertain fond thoughts about Jordan Shane. He was an escaped convict, a criminal. Her duty was to return him to police custody.
She snapped, “You can put on your shirt now.” He did as she ordered though his injured left arm was somewhat inflexible. He left the bloodstained, prison-issue workshirt unbuttoned.
Her gaze lifted to his face. She had covered his stitches with a white antiseptic dressing, but she could still see the angry red swelling on the left side of his face.
“I need you to come with me,” he said, “because of the roadblocks. I can’t use the car. I’ll have to escape on foot.”
“Are you crazy? It’s mid-September. The temperatures at night are below freezing. It might even snow.”
Casually, he reached down to pat Pookie who had taken up a position on the floor beside Jordan. “That’s why I need you. I don’t know how to survive in the mountains. I’m just a computer nerd from Florida.”
He certainly didn’t look like a nerd with those broad shoulders and darkly handsome features. But he didn’t look like a murderer, either. Appearances, she reminded herself, could be deceptive.
He rose to his feet, towering over her. “Pack your gear. Plan to be gone for a week.”
“A week?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “But who’ll take care of Pookie?”
At the sound of his name, the puppy bounded to his feet. His head whipped back and forth, glancing between Emily and Jordan. “Murfle, moof.”
“We’ll bring the dog along,” Jordan said. “Let’s move.”
Because she was always ready for an emergency call from S.A.R., Emily was quickly able to assemble two backpacks with sleeping bags, climbing equipment, medical supplies and freeze-dried food for herself and Jordan as well as puppy chow for Pookie.
“Do you have maps?” he asked.
“In the top left drawer of my desk.”
“I don’t suppose you have a G.P.S. unit.”
“What’s that?”
“G.P.S. stands for Global Positioning Satellite. A signal bounces off satellites and triangulates on your position. It gives longitude and latitude, accurate within ten meters, then references area maps.”
He’d lost her after the word “triangulate,” but Emily nodded as she always did when someone explained technology. “I don’t have one of those.”
While she completed her packing, Emily plotted an escape of her own which didn’t involve satellites or triangulation. Simple was better. If she could break away from Jordan, she’d make a run for her car which was parked less than thirty yards from the front door. One fast sprint and she’d be behind the wheel. She’d drive away and not look back until she’d contacted the sheriff’s department.
She had to go now. Once they got out on the trails, escape would be far more difficult. A dash to the car was the best solution, quick and decisive. Yet, she heard a whisper of remorse, echoing quietly in her conscience. Jordan had begun to trust her. He’d tucked the .22 automatic into the waistband of his Levi’s. Somehow, it seemed wrong to betray him.
“I’m finished.” Fastening the last straps on her pack, she sat back on her heels. Escape plans loomed foremost in her mind, and she didn’t dare look directly at Jordan. He might guess what she was planning. “I should go to the bathroom before we leave.”
“Emily?”
Her gaze darted nervously to his face. Did he know what she was planning? “What?”
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy keen.” She masked her tension with sarcasm. “This is my favorite way to spend a Saturday, being held hostage and kidnapped into a forced mountain trek.”
“I didn’t intend for this to happen.”
The ring of sincerity in his softly accented voice irritated her. “Oh, please! What were you planning to do when you left here? You couldn’t just leave me here. You knew I’d call the sheriff.”
“Believe this, Emily. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You have a strange way of proving that.” She stood and confronted him. “You grabbed me around the throat when I walked through the door.”
“I needed to get your attention.”
“What if I’d struggled? How would you have subdued me?”
“I was pretty sure you wouldn’t make a fuss,” he said. “You’re not that kind of woman.”
“Not like your wife?”
He recoiled as if she’d slapped him. Though his expression remained unchanged, his eyes flared with suppressed anger. “I’m only going to say this once. I didn’t kill Lynette.”
“Then why are you afraid to stand trial?”
“Innocent men and women are convicted every day.” His shoulders straightened. He stood over six feet tall, and he seemed to grow stronger by the minute. “I won’t go back to jail. I’d rather die.”
“You can’t live outside the law, Jordan.”
“Let’s go.”
This was it. Her best chance to make a run for the car. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
She left the back bedroom and hurried toward the bathroom. She shoved the door closed with a loud slam, hoping he’d think she was inside, and palmed her car keys from her jeans pocket. Quietly, she eased toward the front door. In her heavy-soled hiking boots, total stealth was impossible, but she only had a few steps before she was outdoors. Was it enough of a headstart?
As she stepped onto the porch, Pookie bashed open the screen door. The dog bounded down the three stairs. “Moof, moof.”
From the back bedroom, Jordan called out, “Emily, what’s going on?”
Now or never! She leapt down the porch steps and raced toward the stand of Ponderosa pines where she’d parked her ancient Land Rover. Please, God, let it start on the first try!
She heard Jordan behind her but didn’t look back. Would he shoot her? The muscles between her shoulder blades tensed, expecting a bullet.
Her boots skidded on the loose gravel, costing her valuable seconds. She had to make it. The Land Rover was only ten feet away.
Her arms stretched out, reaching for the driver’s side door.
Before she touched the handle, she was tackled from behind. Jordan fell on top of her. She hit the ground hard.
With the wind knocked out of her, she couldn’t breathe. She was stunned. A tingling darkness danced in her peripheral vision. Jordan’s weight pressed down, heavy as the tons of snow in an avalanche. She was suffocating. Air. She needed air.
In an instant, he was off her. He rolled her onto her back, and she gasped. The first breath burned her lungs. She exhaled, then gulped down another breath. Her blurred vision cleared. She looked up at his face, silhouetted against overhanging pine boughs and blue sky.
He leaned over her. Closer and closer, he came. His mouth was almost touching hers. Instinctively, she wanted to close her eyes and welcome the taste of his lips joining with hers. Instead, she shoved at his chest. “What are you doing?”
“Mouth-to-mouth,” he said.
“Don’t need it.”
She gasped again, then her breathing settled. No serious damage had been done.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
None of this should be happening. Emily squeezed her eyes closed then open again, as if she could change reality with a blink. She shouldn’t be lying on the ground with an escaped convict kneeling beside her. She shouldn’t be excited about the possibility of a kiss.
This was all his fault. Why did he have to be such a sympathetic person? She would’ve felt better if he slapped her. Instead, he was gentle and apologetic.
Ignoring his own injury and pain, he helped her to her feet. She leaned against him, intensely aware of his warmth and strength. Her hand slipped inside his unbuttoned shirt as she braced herself. When she touched him, he shivered. And she knew his reaction wasn’t due to a sudden chill. It was the opposite. He was hot for her. And she felt the same way about him. A terrible magnetism drew them together. “This couldn’t be any worse.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Do you hear that?”
A distant whir signalled the approach of a helicopter. Emily should have guessed that the chopper pilot, Harrison Perry, would fly by and check on her. They’d worked together on several S.A.R. missions. Last winter, they’d gone out on a couple of dates.
Jordan hustled her back inside the house. He turned her toward him and held her arms, forcing her to look directly at him. “Quick. Tell me about the chopper.”
“A police helicopter. The pilot is a friend of mine. He checks up on me.”
“What do you usually do when he flies over?”
“I step outside and wave.”
The noise of the rotary blades racheted loudly. He was hovering over her cabin. Outside, Pookie danced an enthusiastic but clumsy puppy welcome.
Jordan peered deeply into her face. His dark eyes glowed hot as charcoal embers. “I’m not a killer.”
“But the evidence—”
“If I’m recaptured, a great injustice will be done. Please, Emily, give me this chance.”
“I want to believe you.” The noise from the chopper was deafening.
“Go outside and let the pilot see you’re all right.”
She nodded.
“Emily.” His voice was low and intense as he stepped away from her and took the gun from his waistband. He didn’t need to state his threats. The presence of the weapon was reminder enough. “You hold my life in your hands.”
Emily went onto the porch. Now was her chance to turn him in. She could easily signal Harrison Perry, letting him know she was in trouble. She could scream. She could make a thumbs-down gesture. He’d find a place to land and radio to the sheriff. Deputies would surround them. This ordeal would be over.
But what if Jordan truly was innocent? What if he’d been framed for a murder he did not commit? His escape attempt might be the last nail in his coffin. The death penalty was seldom used in Colorado, but life in prison was worse. She imagined Jordan being locked away forever with shackles on his wrists and ankles. How could she do that to him? She was a nurse. Her life was dedicated to nurturing.
She stood outside her cabin with Pookie at her side. The dog’s liquid brown eyes seemed to accuse her. Don’t do this to him. She looked up at the chopper and felt her lips pull back in a false smile. The downdraft from the rotary blades swirled around her. Her arm lifted and she waved. For good measure, she made an O with her thumb and forefinger to let Harrison know she was okay.
He waved back. Then, like a giant dragonfly, the police helicopter moved away. He hovered low, searching the wooded landscape for an escaped convict, searching for Jordan. The noise faded to stillness as she stood, unmoving. Possibly, she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.
She heard Jordan approach. He said, “You did the right thing.”
That remained to be seen. “Harrison will report that everything is okay in this area. It’ll give you a little more time for your escape.”
“It’ll give us more time.”
When she turned, Emily saw that Jordan was already wearing his backpack. In his hand, he held a length of nylon rope which he looped over her head like a lasso and cinched around her waist.
“What’s this?” she demanded.
“Insurance,” he said. “In case your conscience needs a little reminder.”
Furious, she yanked at the rope. “A leash! You’ve got me on a leash!”
“It’s no use in tugging, Emily. This is a fisherman’s knot. On a double rope like this, you won’t be able to untie it because the other ends are attached to my belt.”
“I hate this!”
“Too bad,” he said. “I need both hands free for climbing, so I can’t carry the gun. But I need some way to control you.”
After everything she’d done for him—treating his wounds and chasing away the chopper—he repaid her with a rope. To control her. She wanted to tell him off, but Emily was utterly incoherent with rage.
Since she had no alternative, she stomped back toward the house and maneuvered into her backpack. She’d been a fool not to signal the chopper. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. On the trail, she’d take her revenge. This wouldn’t be an easy hike in the mountains and she would definitely leave a trail.
With adrenaline pumping, she left the house and set out toward the open field at an aggressive pace. The rope pulled her up short and she whirled around. “Now what?”
“We should stay under the cover of the trees until nightfall. Your friend with the chopper might be back.”
“Fine,” she snarled.
“I suggest we head in a roughly northeastern direction,” Jordan said. “Back toward Aspen.”
“That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Everybody’s going to be looking for you in Aspen. Why would you want to take that risk?”
“Investigation,” he said.
“Of what?” She’d just about had it with his cryptic responses. Even if he didn’t think she’d understand his logic, she deserved to know what was going on inside his head. “Tell me, Jordan. Just what do you think you’re going to investigate in Aspen?”
“I’m going to find out who murdered my wife.”
AFTER TWO HOURS and twenty minutes of hiking, Jordan ached in every cell of his body. The gunshot wound in his arm was nothing compared to the screaming muscles in his thighs and lower back. The tight throb of the stitches in his face penetrated his cheekbones and spread across his skull. Though he’d been in the high country for a couple of months and had acclimated to the altitude, his lungs couldn’t suck enough oxygen from the thin mountain air.
It didn’t help that Emily chose consistently uphill routes or that she purposely pushed back tree branches and allowed them to snap back at him. Though she claimed to hate the rope that tied them together, she yanked at the cord every five minutes, sending a jolt through his midsection.
Still, Jordan hadn’t complained. Neither he nor Emily had spoken for over half an hour.
The only one who seemed happy about their cross-country trek was Pookie. The dog bounded ahead of them, scrambling over rocks and darting through the firs. The dog suddenly froze, alert and watching. Had he seen something? Were the searchers approaching?
“Hold it,” Jordan said.
“Why?” Emily halted and turned toward him. An evil grin spread across her lovely face. “Are you tired?”
Damn right! But he’d never admit weakness to her. “Pookie sees something.”
The hairs on Pookie’s back stood up, then he charged through the trees. His bark was different, deeper. “Whooo-whoo-woof.”
“What’s that mean?” Jordan whispered. “Why’s he making that kind of noise?”
“I don’t speak dog,” she said archly.
He directed her toward the cover of a prickly shrub and ducked down. Clumsily, he retrieved the gun from his backpack. Truly, this pistol was a peashooter. With a.22 caliber automatic, he couldn’t trust his aim at any distance. But it was better than nothing.
“Moof.” Pookie bounded back toward them, almost strutting. The pup looked real proud of himself.
“What was it, boy?” Emily grinned at the dog. “A vicious chipmunk? An evil deer?”
Pookie gave a full-body wiggle.
“Nothing to worry about,” she said. “Unless you’re afraid of being recaptured by an army of rabid tree squirrels.”
Easy for her to say. Emily wanted to be found.
Jordan thanked his lucky stars for her momentary lapse into kindness when she’d waved the helicopter away. His escape could have been over at that moment, but she’d saved him. He didn’t expect that sympathy again.
“Ready?” she challenged.
“Let’s make tracks.”
She set out at a fast pace, and he was hard-pressed to match her speed. Her energy amazed him. Surefooted as a bighorn sheep in Kletter boots, she hiked higher and higher on slender, almost nonexistent forest trails. Uphill, dammit, always uphill.
He wished he had a pair of hiking boots like hers. Jordan’s shoes were cheap, canvas, prison-issue sneakers that offered little traction and no protection against the rocks he constantly tripped over. But there was another lack in his mountain climbing gear that worried him more. He didn’t have a jacket.
Though Emily owned a warehouse of camping supplies, including two sleeping bags, she wasn’t prepared with a parka in his size. Come nightfall, Jordan was going to be mighty chilly. By God, he hated these mountains. The climate was cold and arid, inhospitable to human life. Rugged terrain gave him no pleasure. The jagged spires of rock were teeth waiting to tear into his flesh.
Stumbling again, he stared down at the dry bed of pine needles below his feet. In the fall, there wasn’t much green in these forests, and it wasn’t the brilliant tropical green he was accustomed to seeing in Florida. Colorado’s palette ranged from khaki to the army drab of pine and spruce.
A tug on the rope told him they were headed uphill. Again. He glanced up toward Emily. Since she was leading the way, he should’ve had ample time to admire the fit of her snug Levi’s, but Jordan was denied even that small diversion. From the rear, she looked like a big red backpack with legs.
Finally, they reached a pinnacle on a high ridge. There was no more up. Finally, they’d be hiking downhill.
The first few steps felt good. The change in muscle groups refreshed him. After they’d covered a couple hundred yards and entered an aspen grove, his legs turned to rubber. He couldn’t control his momentum. The space between them shortened. He was only an arm’s length away from her backpack.
Then, inexplicably, Emily stopped short.
“No!” He barely dodged around her. But he couldn’t stop. His equilibrium was off. Flailing, he crashed through the slender white tree trunks. The rope pulled taut, and Jordan went down flat on his back.
Emily followed, almost tumbling. In an amazing display of agility, she stayed on her feet.
Half-stunned and totally exhausted, Jordan looked up through the aspen boughs. His wounds throbbed, but he willed the pain away. In the fading light of dusk, the air took on a golden hue. The leaves trembled delicately like a shower of golden coins, nature’s wealth. Numbly, he said, “It’s beautiful.”
She squatted beside him. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen an aspen before.”
“Only from a distance, and I never understood why you people get so excited about a couple of yellow trees.”
“You don’t really appreciate Colorado, do you?”
“’Fraid not.” Jordan was a southern boy, born in Atlanta where the lush hardwood forests were far more forgiving than the stern, rugged Rockies. Even then, Georgia’s hilly terrain had been too much for him. All those trees felt claustrophobic. On the Gulf coast of Florida, he found wide vistas and open space, palm trees and sultry, ocean-scented air.
He inhaled a deep breath. The cool breeze smelled fresh and earthy. And the gold shimmered all around him.
When he looked up at Emily, hovering over him like an angel, her face seemed to glow. Her curly blond ponytail glistened like warm honey. She wasn’t strikingly beautiful, not like Lynette. Emily was the sort of woman who might be overlooked in a crowd, but when you noticed her, you knew you’d discovered a hidden treasure.
She clambored to her feet and dusted off her jeans. Disdainfully, she said, “If you think you can make it that far, there’s a stream up ahead.”
“Okay.” He forced his legs to move.
Beside the trickling stream which was only a few feet wide, they shed their backpacks and sat side by side on a wide weathered rock. Though Jordan was still enjoying the golden leaves, he felt a warning chill in the air. The sun was about to dip behind the mountains. He started to pull off his shoes, thinking how good the cold, clear stream water would feel on his ten stubbed toes.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Why not? My feet are killing me.”
“On a hike, it’s always better to keep your feet dry. Besides, putting your shoes back on again will be sheer agony.” She groaned. “I don’t know why I bothered to tell you. You deserve the pain.”
Her job was healing. He didn’t think she’d willingly allow suffering. “What’s that motto for S.A.R.?”
“…That Others May Live.” She glared at him. “But I don’t think it applies to escaped convicts.”
He called on her wisdom again. “I know you’re carrying a little water purifier in your pack. Is it safe to drink from the stream?”
She shrugged. “You take your chances.”
But Jordan followed her example, taking a swig of lukewarm liquid from the canteen in his backpack. Not as satisfying as scotch and soda, but it was liquid. With all this exertion, keeping hydrated was important.
Pookie, on the other hand, seemed to think the Rocky Mountain spring water was just fine. The pup splashed through the glistening ripples.
“Pookie!” Emily reprimanded. “Get out of there.”
“Moof, woof.” He slipped on a rock and got completely drenched.
“How am I ever going to train him?” Emily asked.
“Leave him be. He’s just a pup.”
“But he needs to start learning now or he’ll never be any use as a rescue dog.”
“I understand about working dogs,” Jordan said. This was the closest they’d come to a conversation, and he wanted to prolong the moment, to win her trust. “When I was a kid, I had a bluetick hound that I trained for weeks to be a good hunting dog.”
“Do you hunt?”
“Not anymore,” he said. “Do you?”
“No, but I have two older brothers who used to go hunting all the time. I’d go with them.” But Emily had never taken pleasure in stalking and shooting. “I’d patch them up when they sprained their ankles or cut themselves with their hunting knives.”
“You liked nursing even when you were a kid.”
“It comes naturally.” In spite of her warrior heritage, she didn’t need to kill anything. She carried on the family tradition by being a healer, just as her father had taken on the job of medic before he was killed in Vietnam.
She watched as Jordan dug into his backpack, pulled out the walkie-talkie and tuned to the police band radio. Listening to the static dispatches, he stretched out on the rock and stared up into the quaking aspen leaves. Though she considered his hatred for the mountains to be a damning quality, she couldn’t quite believe he was a murderer.
Still, she removed the package of tissues from her pocket and tore off a small piece which she dropped to the ground. All along their route, she’d been leaving markers which Jordan was too preoccupied to notice.
“I have a question for you,” she said. “If you despise the mountains so much, how did you end up married to a woman from Aspen?”
“We met while she was on vacation in the Florida Keys, had a whirlwind courtship and got married before we figured out that we didn’t have a single thing in common.”
“Opposites attract,” Emily said.
“But they don’t stay together for long. We were married for two years and probably lived in the same house for only two months of that time.”
“The newspapers said you were going to ask her for a divorce.”
“That was why I came to Aspen,” he said. His lack of apparent emotion seemed odd. The newspaper reports had hinted that Jordan’s motive for killing his wife was passion. “Did you still love her?”
“Not love. Not hate.” He stretched the muscles in his back. “There weren’t any strong emotions left.”
“And you asked for the divorce?”
“That’s right.”
“What did she say?”
“She agreed. It was all real civilized and calm. But she asked me to wait a month so she could clear up some kind of financial problem with her estate.”
If Emily eliminated passion as a motive, it had to be the money. Lynette Afton-Shane was a multi-millionaire who owned two ski lodges and prime real estate. Even by Aspen standards, her wealth would be considered impressive. “How much do you inherit?”
“We had a prenuptial agreement that gave each of us ten percent of the other’s estate.”
“In Lynette’s case, that might be a million dollars,” Emily said.
“I really don’t know,” Jordan said. “I wasn’t in her class financially, but I do okay. I have my own computer hardware manufacturing company in Florida with twenty-seven employees.” And Emily remembered that he’d written the ten-thousand-dollar contribution to S.A.R. on his own account. Jordan certainly didn’t project the image of someone who needed to kill for the inheritance.
He bolted to a sitting posture on the rock, concentrating hard on the reports from the police band radio. “They’re coming closer to Cascadia. Do you have those maps, Emily?”
She reached into a zippered pocket on her backpack and pulled out three different maps.
He unfolded the worn paper and studied the detailed terrain which included topography and landmarks as well as roads. Though Emily wasn’t good at map-reading, she had an innate sense of direction in the mountains that seldom led her astray.
“Does this stream have a name?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. It’s too small.”
“But you’ve been here before,” he said. “You knew there was a stream at the bottom of the hill.”
“I knew because I heard the rushing water,” Emily explained. “Plus, we’re at the base of a slope, and the presence of aspens generally indicates that the water table lies close to the surface.”
He pinpointed their location on the map. “I’d say we’re about here.”
Pookie bounced up to them, paused and shook himself, sending out a spray of ice-cold stream water.
“Not on the map,” Jordan said. “Geez, Pookie. Get a grip.”
“You were the one who didn’t think he needed training,” Emily reminded him as she corralled the wet dog in her arms, then pushed his butt to the ground. “Sit, boy.”
“Moof,” Pookie said.
Jordan’s attention returned to the map. “Pretty soon, it’s going to be too dark for the helicopters to search. We need to stay far away from the roads.” He pointed to a small black rectangle that didn’t seem too far from their location. “What does this represent?”
“A warming hut for hikers and cross-country skiers.”
“Warming hut?”
She explained, “It’s a small cabin that people can use if they get stuck in bad weather. It may be a good place for us to spend the night.”
His eyes narrowed. “It also might be the first place for searchers to look. The sheriff’s department has maps like this, don’t they?”
She nodded but didn’t offer any advice. When it came to the bottom line, Emily didn’t want to aid in his escape. Jordan’s guilt or innocence was for the courts to decide.
To ensure somebody figured out that he’d taken her and Pookie with him, she’d left a trail from her cabin that a blind man could follow. At every opportunity, she’d broken branches off trees and trampled shrubs as well as dropping shreds of tissue and all the change from her pockets.
“It’s going to get cold tonight,” Jordan said, watching her for a reaction. “And I don’t have a jacket.”
Her recommendation would be to risk staying in the shelter of the warming hut and avoid the potential danger of hypothermia. But she said nothing.
“I need a good night’s sleep,” he said. “And time to recover from my injuries.”
Again, he assumed correctly.
Jordan asked, “How far to the warming hut?”
“A few hours if we stay under the trees. Less time if we step out in the open.”
“With your bright red backpack marking our location like a signal flare,” he said bitterly. “It’s a chance I’ll have to take. We’ll go by the most direct route.”
He tucked away the maps, rose to his feet and shouldered his backpack, flinching slightly as the strap brushed his wounded arm. His ability to endure painful injuries without a single complaint was impressive, but Emily refused to acknowledge any positive attribute in Jordan Shane. She didn’t want to like him and certainly wouldn’t help him.
He led the way from the aspen grove into a wide-open field of dried buffalo grass and weeds. With virtually no cover, they’d be visible from half a mile away. If there were search parties in the area, they’d be spotted.
Apparently, Jordan had realized the same probability because he came to a halt. He threw an arm in front of her. “Don’t move.”
Emily looked down. Three feet away, a snake slithered off a sun-warmed rock at the edge of the path. A snake! Adrenaline shot through her veins. God, she hated snakes! Oh God!

Chapter Three
Seconds after Jordan noticed the snake—which was only three feet long and probably a docile, nonpoisonous variety—three things happened simultaneously. The reptile vanished in the high grass. Emily let out a shriek louder than an air-raid siren. And she leapt in a gravity-defying vertical jump, about three feet in the air.
Then she started running across the open field. Fastened to her by the nylon rope, Jordan had no choice but to follow at top speed. His feet beat the ground. His heart pounded. He hadn’t intended to set a new record for the four-hundred-meter dash across the world’s most rugged terrain.
His plan was to baby his aching muscles until they got to the warming hut where he could collapse into bed and recuperate. Dammit, he’d been gunshot today. Twice. But he couldn’t stop running. Emily sprinted with such arm-churning force that if he held back she’d yank him off his feet and drag him on his belly across the mountain meadow.
Any chance at a quiet, subtle sneak across the wide-open land vanished. If there were any searchers in the vicinity, they must have been alerted by Emily’s eardrumpiercing scream. Jordan tried to watch in all directions as he ran. Were they closing in? Were they converging? The reports on the police radio had named the Cascadia area. Would the next bullet strike his heart?
On the far side of the open meadow, Emily screeched to a halt on a hillside below a stand of conifers. Her frantic gaze darted. Her head swiveled. Her arms clenched across her breasts, and her fingers curled into tight little fists. Unnecessarily, she said, “I hate snakes.”
Pookie echoed, “Brrr-oof.”
“No lie.” Jordan bent double, trying to catch his breath. Though his chest heaved with the effort of consuming enough oxygen, the run seemed to have loosened him up. His muscles were tingling instead of throbbing.
“I can’t believe this.” She spoke in breathy half-sentences. “A few hours ago. I lectured. To Brownies. About snakes. Were you…scared?”
“No.” In Florida, there were lots of snakes. They’d never bothered Jordan. “I don’t think that one was poisonous.”
“Don’t care. I hate them all.”
From their vantage point on the hillside, he turned to scan the open meadow behind them. He looked for the glint of fading sunlight on a long-range rifle. He listened for the sound of manhunters calling to each other, for barking bloodhounds, for the whir of helicopter blades.
Only the soft whisper of mountain breezes disturbed the perfect silence. He saw no movement, no evidence of searchers. However, if and when the sheriff’s deputies came this way, their direction was obvious. The wild race across the dried grasses trampled a path straight as an arrow pointing the way toward Jordan.
He was well-aware that seeking shelter in the warming hut—a clearly mapped landmark—was risky. But he needed warmth and comfort for a good night’s sleep and recovery. His escape efforts might last for days, even weeks, and he couldn’t take a chance on falling ill.
He turned to Emily. “Nothing like that is going to happen again.”
“I didn’t plan to see a snake,” she said.
“I thought you were an expert outdoorswoman, certified in mountain survival.”
“Unless there’s a snake,” she said in a small voice.
After her consistent display of mountaineering skill and wisdom, he detected a subtle shift in their relationship. Her unreasonable fear of snakes had given him an edge and elevated him from the status of mountaineering idiot to potential survivor. He felt gratified to finally be the one with the answers. “I’m pretty sure snakes in these parts are headed toward hibernation. At nightfall, they hide away. It’s too cold out here for reptiles. We won’t see another one.”
“Do you promise?” With the back of her hand, she wiped sweat from her forehead. A convulsive tremble shook her slender body.
Though he wanted to take her into his arms and offer reassurance, Jordan still wasn’t sure whether she’d hug him back or slap him upside the head. He suspected the latter. “Do you want to sit and rest for a few minutes?”
“No! I want to put as much distance between us and that reptile as possible.”
“Suits me.” He took the topographical map from the pocket of his Levi’s. “First, let me get my bearings.”
Staring in a northeastern direction, he spotted a high, jagged outcropping of granite. “Are those the chimney rocks marked on the map?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Let’s get going. I can find my way to the warming hut.”
Not only did he mistrust her willingness to help him, but dusk was rapidly turning to night. The local landmarks would be invisible in the dark, and he’d have to rely on the compass.
Almost due north, he spied a hogback that was marked on the map. In his head, Jordan calculated the triangulation and set their course for twelve degrees northeast on the compass. “When we approach this hut, there’s probably a road. Right?”
“A path,” she said. “It should be maintained by the Forestry Service.”
He balanced her compass in the palm of his hand. The setting sun was behind them. He could already feel the chill in the air. “Let’s go.”
Keeping a steady pace, they climbed hills and crossed other meadows. As night surrounded them, Jordan took the lead, keeping them on track with the compass.
Behind him, Emily stumbled. “Ow! Jordan, I have flashlights in the backpacks. We should use them.”
“Here’s a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t we just hang a neon sign that says Escapee Here.”
“Searchers won’t be out this late,” she grumbled. “If they are, we’ll see them coming. Because they’ll be smart enough to use flashlights.”
A valid point. He concentrated on watching for glimmers of light in the surrounding forest. Though he was less likely to be tracked in the dark, shadows made him wary of an ambush. Every sound magnified. The snap of twigs beneath his feet. The rustle of wind. Occasional screams from predator birds. And Jordan was the prey. Well-armed deputies with guns and shackles were after him. Searchers led by bloodhounds. They could be waiting at the warming hut, setting a trap.
“How do you know where we’re going?” she demanded.
“I’m using the compass.”
“We should’ve already reached the hut,” she said. “It’s late. We need to stop soon.”
“We’ll find it.”
“You know,” she said, “people get lost in the mountains all the time. These are miles and miles of open country.”
“I said, we’ll find the damn hut.”
He’d learned the principles of coastal navigation while sailing on his fifteen foot sloop in the Gulf of Mexico, and the same logic applied on dry land. Though he could also take his bearings from the constellations, the Colorado sky was unfamiliar to him. Brilliant stars, unobscured by moisture or fog, shone too dazzling bright to be anything more than a distraction. Therefore, Jordan didn’t take the time to look upward. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, aiming in the right direction, finding shelter from the cold that froze his sweat against his body.
Stepping through a wall of forest, they entered a small clearing with a trail leading due north.
“This must be the path,” Emily said. “I’m surprised you were able to find it.”
Frankly, so was he. “I had to find the way. Quitting isn’t an option.”
She stepped around him to take the lead again, but he tugged gently on the rope, halting her forward progress. If a trap had been laid at the warming hut, he wouldn’t give Emily first chance to signal.
“I’ll go first. There might be an ambush.” Once again, he removed the gun from his pack. “Don’t make any noise.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Pookie.” Though the pup had lost much of his earlier vigor, Jordan expected a lot of barking if they encountered other people. “He’ll warn us if anybody else is around.”
They followed the path for less than a mile when he saw the dark square shape lurking amid the trees. Unlit, the warming hut appeared to be deserted, but Jordan held back, waiting for Pookie to make the first approach.
The dog didn’t disappoint him. In a flash of golden fur, Pookie bounded up to the cabin door, sniffed and came back to them without a single moof.
“Okay,” Jordan said. Sheer relief warmed his blood, fighting the cold that penetrated his flesh and chilled his bones. Only a few more steps. He could make it. “Now we can use the flashlights.”
The inside of the one-room warming hut was primitive, but it looked like a Hilton hotel to Jordan. The only window was tightly shuttered, but the beam of his flashlight shone on a sink and a wood-burning stove. Several futon-like mattresses were stacked in a corner. There was a grimy table and two wooden chairs. He shed his backpack and lowered himself onto the seat. The hard wood felt more comfortable than plush velour.
Emily demanded. “Unfasten my leash.”
Though he couldn’t imagine how she’d find the strength to take off running, he couldn’t give her the chance. “Not yet.”
“But I’m starving, and Pookie needs to be fed. How am I going to prepare food while I’m tethered by this stupid cord?”
He sure as hell didn’t want to shadow her movements around the cabin. Summoning his last reserve of strength, Jordan moved his chair against the door which was the only way in or out. He sat before untying the nylon rope from his belt. “Knock yourself out, Emily.”
She stretched and flexed her muscles as if she’d been bound, hand and foot. Then she got busy. Her first task was finding a hurricane lamp on a high, grimy shelf. Taking a votive candle from her pack, she struck a match and filled the glass lamp with flickering illumination.
Jordan watched through half-closed eyelids as she hustled and bustled, digging through the backpacks, assembling all her equipment. She reminded him of an exotic golden bird feathering her nest, creating a home.
Jordan exhaled slowly, using his willpower to dismiss the aches and pains of his wounded, battered body. This time, however, he didn’t retreat to memories of sultry, green Florida. He was content to be here. Emily’s presence was strangely comforting.
“Water,” she muttered. “We need water.”
A rusty hand pump stood beside the sink. Gamely, she grasped the handle and pushed down, again and again, until she was rewarded with a spurt of gritty, reddish-brown liquid. Pumping more vigorously, Emily finally achieved relative clarity. Still, she warned, “This isn’t for drinking, only washing.”
After feeding Pookie and giving him water, she assembled several unappetizing packets of freeze-dried food. “I need hot water for this.”
“No fire,” he said. Much as he’d like the heat, they couldn’t risk sending up smoke signals.
“Don’t need fire,” she said.
Her emergency supplies included a small Sternopowered hotplate. While their dinner warmed, she scrubbed the sink and wiped down the table. She also dug into her pack and produced a lightweight space blanket. “Wrap yourself in this.”
Though it hurt his masculine pride to be huddled by the door with a blanket around his shoulders, Jordan was too chilly and tired to object. He took the bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket and swallowed three. To avoid thinking about the pain, he watched Emily.
With a strange lack of typical feminine vanity, she rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed her arms. Her eyes squinted shut as she splashed water on her face. Stepping away from the sink, she unfastened her ponytail. Her curly hair billowed past her shoulders in a golden cloud. It looked soft.
Jordan rubbed his thumb and index finger together, imagining the silky texture. He wished he could take the brush from her hands and stroke through that mass of thick wonderful hair.
Without consulting a mirror, she pulled it back into a ponytail. He’d never known a woman like her—completely honest, straightforward, without artifice. She wouldn’t engage in the manipulative games most women played, and Jordan found those character traits very appealing. Maybe it wasn’t an accident that his escape route led toward Cascadia. Maybe fate had directed him to Emily.
She dished the food onto small plastic plates and added two bottles of water. “Come and get it.”
He shouldn’t leave the door, shouldn’t offer her an unguarded exit. “Take off your boots,” he said.
“What?”
“You can’t make a getaway if you’re barefoot.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll take off my shoes if you’ll come to the table. This isn’t gourmet dining, but the taste is better when it’s warm.”
He dragged his chair across the rough wood plank floor and joined her. After six weeks of eating alone in jail, Jordan wasn’t sure he could manage civilized conversation. “Well,” he said. “We made it.”
“You made it. This is your trip,” she reminded him. “I’m just the hostage, dragged along for the ride.”
He’d never use her as a shield, would never do anything to put her in danger. But that fact needed to remain his secret. If she had nothing to fear, she’d run from him. He took a bite of something with brown, orange and greenish lumps that vaguely resembled stew. “Not bad.”
“Be sure to drink all the water. Keeping hydrated is important.” She frowned. “I probably shouldn’t be giving you survival tips.”
“Probably not,” he said sardonically. “If you’re nice to me, I might grow on you.”
“Like a fungus.”
Undeterred, he said, “You might even start to like me.”
“I try not to get too friendly with escaped convicts,” Emily said. In spite of her hostility toward Jordan, she felt a grin begin to spread. “There’s not much future in the fugitive-hostage relationship.”
“Not true in my case,” he assured her as he scarfed down another spoonful of freeze-dried stew. “I’m innocent, and I’m going to prove it.”
His statement was so utterly artless that she couldn’t help wondering if he spoke the truth. Earlier, when he talked about his deceased wife and the lack of passion in their marriage and proposed divorce, he’d been very believable. “Earlier, you mentioned investigating in Aspen, finding the real killer.”
“That’s right.”
“What could you possibly hope to uncover?” She’d kept track of the evidence through the newspaper reports. “Sheriff Litvak himself supervised the investigation.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Jordan said. “I don’t think Litvak was out to frame me. But once he decided I was guilty, he stopped gathering data. There’s got to be something he overlooked.”
“Like what?” She enumerated the facts on her fingers. “He has the murder weapon, a gun that was registered to your wife and has only your fingerprints. There was no evidence of a break-in at the house. And an eyewitness, the housekeeper, saw you standing over the body.”
“Kneeling,” he said. “I’d found Lynette’s body and called 9-1-1. I was kneeling beside her, trying to figure out how to do CPR or stop the bleeding.”
“You don’t know CPR?”
“I’m not an EMT like you. There was nothing I could do to save her.”
His gaze met hers, and she saw a deep sadness in his dark brown eyes. Emily had almost forgotten that Lynette Afton-Shane had been a living, breathing woman. She was more than an anonymous victim. She’d been Jordan’s wife.
He said, “From the coroner’s report, I learned that CPR wouldn’t have done any good. Lynette was shot through the heart. Her death was almost instantaneous.”
“Accurate marksmanship,” she said. “That might be a clue. Are you good with a gun?”
“Powder burns showed that she was shot at point-blank range. Not much skill required.”
From what Emily recalled of the newspaper articles, Jordan claimed to have been sleeping down the hall when his wife was murdered. “Why didn’t you hear the gunshot?”
“There was a silencer on the weapon. Plus, Lynette’s house is huge. I used to call it Hotel Afton-Shane because she generally had the sixteen bedrooms packed full with friends and family.”
“But no one else was staying there on the night she was killed.”
“Just me.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I wanted privacy to discuss our divorce. Crowds make me jumpy as a flea on a dog.” As he relaxed, the southern lilt to his voice became more pronounced. “Most of the time, I’m real content to be alone with my computers and software.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Not with a computer, of course. But I’ve always been able to entertain myself.”
“And that’s why Lynette and I were alone at the house.”
Emily understood why the sheriff had settled on Jordan as the most likely suspect. His request for a solitary weekend made it sound like he had something nefarious in mind.

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