“Who was I to you?”

Joe made himself meet her wary gaze. “We saw each other a few times.”

“You mean dated?”

“Yeah.”

A dozen emotions darted across her face in the span of a couple of seconds. “How long?”

“Five months.”

Her eyes flickered with surprise. “That long?”

He nodded and she processed that information quietly, but he could see her doing the math. Five months together meant more than just holding hands while walking or a goodnight kiss at the door.

He turned back to his food, aware that he had to keep up his strength, which had already been compromised by the bullet wound. But he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever have enough strength to deal with many more nights alone with Jane Doe.

MILLS & BOON

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PAULA GRAVES
COWBOY ALIBI

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

For Jenn, Cissy and Emily, who make wonderful

sounding boards and wonderful friends.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alabama native Paula Graves wrote her first book, a mystery starring herself and her neighborhood friends, at the age of six. A voracious reader, Paula loves books that pair tantalizing mystery with compelling romance. When she’s not reading or writing, she works as a creative director for a Birmingham advertising agency and spends time with her family and friends. She is a member of Southern Magic Romance Writers, Heart of Dixie Romance Writers and Romance Writers of America.

Paula invites readers to visit her Web site, www.paulagraves.com.

Contents

Cast of Characters

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Jane Doe—The waitress has no memory of her former life. All she knows is that someone is willing to kill to get to her.

Joe Garrison—The embittered Wyoming cop believes Jane was complicit in his brother Tommy’s murder. But when someone comes gunning for them, he finds himself in the role of protector to his prime suspect.

Angela Carlyle—Jane’s roommate ends up dead in the apartment they share, and Jane’s the only one who can identify her killer.

Clint Holbrook—Who is the steely-eyed man who’ll stop at nothing—even murder—to get Jane back under his control?

Hank Trent—The Idaho cop has a murder to investigate and a Wyoming cop who’s disappeared with his star witness. How many rules will he have to bend to stop the killer before he finds Jane and Joe?

Harlan Dugan—The wily old con man claims he can tell Jane who she really is—for a price. But where do his loyalties really lie?

Melissa Blake—Joe’s stepmother left home when he was just a little boy, breaking his heart. Will she help him now when he needs her the most?

Riley Patterson—Joe has always trusted his second-in-command with his life. But can he trust him with Jane’s?

Chapter One

“Tall, dark and cowboy at table four, you lucky dog,” Angela Carlyle murmured to Jane as she passed by with the remains of table seven’s lunch.

Jane eyed the cowboy in question, taking in his rangy build, short, dark hair and the dun-colored Stetson on the booth next to him. As he glanced her way, she quickly looked back to the older couple perusing their menus. “Our special today is pan-seared trout,” she said. “Caught fresh. There’s nothing like Idaho trout.”

As the couple discussed between themselves the merits of fish for lunch, Jane stole another look at table four. She found the cowboy’s gaze fixed on her face, unflinching.

She looked away quickly, unnerved by his scrutiny. She wasn’t used to being the object of someone’s full attention. Most male customers focused on Angela, with her copper-penny hair, creamy complexion and body even the pale pink waitress uniform couldn’t conceal.

Nobody ever stared at Jane, with her face full of freckles, unruly brown hair and slim, not-so-curvy figure. Worse, she was as blank on the inside as she was dull on the outside, with only five months of experiences to call her own and a whole lot of questions she couldn’t answer.

“Miss? We’re ready.”

Jane dragged her gaze away from the cowboy with a soft apology and took their order. She ripped the order from her pad, tucked it in her pocket and crossed to table four.

The cowboy’s gray-eyed gaze followed her all the way in. Jane’s stomach knotted with vague anxiety. “What can I get you today, sir?” she asked.

“I’ll have coffee.”

“Sugar or cream?”

His gaze narrowed slightly, as if she’d asked a difficult question. “Just black,” he answered.

“We have a trout special, caught fresh this morning—”

“Just coffee,” he interrupted, not unkindly.

She nodded. “Coffee it is.”

She took his order and the order from the previous table to the kitchen. Angela was there already, cornered by Boyd Jameson, the restaurant manager.

“That’s the third order you got wrong,” Boyd growled.

“I gave them what they ordered,” Angela countered.

“Customer says otherwise and the customer’s always—”

“Right,” Angela finished for him. “I know. I got them what they wanted immediately and they all gave me big tips, so what’s the problem?”

Jane made eye contact with Angela, wondering if she should do something to intervene. Boyd was a piece of work, a real control freak with the waitstaff, and unfortunately, he was untouchable, having worked at the River Lodge longer than most of the staff had been alive.

Angela caught her eye and gave a tiny shake of her head. But it was enough for Boyd to take notice. Whipping his head around, he pinned Jane with his fierce gaze. She looked away, not in any position to cause trouble, and handed off the lunch order to the chef.

She returned to the lunch counter and found the cowboy sitting on a stool in front of her. His dark eyebrows arched slightly when she stumbled to a stop.

“Thought it’d be rude to take up a booth just for coffee.” He smiled, but his eyes were watchful.

Unease skittered through her as she poured him a cup of coffee. Placing it in front of him, she plastered on a smile. “Sure I can’t get you anything else?”

He eyed her name tag. “What’s your last name, Jane?”

She looked down at her hands. “Doe,” she answered flatly, wondering if he’d think she was joking.

He was silent a moment. She dared a peek and found him gazing at her through narrowed eyes, one eyebrow quirked. “Nice to meet you, Jane Doe. I’m Joe Garrison.” He paused, as if waiting for her reaction.

Was she supposed to react?

Of course she was supposed to react. What kind of guy wouldn’t comment on “Jane Doe”?

“Do I know you?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed farther. “Do you?”

She shook her head, her wariness growing. “No. Sorry.”

The bell over the front door rang, heralding new customers, a pair of college-age girls dressed for hiking. Grateful for the excuse to walk away, she grabbed a couple of menus and followed as they settled at the booth that Joe Garrison had recently vacated.

She took their drink orders and returned to the counter to fill them. Joe Garrison’s gaze followed her as she worked. He didn’t even pretend not to stare.

She was about to ask him if he’d like a refill on the coffee when Angela stalked out of the kitchen, her cheeks red with anger. She yanked the strings of her uniform apron and flung the garment onto the counter, stopping next to Jane. “I quit.”

Jane looked at her, alarmed. “You what?”

“Quit. Q. U. I. T. Boyd Jameson is a woman-hating jerk, and life is way too short for me to put up with his bull.” She started toward the employee break room, but Jane caught her arm.

“Angie, you can’t—”

Angela squeezed Jane’s arms. “Boyd always had it in for me anyway. There are other jobs. I’ll be fine.”

But I won’t, Jane thought, watching her go. Angela was one of the few real friends she’d made in Trinity, Idaho, since she’d turned up wandering through the Sawtooth Mountains a few months earlier, half-frozen and memory-free. She’d gotten used to having Angela around the restaurant as a buffer between herself and Boyd Jameson.

Jane finished the drink orders for table four and turned to Joe Garrison. “Refill?”

“No, thanks. I’m ready for my check.”

She didn’t know whether she felt relieved or disappointed. As unnerving as Joe’s attention might be, it was the first time anyone had ever made her the object of such single-minded focus. Well, that she could remember, anyway. It was flattering, if a bit disconcerting.

She handed him the check. “Hope you enjoy the rest of your day. And come back to see us again.”

She carried the drinks to table four. As she took their lunch orders, she caught sight of Joe crossing to the cashier’s desk by the door. One of the girls at table four made a low whistling sound. “Look at those jeans,” she murmured to her friend.

Jane dragged her gaze away from Joe Garrison’s departing backside and returned to the kitchen to hand in the order. When she came back out, Angela stood by the counter, now dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She gave Jane a quick hug. “I’m heading to the apartment to start making some calls about another job. When do you get off?”

“In an hour. I’ll see you there. Maybe we can go for a walk in the park or something, get your mind off things.”

“You’re on. See you soon.”

Jane watched her friend go with a sigh. Behind her, the door from the kitchen swung open with a soft swish. “What’re you staring at, Jane? Don’t you have customers waiting?” Boyd asked.

She tamped down a smart-alecky comeback that rose in her mind, well aware that she was in no position to be insubordinate. Unlike Angela, she didn’t have a lot of other options or the luxury of family in town to help her out if things got tight.

She delivered the food to table six and stopped by one of her other tables to make sure everyone was happy with their orders, then returned to the counter to pick up a pitcher of water to offer refills. As she reached for the ice scoop, she saw that the cowboy had left her a tip. A crisp five-dollar bill—more than three times the cost of the coffee—lay folded neatly on the counter.

Jane had picked it up and started to put it in her pocket when she realized there was something tucked inside. She unfolded the five to discover a business card from the Buena Vista Hotel. He’d written room 225 under the hotel address on the front.

She stared at it, dismayed. Was that the point of his attention? Did he think he could swagger in and pick up the first waitress he set eyes on? Or had he chosen her because she looked particularly easy?

She’d started to crumple the card when she realized there was something written on the back. She flattened it out, staring at the words etched in bold, black strokes.

I know who you are.

The card fell from her suddenly nerveless hands.

THE APARTMENT was small and dingy, smelling of cheap soap and cheaper air freshener. There was only one bedroom and a worn sleeper sofa in the tiny living room. The living room was neat, so Clint guessed she was the one sleeping on the sofa.

He’d taught her all about being neat.

He was tempted to pull the bed out, to see if the sheets tucked inside smelled like her. He refrained, moving instead to the nearest window, carefully parting the curtains and gazing out through the age-warped panes.

The apartment was on the second floor, overlooking a small park across the narrow street. Not much to it, really, a stretch of faded grass and a couple of stubby trees providing shade from the midday sun. It was April in Idaho, still cold enough that most people avoided the shade trees and took full advantage of the sun’s mild warmth.

The rattle of the doorknob made him jump. She was early. He’d seen her work schedule when he stopped at the River Lodge Diner for breakfast that morning. She was supposed to be working until one, her roommate until three.

Why was she home early?

Clint skirted the sofa and pressed himself flat against the wall near the door. He didn’t want to give her a chance to run.

The door swung open, blocking his view for a moment. It closed and he saw that the unexpected arrival was the roommate, Angela. She’d been his waitress at the diner that morning. No longer in uniform, she wore a figure-hugging T-shirt and low-cut jeans and carried a paper bag full of groceries tucked under one arm.

She turned to engage the dead bolt and stopped short when she caught sight of him. The groceries slipped from her grasp, hit the floor and split open, spilling apples, a head of celery and a box of cereal onto the hardwood floor. She stared at him, recognition dawning in her blue eyes. Then she made a dive for the door.

He stopped her, clamping his hand over her mouth. “We can make this easy or we can make it hard.”

She rammed her elbow into his gut and scrambled away. Wincing, he caught her at the kitchen entrance.

“Hard it is,” he said, dragging her into the kitchen.

JANE GLANCED over her shoulder for any sign of Boyd Jameson. There was a lull in the lunch crowd, giving Jane a minute to use the pay phone by the kitchen entrance to make her call, but she didn’t want Boyd to overhear. Lucky for her, he didn’t seem to be around.

“Buena Vista Hotel,” a woman’s voice answered.

“I’d like to leave a message for Joe Garrison. I believe he’s in room 225.” Jane kept her voice down.

“Would you like me to check if he’s in his room?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I just want to leave him a message. From Jane. He’ll know who I am. Tell him I’ll meet him at Alliance Park on Briley Street at one-fifteen.”

“Alliance Park, one-fifteen.”

Jane hung up and grabbed a couple of menus as a pair of hikers entered the restaurant and headed for table six. She took their drink orders, trying to steer her mind away from what she’d just done.

When her shift ended at one, she changed out of her uniform in the employee locker room and donned her sweater and jeans. Not the most appropriate attire for a mysterious assignation, but she wasn’t actually going to the park to meet Joe Garrison.

Not yet, anyway.

First, she was going to the Buena Vista Hotel.

THE SECRET to flying under the radar, Jane knew, was to act as if you knew what you were doing at all times. Keep your eyes forward, head up, stride purposeful—not too slow or too fast. Exactly how she knew this, given the vast blank that was her past, she couldn’t say, and she had a feeling she wouldn’t like the answer if she knew.

She’d spent the last hour at work with half her mind occupied with what to do about Joe Garrison’s cryptic note. Meeting him was out of the question. She wasn’t about to walk into a trap. She needed to know more about who he was and what he was up to. And that meant getting him out of his hotel room—and herself into it.

She crossed to the pay phone on the lobby wall, put a couple of coins in the slot and dialed the number on the card Joe had given her.

Somewhere behind her, a phone at the front desk rang. A woman answered. “Buena Vista Hotel.”

Jane resisted the urge to look behind her at the desk clerk. “This is room number 229. I need housekeeping to bring me extra towels as soon as possible.”

“Certainly, ma’am. Right away.”

Jane waited a few seconds after the desk clerk rang off before hanging up the pay phone, in case anyone was looking. She crossed to the elevator and hit the button for the second floor.

On the second floor, she stepped out of the elevator and glanced down the hallway. Halfway down, a plump woman with straw-blond hair knocked at a door. “Housekeeping.”

Jane started walking down the hall toward her, careful not to look too interested in what the woman was doing. After a few seconds, when there was no answer, the maid pulled out a key, unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

Jane moved quickly then to find room 225. She took a breath and knocked on the door, listening carefully for any sound from within. When she heard nothing, she knocked a little more loudly. “Joe, baby?”

The maid exited room 229 and glanced at Jane.

“Locked myself out.” Jane plastered a sheepish smile on her face. “And my husband doesn’t seem to be here. I swear, I’m going to have to fit him with one of those tracking devices—”

The maid smiled, lowering her voice. “I have a man like that at home. Want me to let you in?”

“Would you?” Jane didn’t hide her excitement, knowing it would help her sell the cover story. “Joe is always teasing me about being a ditz—I’d hate for him to find out I locked myself out of the room! I’d never live it down.”

The maid unlocked the door for her. “There you go.”

“Thank you so much!” Jane dug in her purse and found a couple of dollars. “Here—for your time.”

After the maid left, Jane closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her heart pounding. What the hell had she just done, and how had she known how to do it?

She couldn’t give in to her nerves for long. There was no telling how long Joe Garrison would wait for her at the park. She had just a few minutes to look around this place and see if she could figure out exactly who the tall, dark cowboy really was.

The room was unnaturally neat, the suitcase in the bottom of the closet empty. He’d packed his clothes away in the narrow dresser at the foot of the bed, four shirts and four pairs of jeans neatly folded in one drawer, white cotton boxer shorts and white socks carefully lined up in the adjacent drawer.

Pretty buttoned-up for a cowboy.

She spotted a laptop computer on the desk and briefly considered booting it up and taking a look inside, although she had to pause to figure out what, if anything, she knew about computers. But the one thing she did know about them, for sure, was that most people password-protected their systems, and she didn’t have time to play hacker, even if she knew how to do it. Which, for all she knew, she did. She seemed to possess some disturbing skills, if her con job with the hotel maid was anything to go by.

She opened the desk drawer. A manila folder lay inside, thick with papers. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out the folder, careful to keep the contents from spilling, and laid it on the laptop.

She pulled up a chair and started scanning the papers. Many were faxes from police departments—Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, Kansas—with responses to a request for information about someone named Sandra Dorsey. Caucasian female, midtwenties, five-seven, green eyes, brown hair.

Jane looked up at the mirror over the dresser by the desk. Frightened green eyes stared back at her.

She scanned the faxes for more information. After a few seconds, the rest of the truth became clear. All of the faxes were addressed to Chief Garrison of the Canyon Creek, Wyoming, Police Department.

Chief Joe Garrison.

The cowboy was a cop.

JOE CHECKED his watch. One-fifteen, just as the message had specified. He hadn’t figured she’d choose a rendezvous point so close to where she lived, but Trinity, Idaho, wasn’t Boise. Everything was close to everything else in a place with only five hundred residents.

Besides, the woman he’d been chasing for months was savvy enough to stick to familiar territory, where she knew all the shortcuts and secret hiding places. She was nothing if not resourceful, or she’d never have evaded him this long.

The Trinity Police Department had cooperated once Joe flashed his badge and briefed them on the case he was working. He’d left out a few details, such as his relationship to the deceased—and to the suspect, short-lived as it had been. But what he’d provided had been enough to ensure that the Trinity police gave him the information he needed to find Sandra’s apartment.

Not Sandra, he reminded himself, his mouth tightening into a scowl. Sandra Dorsey was a mirage. Might as well stop thinking of her as a real person.

She was no more real than Jane Doe.

Jane lived in a one-bedroom unit above a hardware store on one of four cross streets intersecting Main. Alliance Park sat directly across the street.

She liked places like that, Joe remembered. She liked bare grass beneath her toes. Fresh air, warm sunshine—

He ruthlessly cut off the images racing through his mind and focused on the job he’d come here to do. He wasn’t here to relive a past that he now knew had never been anything more than another of her lies.

He stood inside the hardware store, faking interest in the boxes of nails on the shelf in front of him. Just behind the shelves, the wide picture window gave him an unencumbered view of the park, while the mirror effect of the bright sunshine outside and the relatively darkened interior of the story would hide him from view.

He didn’t trust “Jane” to play fairly, especially if she was faking her amnesia. He wasn’t about to walk into one of her traps.

He moved slowly up and down the aisle, pretending to read the box descriptions, while the minutes ticked further from their agreed-upon meeting time. By one-thirty, he was beginning to draw the attention of the store employees, but still Jane Doe hadn’t shown.

Where the hell was she?

JANE APPROACHED her apartment building from the rear, trying to keep her pace unhurried despite the panic rising like bile in her throat. Angela had shown her how to get inside using the fire escape one day a few weeks ago, when she’d accidentally locked herself out of the apartment. The fire escape landing on the second floor was right outside Angela’s bedroom window, which she almost never locked. Not in a place like Trinity.

Jane had thought her roommate was crazy to take such a chance, though she couldn’t articulate why. Maybe in her former life, she’d lived in some high-crime district.

Right now, she was glad for a way to get into the apartment without going through the front entrance. The last thing she wanted was to run into Joe Garrison, and there was no way she’d be able to sneak past him. The whole park had a wide-open view of the hardware store.

She took the back steps two at a time and hit the fire-escape ladder running, wincing at the clang of metal against metal as the ladder took her weight. She scrambled up quickly to the landing and pushed open the window, once again grimacing as the aged wood screeched in protest. Slipping as she crawled through the window, she landed gracelessly at the foot of the bed. She looked up, expecting the noise to have brought Angela running.

But her friend didn’t appear in the open doorway.

She headed to the living room, stopping short as she caught sight of the spilled bag of groceries lying on the floor in front of the door. “Angie?”

Only silence answered.

She remained still, listening. An odd smell caught her attention. Metallic.

She forced herself to move, edging toward the tiny alcove kitchen. As she stepped into the darkened room, the metallic smell hit her anew. Fear gripped her, cold and darkly familiar, but her mind rebelled against whatever vestige of memory was trying to fight its way to the front of her mind. She turned to run away but her foot slipped from under her and she went down, hitting hard on her side.

She felt something wet beneath her hands. Shaking her hair from her eyes, she saw her roommate’s still, bloody body lying tucked up next to the breakfast bar.

She opened her mouth to scream but couldn’t find the air for it. A sharp pain lanced through her side.

Then, over the roar of blood pounding in her head, a soft creak behind her made her go still with terror.

“Welcome home, baby.”

Chapter Two

Black flecks danced in front of her eyes as she tried to take a breath. The flecks grew and joined others in a frightening rush, and Jane struggled to sit up, fighting off the darkness.

She drew a deep breath and her vision cleared.

She wished it hadn’t.

There was blood everywhere. It covered the faded tile of the kitchenette like spilled milk, pooling in the uneven places and crisscrossing the grout. In contrast, Angela’s face was a waxy white, her eyes half-closed, unseeing.

A low noise rumbled from Jane’s chest into her throat.

“I didn’t want to do it. She wasn’t supposed to be here.” The voice behind her was low. Male. Smooth and modulated, with a neutral accent she couldn’t place.

Jane tried to make herself turn and look at the speaker, but she couldn’t move.

“It’s time to go, sweetheart.” The voice was right behind her. Something soft and smothering whipped down over her head, and her vision went dark again. Strong arms wrapped around her, dragging her to her feet.

The urge to survive overcame the lethargy of grief and she kicked back hard against her captor’s solid form, but he held on tight. She kicked again, making solid contact with his shin. With satisfaction, she heard his grunt of pain and redoubled her efforts.

She managed to free herself and ripped at the cloth covering her face. A pillowcase, she realized, tossing it aside as she raced for the door.

He caught her as she grabbed for the door handle. “No, baby. Shh. Shh.” His arms tightened around her, pulling her back against his body. She felt his pulse racing against her shoulder blades. He was breathing hard from the exertion, and she forced down the panic flooding her system. Panic would only weaken her. She had to stay alert. Stay focused. Find his weakness.

She made herself relax in his arms, listening to his breathing, alert to the softening of his grip as she stopped resisting.

His hand smoothed her hair back from where it had fallen in her face. “That’s better, baby. See? It’s time to go home, sweetheart. You know that. You have something I need.”

His voice sounded familiar and foreign at the same time. Confidence tinged every word he spoke. He was a man used to getting his way, unaccustomed to opposition.

She made herself turn slowly in his arms to face him. Hard blue eyes stared down at her from a handsome, even-featured face. A sandy brown mustache and beard covered the lower half of his face. From a distance, it might look real, but as close as she was, she could see that it was a disguise. What she could see of his hair beneath a navy-blue Boise State baseball cap looked to be sandy as well, lighter than the beard.

He wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans. Close up, she could see darker spots that were almost certainly Angela’s blood. Her stomach convulsed, and she swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising in her throat.

She forced herself to meet his eyes again. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Home,” he said.

Fear flooded her veins at the simple word. Wherever this man planned to take her, it wasn’t a place she’d consider home.

She had to get away from him. Now.

“Home?” she whispered, meeting his eyes. She held his gaze, trying to read his mood, his intentions. He didn’t seem to want to kill her here and now, though he clearly had no scruples about murder.

She fought against a rising tide of grief, forcing the sight of Angela’s bloody body from her mind. Not now. She couldn’t think about it now.

“I kept everything just like you left it,” he said, an indulgent tone to his voice. “I watered your jade plant, baby. Just like you used to do it. It’s looking good. You’ll be pleased when you see it.”

The softening of his voice sent a shudder down her spine. He obviously knew her intimately. Was he her husband? Lover? What kind of person had she been, to be intimate with a man who could kill in cold blood?

“I should pack some things,” she murmured, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

His eyes narrowed. “I packed for you.” He waved his hand to his right. She followed the movement and saw a small bag packed and sitting beside the sofa. She hadn’t seen it earlier when she entered from the bedroom. The sofa must have blocked it from view.

“What’s my name?” she asked softly.

His eyes narrowed farther. “Don’t try to pull that amnesia crap with me, baby. I know your games too well.” He turned away from her for a moment, reaching for the bag. It gave her the opening she needed.

As he bent to grab the handle, she pushed him hard, catching him off balance. He lurched forward, hit the coffee table and bounced off the sofa to land on the floor between the two pieces of furniture.

Jane whirled and raced to the door, slamming it behind her as she sprinted down the narrow hallway toward the exit stairs leading down to the hardware store on the first floor. She heard the apartment door open behind her but didn’t look back as she jerked open the door to the stairs.

She took the steps at breakneck speed, listening for the sound of pursuit behind her. By the time she reached the first floor, she realized she hadn’t heard anyone behind her at all.

But she didn’t dare pause to investigate. She burst through the exit door and into the hardware store, her breath coming in short, keening gasps.

Harold, the clerk at the tool desk, looked at her as she ran up to him. His brown eyes widened. “My God, Jane, are you hurt?”

She looked down at her T-shirt and realized it was wet with Angela’s blood. The sight made her head swim, and she grabbed at the tool desk, trying to keep her balance. Her hand slipped, painting a crimson streak across the shiny wood as she slid to the floor.

Her world narrowed to a tiny pinpoint of light in a churning sea of darkness. Vaguely, she was aware of Harold’s voice as he barked information into the phone. He must have called 911, she thought, struggling not to drown in the darkness.

Somewhere in the void, a low, familiar voice murmured her name. “Jane.”

She stirred, looking toward the voice. The darkness began to recede, and she found herself gazing into the wintry gray eyes of Joe Garrison.

Chief Garrison, she amended mentally, tears burning the backs of her eyes as she met his hard scrutiny.

Unbidden, the words came from somewhere deep inside her, a place she had long feared existed. A place where wariness and suspicion were old, trusted friends.

“I didn’t do it,” she said.

JOE SLIPPED a pair of plastic covers over the soles of his snakeskin boots and entered the crime scene, crossing to the kitchen alcove where the investigator from the coroner’s office was doing the preliminary examination of the body.

Joe introduced himself to the crime scene investigator, Sanderson. “What’ve we got?”

“Deep incision from the carotid to the jugular. She’d have been dead pretty damn quick.” Sanderson glanced up at the rangy lawman standing beside Joe. “Never thought I’d see this in Trinity, Hank.”

Chief Hank Trent shook his head. “Neither did I.”

Sanderson reached across the body and picked up something lying half-hidden by the body. It was a large filet knife, sticky with blood.

Joe looked up at the kitchen counter and spotted a knife block. There was an empty slot.

“Weapon of opportunity,” Chief Trent murmured.

“Guys, I don’t want to make your case more complicated, but I’m not sure Jane Doe could’ve done this,” Sanderson said quietly. “We’ll know more after the autopsy, but this cut looks like it was done in one stroke. Not sure a slip of a woman like the roommate could’ve made that happen. It probably would’ve taken a man.”

Trent exchanged a look with Joe. “I don’t think Ms. Doe needs to know that just yet.”

Joe nodded in agreement. “I want to question her.”

Trent narrowed his eyes. “This happened in my county, Chief. I get the first crack at her.”

“Let me in on it, then.”

Trent looked inclined to argue, but after a moment he gave a nod. “I take the lead. Let’s not muck this up with interagency squabbling.”

“You take the lead,” Joe agreed.

“CAN I change out of these clothes?” Jane asked, her posture stiff, as if the feel of the bloody clothes against her skin was painful.

“Soon,” Hank Trent promised.

Joe leaned against the wall of the interrogation room, keeping his distance as Hank Trent had requested. He’d listened for the last half hour as the police chief took “Jane Doe” back through the events of that afternoon. It was hard to stay silent with so many questions still unasked, but he wouldn’t appreciate an outsider interfering with one of his own investigations, either.

Besides, sooner or later, he’d have his turn with her. And she’d think dealing with Hank Trent was a walk in the park in comparison.

“There was a man in your apartment when you arrived,” Trent said for the third time since the interrogation started.

“I told you that already.” Her voice rose in frustration. “I’ve told you what he looked like. I’ve described his voice. I told you that he had packed a bag for me and expected me to go with him. I told you everything I remember. Can I please just get out of these bloody clothes? Please!” She smacked her hand on the table between them.

“Why’d you bypass the front entrance?” Joe interjected, unable to remain silent any longer.

Both Jane and the police chief turned to look at him.

“You didn’t enter the front,” Joe said. “I know. I was in the hardware store, watching for you.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed. She looked back at the chief. “I couldn’t find my key,” she answered smoothly.

She was a good liar, Joe thought. Believable. But then, he knew that already.

He pulled up a chair and sat by Chief Trent, who shot him a glare. Joe ignored it. He didn’t have the time or inclination to play nice with the locals on this case. “Your key was in your purse. Want to try again?”

“I didn’t see it in my purse. Why does that matter?” She didn’t look so fragile anymore, vibrant color rising in her cheeks and her voice growing hard and tight. She looked more like the woman he remembered from almost a year ago. Images flitted through his mind, daring him to remember her as he’d known her then.

He gritted his teeth and held her angry gaze, replacing the unwanted memories with the stark mental picture of Tommy’s lifeless body.

Jane Doe looked at Chief Trent. “Who is this man?”

She didn’t say it like someone who wanted an answer, Joe realized. She knew who he was already.

So she did remember.

Anger burned in his gut, mingling with the black coffee he’d drunk at the River Lodge Diner. He was beginning to regret skipping breakfast and lunch.

“Chief Garrison is here in Trinity because of you, Ms. Doe. Says you’re his prime suspect in a murder in Canyon Creek. Ever been to Canyon Creek?”

When she turned her eyes to meet Joe’s gaze, a zing of energy caught him by surprise. Even pale and wary, as she was now, she still possessed the vibrancy he’d noticed the first time he set eyes on her a year ago.

He hated himself for still feeling it.

“Where’s Canyon Creek?” she asked.

“Wyoming,” Joe answered.

“I hear Wyoming’s pretty.”

Hank Trent shot a glare at Joe. “I hate to interrupt the travelogue—”

“You spent almost a year in Canyon Creek, Wyoming,” Joe continued, ignoring Trent. “You worked for a rancher there. Thomas Blake.”

He watched closely for her reaction. Her gaze didn’t drop, but he could see her mind working behind those soft green eyes. Was she remembering Tommy’s laughter-lined face? The way he could make people feel like family the second he met them?

Was she remembering his body, slumped and still on the stable floor, drenched in the river of crimson flowing from the three bullet holes in his chest?

“We’re getting off track here,” Hank Trent said firmly. “Chief, unless you’d rather wait outside—”

Joe sat back, knowing he’d crossed a line. This was Trent’s territory, and Joe had just trampled all over it. That was no way to make allies of the locals.

And like it or not, he needed allies on this one. He had only the spottiest of evidence against Sandra Dorsey or Jane Doe or whatever the hell her name really was.

But he knew, gut-deep, she was involved with Tommy’s murder right down to her pretty little toes.

JANE TUCKED her knees up to her chest, trying to stop crying. Beneath her, the cot was wobbly and hard, but they’d finally let her shower and change into clean clothes. The jail-issued T-shirt and jeans were too large, but at least they weren’t covered with Angela’s blood.

She closed her eyes tight against the fresh flood of despair. Angie. Why had he killed her? Just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time?

My fault, she thought, rocking back and forth. The mustached man had been there looking for her, not Angie.

It’s time to go home, sweetheart. That’s what he’d said. Home. Was he her husband? Her brother?

No. Not a brother. His gaze had made her feel naked. Exposed. As if he knew everything there was to know about her, inside and out.

What kind of monster had she brought into this sleepy little town?

Footsteps approached her cramped holding cell and came to a stop. Jane forced herself to open her burning eyes, dashing away her tears with her knuckles. Joe Garrison stood just outside her cell, gazing through the bars at her with an expression as intense and knowing as that of the mustached man who’d been waiting in her apartment.

When it became clear he had no intention of speaking first, she asked, “Who are you?”

“You know exactly who I am.”

She pushed off the cot and crossed to the bars. He was several inches taller than she was, forcing her to crane her neck to meet his hard gaze. “I know your name. Now I know your job. But I don’t know you.”

“You’re really good, you know?” He raised his arms and gripped the bars over her head, leaning toward her. He seemed to fill all the space in the narrow cell, even though he remained outside. “Even I can’t tell if you’re lying about not remembering.”

Jane gripped the bars in front of her, trying not to let his imposing presence shake her. “Even you?”

His smile was an awful thing. “We go back a ways, Jane. Or is it Sandra?”

Sandra Dorsey, she thought, remembering the name on the papers in Joe’s hotel room. “Maybe it’s Sandra. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“That’s convenient.” His tight smile widened but grew no warmer. “But unfortunately for you, I don’t think it’ll be a convincing defense.”

“Defense for what?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

Joe leaned forward, his face pressed between the bars. “Eight months ago, in Canyon Creek, Wyoming, you killed my brother.”

Chapter Three

Jane’s face blanched. She backed away from the bars, groping behind her for the cot, and sat with a graceless thud on the lumpy mattress. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“How do you know?” Joe asked, unsurprised by how guileless she sounded. The woman he’d known as Sandra Dorsey had raised sincerity to an art form.

“I couldn’t,” she insisted, her voice ragged. “I know I couldn’t.”

The uncertainty in her voice caught him flat-footed. He lowered his voice to a sympathetic murmur. “You don’t really know what you would or wouldn’t do, do you? Since you don’t remember who you are or what life you’ve lived.”

She looked down at her hands, clasping them together to stop their nervous twisting. “I just wouldn’t,” she muttered stubbornly.

“I’ve asked the Trinity police to transfer you to my custody for further questioning in Wyoming, but they’re not ready to let you out of their jurisdiction yet. Not while there are still questions about your roommate’s murder.”

She put her hand to her mouth, her face growing even paler. “Angie,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? He was after me.”

Joe gripped the steel bars and watched in silence as she pressed her hands to her face, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. He hated the rush of sympathy burning a hole in his gut as he watched her obvious distress, hated that even now, he wanted to believe her.

She had a vulnerability about her that drew a man’s interest, like a lost little lamb that needed protection. It’s what had drawn Tommy to open his home to her and give her a job, no questions asked.

It’s what drew you to her, too, he mocked himself, tightening his grip on the bars.

“Has Chief Trent found anyone who saw the man in my apartment?” Jane asked, her voice hoarse.

“Not yet.”

She looked up at him, biting her lower lip. “You don’t think there was a man at all, do you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She knuckled away her tears, a childlike gesture that made Joe’s chest tighten. “You think I killed your brother. What’s one more murder?”

He didn’t answer, though his gut churned with the need to tell her exactly what he thought of her, what he’d been thinking of her for months as he chased hundreds of dead ends searching for Sandra Dorsey.

“Too bad it messes up your plans to haul me back to Wyoming, right?” A thread of steel hardened her voice as she pushed herself up from the cot and stood to face him. “Were you even going to take me back there? Or were you going to mete out a little frontier justice?”

“I’m not the criminal,” he answered tightly, angry at her for even suggesting he’d do such a thing. She knew him better than that.

Or she had. Hell, what if she really wasn’t faking the memory loss?

A door opened behind him, dragging his attention away from Jane’s hard gaze. Chief Hank Trent entered, a uniformed officer on his heels. He gestured with his head to Joe. “Let’s talk.”

While Trent pulled Joe to one side, the officer unlocked the holding cell.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked.

“We’ve found a corroborating witness to Ms. Doe’s account. I’ll explain everything.”

“A corroborating witness?” Joe watched Jane exit the holding cell. She met his gaze, her expression tinged with an odd mixture of relief and fear.

“A neighbor saw a man matching the description Ms. Doe gave us. He exited the apartment building by the fire escape,” Trent said. “Becker, take Ms. Doe to room three. I need to speak with her further before she’s released.”

Joe waited until Becker and Jane were out of the room before turning to glare at Hank Trent. “Released?”

“I don’t have grounds to hold her.”

“Then release her to my custody and I’ll take her back to Wyoming on the murder charge.”

“There’s no murder charge yet. You said that yourself.”

“So she just walks around Trinity, scot-free, while two people are dead?”

“She didn’t kill Angela Carlyle.”

“She killed Thomas Blake.”

“You suspect she did.”

“She had the means and the opportunity. And she ran off the day he died.”

“What about motive?”

“I don’t have to prove motive.”

“And I don’t have to turn her over to you.” Trent’s hard expression softened. “Look, I’m not playing hardball here just to yank your chain. I need her to stick around because she’s our best witness in this town’s first murder in decades. But I can’t keep you from talking to her while you’re both here in town.”

“You’re assuming she’ll stick around just because you tell her to.”

Trent smiled. “Well, I’ve arranged a little something for Ms. Doe that just might interest you.”

“THE BUENA VISTA HOTEL?” Jane stared at Hank Trent as if he were crazy. She glared at Joe. “This is your idea, isn’t it?”

Joe shook his head. “You’re a murder witness and the perpetrator is still at large. You need protection, and the Trinity police know the Buena Vista Hotel has the best security in town.”

Jane shook her head, thinking how easily she’d talked her way into Joe Garrison’s room earlier that day. “That’s not saying much.”

Trent made an exaggerated huffing sound.

“Chief Trent has arranged for your room to be next to mine,” Joe said softly, drawing her gaze. His cool gray eyes held hers, full of challenge.

“I just bet he did,” she muttered.

“We don’t have officers to spare, with a murderer at large,” Chief Trent said, his tone annoyingly reasonable. “Chief Garrison was kind enough to offer his services as your security guard. You won’t get a better offer.”

Jane tugged at the neck of her T-shirt. “What’s keeping me from packing my bags and getting the hell out of this town? If I’m not under arrest.”

“We can hold you for twenty-four hours without charging you with anything, you know.” Trent’s voice hardened. “I’d prefer that you cooperate voluntarily.”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“Then consider this,” Joe interjected, pulling up the chair across the table from her. He turned it around and straddled it, resting his arms across the rounded back and pinning her with his hard gaze. “There’s a guy running around out there who didn’t think twice about slitting your friend’s throat because she got in his way. And from what you tell us, he wants you. Do you really want to be out there on your own right now?”

Jane looked down at the scuffed table, running her finger over a nick as she tamped down a flood of fear at his words. “No.”

“Then the Buena Vista it is.” Trent slapped his hand on the table, sealing the deal.

Jane bit her lower lip, her insides twisting into a painful knot. She felt trapped, shackled by the iron will of the lawmen and by her own blank memory.

“I’ll make the arrangements.” Trent rose and headed out of the interrogation room, leaving Jane alone with Joe Garrison. Joe gazed at her over his folded arms, clearly content to let her squirm beneath his scrutiny.

“Do you usually get your way?” She couldn’t keep a thread of bitterness out of her voice.

“No,” he answered.

“I don’t believe that.”

“If I always got my way, my brother wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t be here in Trinity babysitting the last person to see him alive.”

“Who was I to your brother?” she asked, fearing the answer.

Joe dropped his gaze for the first time, focusing on the nicked wood tabletop. “You worked for him.”

“Doing what?”

He looked up sharply at her wary tone. “You kept his house for him. Helped him with the business end of the ranch. Odd jobs—whatever he needed done.”

She took a deep breath and asked the question she dreaded most. “Were he and I…”

Joe shook his head. “No. He was a recent widower. Not over his wife’s death yet. You were…friends.”

She didn’t miss the bitterness of his tone. “Or so he thought, huh? Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She slapped her hands on the table in front of her, venting her frustration. Her palms stung and she balled her hands into fists. “Why? What did I do to you to make you believe I’d kill your brother? That I’d lie about not remembering?”

“Because you lied about who you were, for one thing.” His voice was quiet. Calm. But she heard anger roiling beneath the placid surface. It made her feel queasy.

“How do you know?” She couldn’t help but lean closer to him, eagerness overcoming wariness. “Do you know who I really am?”

He leaned away from her, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the back of his chair. “No. I just know you’re not someone named Sandra Dorsey. The Social Security number you gave Tommy belonged to a deceased woman by the same name.”

“Do you think I killed her, too?”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “No. Sandra Dorsey died in a car accident in Trenton, New Jersey, four years ago. I think you paid someone to give you a new identity, and they stole her name and Social Security number to make you into a new person.”

Jane looked away from his hard gaze, her chest tight with tension. Why had she gone to such obvious trouble to change her identity? What kind of woman was she?

“The man you saw at your apartment—did he seem familiar to you?” Joe asked.

“No. But he knew me.” She forced herself to look at him. “Do you know who he is?”

Joe shook his head. “No. I don’t.”

“Maybe he’s the one who killed your brother.”

“Maybe that’s what you’d like me to believe.”

“And you won’t even entertain the possibility that I wasn’t the one who killed him.”

“You disappeared the day he died. You were gone by the time the neighbor found Tommy’s body.” He stumbled over the words, his gaze dropping away.

Jane felt the ridiculous urge to reach across the table and put her hand over his, to lend him what little strength and comfort she had.

He took a deep breath and continued, his voice threaded with steel. “Your bags were gone. Your clothes. Everything. It was like you’d never been there in the first place.”

“That was eight months ago, right?”

Joe nodded.

“So, where was I between then and this past December when I showed up here in Trinity?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“How’d you find me?”

“I got a fax from the Trinity Police Department, seeking information on a Jane Doe.”

The door to the interview room opened, and Chief Trent walked in before Jane could respond. “All set. I’m afraid we have to keep the bag we found packed in your living room. For evidence.”

“What do I do for clothes?” she asked.

“My sister Erica runs clothing drives for one of the local churches. She’s agreed to raid their stash for a few things your size,” Chief Trent answered. “She’s left it for us at the hotel.”

“Ready to go, then?” Joe asked.

She frowned at the impatience in his voice but gave a swift nod, falling in step in front of him as they followed the police chief out of the room.

BY THE TIME Joe led Jane from the police station, the sun had dipped behind the Sawtooth Mountains, leaving only a faint orange glow in the western sky. Streetlamps along the town’s main streets had already come on, battling the chilly gloom of twilight.

Joe motioned toward his truck, parked in a visitor slot in front of the station. Jane managed a weak smile. “Did you drive over from Wyoming or did you rent that truck at the Boise airport?”

“I drove,” he answered tersely.

Her forehead creased. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” He couldn’t exactly tell her that she used to tease him about his truck and his Stetson and everything that went with being a Wyoming cowboy. Back then, she’d said it with such affection he found himself laughing with her. Now he wondered if it had all been an act, all the smiles and the jokes and the easy charm. He hated not knowing what was real and what was a lie.

Maybe the smartest way to deal with her was to assume everything that came out of her mouth was some sort of lie.

“Could we stop by the River Lodge Diner?” she asked as she climbed into the passenger seat of the Silverado.

“Why?” he asked as he settled behind the wheel.

“I want to let my friend Doris at the diner know I’m okay.” She buckled her seat belt and looked across at him. “She’ll know about Angie by now, and she’ll probably be worried about me.”

There was a hint of wonder in her voice, as if she was surprised to know someone cared about what happened to her. He recognized the look. He’d seen it on her face when he first met her almost two years ago, as she told him about the way Tommy had taken her in, no questions asked, when she showed up on his doorstep needing help.

Tommy should’ve asked questions.

They all should’ve.

He started the truck and gave a brief nod. “The River Lodge Diner it is.”

“OH, JANIE!” Doris Bradley engulfed her in a bear hug as soon as Jane entered the diner, drawing the curious gazes of the handful of customers who’d opted for the diner’s home cooking rather than the lodge restaurant’s more cosmopolitan fare. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. “I’ve been worried sick about you ever since we heard the news about Angie.”

“I’m okay, Doris,” Jane assured her. “But I’m not going to be able to work for a while. Boyd’s going to have to find two new waitresses, I’m afraid.”

“You can’t work? Why not?” Doris stepped back, holding Jane by the shoulders. She looked her up and down. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m fine!” Jane glanced at Joe, who stood a few paces away, watching her with hard gray eyes. She’d asked him not to tell anyone at the diner about her involvement in the case, and he’d agreed, but she didn’t know if she could really trust him to keep his word.

He’d lied to her more than once already, however good his reasons might have been.

“Is Boyd here?” she asked Doris. “I guess I should really tell him myself.”

“Sorry, hon. Boyd hasn’t been here all afternoon. He got a call from his sister a little after one.” Doris lowered her voice to a half whisper. “I think maybe she’s having another one of her episodes. You know he doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“I guess I’ll just have to drop by tomorrow sometime. I’ll need to pick up my last paycheck anyway.” She gave Doris another hug and turned to look at Joe again.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

She felt Doris’s curious gaze on her, but she didn’t stop to explain. She could hardly tell her co-worker that she was basically under house arrest at the Buena Vista Hotel under the watchful eye of Cowboy Joe. Word about her situation would get around soon enough as it was.

“Episodes?” Joe asked as they headed away from the diner toward the Buena Vista.

“What?”

“Your boss’s sister has episodes?”

“Oh. She’s a paranoid schizophrenic. She does well when she stays on her medication, but she doesn’t always stay on it. Boyd’s all she has in the world, and as big a jerk as he can be, he works himself to the ground to help her have some sort of normal life. So when she calls—”

“He goes running,” Joe finished for her.

She glanced at his profile, outlined by the yellow glow of streetlamps lining Main Street. “Family, I guess.”

He cut his eyes her way. “Family,” he agreed.

The well-lit facade of the Buena Vista Hotel shimmered against the dark blue backdrop of the Sawtooth Mountains as Joe pulled the truck into the guest parking lot. He unbuckled his seat belt and turned to look at her. “I know I’ve made it pretty clear that I don’t think you’re telling me the truth. About your memory or about what happened a year ago or six hours ago.”

“No! Really?”

“But I don’t believe you were the one who killed Angela Carlyle. The evidence argues against it.”

She felt a ripple of relief. “So you believe me about the man?”

“I believe a man killed your roommate. Who or what he is to you is still a question.”

“For me, too.”

He shot her a sidelong look. “My point is, the man is still at large, and if you’re the only witness to his murder of your friend, he might want to shut you up.”

She tamped down a shudder. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you need a reminder. I know firsthand that you have a tendency to run.”

She opened her car door and stepped out, turning to look at him through the open door. “I’m not stupid. I know I’m not safe out there on my own. That’s why I agreed to this setup.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

She closed the door a little harder than necessary. “We’ll never be on the same page, cowboy,” she muttered.

She followed him into the hotel and waited impatiently while he picked up the key to her room from the desk clerk. “You’re in room 223. It’s an adjoining room to mine.”

“Adjoining?”

“You know, there’s a connecting door between our rooms?”

“I know what adjoining means.” She frowned at him as they entered the elevator. “I just wondered why.”

“Easy access,” he answered cryptically.

“I’m surprised you didn’t request that Chief Trent just put me in your room with you. Maybe supply you with a set of handcuffs to chain me to the bed or something.”

“I did. He nixed it. But I have my own set of cuffs if you’re interested.”

She looked up sharply, surprised at the hint of humor she heard in his deep, gravelly voice. “My God, that was a joke, wasn’t it? Cowboy Joe just told a joke.”

The half smile quirking his lips faded and his gray eyes darkened. “Don’t get used to it.”

She sighed as the elevator lurched and settled on the second floor. The door swished open and she started to step out, but Joe swung his arm out, stopping her.

“Let me check it out first.” Holding the doors open with one hand, he stuck his head out of the elevator and looked both ways. “Okay, let’s go.”

She followed him into the deserted hallway, remembering her earlier visit to his hotel room. What would Joe say if he knew she’d been here already, conned her way inside his room and gone through his things? Check that. She had a feeling she already knew what he’d say.

Joe stopped in front of room 223 and swiped the card key in the lock, opening the door. Jane took a step inside ahead of him and stopped dead in her tracks.

Behind her, Joe uttered a low profanity.

Spread across the bed, in the unmistakable shape of a body, lay hundreds of blood-red rose petals.