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r /> She could continue to lie low, retaining her disguise while keeping her ear to the ground, or she could bolt again, heading farther west or north. Or, she could seek her own revenge, try to turn the tables on the bastard from whom she was running, lure him in, and then destroy him. The thought of taking another human life had always repulsed her, but she’d never been so scared before, had never been fighting for her own existence. She’d always had the luxury of naiveté. If she came face-to-face with him again, she had no doubt she could shoot him dead or plunge a knife deep into his black heart and give the blade a little twist.
“Sick bastard,” she whispered.
As the wipers of the old Tahoe slapped snow from the windshield, leaving streaks upon the glass, she checked her rearview mirror for the hundredth time.
No one was following her.
No menacing pickup’s headlights appeared over the last rise. Still, she could sense her pursuer.
Letting her breath out slowly, she noticed an old NO HUNTING sign posted on the massive trunk of a giant hemlock that caught in the headlights. She was close. The engine groaned a little as the incline grew steeper, and less than a quarter mile up the hill, she spied the spot where the trees parted a bit and the old lane ambled off the county road. Of course, there were tracks from her Tahoe, enough to be visible despite the snowfall, but so far, he hadn’t appeared.
Had she finally lost him?
Most likely not. Several months had passed from the moment she’d stared up at the moon and gasped for air as she’d lain on the soft banks of the bayou. It was there she’d fought the battle of deciding whether to live or die.
Life had won out, and she’d started her journey of two thousand miles down a desperately crooked path that had finally ended up in the wilds of western Montana.
Was she safe?
She doubted it.
He was nothing if not dogged and deadly.
Shivering a little, she nosed her Tahoe through the stands of hemlock and fir to the tiny clearing where her cabin, after a call to the owner, was finally equipped with electricity and hot water. There was still no furnace, but she’d picked up a used space heater at a secondhand shop, along with a few other essentials.
House Beautiful the old cottage was not, but at least it was functioning, the utilities in the owner’s name and billed to him. She parked near the garage, locked her SUV, and made her way inside where the smell of wood smoke and last night’s microwave popcorn greeted her. On a makeshift coffee table was the local paper, where she’d first learned of the attack on Dan Grayson and his subsequent hospitalization. There was a new sheriff in town, if only temporarily, a man by the name of Hooper Blackwater who was rumored to be a strict, by-the-book officer of the law, a person she was pretty certain she couldn’t approach.
So who, then, would help her?
The simple answer was Cade Grayson, Dan’s brother, the man from whom she’d heard about the sheriff. But she wasn’t about to go running to that rangy cowboy, at least not right away. Unfortunately, he was the man who had started all her trouble and as such would only be her last resort.
Chapter 3
Troy Ryder rolled into Grizzly Falls, Montana on a wing and a prayer. His old Dodge truck was wheezing by the time he pulled into a service station and mini-mart where he filled up his tank, added antifreeze to the radiator, and bought a prewrapped ham and cheese sandwich, bag of chips, and two bottles of beer.
He’d spied a motel on his way into town, one of those long, low buildings with a shared porch, empty parking lot, and a sign proudly announcing FREE WI-FI AND CABLE TELEVISION right next to the VACANCY sign. Good enough. His back ached a bit, his stomach was growling, and he needed to settle in for at least a few hours to study the lay of the land and figure out if Anne-Marie had landed there.
It seemed unlikely, but then stranger things had happened.
Hell, didn’t he know it?
He drove back to the motel. After locking his old pickup, he crossed the icy lot and pushed open a glass door to a small, brightly lit reception area that smelled of bitter, overcooked coffee and a hint of cigarette smoke. A second after he approached the counter, a heavyset woman of fifty or so appeared through an open doorway leading to the inner sanctum of the River View Motel. Wearing a uniform that was on the tight side, she took one look at Troy and smiled widely enough to show off a gold crown on one of her molars. “What can I do ya for?”
“Lookin’ for a room.”
“That we got. How many nights?”
“Just one to start with.” After all, he wasn’t certain that Anne-Marie had stopped here. “Then, we’ll see.”
“Got a double-double or a king. What’s your pleasure?”
“One bed’ll do. ’Round back, if you’ve got a room there.”
“You’re in luck,” she said, then her eyebrows drew together as her hands clicked over the keyboard of a computer that looked as if it had been built before the turn of the millennium. “Well, I mean, if you call room thirteen lucky. It’s the only one that’s ready on the back side, where, you know, you get a river view. You’re not superstitious, are you?”
“Not much.” He filled out the required paperwork, listened to her drone on about the beauty of that part of the country, then snagged the key from her hand and returned to his truck where he drove to the far side of the building and parked in front of room thirteen, an end unit with what only an optimist could describe as a “view” of the river. Not that he cared. He hauled his gear inside, flipped on the lights, and closed the door.
A big bed that looked as if it sagged in the middle, a television on a stand, two night tables with matching lamps, and one chair positioned near the window were the extent of the furniture.
