“Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

“Kidnapping? Is that what you call this?”

“What would you call it?”

“Returning a favor. You saved my life. Now I’m doing the same for you.”

“It’s hard to believe that’s what you’re doing when you’re pointing a gun at me.”

“Sorry.” Hawke tucked the gun into his jeans.

Miranda eyed the man, the car door, the traffic speeding by. Maybe-

“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it.”

Miranda stiffened, turning to face him again. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“Sure you are. You’re thinking about opening the car door and jumping for it. Or maybe attracting someone’s attention.” Hawke shrugged. “It’s what I’d do if I were in your position.”

“And if I were in your position, I’d stop the car and let my prisoner out.” Miranda tried to sound less scared than she felt.

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then what am I?”

“The newest member of the witness protection program.”

SHIRLEE MCCOY

has always loved making up stories. As a child, she daydreamed elaborate tales in which she was the heroine—gutsy, strong and invincible. Though she soon grew out of her superhero fantasies, her love for storytelling never diminished. She knew early that she wanted to write inspirational fiction, and began writing her first novel when she was a teenager. Still, it wasn’t until her third son was born that she truly began pursuing her dream of being published. Three years later she sold her first book. Now a busy mother of four, Shirlee is a homeschool mom by day and an inspirational author by night. She and her husband and children live in Maryland and share their house with a dog and a guinea pig. You can visit her Web site at www.shirleemccoy.com.

Valley of Shadows
Shirlee McCoy

This is what the Lord says: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it.”

—Jeremiah 6:16

To Jude—musician, budding scientist, young man

of God. May the path God has set for you be clear,

may your faith be strong and may you always know

just how much I love you and just how proud I am

to be your mother.

To Jeannine Case. Piano teacher extraordinaire.

Thank you for all the years of hard work and

dedication you’ve given to your craft. May every

day, every moment be filled with joy and every

memory one to cherish.

To Ms. Dawn of Docksiders Gymnastics

in Millersville, Maryland, who gives children

wings and teaches them to fly. What you do

really does matter.

And to Melissa Endlich. Editor. Cheerleader.

Conference buddy. I promise I’m not going to say

one more word about redheads, or knights

or even accountants! Maybe.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

The warm September day had turned chilly with sunset, the brisk air heavy with approaching rain. Miranda Sheldon shivered as she stepped outside of her three-story town house, goose bumps rising on her bare arms as clammy coolness seeped through her cotton T-shirt. A jacket would have been a good idea, but she’d been in a hurry to escape the house. Grabbing one had been the last thing on her mind and, as much as she knew she’d probably regret it, she wouldn’t return for one now. Not when her sister Lauren was there.

And not when memories filled every corner, sorrow every silent room.

Instead, she moved quickly, setting a rapid pace, hoping it would warm her as nothing else had in the past few days. People milled around her as she hurried down the busy Essex street. Many she recognized as patrons of the small bakery she owned. A few called out to her, some offering quiet condolences before moving on to whatever they’d planned for Friday night. Their words echoed in her ears, whispered through her head and lodged in her throat, nearly choking her with their potency. Comfort, sympathy. She wanted neither. What she wanted was to rewind the clock, to change the past, to make different choices that would lead to different outcomes.

But, of course, she couldn’t do any of those things. All she could do was grieve and move on with a life that seemed empty and void.

Two blocks down and around a corner, the neighborhood grew quiet, the sounds of traffic and voices muted, the busy Maryland town hushed. Miranda hesitated at the top of a cul-de-sac, the darkness not able to hide the truth of where her walk had taken her. Not just any street. Not just any place. This was where she’d spent the better part of two days. A place where she’d greeted those who’d come to share her sorrow. A place that she’d be happy to walk away from and never see again.

Earlier, the lawn of the huge Greek revival had gleamed brilliant emerald in the sunlight. Now, it was a blanket of shifting shadows, the half-bare trees that lined the driveway skeletal. Light glowed from the lower level of the building, but the remainder of the house was dark, the tall windows eerie in the moonlight. At night, more than any other time, Green’s Funeral Home looked like what it was—a place for the dead.

Miranda shivered, but moved forward anyway, knowing that she couldn’t turn back now. She hadn’t planned to come, but she was here and maybe it was for the best. If someone was still working at the funeral home, she might get a chance to say a final goodbye. A private goodbye. It was the last opportunity she’d have before the burial. She couldn’t pass it up.

The foyer of the building was brightly lit and visible through the panes of glass on either side of the door. Miranda knocked, then twisted the knob. It was locked as she’d expected, the funeral home empty. She should go home, finish the baking she was doing for the funeral and check over the list of things that had to be ready before tomorrow. That was the practical thing to do. But with her nephew Justin gone, practical didn’t seem quite as important as it once had been. Nor did home seem the comfortable place she’d thought it to be. Maybe once Lauren returned to her work and travels, Miranda could return to the quiet life she’d built for herself.

Maybe, but she didn’t think so. Her life had changed irrevocably—it would never be the same.

She clenched her jaw against a sob and stepped around the side of the building. The darkness was complete there, but the past two days had given Miranda plenty of time to become familiar with the grounds. Here, where the shadows were deepest, stone benches sat in shrub-lined alcoves. She sought one out and lowered herself onto it, ignoring the cold that seeped through her jeans. The night enfolded her, the muffled sounds of traffic a backdrop to her thoughts.

She rested her elbows on her knees and lowered her head into her hands, wanting to pray, but not sure what to pray for. Peace? Acceptance? Forgiveness? The words wouldn’t form, her thoughts refusing to coalesce. How could she pray when she didn’t know what to ask for? And how could she know what to ask for when she couldn’t even begin to imagine tomorrow, let alone a week, month or year from now? She’d spent the past ten years planning her schedule around Justin. With him gone, the future stretched out in front of her, a blank slate—empty and more frightening than she wanted to admit.

Eventually, Miranda would find a way to let go of the past and move on to the future, find a way to build a life that didn’t include her nephew’s special needs and unique gifts. But not tonight. Tonight she’d do nothing at all. Not plan. Not think. Not worry about the empty years stretching out in front of her.

Minutes ticked by, the soft sounds of the night filling her ears, the sweet scent of grass and leaves tickling her nose. Her arms were chilled, her body shivering with cold, but she didn’t want to leave her quiet refuge. Not yet. Instead, she sat in silence, listening to the melody of night creatures mixed with the soft hum of faraway traffic.

At first the low rumble blended with all the other sounds, the rough purr no different than those of the other cars and trucks that passed by. But soon it grew louder and the noisy intrusion drew Miranda’s attention.

She cocked her head, listening. The sound seemed to come from behind the building, but there was no parking lot there, just a wide expanse of grass and a gently sloping yard that led to a far-off road. Grass crunched beneath tires, the quiet rumble of the engine becoming a low roar. Then there was silence so sudden and complete Miranda’s breathing sounded harsh and loud in comparison. She forced herself to take a slow, deep breath, exhaling quietly as she waited to hear more. When the silence continued, she was sure she’d been mistaken, that a car hadn’t been in the backyard at all, that what she’d heard had come from another direction altogether.

A door slammed, the sound so close Miranda jumped, biting back a shriek and scrambling to her feet. Voices whispered into the darkness, the tones masculine, gruff and definitely coming from behind the building. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t any of Miranda’s business. The best thing she could do was head back to the front of the funeral home and leave. But something pulled her toward the back corner, some strange urging that wouldn’t let her walk away. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Fast. Hard. Insistent. Telling her what she already knew—that she should be walking away from, not toward, the voices.

But it was too late. She could already make out the words, already hear what was being said.

“…crematory is a better idea.”

“Takes too long. Cleaning crew will be here at midnight. We’ll bring him out to the cemetery.”

“It’s closed. If someone sees us there and calls the cops—”

“You’ve got a funeral tomorrow morning, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So who’s going to think anything of you being at the cemetery? No one. That’s who. We’ll just drop our friend in the newly dug grave, throw in some dirt. Tomorrow the casket goes in on top of him and, voilà, our problems are solved.”

“I don’t like it. Someone sees us out there messing around with a grave—”

“Who’s going to see? The gate is locked. No one goes there after dark.”

“Like I said, I don’t like it. This whole business stinks like—”

“Yeah, so let’s get a move on and get the key to the cemetery gate so we can get it over with.”

“Fine. Sure. Get it over with. Stay here with Morran. I’ll go in and get the key.”

“You think I’m staying out here alone with him? No way. Now, come on. We don’t have all night.”

The men fell silent, their words hanging in the air, wrapping around Miranda and pulling her into something she was sure she didn’t want to be part of. She needed to move away. Quietly, cautiously. Then, once she was safe, call the police.

But she couldn’t. Not when she might be the only witness to a horrific crime. She crept toward the corner of the building, holding her breath, afraid the smallest sound would alert the men. Pale moonlight illuminated the backyard and an SUV parked there. Three men moved toward the funeral home, weaving a bit as they went, their shoulders pressed close together, their heads bent. They might have been college boys home from a night of partying but for the hostility that emanated from them.

And Miranda knew her fear was warranted. Knew something horrible was going on. Something violent. Something potentially deadly. Her breath hitched, her eyes straining to see more details, to take in every nuance of the picture. If she got out of this…. when she got out of this, she wanted to have plenty to tell the police, but the rising moon shone behind the men, casting their faces into shadow. Whoever they were, whatever they planned remained hidden.

A key scraped against a lock and a door creaked open, dim light spilling out onto the faces of the men. Miranda blinked, biting back a gasp as she caught her first clear sight of them. Two she recognized. Liam Jefferson and Randy Simmons were regulars at Miranda’s bakery. Both were well known in the community, one a police officer, the other the director of the funeral home. Miranda couldn’t imagine either being involved in anything illegal. At least she wouldn’t have been able to imagine it before tonight.

Now she had no doubt as to their true nature. Not when the third man stood between them, blindfolded, his mouth duct taped, his arms pulled tight behind his back. Was this the friend Liam and Randy planned to cover with dirt? She’d thought she was hearing details of a crime being hidden, a murder already committed. The truth was so much more horrible than that.

Or it would be if she didn’t stop it.

No way could she run and leave the man to die. She’d wait until Liam and Randy went into the building, call the police, and then try to get close enough to read the license plate on the SUV.

As the men disappeared into the funeral home, Miranda dug through her purse, searching for her cell phone, her damp palm sliding over keys, a packet of tissue, a bottle of aspirin.

The phone wasn’t there.

In her mind’s eye she could see it, sitting on the kitchen counter, charging. Completely useless.

“Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the nights to leave it at home.” Her whispered words sounded harsh, her breath uneven. She’d write the license plate number down, then run to a neighboring house, pray someone was home and would let her use a phone.

The plan had barely formed when the door creaked open again. Randy stepped outside first, his gravely words carrying on the night air. “I don’t know about this, Lee. It doesn’t feel right.”

Liam stepped out next, tugging the blindfolded man, then shoving him ahead a few steps while he turned to close the door. “It doesn’t have to feel right. It just has to be done.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Morran is scum. Getting rid of him will be doing the world a favor.”

“And saving our behinds.”

“Yeah, well that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Now get him in the car.”

Randy seemed to stiffen at the harsh tone, but obeyed, reaching out for his prisoner’s arm. He never had a chance to grab it. In a flash of movement the blindfolded man lashed out with a foot, knocking him to the ground.

Miranda gasped, jerked back, then froze as Liam swung toward her. His eyes probed the shadows where she stood, his gaze sweeping the corner of the building. She wanted to run, but knew any movement would have him swooping down on her. Her heart hammered double-time as she waited for discovery. But Liam turned away, stepping back toward the man who stood still as stone, giving no indication that he had moved. Miranda wanted to call out, to warn him, but thick, cottony fear trapped her words. Liam took a step closer and the man pivoted, slamming a foot into his stomach.

Now both Liam and Randy were down, but they wouldn’t be for long. Already, they were struggling up. It wouldn’t take much time for them to subdue their bound and blindfolded prisoner, to drag him away. To kill him.

Miranda glanced around, looking for help, for inspiration, for some way to undo what was being done. Her gaze lit on a large planter that sat near the wall of the funeral home. As weapons went, it wasn’t much.

But it was all she had.

Praying for strength and for the element of surprise, Miranda moved toward it.

TWO

Hawke Morran had no intention of dying. Not tonight anyway. He had payback to deliver and he wasn’t heading to the great beyond until he did so. If he hadn’t been gagged, he would have told his captors as much, but Jefferson hadn’t taken chances. Not only was Hawke gagged and trussed, he was blindfolded. Unfortunately for Jefferson, he hadn’t killed Hawke when he’d had the chance. It was a mistake he’d soon regret.

Hawke had managed to knock both men off their feet, but the rustle of movement and huff of their breathing told him they’d soon be back up. He stood still, waiting, knowing he might have only one chance to bring them down for good.

If he failed, he’d be buried alive.

He didn’t plan to fail.

Rage fueled him, muting the pain that sliced through his skull, warming muscles already demanding a fight. Jefferson’s overweight buddy attacked from the left, his wheezing breath speaking of too many cigarettes and too little exercise. Hawke turned toward him, ducking low and then coming up hard, slamming his head into the man’s gut and hearing with satisfaction the crack of a rib.

Agony pierced his skull, the hit he’d taken earlier allowing him no time to celebrate his victory. Nor did Jefferson allow time for Hawke to regain his balance. He came fast and quiet, but not quietly enough. Hawke spun on the balls of his feet, slashing Jefferson’s knee with his foot. The pop and scream of anguish that followed did little to satisfy Hawke’s rage. He wanted more. He wanted his hands free, wanted to wrap them around Jefferson’s neck until the man confessed every detail of the plan to set him up.

“Watch out!” A feminine voice cut through the haze of Hawke’s pain and fury, the sound so surprising he swung toward it. It was a bad move. He knew it immediately. Years of survival in a world where one wrong move meant death had taught him how swift and final the consequences of such mistakes could be.

He pivoted back toward the attack he knew was coming, the world tilting, the pain in his skull breaking into shooting flames that seared his brain. Something flew by his face, a crack and thud following so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d really heard them. Then silence. Thick. Heavy. Filled with a million possibilities. None of them good.

Footsteps rustled through grass, slow, cautious. Not the full-on attack Hawke expected. The air around him shifted, the scent of apples and cinnamon wafting toward him, mellow, sweet and completely unexpected.

He tensed, waited.

Fingers brushed his arm. Gentle, trembling, hesitant. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, gritting his teeth at the stars shooting through his head.

“Okay. Wait here. I’m going to find a phone. Call the police.” The voice was breathless and shaky, the fingers that brushed against his forearm starting to slip away.

He managed to grab them, holding tight when she would have pulled away. Whoever she was, whatever she’d come here for, she’d gotten herself into a mess of trouble. Leaving and calling the police wouldn’t change that.

“You want me to untie you first.” It wasn’t a question, but Hawke nodded anyway. He’d been determined to escape before. Now, he was desperate to. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be the only one lying at the bottom of another man’s grave.

The woman’s fingers danced over the tape that bound his wrists, pulling gently as if she were afraid of hurting him.

Come on, lady. Hurry up. He wanted to shout the words, convey by his tone just how desperate their situation was, but the tape over his mouth kept him mute, and he was forced to stand silent while she worked. Sweat beaded his brow, the dizzying pain in his head making him nauseous, but he wouldn’t give in to it. There was too much at stake.

Finally the tape loosened and he twisted his wrists, breaking through what was left of his bonds. The blindfold was next. Then the tape that covered his mouth.

He swung around, caught sight of the woman who’d freed him.

Soft. That was his first impression. Soft hair, soft full lips and soft eyes that widened as she took in his appearance. It was a reaction Hawke was used to and he ignored it, turning to search for his enemies. They were both on the ground. The heavier man lay in a heap, quiet groans issuing from between puffy lips. Jefferson was sprawled a few feet away from his buddy, a gun an arm’s length away and bits of a clay pot scattered around him. “Looks like it’s time to add flower pots to the list of deadly weapons.”

“Deadly? I hope I didn’t kill him.” The woman’s voice was as soft as her appearance, her hair swinging forward as she leaned toward Jefferson.

Hawke put a hand on her arm, stopping her before she could check for his pulse. “He’s not dead.”

But Hawke was tempted to finish him off. He might have if the woman hadn’t been watching him with wide, frightened eyes, or if his own moral code hadn’t altered drastically in the past year. An eye for an eye had once been his motto. Lately, that had changed. He hadn’t quite figured out what it had changed to, but killing Jefferson was no longer an option.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren blared to life, the sound spurring Hawke’s sluggish brain to action. “We need to get out of here.”

He moved forward, grabbed the gun that lay by Jefferson, checked the safety. He could feel the woman’s gaze, her fear and coiled tension.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice shaky.

“Making sure we have protection.”

“Protection? From what? Neither of them look like they’re getting up anytime soon.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

“Then who?”

“I’ll explain everything later. Right now, we need to get out of here.”

“You’re right. We need to call for help.” She started away, moving toward the side of the building.

Hawke lunged forward, grabbing her arm. “Not yet.”

She tried to pull back, but he didn’t release his hold, just tugged her toward the SUV.

“Let me go.” The panic in her voice might have made him hesitate if he weren’t so sure hesitation would mean death.

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” She jerked against his hold, her face a pale oval in the moonlight. “Just open your fingers and let me walk away.”

“If you leave here without me there’s a good possibility you won’t live to see tomorrow. I don’t want that on my conscience.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue, just pulled open the door of the SUV and glanced inside.

As he’d expected the keys were in the ignition. Another mistake Jefferson was going to regret making. “Get in.”

“I’m not—”

“I said, get in.” He half lifted, half shoved her into the car.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Scoot over.” Hawke ignored the woman’s protest, sliding into the car and giving her no choice but to move into the passenger seat.

She scrambled for the door, and he snagged her shirt, holding her in place with one hand and firing up the engine with the other. Even with the windows closed, the sound of sirens was audible and growing louder. Hawke pressed down on the gas, gunning the engine and sending the SUV shooting up the slope of a hill toward a distant road. If he was lucky, he’d make it there and be able to hide the SUV in heavy Friday-night traffic. Unfortunately, he’d never had much luck. Maybe, though, for the sake of the woman who’d saved him, God might grant him his fair share tonight.

“Stop the car! Let me out!” The passenger door flew open, and Hawke just managed to grab the woman’s hand before she could jump from the vehicle.

“Do you want to get yourself killed?” His roar froze her in place. Or maybe it was the sight of the ground speeding by that kept her from pulling from his hold and leaping out.

Hawke slowed the SUV, afraid his seatbelt-less passenger would fly out on the next bounce. “Close the door.”

“I’d rather you stop the car so I can get out.” Her voice shook and her hand trembled violently as she tugged against his hold, but there was no mistaking her determination.

She didn’t know him, didn’t know the situation and probably assumed the worst. If he’d had time to explain, he would have, but he didn’t. Not with death following so close behind them.

He released her hand, pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans and pointed it toward the already terrified woman, ruthlessly shoving aside every shred of compassion he felt for her. “I said, close the door.”

She hesitated and he wondered if she’d take a chance and jump. Finally, she reached for the handle and pulled the door closed, her body tense and trembling.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Where exactly is that?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Hawke winced as the SUV bumped over a curb, its tires sliding onto smooth pavement. Traffic was lighter then he’d expected, and he merged onto the road, picking up speed and hoping that would be enough to discourage his passenger from trying to jump out again. Being distracted didn’t figure into his escape plan. Then again, escaping with a woman who looked like she belonged in a cozy home with a couple of kids playing at her feet wasn’t part of his plan, either.

So he’d have to make a new plan. Fast.

But first, he needed to get to a safe place.

Miranda fisted her hand around her purse and tried to control her breathing. If she hyperventilated and passed out there’d be no chance of escape. The man beside her still held the gun pointed in her direction. Though his gaze was fixed on the road, Miranda was sure he was aware of every move she made. A few minutes ago he’d seemed a helpless victim who needed saving. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Something flashed in the periphery of her vision, and she glanced in the side mirror, catching sight of blue and white lights in the distance. Hope made her heart leap and her pulse race.

Please let them be coming for us.

But even as she mumbled the prayer, her dark-haired kidnapper took the beltway ramp, speeding into traffic with barely a glance at oncoming vehicles. Miranda gasped, releasing her purse so that she could hold on to the seat. The lights had disappeared from view, but the car’s speed and swift lane changes should attract more police attention.

If it didn’t get Miranda and her kidnapper killed first.

As if he sensed her thoughts, the man eased up on the gas and pulled into the slow lane, dashing Miranda’s hope of rescue. Tense with worry, sick with dread, she prayed desperately for some way out, her gaze scanning the cars that passed, her mind scrambling for a plan. Any plan.

“If you let me out here, I won’t press charges.”

“Charges?”

“Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

“Kidnapping? Is that what you call this?”

“What would you call it?”

“Returning a favor. You saved my life. Now I’m doing the same for you.” His voice was harsh, an exotic accent adding depth and richness to the words, but doing nothing to soften the tone.

“It’s hard to believe that’s what you’re doing when you’re pointing a gun at me.”

“Sorry. It seemed the only way to keep you from doing something we’d both regret.” He tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, his movements economical and practiced, as if he’d done the same a thousand times before.

And somehow, looking at his chiseled face and the scar that bisected it from cheekbone to chin, Miranda had a feeling he had. She slid closer to the door, wishing they were in bumper-to-bumper traffic or that she dared jump out of a car traveling sixty miles an hour. But they weren’t, she didn’t. She was reduced to sitting terrified as she was driven farther and farther from home.

She eyed the man, the door, the traffic speeding by. Maybe she could attract someone’s attention with a gesture or an expression. Maybe—

“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it.” He wasn’t even looking her way, yet seemed to sense her intentions.

She stiffened, turning to face him again. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“Sure you are. You’re thinking about opening the door and jumping for it. Or maybe attracting someone’s attention.” He shrugged. “It’s what I’d do if I were in your position.”

“And if I were in your position, I’d stop the car and let my prisoner out.” She tried to put confidence in her voice, tried to sound less scared than she felt.

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then what am I?”

“The newest member of the witness protection program.”

Miranda blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “Are you with the FBI?”

He hesitated and Miranda had the feeling he was trying to decide how much of the truth to tell her. When he finally answered, his tone was much more gentle than it had been before. “No, but I plan to be just as effective in keeping you safe.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe. I need you to let me go.”

“Then it would have been better if you’d walked away and left me to deal with Jefferson on my own.”

“He was trying to kill you.”

“And now he’s going to try to kill us both.” His tone was grim, his jaw tight, and Miranda had no doubt he believed what he was saying.

She just wasn’t sure she did. “Why?”

“Because I’m a threat and because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and were foolish enough to let him know it.”

“What else was I suppose to do? Let him kill you?”

“Let whatever was to happen, happen.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Then maybe you’ll understand why I can’t let you go.” His tone was softer than Miranda would have expected from such a hard-looking man and she studied his profile, wishing she could read more in his face.

“Who are you?” The question popped out, though Miranda wasn’t sure what answer she hoped for—a name, an occupation, some clue as to who she was dealing with.

“Hawke Morran.” He answered the question without actually answering it. The name doing nothing to explain who Hawke was or why Liam had been trying to kill him.

“Who are you to Liam?”

“Liam? You know Jefferson?” The gentleness was gone, replaced by a harshness that made Miranda cringe.

“Everyone in Essex knows him.”

“I’m not interested in everyone. I’m interested in you. You say you know him. Does he know you? Your name? Where you live?”

Did he? Miranda was sure he knew her name, and there was no doubt he knew where she worked, he visited the bakery several times a week. It would be easy enough to get her address. “Probably.”

Hawke muttered something in a language Miranda didn’t recognize, the words unintelligible, the frustration behind them obvious.

Her own frustration rose, joining the fear that pounded frantically through her blood. She’d done what she thought was right. Now, she’d pay for it. That seemed to be a pattern in her life. “I own a business in Essex. Lots of people know me. Liam just happens to be one of them.”

“He also just happens to be a murderer.”

Miranda didn’t need the reminder. She’d seen Liam in action; watched him pull a gun on a bound and blindfolded man, had seen the cold determination in his eyes as he’d caught sight of her. She had known then that she was seconds from death. “We need to go to the police and tell them what happened before Liam hurts someone else.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Exactly what I said. I’ve got a phony criminal record. The police won’t believe anything I have to say. You’re with me. It stands to reason they won’t believe you, either.” He glanced her way, his gaze searing into hers before he turned his attention back to the road.

“Why—”

“We’ll discuss it all later.” His tone was curt and dismissive, the kind that brooked no argument.

And Miranda didn’t want to argue. She wanted to let things play out the way they would. Just as she had so many times before. With her sister. Her mother. Her father. Boyfriends. It always seemed so much easier to go with the flow than to fight against the tide. This time, though, the tide was dragging her out into dangerous waters and she had a feeling that if she didn’t fight it she’d be pulled under. “Later isn’t good enough. I want answers now.”

He shrugged, but didn’t speak as he steered the SUV onto an off-ramp.

The neighborhood he drove through was battered, the houses 1970s cookie cutters, every street lined with pickup trucks and scrap-metal cars. Miranda knew the area—a tough, crime-ridden neighborhood on the edge of D.C. When Hawke pulled into a driveway, she put her hand on the door, ready to yank it open and flee, but he grabbed her arm, his hand a steel band trapping her in place.

His breath fanned her cheek as he leaned close. “We’re getting out my side, walking around to the back of the house, getting a new ride and you’re not going to do anything foolish. Time isn’t on our side and I don’t want to waste any of it chasing after you. All right?”

The memory of the gun he’d tucked into his waistband spurred Miranda to do as he said, her heart pounding a sickening beat as Hawke tugged her across the front seat and out the door.

The moon shone bright and yellow in the navy sky and the crisp air chilled Miranda’s clammy skin as Hawke hurried her around the side of a house.

An old garage stood at the back of the property and he punched numbers into a security pad on the door, then tugged Miranda to a dark sedan inside.

“Get in.” His words were gruff, his hand gentle as he pressed it against her shoulder, urging her to do as he’d commanded.

The car door slammed with a finality that stilled the breath in Miranda’s lungs. She shouldn’t be allowing this. Crime prevention experts said it all the time—never get in a car with your attacker. Never let him take you away from the scene.

And here she was, doing exactly that.

But Hawke wasn’t an attacker. He was a man who’d almost been killed. A man she’d saved. Now he claimed to be saving her. She wasn’t sure if she believed him. All she knew was that eventually there’d be a chance to escape. She could only pray that when it came, she’d know for sure whether or not she should take it.

THREE

Hawke’s head throbbed with every movement, every sound reverberating through his brain. He ignored the pain, determined to put as much distance between his new ride and the SUV as possible. It wasn’t just his life on the line this time. He had his passenger to worry about, as well.

Who was she? What had brought her to the funeral home so late at night? Not the hope of scoring drugs. Hawke was almost sure of that, though he’d been sure of things before and been proven wrong.

He risked a quick glance in her direction, gritting his teeth at the renewed throbbing in his head. The woman’s arms were crossed at her waist, her eyes trained straight ahead. She looked scared, not high on drugs. “What’s your name?”

His words must have startled her. She jerked, her arm brushing against his side, her breath leaving on a quick, raspy gasp. “Miranda. Sheldon.”

“Miranda.” The name rolled off his tongue as if he’d said it a thousand times before. “What were you doing at a funeral home so late at night?”

“I was taking a walk.” There was more to it than that. Hawke was sure of it, though he couldn’t blame her for denying him answers.

“And while you were walking you saved my life.”

“Would you rather I had walked away and let you die?”

“Other people would have.”

“I’m not other people. I’m me.”

“And who is that, Miranda Sheldon? Besides a woman caught up in something she didn’t ask for?”

“Just your everyday, average American.” Her words were quiet, barely audible above the rumbling of the car and the slushing agony in his skull, but Hawke heard.

He glanced at Miranda again. The softness he’d noticed when he’d first seen her was only magnified in the close confines of the car. Smooth skin. Shiny hair that fell to her shoulders. Lips and face unadorned. Short unpainted nails. No rings. No jewelry of any kind. Apples. Cinnamon. A sweetness that was obvious even while she was afraid for her life. “There is nothing average or everyday about a woman who’d risk her own life for someone else.”

She didn’t respond and he knew he should be glad. He needed to plan his next move, not carry on a conversation. He rubbed the back of his neck, ignoring the blood that seeped from his head and coated his fingers. To formulate a plan he’d need more information and he knew just where to get it.

He yanked open the glove compartment and pulled out the cell phone he kept there, pushing speed dial to connect with the one number stored on it. The phone rang once before it was picked up.

“Stone, here.” Noah Stone’s voice was tight and gruff, and Hawke knew that the call had been expected. A former DEA agent, Noah was one of the few people who knew Hawke was in the States and what he was doing there. Of those privy to Hawke’s mission, Noah was the only one he trusted.

“It’s Hawke.”

“I thought you might be calling.”

“So you’ve already heard?”

“That you murdered the agent you were working with and stole fifty thousand dollars cash? Who hasn’t?”

“I didn’t steal fifty thousand dollars.”

“That leaves the question of murder open.”

“Smithfield was dead when I got to the rendezvous.” Lying in a pool of his own blood, his head split open.

“Murdered with a machete that had your fingerprints all over it.”

“It should. It’s mine. I left it in Thailand nine months ago.” And yet it was here. He’d seen it with his own eyes—the flat blade and carved-bone handle worn from years of use in the jungles of Mae Hong Son. He’d been leaning down to examine it when he’d been hit from behind.

Which could only mean one thing. Someone in Thailand had set this up, had probably been planning it from the day the DEA had called Hawke in and offered him a job.

Hot anger speared through him, frustration making him want to hurl the phone out the car’s window. He tightened his hand around it and growled into the phone. “Look, Stone, if you don’t believe that I’m innocent we’ve got nothing more to say to each other.”

“I’m on your side in this, Hawke, but I’m standing alone. Whoever set you up did it perfectly. The fingerprints on the weapon have every cop in the contiguous United States looking for you.”

“What about the DEA?”

Noah’s hesitation spoke volumes. The Drug Enforcement Agency might have hired Hawke to bring down one of the most notorious drug dealers on the East Coast, but they didn’t trust him.

“So, they think I’m guilty.”

“They’re reserving judgment.”

“Until?”

“Until they talk to you and your accomplice.”

Hawke gritted his teeth, shot a look at Miranda. She was eyeing the phone as if a knight in shining armor might be on the other end of the line, ready to ride to her rescue. Unfortunately, Hawke was the only one riding anywhere and he was no knight. “Accomplice? You going to tell me who that is?”

“A woman. Apparently, the two of you have been seeing each other for several months. According to your coworkers at Green’s factory, you spent more time with her than with anyone else.”

“Green works fast.”

“If he didn’t, he would have been out of business and in jail years ago.”

It was true. One of the East Coast’s most successful drug traffickers, Harold Green was, by most people’s accounts, an upstanding citizen of Essex, Maryland. A churchgoer, city council member and business owner, he hid his true nature beneath a facade of respectability. The DEA had hired Hawke to infiltrate Green’s organization and to bring him down. He’d have succeeded if he hadn’t been betrayed.

Fury threatened to take hold, but he tamped it down. Losing control meant losing. And Hawke had no intention of doing that. “What else?”

“Word is, you were apprehended by a Maryland cop. Your accomplice took him by surprise, knocking him out, and you both escaped.”

“Any news of a second man involved in that?”

“No. Just Liam Jefferson. Why? Was someone else there?”

“Yeah. The director of one of Green’s funeral homes. Simmons. Randy.”

“Do you think we should be looking for another body?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’ll find one. Green is nothing if not thorough. He won’t leave any loose ends.”

“Including you.”

“Including me.” Or Miranda, but Hawke didn’t add the thought.

There was another moment of hesitation. “You know you need to turn yourself in.”

“Do I?”

“What other option do you have?”

“I can get back home, find out who set me up and get the evidence I need to prove it.”

“I take it you have an idea how this should be done?”

“You’ve got connections on both sides of the law. If I can make it down to your area, can you get me out of the country?”

“I’ve got some people that owe me favors. I’ll call them in. See what I can do.”

Hawke had hoped Noah would agree, but hadn’t been certain. Relief loosened his grip on the phone, eased some of the pounding pain in his head. “How long will it take?”

“Give me an hour.”

“Thanks.”

“We’re friends. I trust you. Just don’t let your need for revenge keep you from doing what’s right.”

“You’re telling me not to kill the person who set me up.” A few years ago, he might have. Hawke had changed since then. Stone was part of the reason for that, though Hawke doubted he knew it.

“Taking the law into your hands won’t solve anything, and it’ll only make more trouble for you.”

“This isn’t just about me anymore, Stone.” He glanced at Miranda, saw that she was watching with wide, dark eyes. “You’ve been pulled into it. So has the woman who’s with me. I won’t risk either of you for revenge. I give you my word on that.”

“One hour, then.” Noah disconnected and Hawke tossed the phone into Miranda’s lap.

Now that he had the means to get her out of harms way, he’d make sure she had reason to cooperate. Flying halfway around the world with someone determined to escape was low on Hawke’s lists of ways to keep from being noticed.

She stared down at the phone, but didn’t reach for it, her hands fisted at her side, her jaw set.

“Is there someone you want to call? Someone who might be worried?

“Yes.”

“Then call.” And if news was spreading as fast as Noah claimed, Miranda would hear just how much trouble she was in from someone she trusted.

Call? Miranda was sure Hawke would pull the phone from her hands as she lifted it, but he looked relaxed. Much more relaxed than he’d been before his phone call. He’d mentioned leaving the country. Maybe he planned to drop her off and let her return home. Miranda refused to contemplate anything else. She dialed, pressing the phone to her ear, her heart thrumming a frantic beat. Please, Lauren, pick up. For once be there for me.

“Hello?” Lauren’s voice filled the line, high-pitched and breathless.

“Lauren, it’s me. I—”

“Miranda! Thank goodness! Where are you?”

Miranda glanced at a road sign, almost gave her sister the exit number, but hesitated. There was an edge of hysteria in Lauren’s voice, a breathless quality to it that didn’t fit. It wasn’t like her to be overly concerned with anyone but herself. That she was so upset could only mean bad news. “What’s wrong, Lauren?”

“Wrong? You attack a police officer and you’re asking me what’s wrong?”

Miranda went cold at her words, her back rigid with mounting tension. “How did you hear about that?”

“How do you think I heard about it? The police are here. They don’t take kindly to having one of their own knocked unconscious.”

“I didn’t have a choice. Liam—”

“Don’t say anything else, sis.” Her brother Max cut in, his voice such a welcome relief Miranda’s eyes burned with threatening tears.

“Max. I thought your plane wasn’t coming in until the morning.”

“I took an earlier flight. It’s a good thing I did. You’re in a lot of trouble, kid.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Max. This is all some kind of misunderstanding. I—”

“We’ll talk when you get home. The line is being monitored by the police. I don’t want you to say anything else until we’re face to face.”

“I don’t have anything to hide.” But her palms were sweaty, her breath hitching with fear.

“You need to come home, Randa. Max and I are here for you. We’ll support you. No matter what. Max has found you a great lawyer. The best. I’ve already paid a retainer fee. It’s the least I could do.” Lauren’s words caught on a sob. “After all, this is my fault. The past few years…all your time spent caring for Justin. I should have known you needed more than that.”

“Your fault? What are you talking about? I went for a walk and—”

“Don’t say anything.” Max nearly shouted the words, his panic scaring Miranda more than all Lauren’s sobs could. Older than her by fifteen years, Max had been more father than brother to Miranda, a calm steadying influence in a chaotic, unstable home.

“Tell me what’s happening. Tell me what you think I did.” Miranda’s panic rose with Max’s.

“I don’t think you did anything. It’s the police who are accusing you.” Max bit out the words, his anger preferable to panic. “According to them, you’ve been dating a felon. The two of you plotted to steal fifty-thousand dollars from a DEA agent. The agent was found dead an hour ago.”

Miranda’s gaze leaped to Hawke. He’d said nothing about a murdered DEA agent. But then, he hadn’t said much about anything.

“Miranda? Are you still there?” Max’s words pulled her from her thoughts and she took a deep breath, trying to force a calm to her voice that she didn’t feel.

“I’m here. I haven’t been dating anyone, haven’t stolen anything. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve got plenty of friends who will verify that. All my time has been spent with Justin. You know that.”

“It isn’t about what I know or what I believe or even what you tell me is going on. It’s about proof. And right now the police have witnesses willing to testify that they saw you and their suspect together on more than one occasion.”

“What witnesses? What are you talking about?”

“Coworkers and friends. Add to that Sergeant Jefferson’s testimony—”

Miranda stiffened, her muscles so taut she thought they might shatter. “About what?”

“About seeing you and the suspect together at your bakery.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Yeah? Well right now, it’s his word against yours. He’s a police officer and here. You’re on the run with some guy who’s got a record a mile long. Who do you think seems more believable?”

“Max—”

“Tell me where you are, Miranda. I’ll come get you and we’ll work things out. I promise.” His tone was persuasive, the same one he’d used so often to try to convince Lauren to do the right thing. He’d never had to convince Miranda.

Even now, she wanted to respond, to tell him what he wanted to hear, but the words died on her tongue, her mind shouting a warning that she couldn’t ignore. Liam had already told his side of the story. The police believed him, Miranda’s family seemed to believe him and, as much as she’d like to believe that people would step forward to defend her, Miranda knew the truth was much more grim. Her friends knew too little about her life to say with any certainty how she spent her days. Taking care of Justin had required most of her time and energy. She’d had little of either left for friendship. If she returned home now, she’d be arrested.

Or worse.

And if that happened, Max would go after whoever had hurt her.

An image of Liam pointing a gun at Hawke flashed through her mind and she imagined Max on the other end of the barrel, imagined the loud crack of gunfire and her brother falling lifeless to the ground. She couldn’t risk it, couldn’t allow him to be pulled into danger with her.

“Miranda? Are you still there?”

“I’m here, but I can’t come home yet, Max. Not until I can prove that I’m innocent.”

“We’ll find the proof together.” The pain in his voice was palpable, stretching across the phone line and wrapping around her heart.

“I love you, Max. Thanks for being such a great big brother.”

With that she hung up the phone, her pulse pounding, her mind racing, the truth of what she’d just done a hard, cold knot in her stomach. She’d cut her ties with home, turned her back on Max and put her life in the hands of a man she didn’t know and wasn’t sure she trusted. She could only pray she hadn’t made a terrible mistake, because she was sure there would be no turning back. Only moving forward into the terrifying unknown.

FOUR

“Did the phone call not go the way you wanted?” Hawke broke into Miranda’s thoughts, his voice gravely and harsh.

“You knew it wouldn’t.”

“I knew that it would give you a truth you might not have accepted from me.”

“What truth? That I’m wanted for accessory to murder?”

“That returning home isn’t the answer to your troubles.”

“And staying with you is?”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Your body rotting in a shallow grave somewhere.”

“You act like it’s a done deal.”

“Walk away from me and it is. Stay with me and we’ll find what we need to prove our innocence. Once Liam and Green are behind bars, you can safely return to your family.”

What family?

As much as Miranda loved Max, he had a life completely separate from hers, his Chicago apartment too small to offer guest quarters, his accounting firm busy enough to make vacationing nearly impossible. Lauren was the opposite, traveling the world as a runway model and only stopping to visit Justin when she couldn’t put it off any longer. Or that’s what she’d done before. Now that her son was gone, Lauren would probably never return to Maryland. Which meant Miranda would be returning to an empty house, a business and memories.

She shoved the thought aside, forcing back the sorrow that came with it. “How long will it take?”

“I don’t know.”

“I need to be home tomorrow.” For Justin’s funeral. She didn’t add the last, knowing the words would mean nothing to the cold-eyed man beside her.

“Sorry, babe. That’s not going to happen.”

She’d known it, but she’d hoped anyway, the small part of herself that refused to believe that things were as bad as they seemed telling her that everything would be okay in the morning. A few more hours of darkness and she’d wake from the nightmare. Wasn’t that what she’d told herself when she’d been a kid, the darkness pressing in around her, filled with monsters? “Then what? A few days? A week? I’ve got a business to run. I can’t be away from it for long.”

“Will your business matter if you’re dead?”

There was nothing to say to that, so she remained silent, turning away from Hawke and staring out the car window.

Outside, life continued as always, people traveling home from restaurants, friends and parties, making plans for the next day as they ended this one. A week ago, Miranda had been doing the same, leaving home on Friday evening to attend a bridal shower on the eastern shore. With Lauren committed to caring for Justin until the following night, Miranda had imagined hours spent window shopping, sampling pastries from local bakeries, enjoying the simple pleasure of no responsibility for the first time in way too many months.

And in one moment of senseless tragedy it had all changed.

Even if she made it home in one piece, life would never be what it had once been. Hot tears filled Miranda’s eyes, but she forced them away. Crying couldn’t bring her nephew back. Nor would it change her situation. Only God could do that, and she wasn’t sure He would. Watching Justin die while she prayed for him to be healed had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. In the dark hours after his death, she’d wondered if God heard her frantic pleading or if He even cared. Now, she wanted desperately to grasp her tattered faith, to believe that He would work everything out for the best.

“You’re crying.” The gritty texture of Hawke’s voice matched the rough callus on the finger he swept down her cheek.

Her skin heated in the wake of his touch and she brushed her hand down the same path his finger had traced, wiping away tears she hadn’t realized she was shedding. “No, I’m not.”

“I suppose the moisture on your cheeks is nothing.”

“A few tears on my cheeks doesn’t mean I’m crying.”

“No? Then what does it mean?”

“That I’m releasing some pent-up emotion.”

Hawke chuckled, a deep rumble that was a soothing balm against her frazzled nerves. “You’re an interesting lady, Miranda.”

Interesting? Quiet, sweet, helpful, those were the words most often used to describe her. Never interesting.

Before she had a chance to respond, Hawke’s cell phone rang and he lifted it to his ear.

“What’s up?” The words were his only greeting, his scowl deepening as the caller spoke. “What time? We’ll be there.” He dropped the phone onto the console, pulled the car onto a side road, then another and another until Miranda wasn’t sure where they were or which direction they were headed. Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and turned to face her.

“We’ve got a decision to make.”

“We?” He acted as if they were a team, working together toward a common goal. And maybe they were, but it didn’t feel that way. Not when Hawke knew so much more about what was going on then she did. And not when he seemed so determined to keep it that way.

“We.” He winced, putting a hand up to the back of his head and bringing it down again, something shiny and moist staining his fingers.

“You’re bleeding.” Miranda reached out, wanting to help, but Hawke’s quick, hard glance froze her in place.

“I’ll live.” His hand fisted around the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “We have more important things to worry about. We’ve got six hours to make it to Lakeview, Virginia. Do you know it?”

“No.”

He nodded. “We’ll map it out in a minute. My friend will have transportation waiting for us there. If we’re late, we may not have a second chance.”

“A second chance at what?”

“Someone set me up, Miranda. Planned everything that happened tonight to make me look guilty of a crime I didn’t commit. Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

“You’re honest, at least.”

“And you haven’t answered my question. What won’t we have a second chance at?”

“Getting out of the state. Out of the country.”

“Out of the country?” She tried out the words, found them bitter on her tongue. “No.”

“If we stay here, we’ll be caught. I’ve got few friends that I can turn to. No one that I’m willing to drag into this mess. My home is in Thailand. The DEA recruited me there. They hired me to come to the States and bring down a drug trafficker named Green.”

“Harold Green?” He owned several businesses in Essex. A moving company, a local grocery store. The funeral home.

“Right. He’s been importing drugs from Thailand for years, selling them, then laundering the money through his businesses. The DEA knows it, but finding the proof to close him down and put him away has been difficult.”

“So they sent you to do it for them?”

“I was sent in deep under cover. The only people who know I’m working the case are in Thailand. Their hope is that once they pull Green in, he’ll give them the names of his overseas contacts. I think someone in Thailand doesn’t want that to happen. Someone working for the DEA. I plan to find out who it is. It’s the only way to clear my name. And yours.”

“The DEA here…”

“Thinks I murdered one of their agents.”

“But—”

“Babe, we’re out of time. It takes five hours to get to Lakeview. Before we get there I need to know you’re with me on this.”

Was she? Miranda wasn’t sure she trusted her own judgement in the matter. The stakes were too high. She was too scared. “Do I have a choice?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He grimaced, his jaw tight. “You saved my life. I don’t want to leave you here to die because of it.”

There was truth in his words, in the grim determination in his eyes as they met hers. And despite herself, despite her doubt, Miranda knew she had to go with him. If there was a way out of this, it lay in the direction Hawke was going. That, at least, she felt sure of. “I guess I’m with you on it, then.”

Hawke smiled, the expression softening his face, changing it from danger to safety, from ice to warmth. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

“So, now what?”

“Now, we head for Lakeview.” He turned toward the backseat, swayed, then slumped toward Miranda, his weight pushing her back toward the door and stealing her breath.

“Hawke? Hawke!” She pushed at his chest, her heart pounding. She slid her hand up to his neck, feeling for his pulse and finding the slick warmth of blood there.

“Hawke!” She shouted in his ear, desperate for a response.

This time he groaned, shifting slightly, his chin brushing against her cheek, razor stubble scratching at her skin. She shivered, pushing at him again and finally managing to maneuver him into his seat. His head slumped forward and she could see blood pooling in the hollow of his throat.

Miranda brushed a hand against his forehead and cheek, feeling for a fever the same way she had so many times when Justin was sick. But Hawke wasn’t a boy, he was a man, and he wasn’t sick, he was hurt.

And Miranda had no idea how to help him.

Yes, you do. You’ve taken first-aid classes. You know what to do. Stop panicking and think. Check respiration and pulse. Find the wound. Stop the bleeding. Get him to a doctor.

A doctor! That’s exactly what they needed. She could call 911, get an ambulance to take Hawke to the hospital while she spoke to the police and told them Hawke’s story and her own. The plan seemed reasonable, good even. Except for a few small things—Hawke was wanted for murder, she was wanted as an accessory and at least one person wanted them both dead.

Miranda frowned and leaned over the seat, searching for something to staunch the flow of blood that seemed to be coming from the back of Hawke’s head. She found a backpack on the floor, a map on the seat. She grabbed both, opening the first and pulling out packets of dried food, a bottle of water, a T-shirt and hat. At the bottom of the bag, she found a small plastic container. She opened it quickly, her hands shaking with adrenaline and fear. Gauze, bandages, needle, thread, several white pills packed in plastic bags, antiseptic wipes, an EpiPen—Hawke had prepared for minor medical emergencies. The only problem was, Miranda wasn’t sure minor was what she was dealing with.

She pulled out the gauze, then shifted Hawke’s head to the side, trying to find the wound. Her fingers probed the flesh behind his ear, wound through silky strands of hair. At the back of his head, close to the base of his skull, a hard lump oozed warm, sticky blood. She pressed the gauze to it, wincing in sympathy, though he seemed completely unaware of her ministrations. That couldn’t be good.

“Hawke?” He didn’t answer, and Miranda shook his shoulder, praying for some reaction.

His eyes remained closed, his head a leaden weight against her hand.

“Now what?” She whispered the question out loud, her mind scrambling for a plan, her eyes scanning the interior of the car. Hawke’s cell phone lay on the console between them, and she grabbed it. Maybe she could find the number of the person they were supposed to meet in Virginia.

She scrolled through the options, searching for an outgoing call log, praying that she’d find what she was looking for.

“What are you doing?” The words were a harsh growl, the hand that wrapped around her wrist just short of painful.

She gasped, her heart skipping a beat as she met Hawke’s cold gaze. “Trying to decide if I should call for help.”

He stared at her, his gaze never wavering as he straightened in his seat, slid his free hand over the gauze Miranda still held, and nudged her hand away from it. “It wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

His tone matched his gaze—icy and unyielding, and Miranda knew he wasn’t a man who would take betrayal lightly; that he’d demand his own justice for any wrong done to him. She swallowed back her fear, tugging at the fingers still wrapped around her wrist. “You were unconscious and unresponsive. You need a doctor.”

“I need to catch our ride. I need to find the man who betrayed me. I do not need a doctor.” Hawke tried to add emphasis to his words, but they came out weaker than he intended. The fact was, he probably did need a doctor, but he didn’t have time for one. They didn’t have time for one.

“You’re bleeding pretty badly.” Miranda leaned in close, the scent of apples and cinnamon enveloping him.

No woman had a right to smell that good.

And Hawke had no business noticing.

Unless he missed his guess, Miranda was one of those rare people who remained untarnished by the world. He, on the other hand, was more tarnished than most.

He scowled, frustrated as much by the direction of his thoughts as he was by his physical weakness. “Bleeding is a whole lot better than being dead. Which is exactly what we’d both be if you’d been foolish enough to call an ambulance.”

At his harsh words, Miranda jerked back, her face pale in the dim light, her dark hair a mass of curls around her face. Hawke knew enough about fear to recognize it in her eyes. Guilt at putting it there made him want to wrap an arm around her shoulders and reassure her that everything was going to be okay.

Instead, he kept the gauze pressed to his head with one hand and grabbed the road map with the other. “Our six hours are ticking away while we sit here arguing. Put your seat belt back on and let’s go.”

The fear he’d seen in Miranda’s eyes disappeared, replaced by stony resolve. “I may not be able to make you see a doctor, but I’m not going to let you drive. Not when you could pass out again.”

She had a point, even if Hawke didn’t want to admit it. His head throbbed with each heartbeat and sudden movements made him dizzy. Losing consciousness again was a real possibility no matter how hard he might fight against it. Passing out while driving could get them both killed. Then again, giving Miranda control of the car might do the same. It would be easy enough for her to drive to a police station and turn them both in. “I’ve driven under worse conditions.”

“And tonight you don’t have to. I don’t see a problem. Unless you don’t trust me.” She was issuing a challenge, but Hawke wasn’t in the mood to meet it.

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“That makes two of us.” She opened the car door, got out. “So, I guess we’ll just have to figure out how to accomplish our goals anyway.”

Hawke figured he had a few options—tell her to get out and go it alone, or pull out the gun and demand she get back into the passenger seat or let her have her way.

The first appealed only in as much as he could convince himself he didn’t care if Miranda lived or died. Which wasn’t much. The second might have worked, but imagining the fear and horror on her face when he pointed the gun at her made Hawke hesitate, a strange and alarming development in an already frustrating night.

“I don’t like losing.” He ground the words out, but Miranda just smiled.

“I guess that’s another thing we have in common.” With that, she shut the door and started around the side of the car, leaving Hawke wondering how a woman who didn’t look capable of hurting a fly had bested him.

FIVE

Miranda’s heart slammed in her chest as she rounded the car, Hawke’s words echoing in her head. The anger on his face told her just how much he didn’t like losing. Yet, here she was heading around the side of the car with every intention of doing things her way. What was she thinking? He had a gun for crying out loud.

But if he planned on using it, he already would have.

Maybe she should make a break for it, run into the convenience store and ask for help. She doubted Hawke would try to stop her. Unfortunately, the same instincts that told Miranda that Hawke wouldn’t hurt her, told her that she was better off with him than without. She needed answers before she could return home. Without them, she risked putting her brother and sister in harm’s way—and staying with Hawke seemed the only sure way to get those answers.

She pulled open the car door, saw that Hawke had moved into the passenger seat, and did her best to act confident and unperturbed. “Where to?”

“I’ll mark the route on the map. Then we’ll drive straight there. No stops for anything. We’ve already lost enough time. We can’t afford to waste any more.” He met her gaze, his expression unreadable, his anger concealed as he opened the glove compartment and pulled out a pack of highlighters.

“All right. Let’s do it.”

It took less than a minute for Hawke to highlight a yellow path from their location to a small town near a lake. When he finished, he highlighted a second route in blue. “The yellow route is the quickest. The blue uses the most back roads. We’ll try yellow first. If there’s too much police traffic, we’ll switch to blue.”

“Okay.” Miranda’s hands were moist against the steering wheel, the reality of what she was about to do pulsing through her veins. Until now, she’d felt more like a victim than an active participant in Hawke’s escape, but she could no longer deny the role she was taking. Running from the police, aiding an accused killer.

If they were caught…

“You’re doing this because you have to, Miranda Sheldon.” Hawke’s voice broke into her thoughts; his words offering assurance before she’d even voiced her doubts.

“Do I?” She whispered the question, not expecting an answer.

“If you don’t, we’ll both die.”

“That’s a worse-case scenario.”

“If you really believed that, you would have run into the store and called for help instead of getting back into the car with me.”

“I need answers so that I can go home. It’s the only way to make sure my family is safe.”

“You’ll get the answers you need. We’ll get them. And once we do, you’ll have no worries about those you love.” He rubbed at the back of his head, his hand coming away bloody again.

“You need to keep applying pressure to that.”

“I need to get to Lakeview.”

Miranda took the hint and started the engine, pulling out of the parking lot, following Hawke’s directions back to the highway. It was late, traffic sparse, what few cars there were passing in flashes of light. Miranda should have been lulled by the darkness that stretched out before them, by the quiet hum of the car engine and by Hawke’s silence.

Instead, she felt wired, her body trembling with adrenaline, everything in her begging for action. Finally, she could stand the quiet no longer. “What exactly is going to happen when we get to Lakeview? Are we taking another car? A train? A plane?”

“It would be difficult to take a train or car to Thailand.” His words were so matter-of-fact they almost didn’t register.

When they did, Miranda cast a quick glance in Hawke’s direction, saw that he was watching her with a dark, intense gaze.

“You don’t mean Thailand as in the country?”

“Do you know of another Thailand?”

“No, but I’m hoping there is one, because there is no way in the world I can go to Southeast Asia.”

“Sure you can. Everything is taken care of. We’ll have a passport and paperwork waiting for you.”

“That’s great, but I won’t be needing them. I can’t go. When you said out of the country I was thinking Mexico or Canada, not halfway around the world.” Miranda’s hands were shaking on the wheel.

“I told you that the person who betrayed me to Green has to be in Thailand. No one here knew who I was or what I was doing.”

“There must be people in Thailand who can investigate.”

“I also told you, I don’t trust anyone.”

“You go, then. I’ll stay in Lakeview.”

“And what? The police know who you are. They’ve already issued an APB. It’s only a matter of time before they find you.”

“I thought….” She shook her head, knowing that she hadn’t thought. If she had, she would have known exactly what Hawke meant when he talked about leaving the country.

“What did you think?” His words were quiet, his tone more kind than Miranda expected.

“Nothing. I guess I just hoped this would all be over by tomorrow.”

“There’s no way that’s going to happen, babe. We’ve got real trouble and real trouble takes time to resolve.” There was sympathy in his voice, the first he’d shown her, and Miranda’s throat tightened in response.

She swallowed back tears and tried to keep her voice even. “My nephew’s funeral is tomorrow. I need to be there. My sister is counting on it.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Sorry you can’t be there for your sister.” He shifted beside her, his palm sliding against her cheek, capturing a tear she hadn’t known was falling. “But allowing yourself to get arrested will only cause your family more sorrow.”

“I know.” She refused to let more tears fall, refused to allow herself to lean into Hawke’s touch. He was a stranger, after all. A stranger who had more hardness in him than sympathy.

“Is your nephew the reason you were at the funeral home tonight?”

“It seems silly now.” She stared out the windshield, the dark night and nearly empty road stretching out before her.

“Why?”

“It’s not like Justin needed me there. I just…didn’t want to let him go.”

“You were close?”

“I’ve raised him since he was two.” He’d been a son to her, though saying as much would have made her feel disloyal to her sister.

“His parents are dead?”

“No. I’m not sure who his father was. My sister is a model. She traveled too much to be his caregiver.”

“Your sister is a model?” He tensed, and Miranda felt her own muscles tighten.

“Yes. Why?”

“Someone the general public is familiar with?”

“She’s not a supermodel, if that’s what you mean, but she’s been on her fair share of magazine covers. She also does runway modeling.”

“So, not only do the police know who you are, but the world knows your sister. This isn’t good, babe.”

“The world knows Lauren, but they don’t know I’m her sister.” Lauren had never allowed the press any information regarding her son. In that way at least, she’d done what was best for Justin.

“It won’t take long for the press to find out. Once it does, your name and face will be plastered on every news station and newspaper in the country.”

“Maybe the local news, but I doubt what’s happened will be of much interest anywhere else.” But even as she said it, Miranda had the sinking feeling Hawke was right, that the double tragedy of losing a son and then having a sister turn felon would be enough to make Lauren headline news.

“I think you know you’re wrong.”

Miranda nodded, wishing she could believe otherwise. “At least Lauren doesn’t have any recent pictures of me.”

“Someone else will. The press always finds a way.”

“They’ll be hard-pressed to find anything that doesn’t show me thirty pounds heavier and ten years younger.” In the years since she’d been caring for Justin, Miranda had had little time to spend in activities that might have involved picture taking. Except for the occasional bridal or baby shower, the past few years had been spent at her bakery, at home or at church.

“Heavier. Younger. It won’t matter. Your face is one people will notice and remember.”

“I’m not that memorable.”

“No?”

“No.” Miranda could feel Hawke’s gaze as she maneuvered the car around a slow-moving vehicle, and her cheeks heated.

“Perhaps you just don’t know what people find memorable.”

“And you do?”

“I’ve made it my business to know people.” The words seemed almost a threat and Miranda wondered exactly how he used the knowledge he possessed.

“That makes one of us anyway.”

“You know enough about people to stick with me. That’s a start.”

“I just hope I’m not making a mistake.” The words slipped out and Miranda regretted them immediately. Letting Hawke know how scared she really was, letting him see how unsure she felt, could only be a mistake. And she’d made enough of those for one night. “What I mean is—”

“Exactly what you said. Don’t worry, sticking with me isn’t a mistake. Whether or not you’ll regret it, I can’t say.” He spoke quietly, all gruffness gone from his voice. In its smooth timbre Miranda heard echoes of exotic worlds, hard realities and a loneliness she understood all to well.

“Hawke—” She wasn’t sure what she meant to say, how she planned to finish. Before she had a chance to figure it out, the high-pitched shriek of sirens rent the air.

She jumped, her hands tightening on the steering wheel, her gaze flying to the rearview mirror. Lights flashed in the distance, brilliant against the darkness and coming fast.

“The police. They’ve found us.” Her voice shook, her foot pressing on the gas pedal in a knee-jerk reaction that sent the car lunging forward.

“Ease up, babe. Speeding will just call attention to us.” Hawke rested a hand on her shoulder, his palm warm through her T-shirt.

“Call attention to us? They’re right on our tail.” And getting closer every minute.

“No. They’re not. They’re on the way somewhere else. We just happen to be between them and where they’re heading.”

“You can’t know that.”

“No, I can’t. But this car’s not registered in my name. There’s no way they can know I’m in it. All we have to do is slow down and pull out of their way.”

“But—”

“Babe, my neck is at stake here, too. Pull over and get out of the way before they start wondering why we’re speeding ahead of them.” His words were calm, but there was underlying tension to them. Not fear. Something else. Frustration. Worry. Anger.

She nodded, easing her foot off the pedal, forcing herself to pull to the shoulder as the police cars sped toward them. The sirens crested to a screaming frenzy, lights flashing their dire warning. Every muscle in Miranda’s body tensed, her mind shouting that she should get out and run while she had the chance.

If Hawke was wrong, if…

In a wild, shrieking chorus, three police cruisers sped by, their lights illuminating the car, then leaving it in darkness once again. Silence settled over the night, the hushed chug of the engine a quiet backdrop to the racing beat of Miranda’s heart. She knew she should pull back onto the highway, get the car moving again, but she was shaking so hard she wasn’t sure she could manage it.

“They’re gone now. You’re safe.” Hawke’s voice was a whispered breath against her ear, his fingers stroking down her arm and capturing her hand, his palm warm against her clammy skin. His touch much too comforting for her peace of mind. “Everything is all right.”

“No, it isn’t.” She took a deep breath, tugged her hand from his and pressed down on the accelerator. “I’m with a man I don’t know, driving hundreds of miles from home so that I can catch a ride to a country halfway around the world. The police think I’m a murderer. Some drug dealer I’ve never had any contact with wants me dead. My nephew…” She shook her head, stopped herself before her sorrow could take wing. “It’s not all right.”

Hawke figured it would be better not to argue the point. Mostly because Miranda was right. While they might be all right for now, there was no telling how long that would last. “No, but we’re safe for the time being. That’s something to be thankful for.”

She shrugged, taking one hand off the steering wheel and rubbing at the base of her neck, the bicep in her arm firm beneath pale, silky skin. Hawke resisted the urge to brush her hand away and feel the strong line of her neck under his palm, the softness of her hair against his knuckles. That would be a mistake. One he couldn’t afford to make.

“Telling me we’re safe for the time being doesn’t make me feel safe at all.”

“Then what will?”

“Waking up to find this is all a nightmare.” Her voice shook, the hollows beneath her eyes darkly shadowed. For the second time that evening and probably only the second time in a decade, Hawke felt the hard edge of guilt nudging at him, telling him he’d gotten an innocent woman into the kind of danger she might not survive.

“If I could make that happen for you, I would. But I can’t.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep driving and pray we both manage to make it through this alive.”

“You may want to keep me off that request, babe. God might be more willing to answer.”

She glanced in his direction, the curiosity in her eyes unmistakable, but she didn’t ask what he meant. Maybe she already knew. “God doesn’t play favorites. He’ll watch out for us equally.”

“Maybe.” Hawke’s head was pounding too hard for him to engage in philosophical debate. Besides, while religion wasn’t his thing, he’d experienced enough of life to believe there was something more to it than what could be seen; that a power greater than his own will and strength existed. What he had yet to decide was whether or not that equated to a loving God who took a personal interest in His creations.

“Sometimes I have a hard time understanding it all. How He works. Why He answers some prayers with a yes, others with a no, but I guess what it boils down to is faith. Just believing that no matter what happens, He’s there.” Miranda spoke so softly Hawke barely heard the quiet words that seemed more for herself than for him.

This time he gave into temptation and slid his hand under the thick weight of her hair, his palm resting on the silky skin at the nape of her neck. “Someone like you never need worry that God won’t be there.”

She glanced his way, her eyes shadowed. “Like I said, neither does someone like you.”

She didn’t seem to expect a response and Hawke didn’t give one. Instead, he let the silence of the night and the darkness beyond the windows envelop them.

SIX

Home. The word danced through Miranda’s mind as the first glimmer of dawn streaked the horizon. She’d wound her way through the Blue Ridge mountains, stopping only once to get gas with a credit card Hawke fished from his glove compartment. The name on it was unfamiliar and, according to Hawke, untraceable. Miranda supposed she should have found comfort in that, but the longer the night had stretched on, the more the idea of returning home appealed.

Last night, she’d been desperate to escape the empty house and Lauren. Now, she’d give anything to step into the bright yellow kitchen, listen to her sister’s footsteps on the tile.

And she could.

Hawke’s eyes were closed, the gun peeking out from beneath the T-shirt he wore. All it would take was one quick yank and it would be in her hands. She could use Hawke’s cell phone to call the police. Then wait somewhere until they arrived. If she could have imagined a good outcome, she might have attempted it, but all she could picture was a cold jail cell and a quick brutal death.

“What are you thinking?” Hawke broke into her thoughts and Miranda jerked, hoping guilt wasn’t written all over her face.

“That I want to go home.”

“To your sister and brother?”

“They don’t live with me.”

“Then what is home to you? A house? A community?”

“Justin. But he’s no longer there, so I guess my job. My routine. My life the way it was before.”

“Before last night?”

“Before Justin died.”

He nodded. “I think many people have times they’d like to go back to.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.” He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate and Miranda told herself she should let the subject drop. After all, this wasn’t a casual conversation between friends or an intimate discussion with a man she was dating. Hawke was a stranger, a man she didn’t know and wasn’t sure she trusted.

She stole a quick glance at his profile—the hard line of his jaw, the scar that bisected his cheek—and couldn’t keep herself from asking the questions she knew she shouldn’t. “What times do you wish you could go back to?”

His mouth curved in a half smile and he shrugged. “Right now, I’ll just settle for getting back to Thailand.”

“Do you have family there?”

“A brother. I haven’t seen him in almost a year.”

“You must be happy that you’ll be seeing him soon, then.”

“I won’t be happy until I know he’s safe.”

“Do you think he’s not?”

“He should be, but what should be isn’t always what is. The fact that you’re here with me is a perfect example of that. You should be home safe. Instead, you’re running for your life.” He paused, reached for the pack that sat in the backseat and rifled through it, pulling out a bottle of aspirin.

“Still have a headache?”

“If you can call a sledgehammer in your skull that, yeah.” He swallowed three pills dry and recapped the bottle. “But I’ll live. That’s our exit. We’re looking for a church outside of town.”

The switch in topic was so sudden Miranda almost missed it and her turn. She swerved toward the exit just in time, taking the off-ramp too quickly. The car fishtailed, sliding toward the shoulder as Miranda gripped the steering wheel and tried to remember what she’d heard about reacting to a spin. Should she slam on the breaks? Jerk the steering wheel toward the spin? Away from it?

Her sleep-deprived brain couldn’t hold on to a thought long enough to react and she was sure whatever she did would be wrong.

Hawke’s shoulder pressed into hers, his hands clamping over Miranda’s, his stubble-covered jaw rubbing against hers. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

The car straightened and Miranda let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hands were slick on the wheel, her pulse pounding, her body shaking so hard she was sure Hawke could feel the vibration of her fear.

“No, it’s not okay. I’m not okay.” She whispered the words, not meaning for Hawke to respond, but he did, his hand cupping her shoulder, his touch warm and more comforting than it should have been.

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