Collecting Evidence

Collecting Evidence Rita Herron Collecting Evidence Rita Herron www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover Page (#ud7f5f576-9f50-5984-b4df-7021ef961b88) Title Page (#ue838f055-a89b-5fd7-86c0-dcc367b60f7d) About the Author (#ub1b7b253-163a-5f0e-9130-fcbacc549e19) Dedication (#u9eab3584-2a06-5ce1-8481-79024169e0fe) Prologue (#ua29513d2-1a61-5314-8bf4-bf5bc9ee6553) Chapter One (#u14099dd8-0df6-5934-971f-e2808ecc9085) Chapter Two (#u51d9d156-c74b-50a3-890d-51def1250ee7) Chapter Three (#uf3273f12-4ba6-55fc-9fda-2e0e597e8b57) Chapter Four (#u8d3b397c-24ea-57bd-866a-57f2697ab6ac) Chapter Five (#u114f9ff5-2ac5-5b70-a34c-303fdbffda0f) 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) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) Award-winning author RITA HERRON wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded storytelling to kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her website at www.ritaherron.com. To Jamie, a brave and courageous young girl—may all your dreams come true! Prologue (#ulink_f66919c5-6c6d-58da-b4b7-7b4cc41d9e4f) Special Agent Dylan Acevedo pressed the blade of the knife against Frank Turnbull’s fleshy neck. “Go ahead, kill me,” Turnbull muttered. Dylan jabbed the blade into his skin, a smile curving his mouth as a drop of blood seeped to the surface. He should just do it. The man deserved to die. The images of the women the serial killer had brutally murdered—all young Native Americans in their twenties—flashed into Dylan’s head in sickening clarity. Their delicate throats slashed, bodies left exposed in the rugged terrain of the desert, blood dripping as if to lure the wild animals to feed on their remains. Young lives lost for no reason except to fulfill the sick cravings of a demented mind. Dylan glanced down at the knife in his hand. The knife that had belonged to Turnbull. The same kind he’d used to cut the women’s throats. It was only fitting he die by the same instrument. With his throat sliced open by a Ute ceremonial knife made from white quartz and Western Cedar, the kind of knife used to cut the umbilical cord of a newborn or to harvest herbs for sacred ceremonies. Another important component of Turnbull’s MO was his calling card—he’d left a piece of thunderwood by each victim. Another dig to the Ute people who had a religious aversion to handling thunderwood—a piece of bark from a tree struck by lighting. The Utes believed that thunder beings would strike down any Ute Indian who touched it. Turnbull’s swollen eye twitched with menace and a dare. A challenge to Dylan to feel the thrill of the kill, Turnbull seemed to say silently. Dylan clenched his jaw. He wanted to see fear in Turnbull’s eyes. Wanted to hear him scream as his victims had. Hear him beg for his life. Instead Turnbull laughed, a hideous deep growl that punctured the night like a wild animal just before it tore into a smaller one’s carcass. “You’re just like me,” Turnbull mumbled. “I can see the evil in your eyes.” Dylan’s fingers tightened on the knife handle. At that moment he did crave the kill. But his need was driven by revenge and justice, not depraved indifference. “Dylan, don’t…” His brother Miguel’s voice rumbled from behind him. Miguel, who was a saint compared to him. He’d been an altar boy while Dylan had been the troublemaker. They hadn’t always gotten along, but as adults they’d forged a bond and developed a healthy respect for one another’s differences. Miguel was a forensic scientist, and they often worked together on cases, relying on each other’s expertise. Miguel’s footfalls echoed on the ground as he approached. “Come on, Dylan. We’ve got him. Let’s take him in and make him pay for what he did. Make him face the families of the victims.” Dylan’s hand trembled as his gaze once again locked with the monster. Then he saw the fear in the man’s eyes. Turnbull wanted him to kill him. Because he didn’t want to face the families. Miguel was right. Having to look into the pain-filled eyes of the parents of the women he’d hurt would be his worst punishment. His hand slipped, caught the skin just enough to cause a flesh wound, then he gestured for Miguel to cuff the bastard. HOURS LATER, after their debriefing and a press conference to announce they’d finally arrested the ruthless Ute killer, Dylan walked into the Vegas bar. All he wanted was to purge his rage, and drown out the images of the girls he hadn’t been able to save. Just like he hadn’t saved his fifteen-year-old sister, Teresa, when she’d been gunned down in a gangrelated drive-by. Suddenly, the most exotic creature he’d ever seen approached him. Long black hair that hung down to her waist swayed seductively as she walked, her dark chocolate eyes raking over him appreciatively. She was Ute, fit the profile of the victims he’d fought so hard to obtain justice for. Could have become number eleven on Turnbull’s kill card. Yet here she was, alive and smiling at him. “Agent Acevedo,” she said in a purrlike voice with the faint accent of her heritage. “I saw you on the news. Thank you for arresting that killer.” He shrugged. “I only wish we’d caught him sooner.” Wise, sympathetic eyes met his, along with a sultriness that made his body go rock hard and achy. He was mesmerized by her beauty, wanted her naked and in his bed, soothing the heat and rage in his soul. When she finished her shift, they talked for hours. Her name was Aspen Meadows. She was working as a cocktail waitress while earning a teaching degree. Finally he escorted her to her apartment. Before he closed the door, she was in his arms and he was tearing off her clothes. He took her on the floor, against the wall, on the bed and in the shower. A week of lovemaking couldn’t assuage the pain or guilt in his chest. He didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve to be loved or soothed when he’d failed so many. But he stole the hours and days anyway, desperate for a slice of heaven to ease the hell he lived with daily. He knew it wouldn’t last, couldn’t last, though. A phone call the following Friday night reminded him too well. Another murder. An undercover assignment. He had to go. He kissed her goodbye and left while she was sleeping. He wouldn’t see her again. He couldn’t. His work put anyone he cared about in danger. And he had enough dead girls haunting him to last him forever. Chapter One (#ulink_80f87770-d292-58c0-8638-fae4f7322d40) A year later Aspen Meadows had been missing for nine weeks now. Nine weeks of wondering if she was dead or alive. Nine weeks of wondering if he could have done something to save her. Dylan stared at Aspen’s cousin, Emma Richardson, fearing the worst. He’d left Aspen last year to keep her safe, yet now she might be dead. Possibly murdered by the same hit man who’d killed his fellow agent, Julie Granger. The FBI’s theory—Aspen had witnessed Boyd Perkins and Sherman Watts disposing of Julie’s body. The case that had brought them to the Southern Ute reservation. Emma pressed a hand to her head as if to clear her vision. “Aspen is alive.” His chest tightened as hope speared him. He didn’t often trust a psychic, but Emma’s visions had proven right before, and his brother, Miguel, who’d obviously fallen for the woman, believed her wholeheartedly. And he trusted his twin brother more than anyone in the world. Still, he had to swallow to make his voice work. He’d prayed for this news ever since he’d heard Aspen’s car had been found crashed into a tree near the San Juan River. But something about the tortured look on Emma’s face disturbed him. “Are you sure she’s alive?” Emma nodded, although she swayed, her face pale, her eyes gaunt. Miguel rushed to help her to the sofa. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes with a shudder. “What did you see?” Sweat beaded on the nape of Dylan’s neck. He was terrified that Aspen had died and that he’d lost her forever. Just as he’d lost almost every woman he’d ever cared about. His little sister, Teresa. Then his friend Julie. Miguel rubbed Emma’s arms, his voice low and worried, “Emma?” “I…don’t know. The vision…I just know she’s alive, but she’s scared.” She opened her eyes and looked up at Dylan, cold terror streaking her expression. “And she’s in danger.” Dylan paced across the room, his heart pounding as Aspen’s son, Jack, cried out. The sound shattered the air as if he’d heard Emma and understood that his mother might be in trouble. Emma started to rise to go to the baby, but Dylan waved her off. She looked as if she might faint if she tried to stand. He strode over to the bassinet and picked up the squirming baby. Jack flailed his tiny fists, his face red, his nose scrunched as he continued to bellow. “Shh, little man,” Dylan said, jiggling him on his shoulder as he paced the room. The poor little fellow must miss his mother terribly. In the first few weeks of his life, he’d been in a car accident with Aspen, abandoned and left with Emma. He patted the baby’s back, cradling him closer. The scent of baby powder and formula suffused him. If Aspen was alive, why hadn’t she come back for her son? The Aspen he’d known loved children more than anything. During their short affair—the best sex of his whole damn life—she’d told him her plans to return to the Ute reservation and teach. Baby Jack kicked and screamed louder, a shrill sound that added to the tension thickening the room, his dark skin beet-red, contrasting to his thick black hair. He had Aspen’s high-sculpted cheekbones, her hair, her heritage. It made Dylan long to see her again, to reconnect and hold her. To see if they could pick up where they’d left off and possibly have more than just a week of mind-boggling sex. But she had a son now. Everything had changed. He rocked Jack back and forth, lowering his voice again to calm him. “Shh, it’s all right. We’ll find your mommy. I promise, little man.” Jack quieted to a soft whimper and Dylan turned him to his back, cradled him in his arms and gazed into his eyes. Eyes so blue that for a moment he felt as if he was looking in the mirror. Suddenly a wave of emotion washed over him, sending his mind into a tailspin. He studied Jack’s features more closely while he mentally calculated the baby’s age, and the time lapse since he’d last seen Aspen. A little over a year ago, they’d met and fallen into bed. A week later he’d left and hadn’t heard from her again. Aspen had been missing now for nine weeks. Jack was fifteen weeks old. Dear God, could Jack possibly be his son? The baby suddenly cooed up at him, his chubby cheeks puffing up as he gripped one of Dylan’s fingers in his tiny fist. Dylan’s chest swelled. “Is it true, Jack? Are you my little mijo?” And if he was, why in the hell hadn’t Aspen told him? THE NIGHTMARES TAUNTED HER. Every night they came like dark shadowy demons with claws reaching for her and trying to drown her in the madness. If only she could remember her name, what had happened to her, how she had wound up near death and here in this women’s shelter in Mexican Hat. But the past was like an empty vacuum sucking at her, imprisoning her in the darkness. Only at night in her dreams, memories plucked at the deepest recesses of her mind, trying to break through the barrier her subconscious had erected. Terrifying memories that she wasn’t sure she wanted to recall. She forced herself to look into the mirror, to probe her mind for bits of her past. She knew she was Ute—her high cheekbones, long black hair and brown eyes screamed Native American heritage. But those eyes were haunted by something she’d seen, something that lay on the fringes of her conscience. Her head throbbed, tension knotting her stomach. She rolled her shoulders to stretch out her achy muscles, but exhaustion was wearing on her. In the weeks since she’d come to the shelter, she’d recovered from her physical injuries, the hypothermia and bruises, but she still hadn’t regained her strength. The other women and children had gathered after dinner for a support group session in the common room. Sometimes she gathered the children into a circle on the floor for storytime, but tonight one of the mothers was teaching them how to string Indian beads to make necklaces. Grateful to have some time alone, she gave in to fatigue and crawled onto her cot by the far wall. Dusk was setting, the hot sun melting in the sky, gray streaks of night darkening the room. She closed her eyes, pulled the thin sheet over her legs and turned on her side. But a hollow emptiness settled inside her. She had felt it the moment she’d awakened in the shelter, freezing and delirious. She’d known then that she’d lost something. Something precious. A loved one maybe. Tears trickled down her cheek, but she angrily wiped them away. Remembering what had happened could help her return home. But what if she was right? What if she’d blocked out the memory because someone she loved had died and she couldn’t bear it? Finally, exhaustion claimed her, but the nightmares returned to dog her, dragging her under a rushing wave of darkness, smothering and terrifying. Someone was chasing her across the unforgiving land, toward the deep pockets and boulders. She tried to run but her legs felt heavy, her body weighted, and she skidded on the embankment, rocks tumbling downward and pinging off the canyon below. She tumbled and rolled, the sharp edges of the stones jabbing her skin and scraping her flesh raw. Then his hands were on her, fingernails piercing as they bit into her shoulders. She fought back, swinging her hands up to deflect his blow, but he hit her so hard her head snapped back and stars danced in front of her eyes. Another blow followed, slamming into her skull and pain knifed behind her eyes, her breath gushing out as she tasted blood. She tried desperately to focus, to crawl away, but he yanked her by the ankles and dragged her across the rugged ground, the stones and bristly shrubs tearing at her hands and knees and face as she struggled to grasp something to hold on to. God help her—he was going to kill her… Somewhere close by, the river roared, water slashing over jagged rocks, icy cold water that would viciously suck her under and carry her away from everyone she loved. No, she had to fight. But the hands were on her again, this time around her throat, punishing fingers digging into her skin, gripping, squeezing, pressing into her larynx, cutting off her oxygen. She gulped and tried to fight back, swung her arms and kicked at him, but her body felt like putty, limp and helpless, as the world swirled into darkness. Her heart pounding with terror, she jerked awake, disoriented and trembling. She’d only been dreaming; it had been the nightmares again… She was safe. But as she exhaled and her breathing steadied, a deadly stillness engulfed the pitch-dark room, the kind of eerie quiet before a storm that sent a frisson of alarm through her. Then a breath broke the quiet. A wheezing, whispery low sound. Someone was in the room. Praying it was one of the sisters coming to check on her, she clenched the sheets and glanced across the space. The tall silhouette of a man stood in front of the open window in the shadows, the scent of sweat and cigarette smoke rolling off of him in sickening waves. Pure panic ripped through her. Was it the man who’d tried to kill her in her dreams? One of the male abusers the women in the shelter were running from? His hand moved to his waistband and the shiny glint of metal caught her eye. She froze, body humming with adrenaline-spiked fear. A knife was tucked into the leather pouch attached to his belt. She had to run. Slowly she slid off the bed to escape and yelled for help, but he moved at lightning speed and trapped her. His big hands covered her mouth to silence her screams. She bit his hand, then clawed at him and cried out, fighting with all her might to throw his weight off of her. Suddenly hall lights flickered on and footsteps clattered toward the doorway, doors banging open. The man’s gaze shot sideways and he cursed, then lurched up, ran to the window and jumped out. The sisters and three other women poured into the room, baseball bats in their hands, ready to attack. The light flew on, throwing the room into a bright glare that nearly blinded her. Sister Margaret rushed to her, pulled her into her arms and soothed her. “He’s gone now. You’re safe, child.” It took her precious seconds to stop trembling, then anger ballooned inside her. She was tired of running, of hiding, of not knowing. They’d all assumed that whoever had hurt her had been a violent boyfriend or husband she’d been running from. But she couldn’t go on living like this. She had to know the truth. If her attacker was a boyfriend or husband, he’d found her. And she refused to be a coward. Somewhere she had a life she’d left behind. And she wanted it back. Wanted the man who’d hurt her to pay. And the person she’d lost—she had to face that truth, too. “We should call the police,” she whispered. “Send them my picture, Sister. I want to find out who I am and who’s trying to kill me.” ONCE THE IDEA that Jack might possibly be his son entered Dylan’s mind, he couldn’t let it go. The baby shifted against him, finally falling back asleep, but Dylan didn’t want to put him down. If the child was his, he wanted to know. Dammit, he deserved to know. Memories of his father taking him camping and fishing rolled back, and he saw himself doing the same thing with his own son one day. When he’d first heard Aspen’s baby had been found in her abandoned car, he’d assumed she’d moved on with her life, that she’d forgotten him, and had become involved with another man, someone on the reservation. Because they’d been careful. And he’d trusted Aspen, trusted that she would have told him if she’d gotten pregnant with his baby. But looking at Jack’s big blue eyes now, he didn’t know what to believe. He settled into the rocking chair while Miguel made Emma herbal tea. Color returned to her cheeks as she sipped the hot brew, although distress still lined her face and her hand trembled slightly as she set the teacup back onto the saucer. “Emma,” he said quietly. “I have to ask you something, and I want you to be honest.” Her gaze met his, and she nodded, although she fidgeted with the afghan Miguel had draped around her shoulders. “I told you all I saw.” “It’s not that,” he said gruffly. Her eyes softened as she watched the baby, indicating how much she loved her nephew. “Emma, who is Jack’s father?” Emma bit down on her bottom lip and glanced away. “The truth,” he said, knowing if Aspen had confided in anyone it would have been her cousin. When Emma was a teenager, her mother’s abusive boyfriend had set fire to the house, killing himself and Emma’s mother. Emma had moved in with Aspen and her mother, Rose. After that, the girls had been more like sisters than cousins. “I don’t know,” she said in a low voice. “Aspen never told me.” He arched a brow, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Are you sure? You’re not keeping some secret?” Miguel squared his shoulders and draped a protective arm around Emma. “If she says she doesn’t know, she doesn’t.” “It’s important,” Dylan said, his throat thick. “Was she dating someone?” Emma frowned. “Kurt Lightfoot, a builder from the reservation, was interested in her. They went out a few times. But…I’m not sure he fathered the baby.” She hesitated. “He certainly hasn’t claimed paternal rights.” “Where are you going with this?” Miguel asked. “Are you thinking that Jack’s father might have been the one who attacked Aspen? That it wasn’t like we suspected, that Boyd Perkins and Sherman Watts tried to kill her because she saw them dump Julie’s body?” Dylan hissed between clenched teeth. “I’m just considering every angle. And knowing Jack’s father is important.” “Why is it so important to you?” Emma asked with odd twitch of her lips that made him wonder if she had a sixth sense about this, too. He traced a finger over Jack’s cheek, then decided that Emma might confide more if he came clean. “Because I might be the father.” Surprise flickered in Miguel’s eyes, although Emma gave him a sympathetic look. “I honestly don’t know,” she said gently. “Aspen simply said that the baby’s father wasn’t in the picture. I assumed that he didn’t want to be and didn’t push her on the subject. It seemed to upset her too much.” Dylan’s jaw snapped tight with the effort not to defend himself. He would have wanted to be in the picture. And if he discovered Jack was his, Aspen wouldn’t get rid of him, either. Above all things, Dylan valued family and believed in a father’s duty to take care of his children. “You and Aspen?” Miguel asked. Dylan gave a clipped nod. “The timing is right. We met in Vegas when I’d just come off that serial-killer case.” God, the images of the dead Ute girls Frank Turnbull had killed still haunted him. “Aunt Rose had just died then,” Emma said quietly. Dylan nodded. “I guess we both needed someone.” And he needed Aspen now and so did her baby…Possibly their baby. Dammit, where was she? Emma said she was in danger. Had Perkins or Watts found her? Another possibility, one they hadn’t considered, nagged at him. If he wasn’t the father, who was? Jack had been in that car when Aspen had crashed. He could have died, too. If another man had fathered the little boy, had he tried to kill Aspen to keep his paternity a secret? Chapter Two (#ulink_e35368c0-0078-54ad-9af6-0fdd0edf7d8f) Dylan’s cell phone cut into the tense silence in the room, jarring Jack from sleep. He whimpered, and Dylan reluctantly handed him to Emma and connected the call. “Acevedo speaking.” “Dylan, it’s Tom Ryan. Listen, we just caught a break.” Dylan’s pulse pounded. “What?” “I’m at the Bureau now, and we received a fax from a women’s shelter in Mexican Hat. It looks like we’ve found Aspen Meadows.” The blood roared through Dylan’s veins. Trembling with relief, he muttered a silent prayer of thanks and crossed himself. “Is she all right?” “She’s alive. According to the sister I spoke with, she was brought in with injuries and has been healing there.” Fear gripped him again. “What kind of injuries?” “I’m not sure. We didn’t go into it. But I thought you might want to go to Mexican Hat and talk to her.” “Thanks. I will.” In a brief moment of emotion, he’d confided in Tom that he had been involved with Aspen, that finding her was personal. “I need to call Emma and tell her that we found her cousin.” “I’m with Emma and Miguel right now,” Dylan said. “I’ll let her know, then I’m on my way to Mexican Hat.” He disconnected the call, and turned to see Emma and his brother waiting with anticipation. “They found Aspen?” Emma asked. He nodded. “She’s at a women’s shelter in Mexican Hat.” “Thank God.” Emma sagged in relief, although a second later, her nose wrinkled in confusion as she rocked Jack. “But if she’s alive, why hasn’t she called any of us? Why didn’t she come back for Jack? She loved this baby more than anything in the world.” Dylan gritted his teeth. “I don’t know. Only Aspen can tell us that. I’m going to bring her home.” “You want me to go with you?” Miguel asked. Dylan shook his head and glanced at the baby. “No. Take a DNA swab from Jack and send it to the lab. And stick close to Jack and Emma. If Aspen is still in danger, her son might be, too.” Miguel agreed and Dylan rushed to the door, then outside to his sedan, worry knotting his stomach. Had Aspen been injured so badly she couldn’t contact Emma? Had she been trying to protect her son by not returning? He started the engine and raced away from Emma’s house on the outskirts of Kenner City, anxious for answers. If Jack was his son, he wanted to know why in the hell she hadn’t trusted him with the truth. Not that he’d tried to contact her… The little boy’s baby blue eyes flashed into his head, and he grimaced. Jack had to be his—he knew it in his gut. But as that possibility sank in, guilt assailed him. If he’d been with Aspen and the baby, he could have protected them. “ACCORDING TO THE FBI AGENT who phoned, your name is Aspen Meadows,” Sister Margaret said. Aspen clenched her hands together, weighing the name on her tongue. “Aspen…” Yes, that sounded right. Familiar. Yet a sense of dread filled her as she waited for more information. “What else did he tell you?” Sister Margaret stroked her arms to soothe her. “Just that your car was found crashed near the San Juan River, and that you’ve been missing for nine weeks. He’s sending an agent here to talk to you and take you back to your family.” “Family?” Aspen jerked her head up, tears blurring her eyes. “I have family?” Sister Margaret nodded with a smile. “I’m sure they’ve been worried sick about you. But don’t fret now, child. You’re finally going home.” Aspen bit down on her lower lip, more questions assailing her. If she had family, why didn’t she remember them? And if she’d been running from an abusive boyfriend or husband, why hadn’t she turned to her family for help? A half-dozen scenarios raced through her head, fear gripping her. Maybe her family hadn’t been loving at all. Maybe someone in that family had abused her. Something about the scenario felt all too real…a distant memory plucking at her subconscious? Or had her contact with the women in the shelter stirred her imagination? Since she’d arrived, she’d heard horror stories of wife and child beaters, fathers who’d sexually molested their daughters, of stalkers and possessive men who threatened and intimidated the very people they professed to care about, men who treated their women like property. Had she left her family to protect them from the man after her? Twice she’d seen a tall Ute man lurking outside, lingering near the fence surrounding the shelter. A Ute man who’d watched her and the other women with intense gray eyes that chilled her to the bone… Was he the man who’d sneaked into her room and attacked her? Had she known him before? And if he wanted her dead, would this FBI agent be able to protect her? DYLAN’S EMOTIONS pinged between hopeful anticipation and trepidation over what he might find when he saw Aspen. He couldn’t imagine the woman he knew deserting her child or not contacting her cousin to assure her she was safe. Which meant her injuries must have been serious. That or she was too scared to call home. And if that was the case, what had changed her mind? The landscape swept by him with its pieces of flatland mingled with red-and-gray rocks, some twisted into convoluted shapes that as children, he and Miguel had played a guessing game to name when their family had driven through Colorado and Utah on family vacations. His mother had stopped to photograph the children playing outside their Navajo Indian houses. They’d camped along the San Juan and Colorado Rivers, visited Goosenecks State Park with its view of the steep cliffs and terraces, parked along the overhang and watched rafters take the long boat trip to Lake Powell. God, they’d had so much fun during those trips. Muley Point had offered another view south over the twisting entrenched canyon to the desert beyond, and Monument Valley and the Valley of the Gods had been other favorite stops. Baby Jack’s face flashed into his mind and he wondered if he’d ever get to take his son camping along the ridges. If he’d be able to drive through the eerie formations of the Valley of the Gods and watch Jack’s reaction when he first saw the sixty-foot-wide sombrero-shape rock that had inspired Mexican Hat’s name. He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck—jeez, he was already thinking like Jack was his. Hoping he was… If so, he had to find a way to make sure he stayed in the boy’s life. Nothing Aspen could say would deter him. U.S. 163 led him straight into town, and he let his GPS guide him down a side road to the shelter, a nondescript adobe building surrounded by a ten-foot iron gate. Inside, a massive cross stood in front of the steel door as if to guard its residents and stave off evil. Dust and a wave of heat engulfed him as he climbed from his sedan, the gray night sky casting the center in dark shadows. He glanced around the outside but saw nothing amiss, so rang the buzzer at the gate entrance. A second later, a woman’s voice echoed through the speaker. “Yes?” He produced his badge, then identified himself. “Special Agent Ryan spoke with you about the photo you faxed to the Bureau, about the woman you have staying here. Aspen Meadows.” “Yes, just a minute.” A buzz sounded, and the gate swung open, a nun appearing in the doorway to the building. She checked his identification before letting him enter, then led him to a small office to the right. “I need to see her,” he said without preamble. Her eyes seemed to be assessing him. “First, we need to talk. My name is Sister Margaret.” He gave a clipped nod, noting the modest furnishings, a battered wooden desk and desk chair, two wooden Windsor chairs and a ratty plaid sofa that had seen better days. She gestured for him to take a seat, so he claimed one of the Windsor chairs, and she settled onto the sofa. But the pinched look on her face and the way she fidgeted with her habit spoke volumes about her mental state. His gut churned with anxiety. “Is something wrong, Sister? Is Aspen all right?” She pursed her lips and sighed, a sound that disturbed him even more. “Did you personally know Aspen?” Sister Margaret asked. He was accustomed to asking the questions. But this woman was as protective as a mother hen, so he knew he had to answer. “Yes. A while back. I’ve been investigating her disappearance for weeks. Her cousin is worried sick about her.” “Yes, about that…” Dylan leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Just cut to it, Sister. Is Aspen all right?” “Yes, and no,” the sister said. “When she first came to us, she was suffering from hypothermia, and multiple bruises and lacerations covered her body and face. Along with that, she had a couple of broken ribs, a fractured wrist, concussion and it appeared as if someone had tried to strangle her.” She shuddered, and Dylan’s mind raced with the visual image she’d painted. “Can you tell me what happened to her?” Sister Margaret asked. “Who hurt her?” Sweat beaded on Dylan’s neck, and he took a deep breath, struggling to control his anger. “We don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet. We believe she may have witnessed a murder. Either that or she saw the killer dumping a woman’s body. When the killer realized Aspen had witnessed his criminal actions, he came after her. We found her car crashed along the San Juan River. Her son was inside.” “Oh, my.” A horror stricken look passed over Sister Margaret’s face. “Aspen has a son?” “Yes, a baby boy named Jack. He’s fifteen weeks old now.” And he might be mine. Sister Margaret pressed a hand to her pale face. “We thought she might be running from an abusive boyfriend or husband, but she never mentioned a child, so we had no idea. If we had, we would have reported her missing right away.” Dylan arched a brow, confusion clogging his head. “I don’t understand. Didn’t Aspen tell you what happened?” “That’s the reason I wanted to talk to you,” Sister Margaret said softly. “Aspen was unconscious when she was brought in. And when she regained consciousness…well, she didn’t remember anything.” Dylan’s chest pounded. “You mean, she didn’t remember the car crash or attack?” Sister Margaret shook her head sadly. “I mean, she didn’t remember anything. Not about what happened to her, not even her name or that she has family.” Dylan sat back in the chair, trying to absorb the missing piece the woman had just revealed. Amnesia would explain why Aspen hadn’t contacted Emma or returned home for Jack. Or called him for help. “What did the doctor say about the amnesia?” Sister Margaret looked shaken. “That the head injury could have caused her memory loss, but that the trauma could have been a factor, as well.” “Basically, she blocked out the events because they were too painful,” Dylan said. “Yes.” “Will she regain her memory?” Dylan asked. The sister shrugged, her hands twisting together in her habit. “Probably. But that may take time. And Dr. Bennigan advised us not to push her, that doing so might traumatize her even more.” Dylan stewed over that revelation, bracing himself to meet an Aspen who had no idea who he was. “So what prompted you to finally report her appearance to the police?” Dylan finally asked. The sister shifted nervously. “Someone broke into the center earlier, into the room where Aspen was sleeping and attacked her. She told us to call the police.” Dylan fisted his hands by his sides. Dammit, had Perkins and Watts tracked down Aspen and broken into the shelter to finish the job? ASPEN SAT ON THE FLOOR with the children surrounding her, her voice low as she recanted the legend of the Sky People. “Manitou is the Great Spirit—he lived all alone in the sky. But he was lonely so he made a big hole in the sky and built the mountains, then sent snow and rain down to make the world more beautiful.” “Did he make the animals, too?” a curly red-haired four-year-old asked. “Yes,” Aspen said with a smile. “He made all the animals and the birds. But soon, like children and grown-ups do sometimes, the animals began to fight. So Manitou decided he needed a king to rule them all.” “Was it a lion?” a little boy asked. “A dinosaur?” another suggested. Aspen shook her head. “No, a grizzly bear.” She reached up her arms and held them wide. “Now give me a big bear hug and say night-night.” The kids giggled and hugged her, and as they parted, she looked up to see Sister Margaret standing with a man in the doorway. Her breath lodged in her chest in a painful surge. He was broad-shouldered and tall, so masculine with his wide jaw and chiseled features that her stomach fluttered with nerves. Thick black hair brushed his ears and forehead, long black lashes framing the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, eyes like the sky on a clear Colorado day. Yet he looked dangerous and imposing, anger radiating off him in waves. And those startling eyes were intense, haunted, seemed to be trying to see deep into her soul, and made a chill skitter up her arms. So did the scar that slashed his chin. Although even that scar didn’t detract from his good looks. One of the mothers herded the children to the back rooms for bed, and Aspen stood slowly, her ankle still slightly weak from her tumble with her attacker. Sister Margaret offered her a tentative smile and gestured for the man to follow. “This is Special Agent Dylan Avecedo. He came to take you home, Aspen.” Fear slithered through Aspen as she met his gaze. Then he extended his hand and she placed hers inside his large palm, and a warm feeling of awareness shot through her. Something about those eyes seemed…familiar. Had she met this man before? But how would she have known a federal agent? Did he have the answers to her missing past? And if he did, was she ready to hear the truth? Chapter Three (#ulink_701a05af-1b9c-5efe-a02b-2ba7cfa02e72) God, Aspen was even more beautiful that he’d remembered. Seeing her sitting on the floor with those kids triggered childhood memories of his mother doing the same with him and his siblings. And served as a reminder that Aspen had intended to help children before her life had been interrupted by a murder. Her long dark hair hung in a thick braid over her shoulder, her chocolate colored eyes huge and so sultry that once again he lost himself in the beautiful depths. They were also pensive, pained by her loss. Damn, he could almost feel the turmoil inside her, the need to replace her missing past with the truth. Yet she instinctively knew the truth wouldn’t be pretty, and she was frightened. “Detective?” Her voice was pleading, searching his for answers. Answers that he didn’t have. He studied her for any sign of recognition, for any glimmer that she would welcome him back in her life. That she knew that he could be trusted to stay by her side. But he saw no indication that she knew who he was…or that she’d ever melted beneath his hands and mouth like a wanton lover. Instead she looked at him as if he was a perfect stranger. That hurt. He wanted her to know him, to recall what they’d had together, to want his touch as much as he craved hers. Her face flushed slightly as he clung to her hand, and the trembling in her petite body and flushed expression in her eyes offered him a seed of hope. Even if she didn’t remember him, there was something there, a simmering, immediate attraction, just as the first time they’d touched and fallen into bed. She was serving cocktails in that casino in Vegas, wearing a short little black skirt with a cropped T-shirt that hugged her breasts and exposed the smooth brown flesh of her flat stomach. Her voice had purred like a kitten, her movements fluid and seductive, her body so tempting that he had had to caress her bare skin. That body he knew so well. One he’d tasted and explored and memorized. One he’d wanted so often over the past few months that he’d fantasized about having her again and again. Somewhere in the building, a baby cried out, and he thought of Jack. Along with relief that she was physically okay and the instantaneous heat that ripped through him at the sight of her, anger churned through his gut. Dammit, if Jack was his, why hadn’t she told him? Finally, she retreated and pulled away, wiping her palm on the side of her skirt. “Sister Margaret said you know where my family is.” A slight tremor laced her voice, and he tried to place himself in her shoes, to understand what it must be like to be lost and alone with no memory of what had happened, but obviously aware she was in danger. “Yes, your cousin Emma is waiting at the Ute reservation. That’s where you live. She’s been searching for you ever since you disappeared.” A frown creased the delicate skin above her huge almond-shaped eyes. “How could I forget my own cousin?” The doctor’s advice trilled in his head like a warning bell, and Dylan forced an understanding smile. “You suffered a head injury,” he said, hating the distress lining her face. “Sister Margaret said in time you may remember everything.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Sister Margaret also said a man broke into your room. Did you get a look at your attacker?” She shook her head. “No, it was too dark. All I saw was his shadow. Then he attacked me, and I fought back and screamed.” Her voice broke, her breathing rattling out as if she was reliving that horrible event. “Then the sisters and other women ran in, and he jumped out the window and got away.” A fresh bruise darkened her cheek, and he gritted his teeth to keep from touching it and pulling her into his arms to comfort her. She looked so small and fragile and…vulnerable. “What else do you remember?” She chewed her bottom lip. “He had a knife in a leather pouch attached to his belt.” Dylan’s blood ran cold. “How tall was he?” She hesitated, rubbing her head in thought. “I don’t know. It was just a shadow.” “Did you notice a distinctive smell?” “Cigarettes,” she whispered. “And sweat.” Watts used to smoke but had supposedly given up the habit. But perhaps the man had picked it back up. “Did he say anything?” She shook her head. “No, he just grabbed me and shoved his hand over my mouth. Then I…I think I bit his hand.” Her feistiness might have saved her life. Twice now. “I’d like to look around that room and see if I find any evidence.” Sister Margaret nodded, and he went to the sedan to retrieve his crime kit. He flipped on a flashlight, waving it across the room in an arc as he searched the corners, the bed and floor. With a grunt, he knelt and with his gloved hand, retrieved a loose hair that had fallen on the floor. It might belong to one of the other women or children, but he’d check it out. The hair was longer than Boyd Perkins’s or Sherman Watts’s—but still, it might be a lead if there was a third perp. Continuing the search, he paused at the window, then used a pair of tweezers to pluck a small piece of fabric that had caught on a nail on the windowsill, and bagged it along with the hair to send for analysis. Maybe forensics would turn up something to help them nail the bastard and make sure the charges stuck when they finally tracked him down. Stewing over the circumstances, he carried the evidence bags to the car while Aspen said goodbye to the other women. Outside, he phoned Miguel to explain the situation. “Amnesia?” Miguel asked. “Yes. She didn’t recognize me. I’m hoping that seeing Emma and Jack will jog her memory.” “I’ll warn Emma about the doctor’s diagnosis,” Miguel said. “And tell her not to push, to give Aspen time.” Five minutes later, Aspen returned carrying a small paper bag holding the meager possessions she’d accumulated since staying at the shelter. Sister Margaret gave him a concerned look as she escorted them to the gate. “Take care of her, Agent Avecedo.” He squeezed her hand with a nod. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave her alone until we find out who hurt her.” He paused and lowered his voice. “And, Sister, I’m going to need the medical report from when Aspen was brought in. When we find out who did this, it will help with prosecution.” If he let the son of a bitch live that long. “I’ll speak to the doctor, but we’ll need a release from Aspen.” “I’ll talk to her about it,” Dylan said. Sister Margaret agreed, then thanked him, and he walked Aspen to the car. She settled into the passenger side and buckled her seat belt, the tension thickening as he drove away from the shelter. “Sister Margaret said that you were injured when you arrived at the center. That you thought that someone, an abusive boyfriend, was after you.” She shrugged. “It seemed like a likely story, Agent Acevedo.” “Call me Dylan.” She gave him an odd look, then nodded. “Did the abusive boyfriend idea come from a memory?” he asked. She fidgeted, looking back at the center as if she wanted to return to the safe haven she’d found within that iron fence. “Not really. Just a feeling that I was running from someone.” Her voice warbled. “And then there are the nightmares.” “Nightmares?” She nodded, her brown eyes huge in her face. “Nightmares of fighting some man, of running, of hearing the river and being cold…” She angled her head to study his face. “Can you fill in any of the missing pieces?” “Some, but not all. We found your car smashed into a tree by the San Juan River.” He paused, debating over whether to tell her that her son had been left in her car. “There was evidence of a struggle. Blood in the car. We didn’t know if you’d survived or if you might have drowned in the river.” She made a low sound in her throat. “My cousin…She was worried?” He nodded and gently placed his hand over hers in an attempt to calm her, although heat radiated through him. He wanted more, wanted to hold her and assure her everything would be all right. Wanted to shake her for not telling him that they had a son together. “Yes, Aspen, her name is Emma, and she’s anxious for you to come home.” Relief filled her eyes, and she relaxed slightly. As much as he wanted to press her, he forced himself to rein in his emotions and let her absorb what he’d told her. “You look exhausted,” he said. “Why don’t you try to rest during the drive? I know Emma will want to talk when we arrive.” She gave him a wary look, but nodded. A second later, she curled up against the door and fell asleep, but even in sleep, her body seemed wound tight and braced for battle as if she expected her attacker to reappear any minute and end her life as he’d tried to do before. THE NIGHTMARES RETURNED AGAIN. Aspen struggled to wake herself, determined not to let them suck her into the darkness, but the heavy pull of fear yanked her back to the day she’d been running. Running, but from whom? If she could only see the man’s face… She crawled along the steep rocks, fighting to steady herself as the river raged below, the snow-capped ridges reminding her that the water would be dangerous and freezing. That although she was an excellent swimmer, there was no way she could survive the icy temperatures or strong current. Then the hands were upon her, clenching, hitting, choking her, dragging her into the murky depths of death. She screamed, snippets of her life flashing in front of her. The Ute reservation, the casino, the Trading Post, the children gathering for a Ute celebration. The Bear Dance in the spring and the Sun Dance at Mesa Verde. Her mother teaching her the ways of the people. The childhood stories of the Sky People, the legend of the Sleeping Ute Mountain, and the ghost stories her mother insisted she pass on about the sacrifices of their ancestors. Then she was drowning, the icy water sucking her down to the bottom, the rocks beating against her skin, the whisper of death calling her name. She jerked awake, shaking and disoriented. Suddenly she felt the agent’s hand on hers again. “More nightmares, Aspen?” She lifted her head, pushed a strand of hair that had escaped her braid from her eyes and tried to steady her labored breathing. “Yes.” She glanced down at his hand, aching to cling to him for protection, but she hardly knew the man. Still, he made her feel safe as if he wouldn’t leave her to the terrifying memories that hacked at her sanity, tapping at the fringes of her conscience yet evading her. While she’d slept, the weather had changed. Dark ominous clouds hovered above the ridges, the mountain runoff filling the potholes and shoulder with rising water. A chill filled the car, the temperatures dropping as they neared the canyon. The road was virtually deserted, the landscape colored with shadows, prairie grass and scattered rocks. In the distance, the sound of a coyote rent the air, the slap of the windshield wipers battling the light rain eerie in the silence. Occasionally they passed a pueblo style house, the elements having beaten its beauty to a muddy brownish orange. The story she’d told the children earlier reminded her that this area was dangerous territory for the reemergence of the grizzly bear. And the ghost town that had once been a miner’s haven made her anxious to return to civilization. A gust of wind that sounded like a freight train sent tumbleweed swirling across the road, then suddenly bright headlights appeared behind them, racing up on their tail. Aspen tensed as Dylan swerved, the car bounced over a rut in the road and hit a wet patch. The car behind them rammed into their tail, sending the sedan fishtailing across the dark highway, skimming rocks and spewing gravel and dirt. Dylan cursed in Spanish and steered into the skid in an attempt to regain control. But the car raced up behind them, rammed them again, then swerved to their right and a gunshot pierced the side of the car. Aspen screamed, and Dylan shoved her head down. “Stay low!” Dylan sped up, weaving left then right, as if he intended to outsmart their attacker at his own game of cat and mouse. The sedan sent the other car sliding off the road toward the creek, which looked as if it was about to flood from the mountain runoff. Aspen covered her head with her hands, leaning down so her forehead touched her knees. But a second later, the other car’s tires squealed and the vehicle slammed into them again. Another shot shattered the window on the passenger side, sending glass raining down on top of her. She cried out again, and Dylan shouted another obscenity, losing control as the sedan careened off the road, bounced over shrubs and rocks and hit a tall rock formation. Metal screeched and gears ground together as they spun toward the ridge out of control. The car flipped on its side, rolled and landed upside down in the creek bed. The air bag exploded, knocking the wind out of her and trapping her in the seat. Aspen thought she might have passed out for a moment, and when she recovered, her breath huffed out in tiny pants as water began to seep through the window. “Are you okay?” Dylan shouted. They were both hanging upside down, the seat belt cutting into her neck. She glanced sideways and noticed blood dotting his hands, and felt it trickling down her arm where glass had pelted them. “Aspen?” “Yes, I’m okay,” she rasped. “But water’s coming in.” “I know. Hang on to the seat belt and side of the car while I cut you out.” She sucked in a sharp breath and braced herself with one hand on the roof of the car and another on the door. Dylan retrieved a knife from his pocket and sawed at her air bag, puncturing it. It deflated with a whoosh, then he sawed at her seat belt. The icy water gurgled and spewed through the window, dripping onto the roof and soaking her. “Hurry!” she whispered hoarsely as d?j? vu struck her. She’d been in another crash and had almost drowned… Her dreams of running, of being cold—they weren’t just nightmares. They had been very real. “Almost got it,” Dylan said between clenched teeth. The belt finally snapped, and she slid downward, her head hitting the roof. “Try to climb out,” he said. “I need to cut my belt.” Terror seized her. She didn’t want to go out there alone. “Go, Aspen!” His sharp voice jerked her from the fear gripping her, and she maneuvered sideways, then kicked the rest of the glass free with her feet. Water gushed inside the vehicle, and she held her breath, grabbed the seat and shoved her weight through the window. The freezing water swallowed her, and numbness claimed her, but her foot connected with rock, and she used it as a spring-board to propel her. Teeth chattering, she waded to the embankment. Dragging in huge gulping breaths, her limbs shaking, she searched the creek and finally saw Dylan wading toward her in the waist-deep cold water. He crawled from the creek, carrying the crime-scene kit in one hand. Another gunshot blasted the rock beside her, and Dylan grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s go!” Her legs felt like Jell-O as he yanked her to her feet and dragged her across the embankment. She stumbled over rocks, and her ankle twisted but she plunged on, ducking low to dodge another bullet. She couldn’t die now, not when she’d just found out her name, and that she had family waiting for her. Chapter Four (#ulink_43de11e7-1769-511f-ade3-9e8cfec3026a) Dylan stuffed the evidence box beneath a boulder, then buried Aspen in the crook of his arm to protect her from the gunshots as they raced in an upward climb into the mountains. The terrain was rocky and pitted with shrubs and brush, the jagged ridges posing their own danger. It was also a good place to hide. Another shot pinged off a stone jutting out from the ridge, and they ducked, dodging it as he pushed her behind a boulder. The dark sky and mixture of rain and snow added to the dangers, making their footing slippery. A second later, he steered her toward another indentation carved into the red stone, pushing her to climb higher as they dodged more bullets. Dylan crouched beside her, removed his gun and braced it to fire. “Stay down,” he whispered. “I’m going after the bastard.” She grabbed his arm. “No. Don’t leave me alone.” The cold terror in her voice and eyes made his chest clench, and he hated the shooter for putting it there. All the more reason to catch the SOB. He brushed his hand against her bruised cheek. “I’ll be back.” Slowly rising behind the boulder, he searched the ridges and cliffs, then spotted movement to the right. He fired, a shot pinging over the shadow, and rocks skittered down the ridge as the man scrambled to escape. Dylan gestured for Aspen to stay put, then lurched forward in chase. He fired again and saw the shadow moving at lightning speed around a boulder, then disappear. Dylan wanted to pursue him, but a low cry escaped Aspen and a faraway look glazed her eyes as if she was reliving the trauma that had caused her amnesia. Her arm was bleeding, too, and cuts from the shattered window marred her hands. The sound of a car engine sliced the night, and Dylan breathed a sigh of relief, then stooped down and gathered Aspen in his arms. She trembled against him, wet and shivering, and he hugged her to his chest, whispering low words of assurance. Thank God they had survived. But he’d find the man who’d tried to kill him and put that terror in Aspen’s eyes and make him suffer. ASPEN CLUNG TO THE AGENT, memories of another crash and running for her life bombarding her. She survived, she reminded herself, and she would survive now. At least this time she wasn’t alone. “It’s all right, Aspen,” Dylan said. “He’s gone now and you’re safe.” She forced a calming breath, then looked up at him. “But he’ll be back. And how can I fight him if I don’t even know who he is?” “Sister Margaret said you would get your memory back,” he assured her. “You need time. Just trust me for now.” She folded her arms. “It’s just so frustrating and scary. I feel as if I’m living in the dark.” He stroked her back, soothing her. “I won’t stop until the danger to you is over and the man responsible for the shooting and for your memory loss is in jail, or dead.” She took solace in his strength, relaxed slightly and pulled herself together. He wiped the blood dotting her arm. “We need to take you to the E.R.” “No. I’m all right,” she said. “It’s just a few scratches.” She pressed a finger to his forehead. “But you might need stitches.” He shrugged off her concern and slowly extracted himself from her arms. “I’m fine. But I need to call for help.” She nodded, then he removed his cell phone and made a call, thankful it still worked. “Tom, it’s Dylan. Listen, I was driving Aspen back to the reservation and someone ambushed us. My car is upside down in the creek and we need an extraction. Also, I want forensics to go over the car for paint samples and bullets.” He gave him their location, disconnected the call, then turned to her and took her arm. “Come on, let’s head back down to the car. I need to retrieve the evidence box to send to forensics.” Aspen took his hand as he helped her down the slippery rocks, grateful the precipitation had stopped, although the wind rustled the brush and ruffled her damp hair. Her hands and feet were numb already, the chill inside her mounting. He paused to grab the crime scene kit with the evidence bags he’d stowed inside and hoisted it in one hand while keeping the other firmly on her arm to steady her. By the time they reached the bottom, the sound of a helicopter echoed from above, its blinking lights sweeping the terrain and promising a recovery. The helicopter touched down in the flatter part of the canyon and two men climbed out, the pilot and another big guy, an Indian, who frowned as he stalked toward them. Dylan stepped forward. “Ryan didn’t say he was sending you, Bia. But I’m glad he did.” He gestured toward Aspen. “This is Aspen Meadows. Aspen, Special Agent Ethan Bia. He’s an expert tracker with the Bureau.” The Indian nodded and glanced at Aspen. “Nice to meet you, Miss Meadows.” “Please, call me Aspen.” “Sure.” He angled his head toward Dylan. “Ryan didn’t know what we’d find, if the shooter was still hiding around here and you might be holed up in the mountains.” “I ran him off,” Dylan said. “But we need to collect the bullet casings and take paint samples from my car. When we find this SOB, I want to make sure we have forensics to back up an arrest.” Ethan nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll look for the bullet casings while the pilot flies you two back. Ryan’s sending a team and a tow truck for the car. I’ll wait on them and make sure CSI processes it.” “Thanks.” Dylan shook his head, and curved an arm around Aspen, coaxing her toward the chopper. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up and to the E.R.” Aspen had never ridden in a helicopter but she was too cold and tired to argue, so she crawled in beside Dylan, accepted the blanket he offered and burrowed beneath it while the blades of the chopper whirled and they lifted off. Her gaze fell to Dylan’s car where it lay upside down in the rising creek, and she flinched. They could have died and they might not have been found for days or weeks. The realization that that was the shooter’s plan sent another shudder through her. She had to remember what had happened nine weeks ago. Her life depended on it. THE NEXT FEW HOURS were hectic and strained as the helicopter transported them to the emergency room in Durango, and doctors examined and treated them for scrapes and cuts. Dylan earned four stitches to his forehead, but thankfully Aspen didn’t need stitches. Still, she was bruised and battered and had suffered minor lacerations on her hands and legs. He phoned Miguel, explained the circumstances and suggested he take Aspen home to rest before she saw Jack. Miguel promised to leave a key to Aspen’s house hidden in the mouth of the horse sculpture in her front yard. Fatigue lined her face as he secured a vehicle, dropped the evidence he’d collected earlier at the Kenner County Crime Unit in Kenner City, and drove toward the reservation. It was early morning, the gray dawn sky filled with the shadows of another impending storm. Neither of them had slept for over twenty-four hours, and he desperately needed a shower and food. “Where are we going?” Aspen asked. Her labored breath as she pressed a hand to her chest indicated her ribs were bruised from the impact of the air bag. If she felt like him, every bone in her body ached. “To your house for some sleep. Then we’ll reconnect with your family. Your cousin dropped off some groceries earlier if you’re hungry.” “But, Dylan—” “Don’t argue, Aspen,” he said, cutting her off. “You’ve had a lot to deal with in the past twenty-four hours and need some rest before you face your family.” And so did he. Because he wanted to be prepared when she saw Jack for the first time. “The doctor warned that you need to take it easy and not push things for your own health.” Wariness dimmed her features, but exhaustion and trauma outweighed any protest as her eyes slid closed. He clenched his jaw, hating the bruises on her battered skin and the fact that she’d forgotten everyone she loved. That fact alone confirmed the extent of physical and mental trauma she’d suffered. And as much as he wanted to question her about Jack’s paternity, he had to refrain. Earn her trust. Give her time to heal. To reconnect with her family and home and let her memories return on their own. Or he could drive the truth deeper into her psyche. Which meant it would be even more difficult to find out who had attacked her. And he had to do that to protect her. If Boyd Perkins and Sherman Watts had tried to kill her, she’d have to testify so they could put the men behind bars. Of course, they had to find the bastards first. And if someone else was involved…well, he’d find that out and uncover their motive. If Jack wasn’t his son and another man was in the picture… No, he couldn’t go there yet. But he needed to brace himself for that possibility. Couldn’t allow himself to get too close to her or the baby until he knew the truth. Did she think he wasn’t father material? Couldn’t she contemplate a future with him? Agitated, mind racing with questions, he drove onto the reservation toward Aspen’s. He wasn’t surprised at the small pueblo style house with its adobe colors and Native American look. During their one glorious week in Vegas together, she’d talked about life on the reservation, her love of her culture, and her desire to teach the children and instill in them the importance of their heritage. Aspen was deep in sleep, so he parked in the stone drive, climbed out and grabbed the key, his instincts on full alert as he scanned the property. Satisfied no one was hiding in the shadows of the trees, he left Aspen in the car while he went to search the inside. Darkness bathed the interior as he entered, and he paused to listen for sounds of an intruder. First thing tomorrow, he’d install a security system in Aspen’s home. One that went straight to him if anyone set off the alarm. Slowly, he crept inside the dark entryway, flipped on a light, then scanned the foyer. Native American artwork decorated the adobe colored walls, collections of hand-made baskets, beaded jewelry, pottery and other artifacts and books filled the built-in shelves. A picture of a native Ute on horseback was centered over a soft brown leather couch opposite a woodstove in the den, which opened to the kitchen. He moved to the left and found a master suite and bath, decorated in earth tones with accents of red, yellow and orange, and more Ute art. He searched the closet, beneath the bed, then moved to the guest bedroom on the opposite side of the kitchen. His lungs tightened at the sight of the nursery. A primitive wooden crib sat in the midst of the freshly painted baby blue room, which held an assortment of stuffed animals, children’s books and infant toys. Hissing a breath of relief that no intruder was inside, he stowed his gun inside his jacket, then went outside to the car and lifted Aspen from the seat. She moaned softly in her sleep, and snuggled against him as he carried her to the front stoop. She was wrapped in the blanket, wearing the scrubs the nurse had given her at the E.R. when they’d removed her damp clothes, so he carried her to her bedroom, pulled down the covers and laid her on the crisp clean sheets. For a brief second her eyes flickered open, and she looked at him with glazed eyes. He inhaled her sweet fragrance, the softness of her skin, and ached to crawl in bed beside her. To rekindle the heat between them. “You’re home now,” he said gently, then pulled the quilt over her and brushed back her hair. She tugged at his hand, and a hollow feeling of need gripped him. “Where are you going?’ she whispered in a sleep-laced voice that triggered images of the two of them in bed together, of her voice purring his name after a night of lovemaking. “I know it sounds silly,” she whispered, “but I don’t want to be alone.” God, he didn’t want that, either. He wanted to make love to her. Instead, he brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheek. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said, his voice thick and hoarse. “If you need me just call.” She nodded, closed her eyes again and curled into her bed. He ached to drop a kiss on her cheek, then her mouth, but remembered the doctor’s warning and forced himself to leave the room. Still, his body hummed with arousal and a fierce hunger that could only be sated by Aspen. A woman who saw him as a perfect stranger. Chapter Five (#ulink_6af5ac36-00bb-511e-825f-85d6c2bb703b) Dylan was exhausted but on edge, too wired to sleep. It was the first time he’d been in Aspen’s home and he felt uncomfortable and intrigued at the same time. Her furnishings were exactly as he’d expected, reminiscent of her culture, yet the sight of the nursery made his chest ache. How would she react when she saw the empty baby bed? When she saw Jack? Would she remember her son? He yanked off his shirt and walked around the den/kitchen combination, wishing he was here under other circumstances. That Aspen had invited him into her home because she wanted to see him again. He studied the Ute items in the room and was once again reminded of the road trips his family used to take when he was younger. Once they’d stopped to observe a young Ute woman with a horde of children surrounding her as she taught them to weave baskets. His mother had photographed her, and he’d thought about that photograph when he’d first seen Aspen. The Uncompahgre beaded horse bag on Aspen’s wall was made from tanned mule deer hide. Thousands of glass trade beads and tobacco balls were stitched into the sides and rim. The bags were used to hold pipes, carvings and religious totems and were opened only for private ceremonies. An Uncompahgre Ute Shaved Beaver Hide Painting hung above the fireplace, and ceremonial pipes of salmon alabaster and black pipestone sat on the mantle. Several ceremonial rattles made from buffalo rawhide that were used to call spirits in Ute ceremonies decorated a pine sofa table. Some Ute still used peyote in healing rituals. He wondered if Aspen did, or if she would use a traditional doctor with their son. Her son—you don’t know yet that Jack is yours. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/rita-herron/collecting-evidence/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.