But she realized now that she could easily turn state’s evidence and make Clint’s life a living hell. She wasn’t alone anymore, without anyone to watch her back.
She had Joe.
Despite the gun pressed into her rib cage, Jane had never felt quite so free in her life. Joe would help her. No matter what lies she’d told him, no matter what doubts he might still harbor about her, as soon as he woke to discover her missing, he’d be on his horse to find her.
Clint reached around her. He had a small, sturdy hank of white rope in his left hand. He nudged her side with the gun. “Put your hands on the saddle horn.”
She did as he said, acutely aware of the gun muzzle in her side. Clint wrapped the rope around her hands and the saddle horn, fastening her in place. He sat back when he finished. “You took something from me, darling. When we were living in Colorado. Do you remember any of that?”
She hid a smile. Clint must have been terrified to discover the DVD of Tommy’s murder had gone missing from the safe where she’d seen him hide it. Cracking the safe had been a cinch; there were a few skills Harlan Dugan had taught her that she’d never told Clint about.
“I told you I can’t remember.”
“You obviously remembered your father.”
“Yes. But that’s all.”
“What about the cowboy? Do you remember him?”
“Not from before,” she lied.
“But you know you were his whore, right?”
She clenched her jaw. “Like I was yours?”
“Exactly,” he growled, his grip tightening around her waist. “But I paid better. You’d do well to remember that, sweetheart.”
He fell silent as they reached a steep drop in the path. Jane fought the urge to look behind them for any sign of Joe to the rescue. The last thing she wanted was for Clint to raise his guard. What she needed was for Clint to make a mistake.
And soon.
JOE CAME across the chestnut mare, her reins tangled in the low-hanging limb of a cottonwood tree, about a quarter mile west of the cabin, but there was no sign of Jane. Tamping down the swift rush of alarm, Joe dismounted and tied Jazz’s reins to another branch, taking a quick look around in case Jane had taken a fall. Up ahead, where the side path merged with the main bridle path, he found fresh horse tracks in the dirt-one set moving up the mountain, followed by a slightly fresher set moving away.
He left the mare tied to the cottonwood and mounted Jazz, pushing him into a somewhat reckless canter. The trail could be treacherous at any rate of speed, but the gelding was sure-footed, and Joe was a seasoned rider. He could tell from the tracks he was following that whoever he was following wasn’t moving fast, probably because the horse was now carrying two riders rather than one.
He rode hard for another quarter mile before he caught sight of movement in the trees ahead. Pulling up, he peered through the wall of pines and aspens. There. A flash of gold, a flicker of white-a palomino bearing two riders, he ascertained after a few more seconds. They were about seventy yards ahead, in a place where the bridle path took a wide, curving detour around a rocky outcropping.
Joe dismounted, tying Jazz’s reins around a nearby sapling, and continued on foot, staying close to the boulders, using them for cover. Because he could move straight ahead on foot, while the riders were forced to stick to the bridle trail’s elliptical detour, he ended up ahead of them on the trail, where he waited, gun in hand, for them to ride into view.
He crouched low, hidden behind a large boulder and screened by the scrubby remains of a fallen lodgepole pine sapling. Through its needles, he spotted the riders as they passed a large cottonwood and came into view.
Jane rode up front, while Clint Holbrook sat behind her. His left arm held the reins, while his right hand seemed to be pressing against Jane’s right side. Was he holding a gun to her side? Holbrook’s face was half-hidden by Jane’s head, but Joe had a full view of Jane’s grim expression. As they drew closer, he saw the ropes binding her to the saddle horn.
He couldn’t make a move, not if Clint was holding a gun to her side. But he couldn’t let them get much farther, either. He knew this mountain like the back of his hand, but there were only a few shortcuts to help him keep pace. He couldn’t keep up on foot for long.
He needed a distraction. And that would require Jane’s help. He just had to figure out how to let her know he was there without tipping Clint off to his presence.
THE PALOMINO was tiring, and so was Jane. Riding up the mountain the night before had been her first horse ride in over a year, which would have been enough to make her muscles sore even before she spent the next few hours making love to Joe. Between her aching legs, the uncomfortable cramped position she was in and the rope burns on her wrists, she’d reached the end of her tether.
Where the hell was Joe?
A prickly feeling tightened her stomach. He should be up by now. He should know she was missing. But they’d been riding for nearly an hour now and she’d seen no sign of Joe during the handful of times the trail wound around itself, giving her the chance to peek sideways toward where they’d just been.
A new, paralyzing thought seized her, almost toppling her from the saddle as her whole body went numb. What if Clint had gotten to Joe first, before he met up with her on the trail? She’d been riding around, lost, for a couple of hours before she ran into her captor. He could have been to the cabin, done away with Joe, and circled back to find her just off the trail.
No. Her mind shut down at the thought. She gripped the saddle horn more tightly, closed her eyes and forced down the nausea knocking at her throat. She concentrated on listening to the sounds around her, grounding herself in the tangible rather than dwelling any longer on worst-case scenarios. She heard the clatter of the palomino’s hooves on the rocky trail, the whisper of wind in the pines overhead. The shrill cry of an American dipper sounded from the underbrush a little behind them, reminding her of Joe’s birdcall lessons.
They’d just talked about that last night. She’d done the call for him to distract him from the unknowns that had remained after her first flood of memories…
The cry came again, and Jane suddenly remembered something else Joe had told her about the American dipper. It was a water bird. But there were no streams, lakes or ponds anywhere on Sawyer’s Rise. Her spine straightened. Her heart rate doubled with excitement.
It had to be Joe.
She tugged surreptitiously at her bindings. She’d been loosening the ropes as they rode, working slowly to keep Clint from figuring out what she was doing. With one little pull, the ropes slipped off the saddle horn. She wrapped her hands around the horn again, hoping Clint wouldn’t notice that the ropes were no longer around it.
Now she had to figure out when to make her move. Right now they were on rocky ground, moving downhill again. A fall here could be disastrous. But about a hundred yards ahead, the trail flattened out again, with grassy shoulders along either side of the path.
That’s where it would have to happen.
She bided her time, taking care not to tense up or do anything to draw Clint’s attention. She had to catch him by surprise, and she thought she knew exactly how to do it.
They reached the flat stretch, and Jane took a couple of slow, steadying breaths. Then she sprang, jerking her hands free as she gave the palomino a hard kick in the ribs, trying not to feel guilty about harming the animal.
The horse bucked and reared, giving Jane the needed distraction. She flung herself off the horse, hitting the grassy shoulder with a painful thud. The air whooshed from her lungs, and dark spots swam in her vision.
Please help me, Joe, she thought, gasping for breath.
FROM HIS hiding place behind a scrubby pine sapling, Joe watched Jane hit the ground hard, and for a second, his heart stopped. Then he saw Holbrook bring the palomino under control, swing out of the saddle and move toward Jane, his weapon leveled.
Aiming the borrowed Glock at the FBI agent’s midsection, Joe walked out into the open. “Drop it, Holbrook.”
Clint looked at Joe in surprise, but his aim never wavered from Jane. A feral smile split his face. “Well, if it isn’t the cowboy riding to the rescue. We’ve got ourselves-what is it you bronco busters call it? A Mexican stand-off?” He
