When Mallory spoke, her voice was unsteady. “Are we safe until morning?”

Finn watched her, a strange feeling filling his chest. His voice was husky when he answered her. “Yes. We’re safe until morning.”

“Okay, then…” she whispered. Then, without looking at him, she lay down, pulling the sleeping bag over her. Turning on her side, she tucked her hands under her face and stared at the fire. Finn had to fight the urge to cross the room and tuck the sleeping bag around her, to brush that wealth of hair back from her face.

Fragile. She looked so fragile. And alone. And if there was anything he understood, it was how it felt to be alone. His jaw tightening, he forced himself to turn away.

It was going to be a long night.

He jammed on his Stetson and headed for the door.

A damned long night.

Dear Reader,

The year is almost over, but the excitement continues here at Intimate Moments. Reader favorite Ruth Langan launches a new miniseries, THE LASSITER LAW, with By Honor Bound. Law enforcement is the Lassiter family legacy—and love is their future. Be there to see it all happen.

Our FIRSTBORN SONS continuity is almost at an end. This month’s installment is Born in Secret, by Kylie Brant. Next month Alexandra Sellers finishes up this six-book series, which leads right into ROMANCING THE CROWN, our new twelve-book Intimate Moments continuity continuing the saga of the Montebellan royal family. THE PROTECTORS, by Beverly Barton, is one of our most popular ongoing miniseries, so don’t miss this seasonal offering, Jack’s Christmas Mission. Judith Duncan takes you back to the WIDE OPEN SPACES of Alberta, Canada, for The Renegade and the Heiress, a romantic wilderness adventure you won’t soon forget. Finish up the month with Once Forbidden… by Carla Cassidy, the latest in her miniseries THE DELANEY HEIRS, and That Kind of Girl, the second novel by exciting new talent Kim McKade.

And in case you’d like a sneak preview of next month, our Christmas gifts to you include the above-mentioned conclusion to FIRSTBORN SONS, Born Royal, as well as Brand-New Heartache, award-winning Maggie Shayne’s latest of THE OKLAHOMA ALL-GIRL BRANDS. See you then!

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

The Renegade and the Heiress
Judith Duncan

JUDITH DUNCAN

is married and lives, along with her husband, in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. A staunch supporter of anyone wishing to become a published writer, she has lectured extensively in Canada and the United States. Currently she is involved with the Alberta Romance Writers Association, an organization she helped found.

To Marlene Dunn and Donna Levia

You are both worthy of rubies and pearls, but you know you can’t depend on me for anything.

So here are a million thanks instead.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Prologue

The mellow earth tones of a fading Alberta autumn lay over the rolling hills, the burnt umbers and rusts of prairie grasses like vibrant brush strokes on a canvas. A few brightly colored leaves still clung to wild berry bushes and copses of aspen, the splotches of yellow and red bright against the stark canopy of naked branches. And off on the western horizon, the jagged gray fortresses of the Rocky Mountains rose up, their high peaks now capped with snow, the base skirted with dense coniferous forests. All of it blended together in a palette of color, the distant panorama framed by the bright blue sky.

It had been a long, perfect Indian summer, and even down the streets of Bolton, the speckled colors of fall still lay draped over the trees and shrubs, the remaining leaves clinging tenuously to the branches, waiting for a hard wind to strip them away and send them tumbling to the ground.

Old Joe Jones thought of himself as something of a poet, and as he drove down the narrow tree-lined street, he figured the big old elm trees looked like grand ladies, dressed in their golden finery. And even though it was nearly the end of October, the lawns still showed signs of green, like faded, worn velvet, but a hard frost had turned the flowers into black rotting skeletons.

Fall was a particular favorite time of year for him. He liked the autumn colors, he liked the way the mountains were so sharp and clear on the western horizon, and he liked the way the street was matted with a carpet of gold and orange leaves. And he especially liked the smell of burning leaves that wafted in from somewhere nearby.

That thick carpet of fallen leaves crunched under the tires of his battered pickup truck as he edged over to the sidewalk, taking care not to speed. He got a speeding ticket once forty-five years ago, and he didn’t want another.

Joe passed by the cemetery on the other side of the street, the landscaped grounds surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and a hedge that turned all shades of red this time of year. The hedge was a beauty, but Old Joe figured that building the new senior citizens’ lodge right across the street from the graveyard was not very considered thinking. Although he had to admit it was a mighty pretty spot, that cemetery. All them big trees and evergreens, and those real pretty shrubs, especially in the spring. And flowers. In the summer, it was like a picture out of a magazine, with rows and rows of bright flowers. But the frost had gotten them too, and the caretaker had already dug them out. It was still mighty pretty, though, and it made a man’s heart lighter, looking at all that beauty.

Slowing down even more, he pulled up in front of the senior citizens’ lodge, parking close to the curb. He had to get at just the right spot because he was picking up George Walters. George had one of them three-legged canes that kept getting caught in the cracks, and the old guy was nearly eighty-five. Joe himself was seventy-eight, but even though he was a whole lot younger than George, he didn’t have the strength to get the retired farmer back up if he went down. Mostly because his pal was as round and as solid as one of them big market hogs George used to raise.

Today, he and George were going to the seniors’ drop-in center for the shuffleboard tournament. George hadn’t farmed in these parts, but his daughter lived in Bolton and George had moved into the lodge nearly a year ago. So he and Joe had become pals. And although he might be a bit unsteady on his feet, George could still lick the pants off anybody playing shuffleboard. That was why Joe liked him for a partner—they could clean the clocks of those yappy Campbell sisters without even breaking a sweat.

The other man was already waiting at the curb, leaning on his three-legged cane, a new John Deere cap on his head, his brown jacket zipped right up to the neck. Joe leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Howdy, George. All ready for this here big tournament?”

The other took his time climbing in, his joints stiff with arthritis. “Sure am.”

Joe glanced across the street and saw a familiar vehicle turn into the driveway for the cemetery, then pass between the two stone cairns that supported the wrought-iron gates. George slammed the door, pointing a bony figure at the big black SUV. “See that fella over there at least once a month—big man. Ran into him once when I was out walking. Must stand six-three—black hair and eyes like a hawk. A fine-looking fella—but he has a nasty scar on his face. Solemn type, if you know what I mean.”

His weathered face turning serious, Old Joe grasped the wheel and spoke, his tone almost reverent. “That’s Finn Donovan.”

George’s voice had a wheezy, waspy tone to it. “And who is Finn Donovan?”

Joe gave him a disgusted look. “You’ve lived here nearly a year and you don’t know who Finn Donovan is?”

George looked offended and was about to respond, but Old Joe didn’t give him a chance. He saw himself as something of a storyteller as well as a poet, and he took the opportunity to show his stuff. “Finn Donovan is a legend in these here parts. And that there legend is as tall and as broad as he is.”

Seeing he had George’s full attention, Old Joe put his battered pickup in gear and eased away from the curb. “Although I don’t expect there’s anyone who could say they know him—or would consider him a friend. But if there’s ever any kind of trouble in them mountains or in the backcountry—you know, like a plane crash or some of them hikers go missing, or if someone gets hurt real bad—Finn Donovan is the first person they call in. He has a way with danger.”

George thumped his cane on the floor, his gnarled hand gripping the handle as he glared at Old Joe, sounding cantankerous. “Then how come you know so much about him?”

Feeling smug, Old Joe nodded. “Well, you see, I work for him—do all kinds of odd chores. Treats me real good. He even gave me a place to live—there was a little house on his property he didn’t use no more. He’s one of them outfitters—you know, a big game guide. And I’ll tell you this. He’s the best durned tracker around. And he knows every crack and cranny in that there backcountry. That there terrain is so treacherous only a handful ever venture into it.”

Old Joe checked the intersection, then slowly turned onto the next street, checking his rearview mirror to make sure no one was coming up behind him. These young fools nowadays drove too fast. Repositioning his hands on the wheel, he continued his story. “Some say it’s because he’s one quarter Indian that he can find his way through them gorges and canyons and all that forest. Others who’ve traveled with him swear he’s part shadow and part mountain goat, and has a compass for a brain. Others say he’s so durned good at it because there’s a darkness in him—that he’s afeard of nothing.”

George looked at Joe, interest glinting in his eyes. “Sounds like you know all about him.”

Carefully skirting a pothole, Old Joe shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I do. Figure no one knows a whole lot about Finn, and that’s the way he likes it. I know he grew up in the backcountry. Raised by an uncle who had a string of packhorses—Frank used to hire himself out as a guide to them trophy hunters. But even back then, Finn kept to himself. His teachers said he was as smart as a whip.”

Resting both his hands on the top of his cane, George stared out the window, a frown appearing on his face. “You know. Now that you mention it, I recollect my daughter telling me about this outfitter who ended up in jail. Is that the same fella?”

Joe slowed for the school zone, pressing on the brakes when he reached the posted sign, the bright autumn sunlight splintering through the crack in his windshield. He didn’t want another damned ticket. No siree. His pace slowed to well below the limit, he answered. “Yep. That’s the one. It’s common knowledge that he killed a man—must have been fifteen or sixteen years ago. Some say it was self-defense, others say it was done in a hard, cold rage. Didn’t know him all that well myself back then, but there was common agreement that Roddy Bracken had it coming.”

Old Joe turned onto the street where the drop-in center was located, passed the fire hydrant, then eased into the parallel parking spot under the big old poplar tree. Putting on the emergency brake, he switched off the ignition, watching as the Campbell sisters made their way up the steps of the building. Durned old biddies. Always stirring up trouble.

George spoke up, that same wheezy, waspy tone in his voice. “So are you going to tell me the rest of this here story or not?”

Old Joe looked at him, puffing out his chest. He liked nothing better than telling stories, and he was pretty durned good at it. And although he’d never say so, he liked gossip as well as the next one.

“Well,” he said, leaning back in the seat, “as the story goes, there’d always been bad blood between Finn and Roddy. Even as youngsters they had it in for one another. But as soon as Finn was old enough, he lit out.”

He paused, trying to recollect, drawing on his trusty memory. “Seems to me he ended up working in some kind of construction—some big overseas project where the big money was. Anyhow, every once in a while, he’d turn up here, and he’d do a little guiding for his uncle.” He leaned forward and took the keys out of the ignition and dropped them in his shirt pocket, then looked at his companion. “But it wasn’t until he came back for good, with enough money to buy a place and set himself up as a guide that the bad blood between them two got stirred up again.”

George took a bag of peppermints out of his pocket and offered Old Joe one, then nodded his head, prodding his friend to continue. Old Joe did. “Sally Logan was the kindergarten teacher—one of them sweet girls who had a kind word for everybody. She grew up here in Bolton—only child of Irene and Marvin Logan—and there wasn’t a soul who didn’t like her. Anyhow, Roddy had been after her for years, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Then Finn showed up back in town, and she fell head over heels, and married him instead.”

Old Joe dragged his thumb across his mouth, his expression altering. “Everyone knew that Roddy had started packing a whole new grudge against Finn once that happened, but no one could have figured on the outcome.”

George thumped his cane on the floor. “Now don’t leave me hanging here. What happened?”

Joe sighed, staring out the window, then shook his head, recollecting. “Roddy came from big money, and he was spoilt rotten—had a cocky attitude. But that attitude turned mean and ugly after Sally married Finn. And one weekend…”

Old Joe hesitated, sobered by the awful recollection. It had been bad. Real bad. Knowing his friend was waiting for the rest, he drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “One weekend Finn had taken a group of rich Americans into the mountains on a fishing trip. Roddy got all fueled up on booze and drugs, and he showed up at Finn’s little house in town, and he raped that pretty young wife of his. When Finn got back and found out what had happened, he got Sally settled in the hospital, then he went after Roddy. I hear fury was like a wild thing in him. Some of them that was there testified that Roddy pulled a knife first and slashed Finn’s face. Then after there were some whisperings that Finn landed the first punch.”

Shaking his head, Old Joe rubbed his thumb against the worn spot on the steering wheel, sobered by the recollections. “But as to what really happened, no one ever really said. One thing for sure—Finn killed him. Broke his neck and tossed him halfway across the street afore anyone could stop him.”

Old Joe paused and stared off into space, recalling the dark history. Finally he took a breath and spoke. “It caused a real ruckus in the community. No one had much use for Roddy. And Sally—well, Sally was like one of them angels you see on the top of a Christmas tree—something pure and innocent about her.” Old Joe shook his head, thinking back. “There was general agreement that Roddy had it coming for what he did, but folks were still pretty uneasy around Finn. There was something about him—something what made folks walk soft around him.”

George stuck another peppermint in his mouth, his expression considering, then he spoke. “Well, if it was self-defense, how come he got sent to prison?”

Old Joe gave a small shrug. “Don’t really know. Some said it was the Bracken money that put Finn behind bars—some figured it was because Finn showed no remorse. But whatever the reason, Finn did eight years for manslaughter.”

George nodded. “A terrible thing. Terrible. Did his wife wait for him?”

Feeling a heavy weight in his chest, Joe rubbed his calloused hand around the steering wheel. His voice was very gruff when he spoke. “Well, she did and she didn’t. Finn’s appeal was denied, and he was hauled off to a maximum-security prison. Then about a month after he was put away, that girl was killed when her car went over an embankment. No one really knew if it was an accident, or if she just couldn’t face life without him—or if maybe she blamed herself for what happened to him. But the truth was, she was behind the wheel when it went over the edge, and they said she was going a fair clip.” Old Joe shook his head, recalling the funeral. Things like that weren’t supposed to happen in a place like Bolton. That sort of darkness wasn’t supposed to touch a small town, but it had. And the ripples were felt far and wide—maybe folks still felt the effects.

As much for himself as for George, he felt compelled to finish the story. “Old man Bracken eventually drank himself to death and Sally’s folks moved to the coast. And just when most everyone had put it behind them, Finn got out of jail.” What happened after that, Old Joe had seen with his own eyes, how folks couldn’t quite look Finn Donovan in the eye. Maybe out of shame for what happened. Maybe out of guilt because no one had reined Roddy in before. Or maybe, Old Joe figured, because no one could face the man. But the truth was that folks gave Finn Donovan a wide berth after he came home. Maybe because of the ugly scar across his face or the cold, flat look in his eyes.

Resting his weight on his cane, George spoke. “You have to wonder why he came back here, after all that happened.”

Joe shrugged. “I expect because he had roots here. When he first came back, I used to hear things from his uncle. Like how he’d bought a big chunk of property just off the main road to Kananaskis Country. I heard he was building a log cabin on the place, and then somebody told me he was restoring the old log cabins that were already there. Then the fella at the lumberyard blabbed it around that he had put a new roof on the old log barn.” Joe took off his cap and combed his fingers through his thinning hair, then replaced his cap. “Yep, when he first came back, there were all kinds of rumors going around. There was one that when he was in jail, that he’d invested the money he got from the sale of their little house. Some folks say he made a killing on some gold shares. Then it got out that he bought a string of horses from the McCall brothers and he was back in business. But to be real honest, I don’t think anyone really knew for sure what he was up to. After his uncle died, the talk slowed to a trickle.” He looked out the window, watching a cat stalking something in the long grass beside the drop-in center. “But we’d hear about him from time to time—when something happened in the backcountry, and he’d be brought in to help out.”

He met his old friend’s gaze. “I started working for him about five years ago—must be five years—I know he was thirty-seven when he hired me. And all I can tell you is that Finn Donovan doesn’t show his cards to anyone. Folks still speculate, but the facts are a muddle,” he said. Then drawing on his skill as a poet, he added, “It’s all twisted by time an’ tainted by fiction. But he’s pulled a lot of people out of that backcountry. And his reputation as a tracker is part of that there legend. And it’s kept alive by the retelling.”

But there were some things Old Joe didn’t tell his shuffleboard partner. He didn’t tell him that he had the feeling that Finn Donovan knew he cast a long shadow in the ranching community, and that was one of the reasons he kept to himself. Old Joe knew that sometimes in the winter, when the nights were dark and cold, Finn Donovan would take off for warmer climes. And, Old Joe suspected, warm bodies. He figured that it had taken his boss a lot of years to disconnect from the past. And that he wanted to keep it that way. As Old Joe saw it, Finn Donovan lived from season to season.

The cemetery stretched across a rise of land, opening it up to a view of the mountains, the trees along the drive still golden with the last of the autumn foliage. Finn Donovan settled his black low-crowned Stetson on his head as he got out of his SUV, then reached across and retrieved a spray of perfect pink roses off the passenger seat. Slamming the door behind him, he walked between the rows of headstones, the flowers clutched in one hand, his expression somber as he thought about this pilgrimage. He wondered where the last year had gone.

The scent of autumn hung in the crisp clean air, underscored by the faint smell of burning leaves and the sweet fragrance of the roses. Reaching the small white marble headstone tucked in between two lilac bushes, he crouched down, brushing away the fallen leaves.

Sally Lynn Donovan, beloved wife and daughter.

Experiencing the familiar hollowness in his chest, Finn took off his hat and carefully placed the spray against the white marble. She would have been thirty-seven today. He couldn’t imagine her at thirty-seven. She had been so young when she died—only twenty-two—and she had remained young and full of life in his mind. But after fifteen years, he could no longer recall her image, and that made the empty feeling in his chest expand. His sweet, sweet Sally. It had been so long ago, it was almost as if that part of his life had never happened.

Getting to his feet, he repositioned his hat on his head and stared at the grave for another moment. Then he turned and started back toward his truck, the fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet. He looked toward the western horizon, checking to see if there was a weather system moving in against the Rocky Mountains. He wanted good weather. First thing tomorrow, he was heading out into those mountains to restock and repair the line shacks he used as base camps on his most frequently used routes. It was a trip he made every fall. Sometimes he wondered why he did it. Other times, he knew exactly why.

Chapter 1

The weather did hold, and Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear. There was still a touch of frost hanging in the air as Finn reined his big buckskin gelding around and headed up the trail behind the barn. His dog Rooney nosed through the underbrush, his head down tracking some scent. The packhorse, all loaded down with supplies, plodded along behind him.

If he had special-ordered it, Finn couldn’t have asked for a better day to head out. Not a cloud in the sky, the air crisp and clean, aspens still cloaked in gold, the rugged countryside so beautiful it made his chest hurt. Dried fallen leaves crunched beneath Gus’s freshly shod hooves as they passed through a thick stand of poplar, their passage startling a huge raven off the trail ahead. It was the kind of day where a man should be able to fill his lungs and savor being alive. But for some reason, the brightness of the day left Finn feeling even more empty than usual. For more years than he cared to remember, he’d been making this trip. And over the years, it had turned into a kind of spiritual pilgrimage—a time to think, a time to assess and evaluate, a time to try and locate some small kernel of peace within himself. But finding even a trace of that inner contentment was becoming harder and harder to do. He wasn’t even sure what he hoped to find in himself anymore.

Guiding Gus around a shale face, Finn hardened his jaw and studied the jagged gray barrier rising up in his path. Maybe he was just like those mountains. So damned hardened and dead inside, there was nothing left.

It was a long, empty ride. By the third day out, the skies had turned dark and somber, and the wind kept changing direction. A sure sign that something ugly was building in the mountains. Finn had spent the first night and the entire second day at the first line shack, making repairs to the roof, stocking the shelves with nonperishables and chopping a supply of wood. It was a little after noon when he headed out, and by the time he reached the old tree shattered by lightning, a weather front had moved in. The sky had gotten heavier and more ominous, and the dense, heavy clouds huddled low, with the wind beginning to shift and moan.

It was midafternoon when the first snowflakes started to spiral down, and Finn shifted in the saddle, the thick flakes catching in his eyelashes and graying the landscape. Squinting against the falling snow, he flipped up the collar of his fleece-lined coat, then turned to check on Trouper. The packhorse followed without a lead, and the piebald was plodding along behind, his gait slightly off from a crooked shoulder. The corner of Finn’s mouth lifted just a little. Trouper was probably the most miserable piece of horse-flesh he’d ever laid eyes on—thick neck, huge head with mulelike ears, hooves the size of dinner plates, and a thin, stubby tail.

But in spite of all his bad conformation, Finn wouldn’t have traded him for a sack of gold. Trouper was the best packhorse, bar none, that he had in his stable. He was as surefooted as a goat, had better mountain sense than most humans, and was as wily as a coyote. If Finn ever needed to get out of a bad situation, all he had to do was turn the horse around, smack him on the rump and let the big piebald lead him home.

A smile still tugging at his mouth, Finn straightened in the saddle, angling his head against the falling snow, using the wide brim of his Stetson to keep the snow out of his eyes. He checked the underbrush, then whistled for Rooney. The dog appeared on the trail in front of him, tail wagging, his eyes bright. Rooney was mostly German shepherd, with a few other strains mixed in, and the dog loved these outings. Finn figured that between Trouper and Rooney, he had every contingency pretty much covered.

Finn guided the buckskin around a thick knot of twisted roots, the gust of cold air funneling down around him. Pulling his collar higher, he wondered why in hell he continued to do this—to make this ride every fall. He was getting too old for this crap. And on top of his current disinclination, he did not like the low, ominous sound of the wind.

The buckskin had to lunge up the last steep leg of the trail, and when they broke into a small clearing, Finn reined up, squinting against the whiteness as he studied the sky. The rugged landscape was nearly obscured by the falling snow, the outcroppings of granite and the trunks of trees like ghost shadows in the gloomy whiteness. An eerie silence had settled like a thick blanket, muffling even the sounds of the horse’s breathing. He didn’t like the feel of it, and he didn’t like the way the wind kept shifting. Nor did he like the way the snow was coming down. Unless he missed his guess, there was a helluva storm brewing, and it was the kind of warning anyone who knew these mountains would never ignore. Especially when the second line shack was still a good day’s ride away.

His mount tossed his head and pulled on the reins, then dropped his head and began grazing on thin clumps of grass now coated with white. Within seconds, the gelding’s black mane was thickly dusted with the big wet flakes.

Allowing the horse his head, Finn rested his arms on the saddle horn and stared off into the distance, his expression fixed with consideration. He didn’t like the look of it. Didn’t like the feel of it. And it wasn’t as if he had to complete the trip—and he sure as hell didn’t relish getting caught out here in an early blizzard. This trip was mostly for his own peace of mind.

He studied the scene for a moment longer, then made up his mind. The smart thing to do was turn around and head home. His decision made, he reined his mount around, giving a spoken command to the packhorse.

Their tracks were already covered by the time he crossed the narrow draw, and Finn settled in for a long, miserable ride, the dampness like a cold, wet blanket around him.

The snow continued to fall as Finn backtracked, the sky growing heavier and heavier. He tipped his hat lower on his head, then pulled the collar tighter around his neck and snapped it closed as he guided Gus onto the old goat trail which traversed a rocky ridge. Below was the fast moving river, the water cold and gray and dangerous. It felt as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees, and Finn hunched in the warmth of his coat.

Rooney appeared from the underbrush, his brown-and-black coat dusted with white, his tail arched over his back. He sniffed along the trail, then started across the ridge, his head low, tracking some critter as he trotted ahead of Finn. Suddenly the dog stopped and cocked his ears, turning his head into the wind, his body going perfectly still. Rooney held that pose for a split second; then he dropped his head and emitted a low growl. Finn watched the dog, his expression tightening.

Rooney was as much a legend as his master—a natural tracker and as close to human as any dog could get. He had been on more rescue missions than Finn could count, and just two months before, he’d successfully tracked a kid lost in the bush. He was no ordinary dog. And when he went on alert like that, Finn paid attention.

Finn rode along the ledge to where Rooney was standing, then reined up, turning his mount for a clear view. His expression fixed, he let his gaze slowly drift over the scene below him. Squinting against the relentlessly falling snow, he scanned the scene again, his attention arrested by a shadow of movement on the far side of the river. His muscles tensing, he shifted his head slightly, allowing his peripheral vision to catch the movement again, then he focused on the spot. No doubt about it—someone was there, a barely visible figure stumbling through the heavy veil of falling snow.

A cold prickle feathered along the back of his neck, and Finn narrowed his eyes. Not only should there not be anyone in that area, something was also definitely wrong. Yanking off his doeskin gloves, Finn twisted in the saddle, flipped open one saddlebag and took out the case holding his binoculars. He yanked the powerful binoculars free, then lifted them to his eyes, swearing when he couldn’t locate his target through the heavily falling snow. Finally he got a fix, and he went dead still.

The stumbling figure was a woman, dressed only in a dark green sweater and slacks, with something black wrapped around her head. And the reason she was having so much trouble keeping her feet under her was because it appeared that her hands were tied together in front of her. And even at this distance, Finn could recognize fear. Jamming the binoculars back in the case, he wheeled his mount around, his voice sharp as he gave a hand signal indicating the distant figure. “Rooney. Go. Go find.” He wheeled Gus around again, giving Trouper the command to stay, then he spurred the gelding toward the narrow twisting trail that led down from the ridge, his expression grim, an ugly feeling unfolding in his gut.

It was pretty damned obvious she was on the run from something or somebody—and that was bad enough. But it was going to take him at least half an hour to get to her—half an hour through falling snow and dropping temperatures, and terrain that was so dangerous it was an accident just waiting to happen. But there was no shortcut. He had to get down from the damned ridge, then fight his way through the dense bush to the old wash below and find a reasonably safe, shallow place to ford the cold, churning river.

A series of barks signaled Rooney’s movements, and Finn settled his weight in the saddle, his face even grimmer. Out of habit he loosened the rifle in the scabbard, a hard knot in his belly as he urged his horse downward, ducking to miss some low-hanging branches. It was going to be one hell of a ride. He just hoped he got her before whoever was after her did.

Pushing his mount and his horsemanship to the limit, Finn battled his way through the rough terrain, one forbidding thought replaying in his brain. If she were to lose her bearings and stumble down the steep bank and into the river, she wouldn’t stand a chance in hell. And he wouldn’t stand a chance in hell of getting her out.

Every minute seemed like an hour, and by the time he finally found a safe, shallow place to ford the churning, glacier-fed river, a good thirty minutes had passed. And by the time Gus scrambled up the bank, the snow was falling so heavily, Finn could barely make out anything.

Breaking through a thick stand of trees on the periphery of the natural meadow, Finn squinted into the blur of white, his heart missing two solid beats when he spotted her on the ground, Rooney whining and nuzzling her head.

Dread shooting through him, Finn pushed his mount into a gallop. Reaching her, he reined up, and he was out of the saddle before the gelding stopped moving. She was lying there, so still. So very still.

Dropping to his knees beside her, he stripped off his gloves, his frozen breath hanging in the air as he pressed his fingers against the carotid artery in her neck. He found a pulse, and a feeling of relief pumped through his chest. She had a pulse. And he could see her breath in the cold air. That at least gave him something to work with.

Rooney whined and nuzzled her again, and Finn pushed the dog away, his voice gruff when he spoke. “Down, boy. Give me some room here.”

The figure on the ground stirred, and with a massive effort pushed herself up, the fingers on one bound hand closing around a grapefruit-sized rock on the ground. Realizing she had every intention of slugging him, Finn grasped her bound wrists, humor lifting one corner of his mouth. If she had enough juice left to slug him, she was in better shape than he expected. Muttering something, she tried to jerk free from his hold. As she gave a savage twist, the black garment on her head—the thing that looked like a black hangman’s hood—slipped over her eyes, partially blinding her.

Grasping her wrists in one hand, Finn tightened his hold, not about to take any chances with the rock. “Easy, now. Easy,” he murmured quietly, then reached out and pulled the head cover off, releasing a cascade of long, wild red hair.

Still trying to fight her way free, she gave her arms another hefty jerk, grinding out the kind of cusswords he rarely used. Half amused by her tenacity, but with one eye still on the rock she had clutched between her hands, he grasped her arms, holding her immobile. Okay. So he’d give her a minute, until she realized he was not a threat; then he would try to talk some sense into her.

Dragging herself to her knees, she shook the curly mop of hair out of her eyes, then lifted her head and glared at him. She might as well have hit him with the rock. Finn stared at her, his pulse coming to a complete stop. He felt as if an avalanche had broken loose in his chest. With the snow falling around her like something mystical—and that cascade of fantastic hair—it was as if she were right out of some childhood fable. Snowflakes caught in her bright copper hair like perfect jewels, and the sensation in Finn’s chest expanded. She was almost too much to comprehend. With her face sprinkled with freckles, and with her flashing eyes the exact color of spring moss—she reminded him of the wild Celtic warriors that were part of his Irish heritage. It was, he thought dazedly, as if a piece of ancient history had suddenly landed right in his lap.

For an instant, it was almost as if she were transfixed—like a deer caught in headlights, the undercurrent of terror paralyzing her. Then fire and fight appeared in those wide eyes, and she tried to twist free again.

Finn tightened his hold and spoke again, his voice low and gruff. “It’s okay. It’s okay—I’m not going to hurt you.”

As if finally realizing it was a total stranger who was holding her, she let go of the rock, then covered her face with her bound hands, a violent reaction shuddering through her. “Oh, God. Oh, God,” she whispered brokenly over and over again, her body folding into itself, as if all her strength was gone.

It was as if her words broke Finn’s own trance, and he hauled in a deep breath. Roughly snapped back to reality, he quickly brushed the snow off her hair, not wanting it to melt and leave her head wet. His expression tightened. There was something wrong—very wrong—with her eyes. They were dilated, almost as if she’d been hit on the head—or heavily drugged. Recognizing the sluggishness of her movements as the onset of hypothermia, he finished brushing the snow off her, then pulled her against him, trying to shelter her with his body. Pressing her head against his shoulder, he wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice husky. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

A sob broke from her and she huddled into him, and Finn tightened his hold, trying to fold her in his own warmth. As if handling a terrified animal, he rubbed her back. His tone quiet and calm, he spoke again. “The name’s Finn Donovan.” Very carefully he turned her so he could get at her bound hands. “And I’m going to check you over to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere. Then I’m going to get the knife off my belt, and I’m going to cut the bindings on your wrists, okay?” The only response he got was another ragged intake of air, and he pressed her head more firmly against him, giving her a little shake. “Okay? I don’t want you to be scared. I’m just going to check you over, then I’m going to cut you loose.”

He knew it was a rotten thing to do, to leave her hands tied, but he didn’t want to give her a chance with that damned rock again. Keeping his touch slow and light, he checked her head, looking for any bumps that might explain the glazed look in her eyes. All he found was a couple of lacerations on the back of her head and some scrapes. And the only other injuries were some deep scratches on her hands. Reaching back under his coat to retrieve the knife in the leather sheath strapped to his belt, he spoke again, using the same tone he used on a spooked horse. “I’m not going to hurt you, honey. I just need to use it to cut the bindings, okay?”

As if the last of her strength had just deserted her, she shuddered and went slack in his arms. “Okay,” she answered weakly, her voice soft and thick.

Bringing the knife from under his coat, Finn cut the thick layers of silver duct tape binding her wrists. A strange feeling rose up in his belly when he pulled the tape away, and discovered that whoever had bound her had been in such a hurry, they had taped tightly over her watch, and her skin was purple and bruised from the pressure. His expression hardened by unexpected anger, he replaced the knife in the sheath, snapping the cover closed. Then he awkwardly removed his thick coat, trying to keep one arm around her.

With the sheepskin lining still warm from his body heat, he wrapped it around her, tucking the collar tightly around her neck. Then as if dressing a rag doll, he stuffed her arms into the sleeves. He was a big man, and the coat enveloped her, the sleeves long enough to cover her hands.

It was as if his tucking the coat around her broke through her shock, and she finally realized she was truly safe. Grasping the down-filled vest he had on underneath his coat, she curled into his arms. “Oh, God, oh God,” she sobbed over and over again.

For some reason, her hanging on to him made Finn’s heart hurt. Tight-faced with concern, he buttoned up the coat, tucking the folds snugly around her, then he spoke, stroking more snow from her hair. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, his tone husky, “but whatever it is, I think we’d better get you out of here.”

Making sure the coat was tucked firmly around her, he scooped her up, then got to his feet. The moment he straightened with her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on, another sob breaking loose. It was as if the exposure to warmth set something off in her, and she started to shiver violently. A strange sensation climbing up his chest, Finn turned and started toward Gus, immediately recognizing two things. One: she was not a tiny little thing. And two: they were in a very bad situation. If he’d had any doubts before, he was now damned sure she was running from someone, and that alone was bad enough, especially when the clearing was so exposed. But the worst part was that they didn’t have many hours of daylight left. And it was clear that she was definitely in no shape to spend a night, as had been his original plan, in a makeshift shelter. Which meant at least a three-hour ride back to the first line shack.

As if aware of what was going on in Finn’s head, Rooney remained on guard. The dog stood behind Finn and stared off across the clearing, his ears pricked, his attention fixed, as if watching for someone to appear. Knowing the dog would give him advance warning, Finn concentrated on the redhead. A funny feeling unfolded in his chest as he shifted his hold, and she immediately tightened hers. He gave himself a few seconds for the sensation to settle; then he tucked his head against hers and spoke, his throat tight. “Do you think you could stand up if you held on to old Gus here? I need to get some extra gear out of the saddlebags for you.”

She didn’t respond for a second; then she gave a single nod, but she didn’t loosen her grip. The corner of Finn’s mouth lifted just a little. He gave her a little squeeze and spoke again, his voice gruff. “You’re going to have to let go of me, honey. I don’t think this will work if you keep holding on.”

A weak, muffled response came from the vicinity of his neck. “Don’t call me honey.”

Finn’s expression relaxed into a wry smile. At least she had some fight left in her. That had to be a good sign. Making sure she was sheltered by the horse, he carefully set her down, the wind whipping her long hair across his face. It felt like strands of silk, and another avalanche took off in his chest. He had forgotten how silky a woman’s hair could feel.

Avoiding her gaze, he took her hand and tucked it under the cinch so she had something warm and solid to hang on to. Then he went around to the other side of the horse and took two pairs of heavy wool socks, a black wool cap and a heavy scarf out of the saddlebag. The snow was coming down so heavily that he could barely see the trees at the far side of the clearing, and his expression sobered as he latched the buckles back up on the saddlebag. Now the heavy snowfall was a blessing. As long as it continued, that snow was going to provide excellent cover.

The extra clothing in his hand, he rounded the horse again. She was standing with one hand grasping the saddle horn, and she was weaving around like a Saturday night drunk, trying to get one foot into the stirrup. Experiencing a small flicker of amusement, Finn stuffed the gear in his pocket. Then he reached out and steadied her. At least she was aimed in the right direction.

Knowing there was only one way to do this, he stepped beside her, caught her leg and hoisted her up. She grasped the saddle horn and steadied herself, her eyes closed and her face very white, her whole body wracked with shivers.

Shutting down his expression, Finn yanked the socks out of his pockets. Her shoes were very fine leather, and knowing that wet leather was a better insulator than no leather at all, he pulled both pairs of socks over her shoes. The long cuffs of the socks stretched almost to her knees. He finished pulling on the last sock, and he was pulling up the cuff when she whispered, her voice thick. “Thank you.”

One hand still resting on her leg, he glanced up at her. She was hanging on to the saddle with both hands, and it was clear that she was fighting with all she had to remain conscious. His gaze narrowing, he took another hard look at her eyes, and Finn experienced a cold feeling deep in his belly. He was no doctor, but he was willing to bet his best horse that she was fighting the effects of heavy-duty drugs. Which put her in even more danger. He experienced another cold sensation. They were both sitting ducks out here in the middle of the clearing.

Catching a glimmer of fear in her expression, he forced a half smile onto his face. “You’re welcome.” He undid the wool army blanket from the back of his saddle, and tucked it under her arms. Then grasping the reins and horn in one hand, he put his foot in the stirrup and swung up behind her. Gus tossed his head and did a side step in response to their combined weight, and Finn corrected him with a small jerk of the rein and a sharp command to whoa.

Bracing her weight against him, Finn pulled the wool cap over her head, then wound the scarf over the top of that. Shifting her legs so she was sitting sidesaddle, he wrapped the blanket around her, covering her from head to foot.

It was as if his covering her up allowed her to let go, and he felt her sag against him, her head lolling against his shoulder. He would have thought she was out cold, but she grasped the back of his belt, as if she needed something to hang on to.

His face hardening, he shifted her slightly so he could support her weight with one arm, then lifted the reins and clucked to Gus. An ominous feeling—one that slid like cold fingers down the back of his neck—made his jaw harden even more. He felt as if he had a gun pointed at his back. A long time ago, he had learned to respect his gut feelings—and his gut was telling him to get the hell out of that meadow and across the river, where they would be less exposed.

Giving Rooney a quiet command to heel, Finn rode through the clearing, the falling snow sticking to the trunks of the aspens and coating the rocky outcroppings. Visibility was maybe two hundred feet and getting worse by the minute. It was a damned good thing he knew this area. With conditions the way they were, it would be very easy to lose his bearings. And getting lost was the last thing they needed.

The wind gusted, sending the snow swirling in front of him, and Finn squinted against it, the landmarks nearly impossible to see in the near-whiteout conditions. But he wasn’t going to complain about that. If landmarks were invisible, so were they. And right now invisibility afforded them the best protection of all.

Another gust of wind flurried around them, pulling some of her hair loose and feathering it across Finn’s mouth. Tightening his arm around her, he transferred the reins to that hand, then tucked the blanket more snugly around her head. She muttered something and stirred and Finn pressed her head more firmly against him and spoke, his voice low and gruff. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He tucked a loose flap of blanket under her head, then spoke again. “It’s going to get a little rough here. We have to ford the river, and the banks on either side are pretty steep. So just hang on, okay?”

He felt her hand shift on his belt. “Okay,” she whispered, and Finn could feel her tighten her grip and fight to remain conscious, but the fight only lasted seconds, and she went slack in his hold. Locking his jaw against her vulnerability, he scanned the rough terrain through the falling snow, trying to spot the huge boulder that marked the location where he’d forded the river. Now all he had to do was get her from this side of the river to the other, keeping her dry in the process, and they’d be relatively safe.

With the ford hidden under boiling white water, the river provided a formidable natural barrier. No one in his right mind would even consider crossing it. No one, except Finn.

They made it across safely, although Finn got a shot of adrenaline when Gus stumbled once in midstream, and it was all Finn could do to hold on to her. And there was another tense moment going up the other bank, the falling snow, the steepness of the riverbank and the extra weight testing the horse’s strength and agility to the limit.

But once in the impenetrable cover of the trees, Finn relaxed a bit, knowing their tracks would be obliterated within minutes. And with the river between them and whoever she was running from, he felt reasonably sure they were safe—at least for the time being.

Finn whistled for the packhorse, hoping that it wouldn’t take the animal too long to find him. Finn had been well schooled in the unpredictable treachery of the mountains—especially this time of year—and he always carried spare gear. As far as his own welfare was concerned, he could manage with what he had on. He had dressed for the weather—thermal underwear, heavy wool shirt and an insulated vest, his felt Stetson. But he was going to have to get more clothes on her—and something hot into her, or she could end up in big trouble.

Rooney appeared through the trees, shaking water from his thick coat, his ears pricked. Finn’s expression eased a little. The dog was totally pleased with himself, and it almost looked as if he were grinning. The weight in his arms pulled on his shoulder, and Finn focused on his passenger. Shifting her weight so she was more balanced in the saddle, Finn tucked the blanket tighter around her. Now all he had to do was get her back to the line shack.

They had just rounded the bend in the trail when there was a sound of something moving through the bush, then a few seconds later Trouper appeared on the trail behind them. Finn experienced another flicker of humor. It was as if the damned horse knew exactly where they were headed.

The heavy canopy of trees provided some shelter from the falling snow, and now distanced from the sound of the river, it was as if the whole world was enveloped in a peculiar stillness.

Gus stumbled on some loose shale, the sharp movement jarring his passenger to consciousness. She began to struggle weakly, and it dawned on Finn that the snug folds of the blanket wouldn’t feel a whole lot different from the black hood. Telling Gus to whoa, Finn spoke, his voice calm and quiet. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Everything is okay.” Shifting his hold, he peeled the blanket away, his insides giving a funny twist when she opened her eyes and stared at him, confusion transfixing her. Needing to reassure her, he managed a lopsided smile. “How are you doing in there?”

She stared at him a second, then as if realizing who he was, she closed her eyes. Then she swallowed hard and looked up at him, her eyes still glazed, her pupils dilated. “I’m fine. But I’m really thirsty,” she whispered.

He gave her another half smile. “Tell you what. There’s a place just up ahead that’s really sheltered. We’ll pull up there, and I’ll build a fire, then make you something hot to drink.”

Her eyes widened and she tried to struggle free, panic claiming her. “No!” she muttered, trying to break loose. “No.”

Gus started to toss his head and sidestep, and Finn gave him a sharp command, aware that if she really started to fight him, they could both end up on the ground. And right now, that was the last place he wanted to be. Letting go of the reins, he locked his arms around her, holding her immobile. “Easy,” he said, his voice husky. “Easy. It’s okay.”

She gripped his arm and hauled in a deep, uneven breath, then opened her eyes again. Staring at him, her gaze dark with fear, she tried to sit up, the black wool hat accentuating her fair skin. “No.” She swallowed and abruptly closed her eyes again, as if suddenly very dizzy. Her face noticeably paler, she swallowed again and looked up at him. “No. We can’t. If we—if we stop—” She forced in another deep breath and spoke again, her voice shaking. “If we stop, they’ll find us.”

Snow slid from one of the heavy spruce boughs overhanging the trail, plopping on the ground in front of them, and Gus tossed his head, his bridle jingling.

His expression very thoughtful, Finn stared down at the woman, studying her pale face, considering the pros and cons. Common sense told him to stop, caution warned him to move on. The hat covered her head down to her ears, but her thick, red hair hung past her shoulders, its copper color bright against the dull gray of the blanket. His expression sober, Finn again considered his charge. Then he spoke, his voice quiet. “We still have a good two-hour ride to shelter. And I think it would be a good idea if I got something hot into you.”

Her movements very sluggish and her eyes shut, she twisted her head. “No. Please,” she beseeched. “If they find you—if they find you with me—they’ll kill you too.”

His expression fixed, Finn studied her, processing what she had said. He didn’t like the sound of that—not one bit. And if that really was the case, he needed to get her as far away as possible from that small meadow. He had a spare mackinaw and a survival blanket packed in the gear on the packhorse, and he debated about getting them. Then he decided against it. With her all wrapped around him, she was plenty warm enough. And she had stopped shivering. Besides, she was so far out of it, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get her back on the horse if she slid off.

Turning her head so her face was against his neck, she let go a soft sigh and went slack again. Affected by that small show of trust, Finn carefully tucked the blanket around her, then made his decision. He never dismissed anyone’s fear, and hers was very real. But the fact that she didn’t seem to be suffering any serious effects from exposure was the deciding factor. And if they moved out now, they would be at the line shack before darkness settled in.

Satisfied that she was well enough insulated to contain her own body heat, he adjusted his position on the back of the horse. Hoping that Gus was up to carrying double through the rough terrain ahead of them, he picked up the reins and urged his mount forward. Now that she had voiced her fear, there were a dozen questions he wanted answers to. But those questions would have to wait. If he was going to get from Point A to Point B in this kind of country, while trying to hold on to a woman who was half out of it, he’d need to have his wits about him. With the snow coming down the way it was, making it even more treacherous underfoot, he couldn’t afford to let his mind wander for even a moment, or they could both end up dead.

And he wasn’t about to let that happen.

Chapter 2

It took just a little over three hours to get from Point A to Point B. A heavy twilight had settled in by the time Finn reached the narrow, twisting trail leading up to the cabin. The snow had stopped an hour earlier, and it had turned very still, with just a breath of air moving through the dense spruce and pine. It was so still that the branches remained heavily laden, the caps of snow still clinging to even the most fragile branches. The smell of pine hung in the cold, still air, and even in the fading light, Finn could see the tiny prints of blue jays in the unspoiled blanket of snow.

The snow was so thick, so undisturbed, it was as if a white cover had been draped over the entire landscape, the whiteness now tinged with the purple and blue shadows of the encroaching night. It was going to be one of those pitch-black nights, where the heavy cloud cover blocked out even a trace of starlight, and that suited Finn just fine. That kind of darkness would serve them well.

He wasn’t too sure what was really going on with the woman sagging heavily in his arms. After periodically coming to, then trying to fight her way out of the constraints of the blankets, she had finally gone quiet. And thank God for that. A couple of times she had put up such a struggle that he’d nearly lost her, and he was feeling the strain in his entire body.

But she had barely moved in the past hour, and the only thing that assured Finn she was still alive was the rise and fall of her chest. He couldn’t tell if she’d just given in to whatever was in her system, or if she was genuinely asleep. But one thing for sure was that she was getting damned heavy. His left arm, the one that was bearing most of her weight, felt as if it was being slowly extracted from the socket, and his hand had been numb for at least forty minutes. And on top of all that, he was beginning to feel the cold. He had maybe a hundred yards to go—that was all.

As he guided Gus through the shallow stream adjacent to the cabin, he caught something on the air—something faint—something almost indistinguishable. Reining his mount to a full stop, he went still and turned his head, his expression intent as he listened. His tracker’s senses finely tuned, he was finally able to extract a distant sound from the chilled silence. He shifted his head slightly, his expression tightening. A small plane—he narrowed his eyes and stopped breathing, listening intently—no, there were two, the sound far-off and barely discernible. But there were definitely two distinct sounds. And even with the distance distorting the faint stutters, he knew exactly where the planes were. They were flying over the narrow valley where he had found her—his wildcat in the snow.

Two planes indicated a search, which also indicated a downed plane. But until he got some answers from her, he refused to speculate.

Glad for the cover of both the trees and nightfall, Finn twisted around to make sure Trouper was right behind him, then he shifted around and nudged Gus into a walk. He glanced over toward the underbrush and spoke, his tone clipped with command. “Rooney, heel.” The dog immediately obeyed, trotting along the path at Gus’s shoulder, his ears suddenly pricked.

Shifting his weight to ease the cramp in his back, Finn glanced down at his cargo, the heavy dusk crowding in and obscuring the remaining light. So. Someone had called out a search party to look for her. He didn’t like the feeling twisting in his belly. He didn’t like it at all.

His expression set, Finn guided his mount through a narrow archway of trees, taking care not to disturb the snow clumped on the low-hanging branches. At least for tonight he could keep her out of harm’s way. He’d worry about tomorrow later.

The dark hulking shape of the cabin appeared in the dusk, the tin roof capped with snow, a drift crouching against the single step. Finn walked Gus right up to the low overhang that sheltered the plank door, the weight of his burden pulling painfully at his shoulder. Dropping the reins to ground-tie the horse, he stiffly dismounted, using his good arm to hold her in the saddle. He was so damned sore and stiff, he felt as if he’d been thrown and trampled. He waited until his circulation was restored and the cramps in his legs eased; then he gave her a small tug, and she slid into his arms like a sack of oats. Now all he had to do was pack her inside.

It was pitch black in the cabin, and damned cold. In fact, it felt colder inside than out. He had boarded up the windows that morning, and it was as black as a cave inside, and he had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. Using what little illumination that came from outside, he crossed the small space and carefully laid her on one of the bare wooden bunks, her still form swaddled in the coat and blanket. The inside of the small cabin was planked with rough-hewn fir, the wood weathered and dark, aged by years of exposure. Extra supplies hung suspended in dark, green heavy plastic containers from the open pole rafters, the shapes bulky and irregular in the deepening twilight.

Stripping off his gloves, he went to the shelf by the door and found the stash of candles and matches in an old syrup can. He lit one and let liquid paraffin form, then dripped some of the melted wax onto the lid, the faint, wavering light swallowed by the heavy shadows and the dark weathered planking.

Fixing four candles in place, he set the makeshift candleholder on the battered wooden table, then turned back and latched the door, shutting out the cold and the fading dusk. Glancing at the form on the bunk to make sure she was still asleep, he gathered some kindling from the wood box and placed it in the old potbellied stove, then struck another match and put it to the tinder, assessing their situation as he waited for the bark to catch and flare. With the windows boarded up, there would be no light visible from outside, and with the cabin hidden beneath the heavy canopy of trees, it would be practically invisible from the air. But the most critical factor was that the falling snow had covered their tracks, making their trail invisible. And invisibility was exactly what they needed. At least until he knew what in hell was going on.

Leaving the door of the stove open to provide more light, he disconnected from those thoughts, making himself focus on the tasks at hand. The first thing on his list was to make sure he had a good fire going, then he’d have to go down to the creek for water. And after that, he was going to have to fix something to eat. One way or another, he was going to have to get some nourishment into her. Giving her one final glance, he headed for the door.

It was nearly dark by the time he returned from the creek. The horses were standing slack-hipped by the cabin, and he retrieved his saddlebags and draped them over one shoulder, then pulled the rifle from the scabbard on his saddle. He had no intention of leaving anything to chance.

Stamping the snow off his boots, he pushed the door open and entered the cabin, his expression altering when he saw that his houseguest was struggling to sit up. Still clearly dazed and unsteady, she dragged the scarf and hat off her head, then tried to thrash her way out of her blanket cocoon, her movements oddly uncoordinated. Finn kicked the door shut with his heel, the cold air from outside mixing with the scent of burning spruce pitch. He propped the rifle by the door and dropped the saddlebags beside it, then turned and set the pail by the stove. Not wanting to rush her, he removed his gloves and stuck them in the pocket of his vest, then crossed to her. Deliberately avoiding eye contact, he peeled away the blanket so she could get her arms free.

He felt her gaze on him; then she spoke, her voice very unsteady. “I can’t remember your name.”

He looked down at her, keeping his expression impassive as he answered her question. “Finn Donovan.”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide with uncertainty; then she spoke again, her voice stronger, more assertive. “How come…how come you found me…what were you doing out there?”

Carefully, he draped her scarf over the head rail of the bunk, then met her gaze. “I’m an outfitter, and I take most of my clients out in this area. This is my line shack, and I was out securing my campsites for the winter. And I didn’t find you. My dog did.”

As if struggling to assimilate that information, she stared at him, the flicker from the fire glinting in the wild tumble of her hair. She stared at him a moment longer, then she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and he saw the muscles in her throat contract. Finally she straightened her head and looked at him, an odd stricken look on her face. She swallowed again and spoke, a tinge of tightly contained panic in her voice. “Where am I?”

Tossing his gloves on the table, Finn answered her, knowing there was a helluva lot more to the question than those three words. He met her gaze, his own level. “You’re in southwestern Alberta in the Rocky Mountains, just inside the Canadian border.”

A shiver ran through her and she folded one arm across her middle, then covered her eyes. Even from eight feet away, Finn could feel the rigid tension in her. He continued to watch her, waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he turned away and went back to the stove, annoyed with himself. One thing he knew how to do was mind his own business.

Sharply aware of both her presence and her silence, Finn dumped water from the pail into two smaller pots—one to heat up a couple of vacuum-packed stews he’d had in his saddlebags, the other for tea. As he set the pail on the floor, he heard the distant drone of a plane, only this time it was much closer. His expression altered. With darkness settled and in this kind of rough terrain, he knew they would have to call off the search soon. If it was a search. And he’d bet his boots it was.

The pots of water heating, he glanced over at her, the inadequate light casting that side of the cabin in deep shadows. She was sitting with her back against the wall, her hands slack in her lap, her head turned to one side, and it appeared that she had fallen asleep again. He knew he was speculating, and speculation was always dangerous, but it had to be drugs that had knocked her out like that. It was the only explanation.

With a dozen questions running through his mind, Finn picked up the rifle and went back outside and tended to the horses. It had started to snow again, the whiteness giving off an eerie light, and Finn checked the sky above the cabin to see if the rising smoke was detectable. Satisfied that they were safe, at least for the night, he lugged the tack, spare gear and extra supplies into the cabin, again propping his rifle by the door. He checked the sleeping woman, then fed Rooney his kibbles, the firelight from the open door on the stove flickering and dancing on the rough-hewn walls. He thought again about the planes he had heard, wondering who had called them out.

The cabin now warm, he stripped off his vest and set about fixing the meager meal, which consisted of opening the heated vacuum packs and dumping the contents back in the pot. Recalling that she had said she was thirsty when they were still on the trail, he stuck a spoon in his shirt pocket, then scooped a tin cup into the ice-cold water in the pail. With the pot in his other hand, he crossed to the bunk. Soundlessly he set the cup on the wooden slats and crouched down, studying the woman on the bunk.

The flickering flames in the stove cast her face in a soft light, banishing most of the shadows. She was sitting in the same position, with her head turned against the wall and her mouth slightly opened, presenting him with her unobstructed profile. Delicate features, full mouth, an aristocratic nose and long, long lashes. His expression sober, Finn assessed what he saw. All the evidence added up to money. The sweater she was wearing was cashmere, the studs in her ears were unquestionably diamonds, and just visible below the cuff of his sheepskin coat was the platinum wristwatch. And even if it weren’t for all those obvious and visible markers, he would have suspected it anyway. He had dealt with enough high rollers in his business to recognize the signs. There was just that air about her, a nuance that reeked of priceless things. And even he could tell that her thick curly hair hadn’t been styled in some discount cut-and-hack shop.

A flicker of light caught in her magnificent hair, and a funny, full feeling climbed up Finn’s chest. Suddenly he felt very alone and solitary. Dragging his gaze away from her face, he wearily rolled his shoulders, his attention snagging on her left hand, which was lying motionless in her lap. No rings—no huge diamond solitaire, no wide platinum band, not even a telltale mark.

Realizing his thoughts were heading down a trail that didn’t go anywhere, Finn gave his head a disgusted shake. He had no time for mental slips like that. Right now he had a job to do, and that was getting some hot food into her.

Schooling his expression, he grasped her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake, then spoke, his tone gruff. “You’re going to have to open those eyes, Red. Supper is ready.”

As if taking a massive effort on her part, she opened her eyes and turned her head, her gaze still slightly unfocused. She licked her lips, then spoke, her voice sounding rusty and a tiny bit belligerent. “Don’t call me Red, either.”

One corner of Finn’s mouth lifted as he met her gaze, his amusement surfacing. This one had a bit of scrap in her; that was for sure. He handed her the tin mug, and she closed her eyes and drank the water as if parched with thirst; then she looked at him, her expression softening as she handed him the cup. “Thank you,” she whispered, a husky quality in her voice.

Finn set the mug on the floor, then raised the pot he was holding. “This restaurant isn’t exactly in the best part of town, and it’s damned short of amenities, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat out of the pot.”

She stared at him a moment; then she smiled, her eyes lighting up. She grasped the pot and took the spoon he offered. She met his gaze, her voice soft and husky when she responded. “With all those candles, it looks pretty darned first class to me.” The firelight glimmered in her eyes and she smiled at him again. “But right now I couldn’t care less about ambiance. I’m so hungry I could eat this bunk.”

Finn gave her a lopsided grin and tapped the pot. “Well, have at it. It’s not prime rib, but it goes down okay.”

She took a mouthful and closed her eyes, reveling in the taste. “God, nothing has ever tasted this good.” She savored it a split second longer; then she practically attacked the stew, her hunger obvious, her hair like fire around her face. Crouched on the floor, Finn watched her, amusement altering his expression. He’d bet his bottom dollar that right now, she’d give a starving wolf a run for his money.

Picking up the tin mug, he got to his feet and crossed to the stove. Fishing two tea bags out of another can, he tossed them into the boiling water, then set the pot aside, giving it a chance to steep. A burst of fragrance was released from the perforated bags, the smell kicking off his own appetite. Right now, he could give a starving wolf some competition.

Using a glove as a pot holder, he filled her mug and a second one, then carried both over to the bunk, setting hers on the bare slats. Lifting his mug, he took a sip, watching her eat, wondering how long she’d gone without food. The way she was going after that stew, it had to be quite a while.

As if feeling his gaze on her, she looked up, her expression going very still when she saw he had only a mug in his hand. Then she abruptly clapped her hand over her face, obviously realizing the pot held shared portions. “Lord, I’m such a dummy.” Dropping her hand, she looked up at him, and even in the inadequate light, he could tell that she was blushing. “I’m not normally such a pig,” she said, extending the pot to him and looking sheepish. Then she gave him a warped smile. “I get a little territorial about food.”

Folding his arms, Finn leaned back against the corner of the roughed-in closet. Watching her over the rim, he took another sip, then offered a warped smile of his own. He indicated the nearly empty pot with his mug. “Go ahead and finish it off. There’s more where that came from.”

As if assessing him, she stared at him a moment, then gave him another sheepish grin. “If you were a gentleman, you’d turn your back on my gluttony. I tend to shovel when I’m this hungry.”

Amusement pulling at his mouth, Finn watched her a second longer, then went over to the stove, picked up the poker and stoked the fire. “By all means, shovel away.” Aware of the scrape of the spoon in the pot, he took the package of trail mix out of his saddlebag. Hooking the leg of a battered chair with his foot, he dragged it over to the stove, then sat down. He stretched out and propped his feet on the fender, watching the flames dance as he ate a handful of the trail mix. It was a miracle he’d found her. In all those thousands and thousands of acres of pure wilderness, it was a damned miracle. If he believed in it, he would have said it was fate.

“The china aside, dinner was excellent. Do I get to tip the waiter?”

His feet still propped on the fender, his cup of tea clasped in his hand, Finn turned his head and looked at her. The food and hot tea had had the desired effect. The sluggishness had disappeared and her eyes were absolutely clear. Sprawling in the old willow chair, he crossed his arms and considered her. With the effects of whatever was in her system obviously worn off, it was time to do a little tracking.

His gaze fixed on her, he took another sip of tea. Then he lowered the tin mug and cradled it in his hands, his eyes still riveted on her. Finally he spoke, his tone even. “I think it’s about time you gave me some answers, Red. Like who you are and what in hell you’re doing here.”

As if someone had just pulled the plug on her newly restored vitality, she carefully set her mug down on the wooden bunk and as if suddenly cold, she pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. Avoiding his gaze, she took off the extra socks he had put on her, her expression drawn, the flickering light from the candles casting her face in a patina of soft light.

There was a brief silence; then she finally spoke, her tone almost too quiet. “My name is Mallory O’Brien.” She hesitated a moment, then let out a sigh and tipped her head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, her expression stark. “And to be absolutely honest, I don’t have a clue what’s going on.”

Finn didn’t say anything as he continued to watch her. He sensed she was gearing up to go on with her story, and he simply waited her out. Finally she dropped her head and met his gaze. She stared at him a moment, then began toying with the corner of the blanket. Her voice was devoid of emotion when she spoke. “None of it makes any sense. I live in Chicago. I was driving back to my apartment early last night, and I stopped for a red light. Two men wearing black ski masks yanked me out of my car. It happened so fast it was over before I had a chance to react. They forced me down on the floor of a van and blindfolded me, then injected me with something. And the next thing I remember is being moved—like on a stretcher—with my hands bound, and I was outside. I was lifted into something and given another injection.” She lifted her head and looked at him, her face ashen, her expression stiff. “Everything after that is a blank, until I came to in the passenger compartment of a crashed plane.”

His face impassive, Finn dropped his feet to the floor and swiveled his chair to face her. The mug still clasped in his hands, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, fixing his gaze on her. “What happened?”

She held his gaze for a moment, her face like wax, then she took a deep uneven breath, rubbing her thumb against the tin mug. “I must have been jarred awake by the impact from the crash. I didn’t know where I was, and it was so cold.”

She took another deep uneven breath and continued, her voice just barely above a whisper. “I managed to push the hood up so I could see, and I was working on the bindings around my ankles when I heard movement in the cockpit.” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, and Finn could sense the spurt of terror in her. She swallowed again and visibly pulled herself together. “I knew my only option was to get away while I had the chance. I managed to rip the rest of the tape off my ankles, and I crawled through the rupture in the side of the plane. I knew if I didn’t escape then, I wouldn’t escape at all. So I just started running.”

She paused again and finally met his gaze, not a speck of color left in her face. “You know the rest.”

He watched her, reading her expression. “What kind of plane was it? Big or small?”

She cupped her hands tightly around her mug, a stricken look on her face. “Small. Single engine, maybe six-passenger.”

His face devoid of any expression, Finn watched her, assessing what she had told him. He was pretty certain she was telling the truth. But he was also damned sure she hadn’t told him everything. Considering whether to push the issue or not, he continued to watch her, analyzing all the facts. Deciding that she had been as honest with him as she dared under the circumstances, he straightened. “Would you like more tea?”

As if realizing that he was not going to grill her, she managed an uneven smile, and Finn had the uncomfortable feeling she was on the verge of tears. But she pulled it together, and offered him a slightly embarrassed look. “What I’d really like is directions to the ladies’ room.”

Leaning back in his chair, he tipped his head to one side and gave her a very wry smile. “Like I said, the amenities leave a lot to be desired. The ladies’ room is outside behind the cabin.”

She gave him a genuine grin and dragged the blankets away. “And well air-conditioned, no doubt.”

He gave her a wry smile back. “That’s one way of putting it.” He indicated the pile of gear by the door. “I’ve set out a spare pair of boots—you’d better put them on. The snow will be deep back there.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide and steady, then as if giving herself a mental shake, she nodded. She crossed the room, resting one hand on the wall as she slipped out of her shoes and into his boots. It was all Finn could do to keep his butt planted in the chair, resisting the sharp urge to pick up the rifle and follow her outside. With the steady snow and the care he’d taken, there wasn’t a chance in hell that anyone could have picked up their trail.

But he wasn’t going to take any risks either. He spoke, his voice gruff. “My dog is in the doghouse under the big spruce. Take him with you. His name is Rooney.”

She met Finn’s gaze, then gave him a half smile and nodded, more than a little amusement in her eyes. “Yes, sir. I will take the dog with me.” She hesitated, then looked at him again. “Are you married?”

“No.” Not anymore.

“Me either. And I’ll still take the dog.”

Her show of cheek almost made Finn smile. Almost. And he made himself relax the grip on his mug. With Rooney along, he knew that nothing—not anything or anybody—could get within a quarter mile of them without the dog letting him know.

Finn stared at the door for a good ten seconds after she left, then he downed the remainder of his tea and got up. He took the kerosene lamp off the shelf by the door and lit it, placing it on the battered table. His expression fixed, he extinguished the candles and dropped them back in the can, then picked up the extra sleeping bag off the floor. He had recognized the symptoms of genuine exhaustion in her after she had finished telling him her story. He didn’t have a whole lot to offer in the way of creature comforts, but he could fix her a half-decent bed.

Using the spare bedroll from his extra gear, as well as his own, he made a bed for her on the bunk, spreading his top-of-the-line sleeping bag out on top. After the chill she’d had, the last thing she needed was to get cold during the night. And there was a spare sleeping bag stored in one of the big plastic containers tied in the rafters.

The door opened and she reentered, flakes of snow still snagged in her hair. His coat pulled tightly around her, she gave an involuntary shiver as a blast of cold air swept in when she closed the door behind her. She looked much better after the trip outside, invigorated by the cold mountain air. It was almost as if she’d had a shot of pure oxygen.

She stepped out of the boots and put her shoes back on, then crossed to the stove, warming her hands over it, the illumination from the lamp lighting her profile. Even in the faint light, Finn could see she’d just about run out of steam, and his own expression hardened. It was a wonder she was still alive.

He picked up the poker out of the wood box and opened the door of the stove. “We’ve got a hard ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

She lifted her head and looked at him, the lamplight setting her hair on fire, making her eyes seem dark and bottomless. Finn felt her steady gaze right down to his bones, and he abruptly looked away, a strange flurry in his chest. Her gaze was so penetrating it was as if she could see right through him, and that made him uneasy. No one had seen through Finn Donovan for a very long time.

Careful to avoid looking at her, Finn stoked the fire then closed the door on the stove, sticking the poker in the corner of the wood box. He indicated the bunk, trying to keep his tone easy. “You look like you’ve run out of energy, Red. It might be a good idea if you called it a night and climbed into bed.”

There was a brief pause, then out of the corner of his eye, he saw her look at the bunk. “Hold on,” she said, an unexpected, bossy challenge in her voice. “If that’s my bed, just what are you going to use?”

Her tone caught him by surprise, and wry humor pulled at his mouth. After she’d tried to slug him with a rock, he might have known he’d get some lip. And his gut told him that he had to win this one, or she’d test him at every step. Erasing all expression from his face, he turned and faced her. He didn’t say a word; he just stared at her with that inflexible stare he had learned in prison. She folded her arms and stared right back at him, an ornery set to her jaw. “I’m not taking your bedroll, Mr. Donovan. I’ll sleep in the chair.”

He folded his arms and stared back at her. It took about ten seconds of a silent standoff, but she finally let go a long sigh and conceded. “Fine. I’ll sleep in the damned bed.” She stomped across the room and sat down on the edge of the bunk, then her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes. It seemed to take all the energy she had as she wearily combed her hands through her hair. She let go another sigh, then looked up at him and tried to smile. “You think I’m acting like a spoiled brat, don’t you?”

The corner of Finn’s mouth lifted, and he leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Under the circumstances, I think it’s allowed.”

She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off. Her voice was unsteady when she spoke. “Are we safe until morning?”

He continued to watch her, another strange feeling filling up his chest. His voice was husky when he answered her. “Yes. We’re safe until morning.”

“Okay then,” she whispered, then without looking at him, she kicked off her shoes and slid her feet into the sleeping bag and lay down, pulling the covers over her shoulder. Turning on her side, she tucked her hands under her face and watched the fire flicker through the grate in the stove. Finn had to fight the urge to cross the room and tuck the sleeping bag around her, to brush that wealth of hair back from her face. Fragile. She looked so fragile. And alone. And if there was anything he understood, it was how it felt to be alone. Tightening his jaw, he forced himself to turn away.

It was going to be a long night.

He jammed on his Stetson and picked up his vest, then headed for the door. A damned long night.

By the time he returned from outside, she had fallen asleep, her breathing soft and even, her hands still tucked under her face. It was like before—when it hit him that she was like something out of a fairy tale, something otherworldly. He hardened his jaw and turned away. He had never been given to that kind of whimsy, and he sure in hell wasn’t going to start now.

The fire had burned down by the time he decided to retrieve the spare sleeping bag from its container. The containers held the emergency rations he had topped up the day before, and were used as a deterrent against mice and other marauders. His shoulders ached with weariness as he set it on the floor.

The sleeping bag removed, he nudged the chair closer to the stove and opened it up. His body wanted to lie down, but for some reason, he didn’t want to use the other bunk. And he knew if he slept on the floor, by morning the cold would have penetrated every muscle in his body. And he’d be stiffer than hell. So the chair was it for the night.

Draping the open sleeping bag across him, he stretched out in the big old willow chair, again propping his feet on the fender of the stove. His expression somber, he crossed his arms and watched her sleep, a strange sensation unfolding inside him. He had no idea why he was so damned certain, but he would bet his life she was all that she seemed to be—honest, direct, untainted—with a survival instinct that no amount of money could buy.

Resting his head against the high back of the chair, he assessed her features. She wasn’t what he would consider beautiful, but there was a certain quality to her face that appealed to him. A depth of character, maybe. And, from the angle of her jaw, there was also evidence of a whole lot of Irish bullheadedness.

Finn’s expression hardened as he considered her survival. It was probably that strength of will, that bullheadedness that had kept her alive today. It made his gut knot, thinking what might have happened to her if Rooney hadn’t spotted her.

A log fell in the stove, the flare of light burnishing her hair, making it come alive, and Finn locked his jaw together, feeling suddenly hollowed out inside. Dragging his gaze away, he studied the toes of his boots. It was a miracle that he’d found her. Except he didn’t believe in miracles. Nor did he believe in second chances. But he did believe in atonement. And maybe she was his. Because somehow or another, he was going to have to keep her safe.

This one, he had to keep safe.

Chapter 3

By morning, the clouds had settled lower, and it had started snowing again, the thick, fresh blanket obliterating the sharp contours. Dawn seeped over the jagged horizon, casting the landscape in a purple hue, the dull light eerie and filled with gray shadows.

The new snow squeaked under Finn’s boots as he approached the cabin, his rifle in one hand and a pail of water in the other. It was a drab morning, heavy and overcast and muffled in silence, the clouds so low that they nearly touched the ground. Hoarfrost coated the trees and glittered on the fresh blanket of snow, but in spite of the whiteness, everything was cast in a dreary, monochrome gray.

The brim of his hat shielding his eyes from the denseness of the spiraling flakes, Finn paid attention to his footing as he negotiated the slippery rocks that spanned the shallow stream. Unshaven and hungover from lack of sleep, he considered what he was faced with. Under the circumstances, he couldn’t have asked for better conditions. With the heavy skies, he was assured of several more inches of wet snow—enough to cover all their tracks. His only concern was that with this kind of weather moving in, it could get really ugly before the day was over. And if that happened, it would make for very tough going, especially with a greenhorn along. But on the plus side, it also meant that any search aircraft would be kept on the ground, which significantly lowered their risk of detection. Providing it didn’t get a whole lot worse than this, and taking into account how much she was going to slow them down, they could still make it from here to his place in nine or ten hours—providing she could take that kind of physical punishment. And it would be punishing. The ride back would be no picnic. Even with the falling snow, he was going to make damned sure their trail was nearly impossible to track. And that would mean some hard riding.

The horses were in the makeshift corral, their haunches turned into the storm, their long winter coats dusted with snow. He had fed them each a flake of hay before he went down to the creek, and he had given Rooney his morning ration of kibbles. But the dog was nowhere to be seen—likely off chasing rabbits. Finn stepped under the overhang of the log cabin, a gust of wind sending a flurry of snow under the eaves. There was a sharpness in the air that hadn’t been there before, and Finn compressed his mouth. The bite in the wind was a sure sign it was going to get ugly. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few hours, that was for damned sure.

Pressing down the latch, Finn stamped the snow off his boots and opened the door, the flame in the kerosene lamp wavering in the draft. He had left that lamp burning all night. He knew what it was like, to wake up in pitch black, your heart pounding, not knowing where you were.

He closed the door silently behind him, then propped his rifle against the wall and set the pail by the stove, his gaze shifting to the bunk. She hadn’t moved since he’d gone out. With the flap of the sleeping bag pulled over her head, the only indication there was actually a person under the mound of sleeping bags was that he could see the toes of one foot. If she was that huddled in, he doubted she was going to appreciate the chill in the brisk mountain air.

He shucked his coat, then opened the door on the stove and added another log, the crackle and snap of burning resin perforating the silence.

A muffled voice came from the bed. “I’m not going to like getting out of bed, am I?”

Finn closed the stove door and latched it, then set a pan of water on to heat. He glanced back at the bunk, a touch of humor hovering around his mouth. “I think we can safely assume that.”

“Damn.” She pushed back the flap and struggled up on one elbow, her hair absolutely wild around her, her dark green sweater crushed and wrinkled. She scrubbed her hand across her face, then opened her eyes really wide, as if trying to get them to stay that way. She looked at him, a disgruntled tone in her voice when she spoke. “Don’t you ever get cold?”

“No.”

She flopped back down and pulled the sleeping bag up over her shoulders, snuggling deep in the warmth. “Great. I had to hook up with an ice man.” Then, as if recollection had come back in a rush, she abruptly rolled onto her back and covered her face with her hand, a tremor running through her.

Finn knew from experience that the worst thing he could do was to give her time to reconnect with the horror of what had happened to her. He spoke, his voice clipped. “We’ve got bad weather moving in. If we’re to stay ahead of it, we’re going to have to hit the road pretty damned quick.”

He watched her struggle for control, and he saw her physically pull it together. His earlier estimation of her climbed up a notch. She also had one hell of a lot of grit.

Her face fixed like cast wax, she rose up off the bunk, her shoulders square, her chin held high as she slipped her feet into her shoes. “Excuse me,” she said, her tone royal. “I need to make a trip outside.” Her whole body stiff with indignation, she picked up his coat and put it on, then went to the door. “If you can give me ten minutes, I’ll be ready to go.”

With far more force than necessary, she slammed the door shut behind her, and Finn heard all the snow slide from the tin roof. Then he heard her swear. Great. Now both her shoes and her coat would be wet. Resting his hands on his hips, he let out a sigh and looked at the ceiling. Okay. Maybe he’d been a bit sharp. And she’d been through a hell of a lot. It wouldn’t have killed him to be a little nicer. He let out another sigh. It was going to be a damned long day.

She was gone longer than he expected, and he had coffee perking and a pot of instant porridge steaming by the time he heard her at the door, cooing to Rooney. Finn dropped his head, priming himself to be nicer. And in deference to her sensibilities, he had gotten a tin bowl out of the plastic storage container, so she wouldn’t have to eat out of the pot again. And he’d even mixed up a small portion of powdered milk.

The door swung open and he looked up, expecting a haughty, royal entry. Framed by the gray light from outside, the snow falling behind her, she huddled in the warmth of his coat, a guilty look on her pale face. I’m sorry,” she said, her voice uneven and sounding as if she meant it. “I can be a real pain sometimes.”

It was the look in her eyes—that solemn, imploring look—that made Finn’s pulse stumble, and he found his chest suddenly tight. An odd kind of intimacy crackled between them, suspending time. It was as if this had happened before, as if they had known each other a very long time. The sensation upended his equilibrium, and he curled his hands into fists, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. It was all he could do to force air into his lungs and dredge up a warped half smile. “Under the circumstances, I think that’s allowed.”

She stared back at him, time still weirdly suspended, then she turned abruptly and closed the door, and more snow slid off the roof. “No, it’s not,” she said, her voice even more unsteady. “There is never an excuse for bad manners.”

Finn experienced a flash of unexpected insight. And he knew, from that one comment, that Mallory O’Brien had grown up being brutally honest with herself. And probably with anyone she came in contact with. Needing to alter the mood, he spoke, his tone clipped. “Sure there is.”

She turned and looked at him, a startled expression in her eyes; then she gave a soft laugh. Finn felt the effects of that chuckle down the entire length of his spine.

Watching him, she folded her arms and tipped her head to one side, amusement still dancing in her eyes. “Really? You might change your mind on that. You don’t know the levels of rudeness I can sink to.”

He held her gaze a moment, then looked away, finding it far too easy to get lost in her eyes. “Breakfast is ready,” he said, his tone gruff. “And there’s warm water in the washbasin on the stove. It’s about all I can offer.”

Her voice was subdued when she answered. “Warm water sounds like heaven.” Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, Finn did up the bottom two snaps on his vest, then picked up the rifle. “There’s a towel on the washstand, and there’s brown sugar and powdered milk on the table, coffee in the pot.” He settled his hat on his head and reached for the door. “I’m going to water the horses and get them ready to move out.”

Once outside, he blew out a deep breath, his heart still pounding, his body far too hot. He didn’t know what in hell was wrong with him, but it had to stop. He had to stay focused, damn it—her life could depend on it.

Sobered by that thought, Finn watered the horses in the creek, guessing that the temperature had dropped by another few degrees. He led them back to the corral, then brushed the snow off them and rigged up a hackamore for Trouper. The packhorse didn’t even have a halter on, and since Finn would be breaking trail with him, he needed some method to guide him. He figured he’d killed maybe twenty minutes, maybe half an hour when he went back to the cabin.

He didn’t know what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t for the bedrolls to be perfectly rolled and stacked neatly on the floor, the dishes washed and packed in the storage container, the towel neatly folded and laid by the repackaged food she had placed by his saddlebags. From the pricey clothes she had on, from her jewelry, he hadn’t expected that kind of capable efficiency. It hit him again that he only knew what she had told him, and that had been damned little. And for some reason, that suddenly irked him.

His face felt wooden when he tipped his head toward the stacked supplies, acknowledging her effort. “Thanks,” he said, avoiding her gaze. Crouching down by the gear Trouper had been carrying, he undid one waterproof kit bag and started pulling extra clothes out. “The wind has picked up and it’s going to get damned cold before the day’s over. So I want you to put this stuff on. We need to get as many layers on you as possible.”

She didn’t say anything as she picked up the stack of clothing he’d piled on the floor, a faint scent of soap he had left out for her snagging his senses. He clenched his jaw, giving himself a moment; then he eased out his breath very carefully. Too close. She had gotten far too close.

His shearling coat appeared on the pile of gear as he pulled another item of clothing out of the waterproof kit bag. He handed her back the coat. “You’ll need that as well.”

“No,” she said, her tone quiet—rebelliously quiet. “I won’t.”

He looked up at her, getting nailed with a hot rush as his gaze slid up her long, long legs, the cashmere sweater clinging to the shape of her breasts. He turned away and closed his eyes, forcing himself to take some even breaths. Hell. He hadn’t had this kind of slip in years—and he didn’t know why it was happening now. Over the years, he’d learned to shut everything down. Especially that. Sexual encounters had always been on his terms—not something that snuck up on him and nailed him from behind.

He took another deep breath and fixed his gaze on her, giving her a don’t-mess-with-me look. “Yes,” he said, his tone short and abrupt. “The last thing we need today is you experiencing another bout of hypothermia.”

She jammed her hands on her hips, pulling the fabric of her sweater tight. “Oh, of course,” she said, her tone snippy as she looked down her nose at him. “And just where would I be if you fell off your horse and froze to death? I’d be dead, that’s where I’d be. So it’s pure common sense that you wear the coat.”

For some reason, Finn wanted to grab her and shake her, but he ground his teeth together and literally counted to ten. Then he spoke, his own tone measured and quiet. Dangerously quiet. “I have another coat,” he said, lifting up the lined mackinaw he had just pulled out of the bag. “You will wear that one.”

She gave him one of her heated looks, snatched it out of his hand and tossed it on the bunk. “Fine,” she snapped.

Finn started stuffing things back in the kit bag, his annoyance escalating. It was going to be a damned long day if she argued with him over every damned thing. He pulled the flap over the zipper on the bag and snapped it shut, and was just setting the bag to one side when he saw her try to pull one of his polar fleeces over her head. She winced and grabbed her shoulder, her face turning ashen. Without saying anything, Finn got to his feet and crossed the room. Hell. He should have checked her over better—she’d probably got hammered up pretty bad when the plane crashed.

He removed her hand and gently probed the shoulder socket, her skin warm and very soft beneath his touch. “Have you ever dislocated it before?”

She went very still under his touch, and he was sure she quit breathing. “No,” she said, her voice uneven. Then her chest rose and she spoke again, her voice a little stronger. “I think I must have jammed it against something in the crash.”

Finn’s insides started to heat up, and he felt suddenly very shaky. Light-headed and shaky. Exposed and shaky. His first instinct was to back away. Getting a grip, he locked his jaw and carefully checked her collarbone and shoulder. Trying to keep his touch impersonal, he pressed his hand against her shoulder blade, finding the scapula intact. The heat from her body made his fingers tingle, and his pulse turned heavy. Too close. Much too close.

Avoiding her gaze, he took the pullover. “Here. Let me help you with this.”

She remained very still as he eased her injured arm into the sleeve, then pulled the neck open so she could slip it on. Recognizing the discomfort her shoulder was giving her, he went to pull the garment down, but she caught him completely off guard when she softly touched the long scar on his face.

Her voice was very soft when she spoke. “How did you get this?”

Still avoiding her gaze, he gave a mirthless smile. “You don’t want to know.”

She traced the length of it, her touch sending a current through his whole body, and it was all he could do not to snatch her hand away. Nobody had touched that scar since the stitches were taken out. Nobody.

She dropped her hand and stepped away, her tone even softer. “I can do it,” she said.

Finn turned away from her, his heart laboring in his chest. She could do it. And he could do himself a big favor and keep away from her. A long way away.

He completed the rest of the preparations, speaking only when he absolutely had to, the tension getting to him. He kept telling himself that once they got moving, it would be okay. It was just the close quarters that were making him so edgy.

With the extra gear he was leaving behind properly stored and the fire extinguished, Finn cast one cursory glance around the cabin, satisfied that it was as it should be; then he pulled the door closed and latched it. His rifle in his hand, he turned toward the horses, experiencing another shot of aggravation. He had told her to get on Gus. He had been specific that she was to ride Gus. With the rough terrain they had to traverse, he wanted her on the horse with the saddle. But no. She was on Trouper, her long legs straddling the big packhorse.

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