The secret between them

Angela Taylor knew her sister was in trouble. For anyone but a twin, her instincts would seem crazy, and her actions crazier. Picking up and moving herself and her daughter, Celia, to Scorpion Ridge and asking questions put them all at risk. Even more risky was trusting Jake Farraday, the handsome ex-cop turned forest ranger. Years in witness protection had taught Angela to trust no one. Yet with Abigail missing, Jake was her only hope, and she found herself wanting to share more of her past with him. And more of her future. But did Jake have his own motives for helping Angela?

“Mom.”

Angela started. “What? Did you say something?”

“You’re staring off into space. Or maybe you’re staring at the man who just sat down at the counter.”

“I don’t stare at men.”

Celia sighed. “Maybe you should.”

Angela almost spewed the tea she’d been sipping. Yeah, she’d love to involve a man in her life—a man like Jake Farraday. But wouldn’t he get a kick out of hearing about the people who wanted her dead? She might never be able to lead a normal life: be a wife and soccer mother, join the PTA, introduce herself by the name she was born with. What guy wouldn’t love that?

“We should definitely come to this diner more often,” Celia said. “There’s lots of good-looking guys of all ages.”

“Eat,” Angela ordered.

Dear Reader,

I see suspense everywhere. When I go to the bank, I look at the person in line behind me and think: bank robber. When I go to the airport, I look at someone with lots of luggage and think: runaway bride. Even when I pick my son up from school, I just know one of those parents is keeping a secret...

So it should be no surprise that the idea for The Missing Twin came to me while riding the city bus. It started with the thought, “Just who is that guy who always sits in the very back?” He looks so tough, but there’s something about his eyes, something that tells me he has a heart. And now he’ll be another ordinary person who I’ll thrust a whole history upon and put in one of my books. I’ll name him Jake Farraday, and he’ll be an undercover cop.

If books have themes, this one is about sudden change. Our heroine, Angela Taylor, started life as Sophia Erickson. And then she opened the wrong drawer in her father’s desk. Angela uncovered her father’s secret, exposed him and changed not only her life but the life of her twin sister.

Jake Farraday knows about change, too. He unwittingly shared a secret, and it changed Angela’s life one more time. Now, ten years later, she’s back, and he wants to repay his debt. Except if Angela ever finds out the truth, it will change the way she feels about him.

But some changes make life better.

I hope you enjoy Jake and Angela’s story as well as the others in the Scorpion Ridge series. I love connecting with readers. You can visit me at my website, pamelatracy.com.

The Missing Twin

USA TODAY Bestselling Author

Pamela Tracy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PAMELA TRACY is a USA TODAY bestselling author who lives with her husband (the inspiration for most of her heroes) and son (the interference for most of her writing time). Since 1999, she has published more than twenty-five books and sold more than a million copies. She’s a RITA® Award finalist and a winner of the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Award.

To Rena and Jessica,

my twin nieces, who are now traveling the road of motherhood together. You are awesome.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

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

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Ten years ago

JAKE FARRADAY WAS in no mood to deal with a methed-out kid on the three-o’clock bus.

But the guy had a gun.

Jake had not one but three weapons on his person. His backup gun was secure in an ankle holster. His baby, a 9 mm handgun, was safely tucked under his shirt and against his tailbone. A switchblade waited in his jacket pocket.

Jake’s left hand circled the handle of his 9 mm but he didn’t take it out, not even when the driver slumped over the steering wheel, sending the bus crashing into a light pole.

The screams were muted. The few who rose to move toward the aisle quickly fell back into their seats. No one went to see if the driver was all right.

In the aisle the methed-out kid paced—limp hair, wild eyes, pale skin, his face twitching and angry. It didn’t get much worse than this. The kid’s hand shook as he aimed his gun at the ceiling, at the rubber matting under his feet and at any passenger who made a noise. A moment ago it had been aimed at the driver.

“Money,” the kid said, his voice raspy and high-pitched at the same time. “I want more.”

Half the people on the bus had already handed over their cash, eager to get the kid—and his gun—away from them. An elderly lady fainted, her purse fell to the floor and the man sitting next to her picked it up and handed over the whole thing.

Jake hadn’t turned over a dime.

Even in his meth madness, the kid took one look at Jake—dark skin, tattoos, low-slung, baggy jeans, black T-shirt, backward baseball cap, oversize hoody, scowl—and left him alone.

“Money,” the kid screamed again.

There were two people besides Jake who hadn’t surrendered their money. One was a stocky businessman who looked as if he had more money than sense. He was the one Jake worried about. No way did Jake want to blow a cover he’d taken six months to develop over a man who loved material goods more than his life.

The other holdout was a very young mother—she couldn’t have been older than twenty—who clutched a silent toddler.

The methed-out kid looked at the businessman and then looked at the mom and kid.

Outside the bus a crowd was gathering. Any minute, cops who could actually do something would show up.

Jake prayed they’d hurry.

The meth-head turned to the young mother. “You got a purse? Hand it over.”

Jake couldn’t tell from his spot at the very back of the bus if the woman, four seats ahead and down a step, had a purse or not. From the back all he could tell was that she had shoulder-length, choppy, brown hair, white skin and curves in all the right places. Amazingly she didn’t flinch.

“I don’t have a purse,” she said in a low voice. “Or any money.” The teen quickly looked at the businessman, who tensed, and then back at the young mother, who didn’t move.

The little girl didn’t move, either.

Outside, someone pounded on the side of the bus. The passengers flinched but no one called out.

The meth-head was running out of time and he knew it. He cursed before stepping even closer to the young mother. Glowering, he held out a hand.

It took all of Jake’s power to stay seated. A good cop didn’t bring unwanted attention to himself, didn’t risk blowing a deep cover, unless there was no other choice.

When the young mother didn’t move, the meth-head pounced, reaching past her and going for her daughter.

Children were the deal breaker. Jake stood, as did a clean-cut teenager who, after wisely turning over his money, had kept a low profile slouched against a window. Jake was probably the only person on the bus who realized the teen had been recording on his cell phone.

Before either one could take a step, the mother pulled a gun from somewhere inside her jacket, stood and aimed.

Jake’s heart almost stopped. He started to reach for his firearm then paused.

She didn’t so much as blink. Her body assumed a cop’s front stance and she clearly had a solid grip on the gun.

Jake knew why the meth-head believed. Her high-hand grasp was steady while his wildly shook. The meth-head stood so close to her, she didn’t really need to aim. Her trigger finger moved, just enough to show she meant business.

The meth-head took one step back, stumbled, fell and awkwardly hit the floor of the bus with a thud. His hand—the one with the gun—was in the air and the businessman who’d refused to give up his money quickly unarmed him.

Jake may have misjudged the man.

The woman gathered her daughter up in her arms. She stroked the girl’s hair and whispered in her ear. Jake hadn’t seen her conceal her weapon, and he could only imagine what the little girl thought about all that had happened.

The bus’s front door opened with a jarring racket; the cops had arrived. It was as if someone had thrown a switch. Suddenly everybody was moving and talking.

Jake slouched and pretended to be disinterested, hoping for a chance to exit the bus and fade into the distance. Curiosity warred against common sense and he hesitated. He wanted a closer look at the young mother who carried a gun and knew how to use it.

She didn’t look like a cop.

Nah. She’d have had to identify herself before taking aim. Otherwise the paperwork and interviews would have been endless.

The passengers were starting to exit the bus at the cops’ commands. Jake could see her carrying her daughter down the bus steps, but there were too many people in the way and he couldn’t get any closer.

An ambulance pulled up. An older man fell as he was getting off the bus. He didn’t even make it to the ground—the teenager who’d almost butted in to help the mother caught him just in time.

People often said society was going to the dogs because of today’s youth, but thanks to his cell phone’s video camera, this teenager would be the cops’ best witness. Maybe the businessman and young mother would be, too.

Jake searched the perimeter for her.

Interesting.

She was even better than Jake at disappearing.

CHAPTER ONE

Present day

JAKE FARRADAY FROZE, staring at a woman who reminded him of a brief moment in his past that had ultimately shaped his future.

Just in time he took a step back into a corridor and watched as she exited Sheriff Rafael Salazar’s office and walked out the Scorpion Ridge police station’s front door.

He didn’t even think before bursting in on his friend. “Who was that?” he demanded.

Rafe turned away from his computer, completely nonplussed. “What?”

“The woman who just left your office. Who is she?”

“New to town. Your neck of the woods. Name’s Angela Taylor.”

“My neck of the woods?” Jake repeated. “You’re kidding. She lives in the unincorporated community between here and Adobe Hills?”

“Yup,” Rafe replied.

As a forest ranger, Jake’s territory covered a good-sized section of the Santa Catalina Mountain wilderness area. Part of it was a ten-mile strip of homestead land peppered with about thirty inhabitants, mostly owners but a few renters, and the Bad Bear Inn, a rustic local icon that boasted a small restaurant and five cabins.

“Where?”

“Next door to the Rubios.”

Jake wanted to kick something. He was here to see the sheriff because of the Rubios. The forest service and local law enforcement had teamed up for a joint investigation into the family’s criminal activities. But this could change everything.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he muttered, and turned to follow Angela Taylor. He moved quickly and got to the front door in time to see her talking to a young girl as together they entered the grocery store in Scorpion Ridge, Arizona.

He did the math.

If his hunch was right, last time he’d seen the woman, her little girl had been a toddler. Now, the pudgy child had turned into a willowy young teen.

Jake couldn’t take another step, so he stood, looking down the street, feeling the winter sun beat down on the top of his forehead and trying to catch his breath. He needed to focus on his small town, his people. He was making a difference here, doing good.

If he was correct, and he was seldom wrong when it came to recognizing faces, he’d wronged this woman.

A decade ago her name hadn’t been Angela Taylor. She had been living under witness protection as Hilary Clifton. And he’d helped blow her cover.

Was it her? No, not possible. He’d stared at photos of her and her twin sister until they were seared onto his brain and plagued his dreams. Yet, both were masters of disguise thanks to their circumstances. No way should he be able to recognize one so easily.

Yet, his gut said it was her.

Someone bumped into him, shaking him from his reverie. He headed back into the station to find out what he could. This time he wouldn’t mess things up for her, not if he could help it. He’d make keeping her safe a priority, especially since she lived next to the Rubios.

“What was that all about?” Rafe asked when Jake plopped into the chair in front of his desk.

“I thought I knew her. What can you tell me about her?”

“Seems like a nice girl.” Rafe spoke casually but Jake knew the sheriff, had worked alongside the man for more than a decade. Rafe was holding something back. And he was one of the few people who knew Jake used to be a cop.

“Why was she here?”

“She was asking me questions that she probably should have asked you,” Rafe said easily. “She wanted to know if it was legal for her to shoot a javelina if it tried to attack her cat.”

“You did tell her to keep her cat inside.”

“I did.”

“When did she move here?” Jake couldn’t believe he’d missed her arrival. He usually knew the comings and goings of the people who lived in his territory. The faux wood, two-bedroom cabin next to the Rubios had been empty for six months because the landlord wasn’t willing to clean it up after the former tenants had trashed it. Prospective renters took one look and that was that.

“Apparently, she moved in two days ago,” Rafe said. “I planned to call and tell you later on today. She sure caught your attention, though. Anything I should know?”

There was a whole lot Rafe should know, but it wasn’t Jake’s story to tell. He was pretty sure Angela Taylor hadn’t really been concerned about gun control and cat issues. She’d been here because being in the witness protection program meant contacting the local law authority after you moved to a new region.

No way did Jake want to admit that, in a roundabout way, she was the reason he’d stopped being a cop and he was the reason she’d been shot and left for dead.

* * *

“I HATE IT HERE,” Celia complained. “There’s nothing to do. I’m bored.”

Angela looked around small-town Scorpion Ridge, Arizona, as she followed the twelve-year-old into the Corner Diner. “There’s a New Year’s Eve party Sunday night. We could go.”

“I don’t even know one person.”

“You know me.”

Celia gave Angela the kind of annoyed stare that only an almost teenager could produce. “I mean my age.”

“Maybe we’ll meet a few people. This town isn’t huge. We can go to church Sunday morning. There might be kids your age there.”

Angela had started attending church after going into the witness protection program. In her other life, as Sophia Erickson, she’d never so much as darkened a church’s door.

“There’s no mall,” Celia complained grumpily.

A hostess, carrying menus, hurried past other diners, greeted them and tried to sit them at a table in the middle of the room. Instead, Angela pointed to a side booth and sat where she could see both the door to the kitchen and the door to the outside.

Had her sister done the same thing? Had Marena eaten here?

A prickle started at the back of Angela’s neck. She’d fought hard to get to Scorpion Ridge, defying Buck Topher, the federal agent assigned to her, walking away from a nice house and a good job, and bringing with her a preteen who resented leaving her friends again.

A young waitress, balancing two loaded plates, stopped by their table. “What would you like to drink?” she asked. It was a few days after Christmas and the place was full.

Celia gave Angela a defiant look and ordered a soda.

Angela usually said no to soda. But today? Today all she could think about was her twin sister. “I’ll take an iced tea.”

The sense of misgiving she’d carried for the past few months concerning Marena—or Lorraine, as she was called during the once-a-month phone calls—wouldn’t go away. Her fears had escalated until a week ago; Angela had cooked dinner, a buttery shrimp dish that Celia had turned her nose up at, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. After dinner, while Celia did her homework, Angela had pretended to watch television. Instead she’d decided that within the week she’d be looking for her twin.

Angela always knew when something was amiss with Marena.

“Maybe I could get a job here? I’d like to earn some money.” Celia’s words jerked Angela back to the present. Her niece was smiling at a teenage boy across the room. He turned red and spilled his water.

Angela used to have that effect on guys. Now she practically had Hands Off tattooed on her forehead.

“You have to be at least fourteen, and I think we need to see how school goes first.” They’d moved six times in the past decade, lived in five different states. This was their second time in Arizona. They’d not had a stellar experience the last time.

“I hope it’s bigger than my last school,” Celia said. “Only twenty kids in my grade. That sucked.”

Angela didn’t blame Celia for wanting to be with kids her own age. Being in witness protection limited how many people Angela involved in their lives. Celia knew they were on the run, knew they had to be careful, but it was hard on her. She was a young girl who just wanted to belong.

“Give me one positive about being here,” Angela urged. It was a game they’d played since Celia was two.

Face crunched, Celia—basically a good kid—gave in. “Well, I want to explore all that land behind our cabin. Maybe I’ll find an arrowhead or piece of pottery. Besides, we could use a little sunshine. You don’t think my father...”

Angela put a hand on top of Celia’s. “No, your father has no idea we’re here.”

Buck Topher had told them to change their history but to keep it close to the truth. Figuring out what to tell Celia as she grew from infant to beautiful young lady had been heartbreaking for both Angela and her twin sister: Celia’s real mother.

Celia thought her dad wanted to kidnap her. In truth, her father was behind bars thanks to Angela and Marena. And despite the fact that Marena was Richard Hawking the Third’s wife, he’d put a hit on the twins. In the years they’d both been in the witness protection program, Buck Topher never said, “I think it might be safe now.”

Looking across at her niece, her pretend daughter, Angela hurt for the life Celia lived. She longed for safety and stability. On the day Buck finally called her and said it was over, Angela could tell Celia the truth. Then, Angela could go back to her real name: Sophia Erickson. And, best of all, she’d be reunited with her twin sister, Marena. They’d never go back to their old lives but they’d finally be able to build new ones.

“Your father hasn’t a clue,” Angela said again. “And we’ll be fine.”

The waitress brought their drinks, took their meal order and disappeared. Angela took out her iPad and searched for information on the local middle school.

“It’s small,” Angela noted.

Celia made a face.

Angela ignored her. “Classes resume January ninth. That will give us time to get you some clothes and figure out how you’ll get back and forth.”

Scorpion Ridge Middle School was small, only two hundred students.

The diner door swung open, sending a bell ringing, and many of the patrons looked up. Some smiled; some did not. The man in the door looked like the law but wasn’t in uniform.

“Hey, Jake,” called the older woman who’d greeted them. “Take a seat.”

The young waitress didn’t wait for him to order. Once he’d sat at the counter, she poured coffee and said, “Cheeseburger and fries?”

“Sounds good.” He had a rich voice. Authoritative. It matched his rugged face with its deep lines near his eyes and mouth. Angela figured he was about her age and had seen a lot. He had those eyes.

Yup, cop.

Two men at a booth by the window got up, gave him a dirty look and left.

Yup, cop. In the past ten years she’d gone out of her way to avoid contact with the police. She’d never as much as gone over the speed limit. Just going to see the sheriff this morning had almost instigated a panic attack. She’d had to head right to a grocery store right after to buy chocolate just to calm down.

“Mom.”

Angela started. “What? Did you say something?”

“You’re staring off into space. Or maybe you’re staring at the man who just sat at the counter.”

“I don’t stare at men.” And she definitely wasn’t staring at a second man who’d just walked through the door and joined the cop. This one might be safer, though. He was wearing a Bridget’s Animal Adventure shirt. Angela figured he worked at the habitat on the edge of town.

Celia sighed. “Maybe you should.”

Angela almost spewed the tea she’d been sipping. Yeah, she’d love to involve a man in her life. He’d get a kick out of hearing about the people who wanted her dead.

She might never be able to lead a normal life: be a wife and soccer mother, join the PTA, introduce herself by the name she was born with.

“We should definitely come to this diner more often,” Celia said. “There’re lots of good-looking guys, of all ages.”

“Eat,” Angela ordered as their food arrived. The waitress went back for more iced tea and a bottle of ketchup.

“Maybe I could work there,” Celia said, pointing at the second man’s shirt. “I love animals. Someday I’ll have a dog.”

They had a cat. A big gray, seven-toed longhair named Silverado who thought six thirty was wake-up time, who couldn’t be trained to not walk on kitchen countertops but was always available to snuggle when the dark brought bad memories.

Sometimes Angela wondered if she’d do it all again. She’d been so indignant all those years ago; nineteen years old and thinking she could right the world.

It was Angela who had accidentally figured out that her father and brother-in-law were involved in fraudulent investments. They were stealing not only from moneyed friends but from acquaintances who were scrimping by, hoping that investing with Melvin Erickson today would mean a safe tomorrow.

They’d defrauded Angela’s nanny!

When Angela had first gone to the police, she’d thought it was a simple scam. She’d been so wrong.

Looking across the table at Celia, Angela wondered if she’d really known the price, would she still have done it?

“You’re off in your own world again and you’ve not eaten a bite,” Celia scolded. “You always do this when you’re wishing yourself back in time.”

Angela didn’t bother denying it. From the time Celia was four, she could tell when Angela was engaging in a heated internal dialogue. It was eerie.

“I was just...”

“Wishing for a normal life,” Celia finished.

“Yes.”

“I wish you would tell me more about when you were growing up. The things you and your sister would do.” Celia’s words were directed to Angela, but she still watched the boy who’d spilled his water. He watched her, too, only not as blatantly.

Celia didn’t need to know that Angela had convinced her twin to join her in exposing their father’s Ponzi scheme, or that their testimony had also revealed a larger money-laundering operation spearheaded by Richard Hawkings the Third. By coming forward they had put a target on their backs so big it could be seen from the heavens.

When the dust had settled and the twins left Illinois, no one had said goodbye let alone thank-you.

CHAPTER TWO

TO FIND HER SISTER, Angela Taylor needed to do what she’d spent the past ten years avoiding: become part of the crowd.

The Scorpion Ridge New Year’s celebration took place at the town’s animal habitat. It made sense, Angela acknowledged. Bridget’s Animal Adventure or “BAA for short,” as the cashier informed her, was number one in the things-to-do category on the town’s website.

“I love zoos,” Celia said.

They’d walked around zoos many an afternoon, wiling away hours while Angela had planned their future and tried to keep an active two-, three-, four-and all the way to ten-year-old happy. It had been a few years since they’d done this particular outing.

“Last time I asked if you wanted to go to the zoo, you told me no,” Angela observed.

“That’s because it got boring. This zoo is not boring.”

Angela could guess the difference. There were no moms walking around pushing strollers. This was obviously a party. While some visitors wore everyday attire—what Angela called “blending in clothes”—there were also people dressed to the nines and people in what looked like Mardi Gras costumes. And there were lots of teens.

The wistful look on Celia’s face said it all. She wanted to be part of the trio currently taking a ride on the back of a camel. She wanted to be standing next to the boy sharing his cotton candy with a girl.

All Angela wanted was to look in the faces of women roughly her own age, searching for Marena.

The zoo was awash in the Christmas lights not yet taken down. A gift shop was just inside the entrance. It was closed. Angela admired that. This town, this atmosphere, she could grow to love. The carousel spun slowly and Angela moved closer to get a look.

“It’s fairly new,” said a voice at her side.

Surprised, she stared up at the man she’d seen Friday at the Corner Diner.

Cop.

He couldn’t know who she was. Sheriff Salazar was the only one she had to report to, and there would be no need for him to share the information.

“The owner of this place, Luke Rittenhouse, dreamed of having a carousel. Last year his wife bought him one for his birthday. Me, I always get ties.”

“From your wife?” Angela didn’t know why she responded. Cops made her nervous. She’d spent almost a year and a half meeting their demands, trying to live up to their expectations, and feeling like a pawn.

“No, from my friends and family.”

“I think I’ll go for a ride,” Celia said. “It’s free.”

“Free? Are you sure?” Angela stood on her tiptoes and tried to see over the crowded line.

“Tonight everything but food is free. It’s a celebration.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Jake Farraday. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You moved into the cabin on Jackrabbit and...”

Her knees buckled. “You know my address. Why?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He remained calm, seemingly unaware of the panic he’d sparked in her belly. “I’m a forest ranger. I patrol the area you live in. I’m the one you call if you find a rattlesnake outside your back door or if a bobcat or bear comes too close.”

“Bear?” She hadn’t though of that.

“You’d be surprised how far into human territory they’ll venture on the quest for food.”

“You have a card, Jake Farraday?” she queried. He still had that cop look but maybe it was a stance shared by anyone who wore a uniform.

Not that he was in uniform tonight. Dark tennis shoes were topped by well-worn jeans, a white T-shirt and a brown jacket.

Her heart still beat fast and she wanted to blame it on her fear of being exposed. No way was she responding because he was a good-looking man with dark brown hair, cut short, thick enough to still be wavy.

“I do have a card.”

“I’m Angela Taylor. That’s my daughter. Celia.” She didn’t take her eyes off him. Seemingly unaware of her gaze, he pulled a card from his back pocket and handed it to her. “One of the things I wanted to warn you about—”

“Mom, come ride with me.” Celia, somehow, had made it onto the ride. She sat on a cream-and-red carousel horse and leaned over, saving the seat on the horse beside her. For the first time since the move, the smile on her face was relaxed and genuine.

“Excuse me,” Angela said. “Looks like it’s time to cowboy up.”

She hurried to the carousel, mounting a horse that would only take her in circles—no beginning, no end. Sort of like her current life. She didn’t have to look; she was very aware that Jake Farraday was watching her.

She always knew when someone was watching her.

Maybe this time it was okay.

More than okay.

Except she couldn’t shake the feeling that their meeting was no accident.

* * *

JAKE’S PART OF the Santa Catalina Mountains didn’t rate a visitor’s center. His vehicle was more or less his office, and if he needed something he either used his own cabin or drove to Sabino Canyon where they had an office.

When someone needed him, they usually called. But this early Monday morning, Rafe was waiting at the end of the driveway when Jake exited his cabin.

“Something happen?” Jake asked. “I still plan on trash collection. We’re getting close. I know—”

“It’s not about trash collection.” Rafe didn’t move, just stayed leaning against his SUV and watching the road. “Anything you want to tell me?” he finally asked.

“No.”

“Funny,” Rafe said. “I got a call this morning from a federal agent by the name of Buck Topher. That name mean anything to you?”

When Jake didn’t respond, Rafe continued. “I’m talking about ten years ago when you were a cop in Phoenix. You told me you quit because you endangered a civilian. I’ve never asked for details. Maybe you should tell me now.”

Jake hesitated. “Why? Why do you want to know?”

“Because, after the phone call I got this morning I did some background checking and your name popped up.”

“Angela Taylor.”

“Yes,” Rafe agreed. “I think I know why she’s here.”

“Not because of me.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Convince me.”

It took only twenty minutes to tell the whole story. Ten years ago it had taken five hours, but then he’d been giving witness testimony with every detail being picked apart and double-checked.

After Jake finished, Rafe straightened. “Then, you’ll want to know this. The federal agent I spoke with this morning seems to think she’s here looking for her twin sister.”

“If her twin was here, I’d have recognized her,” Jake said. “Unless she came for those few months I worked at the Grand Canyon.”

Rafe frowned. “Maybe, but I’ve seen the photos of what the Erickson girls looked like before going into witness protection. The change is remarkable. I’m amazed you recognized Angela.”

Jake didn’t know how to respond. She no longer resembled that long-ago girl on the bus or her high school graduation photo. Maybe it was the fact that he’d never stopped going over her file, looking at her photos, any coverage he could find—dreaming of what he could have done differently.

“I don’t know why I recognized her, either. It was just something about the way she walked, the curve of her neck, the way she turned her head. Then, when I came in to see you, I knew she’d not been in asking mundane questions.”

“And you’re sure you’ve not had that gut feeling about anyone else this past year?”

“No, I’ve not seen her sister. But I’ve worked quite a bit out of town,” Jake reminded the sheriff. “Plus, wouldn’t her twin have checked in with you, too?”

“This long in the system, maybe she didn’t want to.” Rafe looked serious. “And maybe she had a reason to disappear.”

A reason to disappear.

Jake did the name assignments in his head. Ten years ago, Angela Taylor had been going by the assumed name of Hilary Clifton. Her real name was Marena Erickson.

Her sister, the one who was missing, was Sophia Erickson. Jake had never known her assumed names. Outside of that day on the bus, Jake hadn’t personally seen either of the twins. His impression, after reading about them, was that Marena was the easygoing twin while Sophia was the risk-taker.

He’d better start thinking of her as Angela because he didn’t want to compromise her cover again with a slip of the tongue.

Rafe continued. “According to Topher, Angela’s twin moved here sometime in the past year and went missing a few months ago.”

“And now Angela’s here looking for her.”

“I don’t like this,” Rafe said. “I don’t like this at all.”

Neither did Jake.

Didn’t matter. This time he’d do whatever he could to assist Angela and her sister. He owed them that.

“I think we both need to keep an eye out,” Rafe said. “I’m bringing you in on this because you patrol the area where she lives.”

Location, location, location.

“Right next to the Rubios.” Jake checked his watch. “Where I was due twenty minutes ago.”

Rafe nodded. “This shouldn’t interfere with you acting as a trash collector. If anything, it helps.”

Jake hoped Rafe wouldn’t ask him to go through her trash. No. He’d have to have a court order, and asking for one would bring unwanted attention.

“I’ll watch over her,” Jake promised. “But I don’t want her to know. She might refuse because of who I am.”

For a moment it didn’t look as though Rafe would agree. Finally he nodded. “For now.”

Thirty minutes later, nestled between trees and a dirt berm, perched high in the driver’s seat of his friend Albert’s garbage truck, Jake leaned forward and adjusted his binoculars. This section had three residents. Angela and her neighbor to the right lived in cabins. Directly across from Angela was a mobile home.

Unincorporated areas in Arizona, at least this neck of the woods, could mean trouble. Angela Taylor’s new neighborhood—a loose term—wasn’t just alive with wildlife. It also saw its fair share of illegal immigrants who crossed the border and traveled this area called a “corridor of choice.”

Now Jake’s job wasn’t just to bring down the Rubios but to keep Angela safe and possibly find her sister.

He wished he could have managed more than just a short conversation by the carousel. There were so many things he needed to warn her about.

Taking out his cell, he looked at the picture he’d taken: Angela and Celia on the carousel horses. Angela, long black hair fanning out, had looked right at him when he’d snapped the picture. All he’d captured was her face.

And what a face it was.

Strong cheekbones, sensuous lips and eyes that seemed to know what he was thinking.

She didn’t look anything like what he remembered. But, just like all those years ago on the bus, when the ride ended she’d disappeared.

He’d searched the rest of that evening and couldn’t find her. Figured. He had better luck with animals. If Angela were a deer he’d be able to guess how she’d behave and move across the landscape. Even better, he’d be able to follow her trail.

He wished she wasn’t home today. But there was her black Honda Accord parked in front of her house.

Besides introducing himself, he’d wanted to explain his role in keeping the area safe when they’d met on Sunday night. For the past few months, every two weeks, he collected the trash residents put outside.

“Sure, you can borrow my truck and pick up the trash for me,” Albert, whose job it was, had said when Jake offered.

What Jake hadn’t told his friend—and what he wouldn’t tell Angela—was why he needed to be the trash collector.

He wanted to go through the Rubios’s trash.

So far, the past two months, Jake hadn’t found so much as an empty Ephedrine box, acetone or even stained coffee filters stuffed in their bins. If they were using the cabin as a meth lab, they were doing a good job of hiding it.

Pulling down his baseball hat, he adjusted his binoculars and scanned the cul-de-sac again, focusing on the occupant of 522 Jackrabbit Road: Angela Taylor.

Jake, on behalf of the Game and Fish Department, was working with the police to put Miguel Rubio away. Unusual, yes, but in small towns, agencies often worked together. Miguel was both a suspected poacher and drug dealer, and he didn’t mind putting his family’s—and neighbors’—lives at risk.

Angela stepped out of the cabin and checked her watch. He was far enough away and off the beaten path that he knew she couldn’t see him.

He gritted his teeth, remembering his failure to act all those years ago on the number seventeen bus. He had allowed a twentysomething female to become the top news item of the hour, day, week, year, thanks to a video caught on a teenager’s Nokia N95 cell phone, thirty frames per second. Jake had been in his mid-twenties, idealistic and wet behind the ears. He’d believed in the cop’s creed: serve mankind, safeguard lives and property, protect the innocent. Because Marena’s likeness had been seared into his brain, Jake had supplied details about her appearance that the teenager’s video hadn’t captured, and Marena Erickson, who’d been in the witness protection program, had been identified.

That’s when Jake had confided in one of his peers, who’d turned out to be a crooked cop.

The situation had spiraled out of control and Marena had gotten hurt. It was a hard way to learn that loose lips sink ships.

Maybe Marena Erickson hadn’t been so innocent. He’d seen a photo of her and her sister at just sixteen, sitting in a bright red convertible in front of a mansion that could have housed most of the people that lived in this area. She’d had flowing blond hair, dark sunglasses and a look that said, “I’m all that and more.”

Her twin, Sophia, had sat beside her. She’d worn a baseball cap and no sunglasses. They were a lot alike but they weren’t identical; Sophia’s hair was a shade darker, her face tanned. She, too, had the “I’m all that and more” expression. The two of them had been brave, turning state’s evidence against Marena’s husband as well as their father. The convertible and mansion had been sold to pay for lawyer fees.

Jake closed his eyes, remembering. Just one day after the bus incident, Marena had been shot, left for dead. The attorney general’s office had whisked her, her sister and her daughter away so quickly that Jake felt as if he’d been left standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff.

One he’d created.

Internal Affairs had nailed the cop Jake had spoken to. Jake had finished his current assignment and then, because he couldn’t trust himself, he’d turned in his badge.

He’d been unable to erase the face of a mother protecting her child while he’d sat there doing nothing.

And now here she was, renting an old cabin. Angela had planted something in the dirt in front. From a distance it looked like shrubs. The curtains were new and colorful. Two bright red outdoor chairs sat in the yard.

Jake had thought protecting forests would be a way to give back but not endanger anyone. He’d been wrong. There were just as many criminals in the wilderness as there were in the city. More, maybe.

Like the Rubio family.

Miguel Rubio had returned home just this morning after being gone two full days. According to Rafe, the man had been with another woman in Adobe Ridge, a small town not even an hour away. Jake wondered if Judy, the mother of his children, knew. She’d not left the house in two days, not even to let her little boy play in the sun.

Come to think of it, Jake had never seen Billy playing out front.

Jake really should be watching the Rubio cabin instead of Angela’s, wondering how, of all places, she’d found her way to his turf.

Angela Taylor. He needed to think of her as Angela Taylor.

Witness protection usually worked and, by all accounts, Angela had followed protocol. She’d eliminated contact with all family and friends, and she and her twin sister had made a totally new life.

They’d chosen a lifestyle completely different from the one in their previous lives and memorized personal histories with nothing personal about them. Marena had changed her appearance and lived as a single young mother who never dated and whose consistent was taking martial arts classes.

And now she’d changed it again. Her hair was straight, no bangs, and it cascaded down her shoulders. She wore little or no makeup. An emerald-green cowl circled her neck. She was probably an inch shorter than he was.

He knew her story by heart. Still dreamed it.

He’d blown their cover.

Guilt had him gripping the binoculars tighter. Luckily, watching her, he could tell she didn’t even limp. Amazing what a prosthetic leg could do. His fault, though. All his fault.

That fateful day she’d gotten off work and picked up her two-year-old daughter from day care. She’d been riding the bus home, completely innocent, not doing anything foolish.

Until the meth-head had reached for her daughter.

When they’d crossed paths, Jake was an idealistic undercover police officer living the life of a high school gang member.

Today, halfway through his thirties, he still carried a gun—only one—but the emblem on his shirt identified him as a forest ranger instead of a cop. Lately he wasn’t sure if he could save people from themselves. His main job was to give directions, check permits and to grouse at hikers who thought it sane to enter his wilderness without alerting anyone of their whereabouts.

Speaking of whereabouts...

He scanned the area. Angela had finished preparing her trash for pickup and was now uncovering her bougainvillea bushes. Unaware she was being watched, she did a little skip dance.

“Go back in,” he whispered. Please.

Years ago Miguel Rubio had run a meth lab. Jake remembered that bust. The Rubios had lost two children to foster care. Jake didn’t know if they’d tried to reclaim them. Billy had been born after Miguel got out of prison and returned to Judy. He should be taken away, too. But “just cause” hadn’t been proved. Jake was only a forest ranger in a garbage truck, but he was hoping to stumble on evidence he could take to court.

The Rubios seldom came out front. They lived their life clustered inside or out back where only a low-flying plane or someone trespassing on foot could witness their activities. For the past two weeks their broadband activity had tripled. Something was going on. A police officer in Adobe Hills, a nearby community, had first alerted Jake. Hikers had watched two men load a dead bear into the back of a pickup. That was three weeks ago. With the right permits, that wasn’t a problem, but it wasn’t bear season. Jake’s best friend, Luke Rittenhouse, had called four days later. A tourist family from Idaho had found a baby bear in Jake’s wilderness area and had brought it to Bridget’s Animal Adventure.

“These weren’t clueless tourists,” Luke had said. “They observed the bear for a long time and realized it was alone and helpless.”

The door to the mobile home opened and the child, Billy, walked out and went down the five steps to the yard. He held a small, stuffed giraffe and turned to see if anyone had followed. He was so very small for four.

Jake watched as Judy Rubio, standing at the door, pulled her cell phone from her purse and talked into it. The expression on her face was haunted. Maybe she did know where Miguel had been the past few days.

Assured that his mother was nearby, Billy started running, stumbling a bit, but clearly happy to be outdoors and free.

Alert, Angela stopped what she was doing. Wise woman, Jake thought. She walked up the path to her cabin. She probably knew better than to get involved with neighbors, and she certainly wouldn’t want them to be curious about her, either.

A poacher could make about four hundred and fifty dollars selling black-market bear parts. The price on Angela’s head was equal to about a thousand bears. Neither Judy nor Miguel Rubio would hesitate.

About ready to head for the road, Jake started to set his binoculars on the seat just as he noticed a dark blue Cadillac pass in front of his truck.

A Cadillac? Here? He put the binoculars back to his eyes. Mud on the license plate covered part of the numbers. Jake could only make out JD2.

Billy was all the way to the road. His mother still stood half in and half out of the door. She glanced at the road, probably because she’d heard the car, and then dropped the phone into her purse. She didn’t move.

“Billy, get back here!” she called.

Angela paused at the steps leading up to her cabin.

Jake looked back at the Cadillac. Billy was heading for the passenger-side door. Jake could see a puppy’s head sticking out the window, and he watched as Billy reached for the animal.

Stranger Danger paled when faced with the allure of a puppy, especially to a little boy.

Then, the puppy disappeared back into the car.

Jake dropped his binoculars, started the engine and drove the garbage truck their way. Billy’s mother stood on her porch shouting at the Cadillac.

Unbidden, the rhyme about “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me” popped into Jake’s mind. What kind of mother would just stand there?

Angela didn’t hesitate. With unbelievable speed she crossed her yard and was at the edge of the cul-de-sac before Billy’s mother could take a breath between curse words. At that exact moment the Caddie’s passenger grabbed Billy, yanked the boy up and began pulling him through the window. Billy’s legs were starting to disappear into the car.

Jake turned into their cul-de-sac. Angela leaped, Tarzan-style, and managed to snag Billy’s left foot. And her with one leg! She somehow managed to edge the boy out of the car a few inches.

Briefly.

His shoe came off, sending Angela tumbling to the ground and freeing the vehicle to execute a doughnut, complete with burning rubber, before coming face to face with Jake’s garbage truck. Blocking their way.

The car paused momentarily then headed for the third neighbor’s dirt lawn.

Angela’s feet didn’t seem to touch the ground as she rounded the garbage truck. She grabbed the Cadillac’s back passenger-door handle, her black hair flying behind her, and yanked.

It was locked.

“Hit the ground!” Jake shouted to her as he exited his truck and ran toward the Cadillac.

The vehicle slowed; Angela held on with one hand while frantically trying to get hold of the front passenger-side door with the other.

One thing about the kidnappers was clear. They were definitely after Billy but not willing to risk Angela’s life.

“Hit the ground now!” Jake shouted, stopping right next to the Cadillac.

Angela hit the ground, rolled out of Jake’s way and then jumped back up. The front passenger’s mouth opened to a silent “Oh.” Jake couldn’t see the driver, but the driver must have seen him. The engine only had time to rev once.

Jake shot the back tire and made it to the side door. Billy’s legs were still hanging out the window; one shoe on, one shoe off.

The kid was screaming.

The driver had a gun but couldn’t find his shot with Billy in the way.

Billy, however, wasn’t being raised by the Cleavers. Survival was instinctive. The moment his shocked captor loosened his grip he pushed himself out the window.

Angela jumped up, lunged Billy’s way and caught him. Both of them hit the ground hard and rolled away from the car even as the driver finally found his mark and pulled the trigger.

Instinctively, Jake lunged for cover behind the Rubios’s garbage container. The bullet went through it and struck Jake in the chest.

CHAPTER THREE

ANGELA’S EVERY INSTINCT screamed run. Run now!

The driver of the Cadillac obviously listened to the same screaming instinct. With screeching tires, one very flat, it tore up the dirt in the mobile home’s yard. Next, it hit the right rear bumper of the neighbor’s old blue truck as well as the side of the garbage truck before it hobbled away from the scene of the crime. The driver obviously needed the thick glasses he wore, she thought in passing. The two men inside didn’t bother with a backward glance.

“Mom. Mom. Mom.” Billy ran to his mother, who was still on the porch. She hadn’t moved since the whole thing began.

Great, Angela had no choice. The man had been trying to help and may have been shot because...

Angela didn’t want to think about why.

Blood was slowly spreading across the garbage man’s shirt. The embroidered white name badge read Albert; the look in the man’s eyes read Pain.

It was Jake Farraday from Sunday night.

“Pain is good,” Angela assured him. “It’s when you don’t feel anything that you have to worry.”

He didn’t look convinced.

As if to prove his point, blood stained his name badge red. His lips moved and Angela caught the merest whisper of, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. You saved the little boy. Take it easy.” She unbuttoned his shirt and saw a neat hole, nothing huge, on the right side of his chest just below the nipple. Using the shirt, she pressed it against the hole to stop the bleeding.

“Is he going to die?” Billy’s mother asked from the porch.

What was wrong with the woman? How could she just stand there? This man had saved her son’s life!

“No,” Angela said quickly as she scooted closer to the man. She wished she knew what else to do. She shouted to Billy’s mother, “Did you call 9-1-1?”

The woman looked around as if afraid someone would overhear before answering, “Nine-one-one doesn’t work out here.”

“Then call the police or fire station or something! Don’t just stand there! This man just saved your little boy.”

The woman took Billy by the arm and tucked him beside her. “I’m sorry. I can’t get involved. This was all a big misunderstanding. Please...”

Angela wasn’t sure exactly what the “please” was supposed to imply. Luckily the door on the mobile home opened and Ted Dilliard, a man Angela had seen only twice, came running out, hunkered down next to her and said, “I called the sheriff’s office right when they started pulling the little boy into the car.”

Angela had researched the neighborhood before moving in. The cabin where the woman lived was owned by a man in his eighties. She’d been hoping for a retiree; instead she got the worst kind of neighbors.

They’d more than proved that today.

An internet search had revealed that the third dwelling in the cul-de-sac—a mobile home—had been rented for the past ten years by Ted Dilliard, a divorced computer programmer who, for the most part, kept to himself. She wanted to ask him where he’d been after he’d called the police, when she and Jake were battling for the boy, but he was here now, and that had to count for something.

“Hey, fella.” Ted was all business and seemed to know what he was doing. “You breathing all right? Your lungs hurt?”

Jake nodded.

“Already blood loss is slowing,” Ted said. “That means it missed the heart and any major pulmonary vessels.”

Angela could hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Good, she needed to go inside to check on Celia. That girl could sleep through a tornado!

Without meaning to, she moved her fingers to the lock of limp, dark hair that fell across his forehead and into his eyes. He was perspiring. Arizona was hot, and it wasn’t every day a man took a bullet while picking up trash.

“Billy,” Jake whispered.

“He’s all right,” Angela whispered back. “You saved him.”

His eyes locked on hers and again he tried to say something. All that came out was “Wanted save you.”

The ambulance skidded to a stop behind the garbage truck, and both Angela and Ted were urged to take a step back.

She saw Jake glance around, looking frantic, until he locked eyes with her. His eyes were deep brown, like melted chocolate. The next moment he seemed to relax.

“He’s having trouble breathing,” said one of the paramedics. It was more an order than a statement. Just before the paramedics moved and blocked her view, Angela saw Jake Farraday’s eyes slowly close.

He no longer looked in pain.

He looked dead.

But he wasn’t, a young police officer assured her some minutes later when taking her statement and her description of the passenger. He even went so far as to point out the garbage container now set aside for evidence. It apparently had something inside that had slowed the projectile. The police officer’s words, not Angela’s. All she could think was that the bullet hadn’t slowed enough.

Even as Angela answered the questions, she tried to figure out why a forest ranger would be doing garbage duty wearing a shirt not bearing his name.

“I’m brand-new here,” Angela told the cop. “We moved in one week ago. I don’t know anybody.”

The cop wanting descriptions and asking her questions already seemed to know the answers. Angela wished she could ask a few, but no way did she want to bring attention to herself. When she was finally allowed to go back into her cabin, she paced.

They needed to leave.

But this had nothing to do with her.

And she needed to find Marena.

Still, for the next few hours, Angela was poised for flight. Her purse was on the chair by the door, her .357 Magnum inside.

The only reason she and Celia weren’t already halfway to a new city, state, was Angela’s need to find her twin. But, except for the police officers who’d cordoned off the area and were doing what they did best—investigating—no reporters showed up, no pictures were taken and no curious locals drove by.

An unforeseen perk of living in rural Arizona? That thought didn’t stop Angela’s heart from racing. She’d chased down a Cadillac and helped save a little boy. She’d put herself and Celia in harm’s way. How could this not be news? How could the rest of the world not know that someone had been shot outside her house?

Sunday night she’d suspected meeting Jake Farraday was no accident. Now she wondered exactly who he was. What was he doing pretending to be a garbage collector?

She sat herself on the couch and watched the news on every channel available. But after the last news anchor signed off, she realized that either what had happened wasn’t important in the scheme of things or law enforcement was keeping it out of the media.

The online news media was no different. The headlines highlighted how more money was being ripped from education, how another driver had been going the wrong way on a major interstate and how Arizona would deal with its most recent female who might be heading for death row.

Nothing about Jake Farraday.

“Does this mean we can move? Back to a real city with a mall?” Celia said, coming out of her bedroom, her voice tight and more mature than an almost thirteen-year-old’s should be. She was irritated that she’d missed the commotion and excitement thanks to earbuds and iTunes. By the time Celia had come outside, the paramedics had been loading Jake into the ambulance.

Angela hadn’t told Celia that the victim was the forest ranger they’d met at the New Year’s celebration. Instead she’d merely said he was going to be fine and called him the garbage collector.

It was the truth, sort of.

Silverado sensed the unrest and came to weave around Angela’s ankles. The cat hadn’t even had time to explore the whole cabin.

“We just got here. Plus, the cops might need my testimony or something.” Angela almost choked on the words. She never, ever, wanted to deal with the justice system again.

“You okay?” Celia switched from know-it-all teen to little girl. “I mean, you’re not going to faint or anything? I wish I could have seen you this morning. You’re a hero.”

She’d been called a hero all those years ago, too. That and two dollars might get her a cup of coffee somewhere cheap, someplace that didn’t feel like home.

Celia went to the front window, pulled the blind to one side ever so minutely and peered out. Silverado headed over to her, expecting to get petted.

Angela followed, wishing she knew what to say, what to do. Since entering witness protection all she’d known was a slippery Alice-in-Wonderland kind of life, where every move felt like the wrong one.

No matter her adventures or surroundings, Alice had been on her journey alone.

Angela wasn’t alone, and she wanted Celia to have a normal childhood more than anything. But it wouldn’t happen in Scorpion Ridge, Arizona. They were here for one reason: to find Marena.

Being here went against everything Buck Topher had taught Angela, but Marena was her twin sister. For the first twenty years of Angela’s life, they’d rarely been separated. Oh, they were different, but they’d always watched each other’s back.

Always.

Their monthly phone call had been Angela’s only link to her old life. Marena was a lifeline Angela was willing to die for, no matter what Buck said.

As long as she could do it without putting Celia in danger.

What Angela hadn’t expected was how this rural area spoke to her, soothed her, let her breathe. Had it been that way for Marena, too?

* * *

IT WAS SUCH a strange tract of land she’d stumbled upon. Except for the two homes on the cul-de-sac, her nearest neighbor was at least three miles away. Two days last week, not a single vehicle had driven by.

There was a heated pump house with a five-thousand-gallon water tank. “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down,” the landlord had advised.

Celia hadn’t gotten the joke; Angela hadn’t thought it funny.

The landlord had also had advice about how often to shower, which spiders were deadly and how to use the emergency generator. The nearest big city was Tucson. Three small towns were within driving distance. The biggest was Adobe Hills. It boasted a small community college, market, auto repair shop and bank.

She’d not relied on a brick-and-mortar bank in years.

The second town, much smaller, and whose address they used, was Scorpion Ridge. That was where she’d met with the sheriff just two days ago. It boasted an animal habitat and very little commercialism.

The third town was Gessippi. Angela might take Celia there one day for a drive, but it was so small that there’d be little to do.

It was a whole different world than what Angela had been born into. She grown up in Springfield, Illinois, where a nanny had driven her to play dates, camps and parties. Her house had been a fourteen-thousand-square-foot, split-level mansion with marble floors and two elevators. Her father’s bedroom had even had a fireplace and a waterfall! She and her twin sister had had a castle in their bedroom complete with stairs and a tower—

No, don’t go there.

She now knew where he’d gotten the money to pay for such luxuries. She’d never again think that material goods such as multiple cars—some seldom driven—and a two-tiered Jacuzzi complete with a flat-screen television and its own bar were the good life.

When she was eighteen and nineteen she’d lived in a university dorm. Her sister had married and lived in a home much like the one they’d grown up in. A little smaller, yes, but twice the size of most starter homes.

Square footage didn’t matter. This cabin represented the good life. Sometimes Angela would go outside and just stand, watching the mountains touch the sky and appreciating the freedom of the terrain. Trying to decide where to start in tracking down her sister. Tonight, there would be a thousand stars all promising a bright tomorrow. If she could make it happen.

“What will we do next?” Celia asked, breaking into Angela’s reverie.

“If we stay, you’ll start school next Monday, I’ll get a job, and maybe this will become our normal.”

Celia raised an eyebrow, reminding Angela so much of her twin sister Marena that it hurt. Angela’s twin had been three months’ pregnant when she’d left her husband to follow Angela into witness protection. While she and Marena looked alike, there were enough differences. Marena was curvy and Angela athletic. Marena’s face was a bit rounder. Things like that.

Celia looked more like Angela than her own mother.

But maybe that was because Angela had purposely gained weight this past year, trying to change her appearance, fine-tune her disguise, keep Celia safe.

Angela had been the only family around when her sister had given birth. She’d held Celia as a baby, seen the first tooth, heard her niece’s first word.

They’d separated after Marena had been shot, left for dead, most definitely by someone connected to their father or her husband. Angela’s twin had lost her left leg at the knee and assumed that whoever was tracking them would have an easier time finding a one-legged target.

Marena had decided to relinquish her daughter into Angela’s care.

Didn’t matter how much Angela protested.

A mother’s ultimate sacrifice.

And now she was missing.

“Surely,” Celia said without leaving the window, “after what just happened, you want us to leave. It’s what we always do.”

Angela closed her eyes, hating the decisions she had to make and the reasons behind them. Celia griped that she wanted to go back to a big city, wanted a mall, but Angela had seen her standing in the yard, mesmerized, looking at the mountains as the sun went down.

“We should go,” Celia suggested.

“We’ll give it twenty-four hours.” She’d done everything right, had never gone back to Illinois, had never contacted any friends or relatives and was always on the lookout for anybody acting suspicious.

Of course, everyone acted suspicious.

* * *

AFTER A TOO-LONG DAY, Angela and Celia drove into Scorpion Ridge where they shared a surreal supper and a quick stop at the grocery store, before returning home. Cordon tape still marked the spot. A police cruiser was in the Rubios’s driveway.

So much for hiding in the middle of nowhere; the big city had come to them.

That night, long after Celia had gone to bed, Angela sat in a chair looking out the front window and hoping nothing would move.

At midnight only the shadows leered at her. Even the moon and stars were behind a layer of clouds. Inside, Angela tried controlling her heartbeat.

Hiding never got easier.

Around two, she fell asleep in the chair.

The next morning the cul-de-sac was as before. Right before noon, a sheriff’s vehicle pulled up in front of the Rubios’s cabin and Rafe Salazar, the sheriff Angela had contacted, went up their path, knocked on the door and then went inside.

Other than that, it was as if the attempted abduction and shooting had never taken place.

A good hour later Sheriff Salazar knocked at her door, as she’d known he would. Celia came out, looked the sheriff up and down and retreated to her room. She’d been taught that the police were the good guys, but she’d picked up on whatever negative vibes Angela gave off and knew to keep a low profile.

“Angela,” Sheriff Salazar said. “I hear you were a hero yesterday.”

“Unplanned. How is the man who was shot?”

“He’s going to be fine. Seems the Rubios’s garbage container slowed the trajectory of the bullet. It changed a scenario that could have been critical to just serious.”

Angela remembered the blood. She didn’t want to see what critical looked like.

“Sorry I wasn’t around,” Salazar continued. “I know my deputies handled it just fine.” He looked at the door Celia had just closed. “Let’s step out back.”

Angela’s yard spread a perfect vee of about three acres before bumping against the Santa Catalina Mountains. An old picnic table sat on the back patio.

“I half expected you to be gone.” The sheriff tested the picnic table’s bench before sitting.

Angela sat across from him. “I considered it.”

“What made you stay?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Your sister?” Sheriff Salazar queried.

Angela felt her hands going into fists, felt the nails dig in, and when she looked up, she saw concern in the sheriff’s eyes.

“Agent Topher called you.”

“He did. What I can tell you is that no one matching your sister’s description checked in at the station.”

Angela bit back a retort. Not even she knew what her sister currently looked like, so she wasn’t impressed with the information. She glanced over to the right where the Rubios’s backyard spread out in the same vee. Angela’s yard was empty; she hadn’t added anything to it yet. The Rubios, however, had two old cars, a broken-down boat and an assortment of trash.

“I know your situation, what you did and what it cost you. Keeping you safe is a top priority. I’m one hundred percent sure that what went down yesterday morning had nothing to do with you being here.”

“I believe that, too,” Angela said.

Sheriff Salazar was all cop. “I want you to avoid contact with them at all cost. Your neighbors owe money to the wrong people, among other things. We’re hoping to catch the men in the Cadillac soon. We figure they were picking up the boy in hopes of convincing Miguel to pay his debt.”

“Miguel.” Angela hadn’t known her neighbor’s name until yesterday. “Believe me, I realized they were neighbors to avoid the minute I first saw them. You know the home is rented in someone else’s name.”

“We know. It’s being rented by Judy Parker’s uncle. He thinks he’s helping.”

“Parker. They’re not married? Yesterday, I heard her say her name was Judy Rubio.”

“She’ll claim they’ve a common-law marriage, but such a thing isn’t recognized in Arizona. She’s been with him at least ten years. I know that because of their oldest son’s age.”

“They have children besides Billy?”

Salazar nodded, but said no more. Angela got the idea he didn’t enjoy talking about the Rubios. He returned to yesterday’s events. “Kidnapping’s serious, but I doubt that’s what the men will be charged with. Miguel will say they were friends wanting to take his boy for a ride and that neighbors got a little too involved. They’ll most likely be tried for attempted criminal homicide and aggravated assault.”

Angela nodded. “I’m surprised they shot the man in the garbage truck.” She studied Sheriff Salazar’s face, looking for any indication that he, too, was surprised that a forest ranger had been picking up trash in a garbage truck and wearing a shirt claiming his name was Albert.

“I was close enough for them to shoot,” Angela went on. “I got the sense that wasn’t their intent.”

Salazar didn’t so much as blink. “Adrenaline is a wicked conspirator. We suspect they were here to teach Miguel Rubio a lesson.”

If Miguel Rubio owed the wrong person money, it could get even uglier. She’d seen what man would do for the almighty dollar. “Maybe I should move to a different house in the area.”

“That might be a good idea. However, from what I’ve seen, once Rubio gets in trouble, he keeps his nose clean for a while.”

Angela nodded. She’d consider her next steps very carefully. “Will I be subpoenaed to testify?”

“I’ll do everything in my power to keep that from happening. It might be that Jake’s testimony is enough and that you can simply provide identification and a written statement.”

She leaned forward. Maybe she would finally find out what was going on. “Why was Jake Farraday pretending to be a garbage collector and why did the story not make the news?”

A shadow passed over the sheriff’s expression. “Albert is the regular, private, rural garbage collector. He’s an older gentleman who owns a lot of land in this area. He likes to keep it clean. Jake took over Albert’s route so he could keep a closer eye on the Rubios. In addition to owing people money, they might be involved in some illegal activities concerning wildlife.”

Sheriff Salazar made Angela add his direct number to her phone before he left, and Angela felt a tiny bit better. Funny after all these years of feeling panicked at dealing with cops, this one made her feel a little better.

She and Celia would stay. For now. The abduction had nothing to do with her. But, her involvement meant she needed to move quickly, find Marena and get out of here before someone decided to give her a second glance. It was time to visit Tucson, put a few belongings in a storage facility and plan for the worst.

She went inside, fetched her laptop, sat at the kitchen table and did some research on Jake Farraday. She found out he had never been married, had been a forest ranger for almost eleven years and used to be a cop.

Her first impression had been right.

He was someone to avoid, yet he’d saved Billy; his last words had been about saving her.

“Mom?”

Angela looked up at Celia’s voice. “Yes.”

“The little boy from next door is on our front yard. I think he wants you.”

“Is his mother with him?”

“No.”

Had it been Angela’s child in a near abduction, that kid would not be roaming alone outside.

She followed Celia out to the front. Billy stood in her driveway. Behind him she could see telltale skid marks smeared across the cul-de-sac’s roadway.

“Hi, honey.” She bent down so she was at his eye level. He was blond, a little grubby and had a great smile. He reached up and gave her a hug. Then he walked away.

“I don’t think he talks,” Celia said.

“Maybe he’s learned it’s best to keep quiet. He’s probably having to grow up pretty fast in that household.”

Already, Billy was at his front porch, climbing the steps and letting himself in, looking far too mature.

“How old do you think he is?” Angela asked.

“Maybe three or four.”

As the door slammed behind Billy Rubio, Angela remembered why she’d run for the Cadillac yesterday. She’d done it to save a life. It was exactly the reason she’d convinced her sister to go with her to the police all those years ago and turn their father in.

To save lives.

Heading back inside the cabin, she wondered how Jake Farraday was doing.

He, too, had saved a life.

CHAPTER FOUR

INTENSIVE CARE MEANT a tiny room, lots of equipment and few visitors. Jake’s parents had stayed the first two nights, both of them looking a little shell-shocked. “When you quit the police force, we thought we wouldn’t need to worry so much,” his mother had murmured.

Barely conscious, he hadn’t had the energy to reassure her. Even in a half daze, he’d been pretty sure she wouldn’t want to know that the two jobs had a lot in common.

Now, a few days later, out of intensive care and in a regular room, his parents were down in the cafeteria giving him privacy while Rafe Salazar talked with him.

But Rafe played second fiddle to the doctor. He’d already held a light up to Jake’s eyes three times. And, clearly, the man’s favorite toy was a handheld recorder. The doctor came in at least two or three times a day that Jake knew of and spoke just about the same words into the machine.

At first it had been, “Muscle damage is minor, mostly bruising, and no ribs appear to be broken.”

They felt broken.

The doctor continued to talk, spewing words like pericardioscentesis, pulmonary artery and penetrating chest injury. Best of all were the words no damage to vital organs.

The bullet hadn’t even hit bone.

It had been a few days since the shooting and he could now sit up very slowly with the help of the mechanisms that lifted the bed, do a thirty-minute turn from lying on his back to his side—complete with teeth gnashing and bad words—and finally walk to the bathroom, holding on to the nurse, who scolded him about the bad words. Now the doctor merely noted range of movement, breathing and how the wound looked. It was still a dozen shades of purple, black, green and blue.

It bothered Jake that the bullet was still inside him and it hurt like crazy every time they repacked the wound.

And every day the doctor prescribed rest.

Jake was alive and, thanks to good health, he’d be functioning in a few weeks and as good as new in a few months.

Thank you, God.

Jake also very much appreciated the Level 1 trauma center in Tucson.

The doctor spoke to Jake. “Don’t tire yourself out.”

“Did you get a look at the two men in the Cadillac?” Rafe asked the moment the doctor left. He opened his briefcase and took out a laptop, which he promptly turned on.

Jake groaned as he forced himself to sit up a few inches. He’d worked undercover in motorcycle gangs, drug gangs and had even pulled a stint in the Mexican mafia, but he’d never taken a bullet before. Nope, he’d had to become a forest ranger for that to happen. And he still had to answer to the police.

“Somewhat. They were both big. One was bald and neither smiled.”

“You just described half my deputies,” Rafe said. “But that matches what Angela Taylor saw.” As sheriff, Rafe was in charge of a county that covered two towns and a whole lot of rural area. He supervised six men and one woman.

“I wrote down part of the license plate number.”

“We found that in the garbage truck. The Cadillac belongs to a taxi driver in Phoenix. It was reported stolen the day before the kidnapping attempt.”

“Figures.”

For a few minutes they discussed what they both suspected: Miguel was involved with meth labs and bear poaching. He owed money and the boy was to be used as collateral.

“I’m surprised he shot me. They had more than one opportunity.”

“That’s what Angela said. She didn’t get the idea that shooting was on their agenda.”

Jake nodded. “They could have easily shot her, too. How’s she doing?”

“Pretty good. A bit shaken up.”

“And everyone else?”

“It’s strangely quiet on Jackrabbit Road.” Rafe punched a few keys and soon Jake was looking at Angela standing with Ted Dilliard. Both had blood smeared on their clothes. Jake’s, no doubt. She wasn’t looking at the camera, probably wasn’t aware her photo was being taken. She was looking at the garbage truck. The wind held her black hair in its grasp. It didn’t look as if she was wearing makeup, not that she needed to. There was that upturned chin again. If anything, that’s what had helped Jake recognize her.

The word beautiful didn’t even begin to describe her. Her shirt was yellow with giant white buttons, her jeans were formfitting and she wore white tennis shoes. He thought about the way she’d dashed across her front yard, intent on saving a small child.

She, more than anyone he knew, had reason to keep a low profile.

“She and Ted saved your life.”

He’d taken a bullet and this time he hadn’t thought twice about blowing his cover.

Rafe kept talking, “We’ve looked a little closer at Dilliard. Fifteen years ago he was married, one child, lived in a middle-class neighborhood and seemed to be living the American dream.”

Trying to stay upright was wearing Jake out. But he wanted to hear what Rafe was saying. He looked at the photos of Ted Dilliard. He was an awkward-looking man, and for all the years he’d lived on the tract of land, Jake had only met him once on rattlesnake retrieval.

“His daughter died of a drug overdose when she was seventeen. A few months later Ted and his wife divorced. She’s living in California, remarried. Ted’s a recluse here.”

Suddenly, Ted didn’t look awkward; he looked sad.

“Was Miguel dealing fifteen years ago?” Jake asked.

“We thought of that angle but Ted’s been renting the mobile home for ten years. No way he could have predicted the Rubios would move there just a year ago.” Rafe continued through about thirty photos, not just of Angela and Ted but of the cul-de-sac’s skid marks and the tire tracks across Ted’s yard.

Jake had to force his eyes to stay open. “Where’s Judy Parker? She’s not in any of these photos.”

Rafe shook his head. “According to both Ted and Angela, she never left her porch.”

“Think she knew it was me and not just some garbage man?”

“That’s the only good thing about her hanging back. She never got close enough to see your face, and we’ve worked hard to keep it out of the papers. Right now, I think she and Miguel are clueless. They don’t even know Albert’s involved.”

“They’ve always been clueless,” Jake agreed. “What about Angela? How will we keep her in the dark?”

Rafe hesitated, then said, “We’re not going to. I spoke with her already, told her I knew why she was here. She wasn’t exactly happy with her federal agent, and she has no idea there’s a connection between the two of you. Ted also recognized you. I told both of them you were involved in some undercover work. Neither was surprised. I answered their questions without going into detail. Thank goodness, Ms. Parker stayed on the porch, but I still think your garbage-collecting days are done. My guess is the Rubios will be lying low, not doing anything illegal. They’ll feel vulnerable, especially Judy.”

“Is Angela...?” Jake rethought the question. “Are Angela and Ted in any danger?”

“I don’t think so. Neither of the Rubios has so much as said thank-you to Ted or Angela. Ted’s not leaving his house. Angela’s a little wary, which makes sense. She’s barely settled in and this happens. I’m hoping that she’ll only need to give a deposition instead of personally testifying.”

“Good. That will help keep her safe.” If it wasn’t for the pain, Jake would scream because he couldn’t do anything to help while bedridden. How long would it be before he could walk again, work again, protect again?

“Anything you want to tell me?” Rafe said. “You’re usually not this quiet. I’m starting to think the doc was right, and I need to let you rest.”

“Nothing to tell.”

Rafe stood. “Just one more thing. Talk about coincidence—while you were doing Albert’s garbage run, he was the victim of a robbery.”

“Is he all right?”

Rafe nodded. “He wasn’t home. Said he was only gone two hours. Enough time for someone to break in. He’s mad as spit that someone would steal his belongings.”

Amazed, Jake said, “Have you been to Albert’s cabin? How can he tell anything is missing?”

Albert’s cabin was truly in the middle of nowhere. His driveway was identifiable by an opening in the weeds. He was a hoarder. His long-deceased father had been hoarder, too. Jake figured that somewhere in Albert’s house there could be anything from a letter signed by George Washington to a Model-T Ford. That’s how eclectic Albert’s taste was.

“What’s missing?”

“Something called Bisbee Blue.”

Now Jake understood. Albert’s grandfather had been a miner at the copper mine in Bisbee. He’d recognized what the Phelps Dodge Corporation did not. The waste rock surrounding copper contained turquoise. Unlike many of his fellow workers, Albert’s grandfather hadn’t taken the beautiful hard stone home in his lunch box to sell. He’d kept it.

“I’ve seen a lot of Albert’s Bisbee Blue.” Jake pictured the boxes of turquoise, some polished nuggets, some rough, broken pieces the size of his hand all the way down to just a fingernail. Albert had most of the treasure stored in boxes. Some distant Cunningham relative had framed a few pieces.

Rafe shook his head. “None of it authenticated or insured.”

Jake closed his eyes, picturing the blue-green mineral formed by copper and iron that Albert cherished. What a Monday morning. Albert getting robbed, Billy almost getting kidnapped, Angela putting herself in harm’s way.

She had wound up in his neck of the woods unintentionally, sure, but now that Angela was here, he’d make up for what happened on the bus.

* * *

SATURDAY MORNING, WITH a fascination that both worried and impressed Angela, Celia stood in her favorite spot next to their big living-room window and peered around the curtain. She even held a notebook in which she recorded sightings.

“They might see you,” Angela said, eyeing the notebook and remembering how she’d kept one for the first few years on the run. She recorded the comings and goings of neighbors, the staff at the grocery store and every person who’d walked by their house.

Those first two years, when she and Marena lived together, Marena had taken the dominant role, reassuring Angela. It was a reversal for the twins. All their lives, Angela—make that Sophia Erickson—had been the risk-taker. She’d jumped in the deep end of the pool at age four. She’d had the nanny take her to the skateboard park at age five. She’d zip-lined at camp when she just six. Marena had been the bookworm. She’d loved the pool, but she’d taken a scooter and not a skateboard to the skateboard park and had only zip-lined hooked to her sister.

She’d rarely instigated.

But, in those first years in witness protection, Marena had been a single mother, too busy to let every shadow scare her.

Angela’s existence had been all about guilt and fear. What had she done? Buck had told her she had no reason to feel guilty and that fear was a good thing. “We had one young girl,” he said, “who couldn’t stay away from her friends. Only thing was, they weren’t really friends.”

All those years ago she hadn’t asked what happened; she knew.

Celia said, “I think they’re moving.”

Angela came to stand beside her. “What have you seen?”

“Lots of suitcases, but I can’t tell if they’re taking them out to that black truck or if they’re taking them inside. Plus, there’s a guy who looked a lot like the husband.”

“It’s not our business and I hope they are moving. Now, put your notebook away,” Angela said. “We’re going shopping.”

It was a beautiful day, with a predicted high in the sixties. Both Celia and Angela were ready to spread their wings.

“I can’t believe school starts on Monday.” Celia jogged out to the car, tucking her cell phone into her purse and smiling. She shot one more look at the Rubio place. “You know, ever since those men tried to take Billy, I’ve felt safer.”

It had to do with being a teenager. Great declarations would emerge in the middle of the most normal activities. “What do you mean?”

“Well, when I saw what you were willing to do for that little boy, I realized you’d do double for me.”

Based on how much Angela had laid out for dental bills, those teeth had better be strong.

Then, without so much as a transition, Celia changed the subject. “So, how much do I get to spend?”

“Three new outfits. We’ll decide on cost as we go.” Angela knew Celia. She wanted to go into Tucson to shop in a big mall. Angela wanted to do some investigating in both Scorpion Ridge and Adobe Hills. She had to be careful. The problem with searching for someone who was living under witness protection was she just couldn’t go into a shop, show a picture and say, “Have you seen this woman?”

If someone else was looking for Marena, they might get tipped off. If no one was looking for Marena, they might suddenly find reason to.

During the twenty-minute drive to Scorpion Ridge, Angela and Celia bargained. Celia agreed to give the clothing store in Scorpion Ridge a fair shot if Angela agreed to go to Tucson and do some mall shopping, too.

Especially since Celia was fairly certain that any small-town clothing store would not have what she wanted.

“Fair shot,” Angela reminded her niece.

At thirteen, Angela had gone shopping pretty much whenever and wherever she’d wanted. The mall had certainly been a favorite place, but more often she and her sister had shopped at luxury boutiques, never thinking about the cost.

Marena had been the clothes expert. Usually, Angela just got what Marena did but in a different color.

“This is cute,” Celia admitted after Angela parked the car. Betsy’s Bests, or BBs, was in a historic building that had always been a store. It had display windows on each side of the front door. One half was devoted to women—both Angela’s age and older. The other was devoted to kids.

Pushing open the door, Angela stepped inside and was immediately greeted by the owner. “Come in. I’m Betsy Madison. This is my store. How may I help you?”

“I start school Monday,” Celia said. “Mom says I can have a few new outfits.”

Funny how the number three had changed to “a few.”

Betsy was no dummy. Before Angela could add a word, the woman had her arm around Celia’s shoulder, was calling her by her first name and was leading her to the back of the room. Angela followed. Betsy’s Bests might be historic on the outside but it was glass-and-white and full-service on the inside. A white pillar was in the middle of the teen section. Mannequins sat on benches around the pillar, wearing jeans, shorts, crop tops and T-shirts.

“Most girls your age go for shorts,” Betsy said. “How long have you been here in Scorpion Ridge? I don’t think I’ve seen you before, and I know most everyone.”

“A little over a week,” Celia said.

Angela gave the barest nod of her head. She’d taught Celia to be careful, not to share much, and to stay as close to the truth as possible.

“What grade are you going into?”

“Eighth.”

An hour later Celia had five pairs of shorts, three new shirts and a backpack that looked more like a purse.

The only thing she couldn’t find at BBs was a pair of shoes she liked. “I’ve my mother’s feet,” Celia explained to Betsy. “Really narrow and sometimes we really have to shop before we find a pair I’ll wear.”

Betsy didn’t as much as blink. Instead she looked at Angela and said, “Are you thinking of a new outfit, too?”

Angela wasn’t, but rapport had built up between Celia and Betsy, and Angela wanted to sustain it.

“I could use a few new things. I’ll be looking for work soon.”

“We have business attire.” Betsy led Angela back to the ladies department and soon Angela was modeling a pair of black pants and a black-and-white shirt. She had three other shirts and a skirt on hangers, waiting for their turn.

“Do you have this in red?” Angela asked.

“I did but not in your size. I sold it a few months ago.”

“Too bad.”

Betsy followed her back to the dressing room, talking about what else she had in red. She waited while Angela changed into a different shirt.

“This one is too small,” Angela said, holding it over the top of the dressing room door. “Do you have it a size larger?”

“No, we’ve been out of size tens for a while now.”

Angela shook her head. “I’m not having any luck.”

Suddenly her luck changed.

“How odd,” Betsy said.

“What?”

“You have the exact same taste as the woman who bought the red and white. She bought this shirt, too. It’s why I don’t have a size ten. And, I believe the light green half jacket is one she tried on. Turns out, the color didn’t work for her.”

Angela held her breath for a moment, pursing her lips and trying not to hope. She always tried on green; it was so pretty. But it never looked good.

It made a crazy kind of sense. After all, she’d always followed Marena’s taste in clothes. She just hadn’t realized she did it even when Marena wasn’t there.

She’d had a lifetime of practice. They’d watched the same shows. Had crushes on the same boys. The day Marena went into labor with Celia, Angela’d had a stomachache.

Angela didn’t dare ask the woman’s name. That was too probing, not something you asked a salesclerk you didn’t know. Finally, Angela laughed and said, “If you tell me she had long, narrow feet, I’ll think it more than a coincidence.”

“I haven’t seen Abigail in quite a while,” Betsy continued. “I think she’s probably moved. She even had a purse a little like yours, maybe smaller.”

It was all Angela could do to hide her emotions. Abigail. She had to remember that Marena was Abigail. She wanted to whoop with joy and relief, but it was definitely too early for that. She also wanted to sit down, weep, pray. As for the purse being similar, Angela’s bag was designed for concealing a gun. Abigail probably had the same purse for the same reason.

“As for shoes? No, she didn’t buy them here.”

After Abigail had lost her leg, shoes had become a different kind of purchase.

“You know,” Angela said easily, “I’ve some cousins in the area. One of the reasons we moved here. I don’t even know all their names. What is Abigail’s last name?”

Maybe Angela had gone too far with the questions. Betsy’s eyebrow raised and she asked, “Who are you related to?”

Not a question that Angela had anticipated, but she did the best she could and named her landlord. “Bernice Holliday.”

Betsy smiled. “Bernice has a pack of family. She’s in Florida, right?”

Stay as close to the truth as possible.

“Yes, Orlando.” That had been the address Angela had seen on the rental agreement.

“Abigail never said anything about having family nearby,” Betsy remarked. “Would you like me to ring you up now?”

She made it perfectly clear that no personal information would be given. Angela didn’t want to push it. She’d come shopping more often, build a rapport. Then she’d delve deeper.

“I imagine the women in town flock to your store,” Angela said. “I’m certainly impressed.”

Betsy laughed. “Believe it or not, most of my business is from tourists. They like that they might actually get to buy an outfit that their friends can’t find at a big box store.”

Angela held out her hand and introduced herself, irritated because she wanted to know more about Abigail, but didn’t want to push her luck.

“Why, you’re the woman who helped save Jake’s life. How incredibly brave.”

Angela deflected the attention from herself. “It was mostly our other neighbor Ted.”

“I’m not sure I’ve met him. But I don’t know everyone.”

“How well do you know Jake?” Angela asked.

“Quite well. My brother’s a ranger up at the Grand Canyon. They worked together a few months ago when Jake was up there. They have a lot in common. I don’t think either of them will ever settle down.”

That was something Angela hadn’t asked the sheriff about: Jake’s family.

“I’m surprised he’s not married. He’s—”

“Good-looking,” Betsy agreed.

“Does Jake have family nearby?” Angela queried, surprised that the thought of him being alone bothered her.

“I’m not sure.”

Celia cleared her throat. “Mom, we still need to go to Tucson for shoes.”

Angela headed for the counter, took her wallet from her purse and waited for Betsy to calculate the amount. Angela fingered the black-and-white outfit and even though she’d told herself to take it slow, she took a chance. “So, I might see this outfit in red if I’m in town long enough?”

“I really don’t think so,” Betsy said. “Abigail Tetterman is what I call a professional shopper. She knows as much about thread count and quality as I do. She came in at least once a week, but I haven’t seen her in about three months, so I’m pretty sure she moved on.”

The bell on the front door tinkled as another customer came in. Betsy pointed out a purse that would go perfectly with Angela’s new black-and-white outfit, then moved to greet her next customer.

It had only been just over a week and Angela had a name. Abigail Tetterman. No wonder the Feds were so strict about following protocol.

Looking down at the outfit draped over her arm, Angela could almost hear her sister’s voice. “You don’t have to worry about me. Worry about Celia.”

In Angela’s world, worry was a bit like love.

There was enough for everyone.

CHAPTER FIVE

“WHO’S ABIGAIL AND why did you ask so many questions about her?” Celia asked.

Angela thought Celia had been too involved in her shopping to overhear, but apparently not.

From the time Celia was old enough, she’d known Marena as Aunt Lorraine. It was easier than trying to explain name changes to a child. Telling Celia that Abigail—Angela had a name!—was her aunt Lorraine didn’t seem a good idea since Abigail was missing. Sometimes sticking close to the truth seemed impossible.

“Abigail’s someone I used to hang around with. I was hoping she was still in this area.”

“Really?”

“What do you mean really?” Angela knew how to turn one question into another.

“Well,” Celia said, “you’ve never talked about anyone named Abigail. You never talk about the people you used to know at all.”

“It might be time to change that,” Angela said. “But Abigail lived here a long time ago, so I’m not expecting much.”

Luckily, Celia didn’t ask anything else. Soon they left Interstate 10 and drove toward the heart of Tucson, a vibrant, good-sized city with a rich history that seemed to meld with the present. Tiny bungalows lined the streets. Then came the University of Arizona. School must be starting soon. Everywhere she looked young people waved to each other from bicycles, sat around outdoor restaurant tables and walked in groups. Celia pressed herself against the window.

She’d been hearing about college since she started kindergarten. Her eyes held the hopefulness of youth. Angela remembered feeling the same way. But Celia’s dream wasn’t just college; it was staying in the same place for four years and making friends.

Angela held back a sigh. Celia always picked up on her moods. No way could Angela explain how she was feeling right now. One mention of Abigail had inspired Angela to want to find out more without delay.

Abigail had been in Scorpion Ridge, just as she’d told Angela, just as Buck Topher had reiterated. The Feds hadn’t sent her anywhere else. No, they were pretty well done with the Erickson girls. They’d already helped them relocate, find jobs, start a new life.

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