again.
A word spilled from his lips, whispery and taut with need. “Sandra.”
Jane’s chuckle died in her throat.
She pushed herself from the chair and crossed back to the bed, easing herself down on the edge next to him. “Joe?”
“Sandra, don’t leave me.” The words were slurred but discernible. He shook his head from side to side, his face crumpling with pain. “Don’t-”
“Shh.” She touched his forehead, soothing away the creases. “I’m right here.”
The lines in his brow relaxed, and he fell still and silent. She sat by his side a few minutes longer, trying to hold back the sudden panic rising in her throat like a tidal wave.
His voice had sounded-distant, somehow. As if whatever he was dreaming about came from the past, not the present. A past where he had known her as Sandra Dorsey, not Jane Doe.
A past that had suddenly become even more complicated than she’d imagined.
Exactly who-and what-was she to Joe Garrison?
MORNING DAWNED cold and clear, the first gray whisper of daylight stealing over the bedroom where Jane sat, wide-awake, watching Joe sleep. She rubbed her gritty eyes and checked her watch in the low light, barely making out the numbers. Just after five.
Joe had slept most of the night, awakening briefly around three to go to the bathroom. He’d waved off her offer of help on the way in, but when he emerged, white-faced and staggering, he didn’t protest when she wrapped her arm around him and helped him back to bed.
That moment was the only reason she was still here, sitting in the darkened bedroom listening to his slow, even respiration. She’d planned to be gone by morning. She’d gone as far as sneaking the truck keys from his jacket to the pocket of her jeans, where even now they dug into her hip through the sturdy denim.
Angie was dead. Joe was injured. And as far as she could see into her uncertain future, she didn’t think things would get any better for the people around her.
Maybe, if she could still see Joe Garrison as a Wyoming cop who wanted her behind bars, she could forget those fears and trust Joe to help her.
But the kiss had changed everything.
Wrapping herself in the wool blanket she’d had across her lap, she crossed to check the woodstove in the corner. The fire she’d lit last night had waned, the two small logs she’d found inside now mostly burned away to ashes. The cabin had electricity but not heat. Angie’s family usually brought portable space heaters to supplement the fireplace in the great room and the single woodstove located here in the back bedroom.
She returned to the bed and looked down at Joe. He lay on his uninjured side, his face buried in the pillow. He looked like a little boy, his features softened by sleep and his dark hair flopping forward onto his forehead. Such a contrast to the hard, grim man who’d confronted her at the Trinity jail.
She crouched by the bed in front of him, gripping the sheets to keep from reaching out to touch him. “Who are you to me?” she whispered.
He stirred slightly, and she rocked back on her heels, holding her breath until he settled back to sleep. Carefully, she pushed to her feet and picked up her boots, tucking them under her arm as she padded barefoot into the great room. She pulled them on and stood, gazing at the front door of the cabin.
She reached into her pocket and closed her fingers around the keys to Joe’s truck.
JOE WOKE with a start, then immediately regretted it as pain shot through his body.
It took a moment for memory to seep through his pain-addled brain. When it did, he forced himself to a full sitting position and looked around the darkened bedroom.
Morning sunlight crept through the curtains, slanting a weak shaft of light across the hardwood floor. Joe ran his hand over his jawline, feeling the full day’s growth of beard, then checked his watch. Ten after seven. His stomach rumbled, but not with hunger.
“Jane?” His voice sounded gravelly and weak. He called her name again, louder this time, but there was no response.
Alarm battled with anger as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there a moment, clutching the bedsheets in his white-knuckled fists as he waited out the rush of pain and nausea. He listened to the quiet cabin, trying to make out any unexpected sounds. Cold air swirled around him, raising chill bumps on his bare skin. He needed to go to the bathroom but pushed that concern aside and struggled to his feet.
The room swam sickeningly for a moment, but he pressed his hand against the wall for balance and grabbed the tattered remains of his cotton button-down shirt. He slipped it on, favoring his injured side, and looked down at his boots standing at the side of the bed.
No way could he put those boots on alone, and Jane knew it. Probably thought it would give her a head start.
He picked up his jacket from a chair near the bed. A pair of bullet holes marred the left side of the tan suede. He fingered one of the holes briefly, then pulled on the jacket, reaching into the pocket for his truck keys.
They were gone.
He released a soft torrent of curses and headed out the bedroom door, staggering a bit as he moved down the short hallway to the great room. He went straight for the front door and parted the curtains over the inset window.
The truck stood where they’d left it the night before.
Releasing a pent-up breath, he leaned against the door, letting it hold him upright while he gritted his teeth against the pain in his side.
So she hadn’t taken the truck.
But where was she?
FROST COVERED the ground outside the cabin, tinted shell-pink by the glow that kissed the eastern sky. The sun had not yet made an appearance over the Sawtooth Mountains, but the light on the horizon was enough to illuminate the small stockpile of firewood stacked on the side porch.
Jane pulled on a pair of work gloves she’d found in the kitchen and started to reach for the top piece of wood when she heard a snapping sound in the tangle of pines and aspens a few yards away.
She peered into the gloom, the hair on the back of her neck rising. She eased her hand into the pocket of her jacket, where she’d tucked Joe’s service weapon before leaving the cabin, and pulled it free. Pressing her back against the rough clapboard of the cabin’s outer wall, she held her breath and tried to be completely still and invisible, watching the trees for any sign of movement.
She heard a soft rustle, then another twig snapping. Two shadowy figures slunk through the scrubby underbrush, flitting in and out of sight. Jane released her breath and the shadows froze, two pairs of bright gold eyes turned her way.
Wolves. They stared back at her briefly before slipping away, wraithlike, in the gloom.
Jane crossed to the edge of the porch, trying to catch another glimpse of them as they retreated, but they had already disappeared from view. She started to turn back to the woodpile when she heard a creaking noise behind her. Her heart rate doubling in a split second, she whipped the gun up, whirled and aimed.
Joe stood in the doorway, his hands lifting slowly. His gaze locked with hers, hard and wary. “Drop the weapon, Jane.”
She swallowed hard and lowered the gun to her side. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Likewise,” he drawled, taking a step toward her and holding out his hand. “I’d like it back now.”
She didn’t like the dark suspicion in his eyes. “Did you think I would shoot you?”
“People don’t usually aim a weapon if they’re not prepared to pull the trigger.”
She pressed her lips together, annoyed by his dry half answer. She handed him the gun and turned to pick up a couple of pieces of wood for the stove. But he caught her arm and pulled her around to face him.
“So, you’re only out here for the wood?” He held her by her upper arms, his grip painless but firm.
She lifted her chin. “I’m out here for the wood.”
He stepped forward, forcing her back up against the wall of the cabin. Heat radiated off his body, warming her through the denim of her jacket and jeans. He smelled of whiskey and woodsmoke, the scent rich, dark and masculine. She pressed her hands flat against the rough wall, overwhelmed by the urge to touch him.
