Red Wolf’s Return
Mary J. Forbes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

A mist lay on the lagoon below Blue Mountain the September morning Ethan Red Wolf faced a past he’d buried years ago.

Won’t be hi and bye this time, Meggie.

No, he’d have to make an elaborate report of the wounded eagle huddling against the boulder. Which meant talking to her.

“Easy,” he soothed when the raptor squirmed weakly on the shoreline rocks. Slipping his Nikon camera into his backpack, he crouched for closer inspection—and mentally cursed.

The bird’s tail feathers had been plucked like unwanted hairs.

Thankfully, the cool, rainy temperatures during the past two days had kept the scent down and coyotes and wolves at bay—a cleanup process as old as the mountain above him.

He snorted softly. Wasn’t this just bloody typical? Seemed after all these years, America’s heritage symbol—his heritage symbol—would be the catalyst bringing him eye to eye with Sweet Creek’s police chief.

Meggie McKee.

Gently he lifted the bird. “It’s gonna be okay, little lady,” he murmured. Rising, he cradled the eagle against his chest before starting over the rocks toward his house on the other side of the diminutive lake shrouded in the foggy dawn.

Ah, Meggie, he thought. We’re about to have a real conversation. A first since she’d returned to Montana from the west coast six years ago.

Hell, if he were honest with himself, this would the first time they exchanged more than ten words in nineteen years.

Sure, they had nodded to each other on the street, said “Hi” in passing, had even traded the old, “How’s it going?” “Oh, fine. You?” “Good, good…” when he used to work as her brother’s foreman on the Flying Bar T Ranch.

But a conversation? An honest-to-God, intelligent discourse between two people?

Every time they were within ten feet of each other, one or the other zipped to an exit at the first chance. Him, because of her marriage—and too many other reasons he’d locked away over the years. Her…well, her reason had been the one he’d never forgotten. The one she had decided the night of their prom. You’re not what I want in a man, after all.

Today, another female would alter fate. He looked down at the eagle with her shot-up wing and thigh and shook his head. Little lady…if you only knew what your sacrifice is about to set in motion.

Because he sure as hell wasn’t talking to Gilby Pierce, Meggie’s second-in-command. Nope, Ethan intended to speak to the head gal herself—if for no other reason than to establish some prolonged face time.

He walked through the thick timber and across a minimeadow where two hours ago his camera lens had caught the chipmunk chewing a seed on the rotted log. At the crest of a small knoll, he appraised the little homestead his grandfather Davis O’Conner had built a half century before. Protected by a grove of pine, aspen and birch, rich in autumn splendor, the renovated house sat two hundred yards from the lagoon.

His home now. His spot on the map.

He wondered if in the past year—since he’d taken residency on this side of the hill a quarter mile from where Meggie lived with her sixteen-year-old son—had she ever looked down onto his home as he did now?

Don’t be a fool, Ethan. She’s a different woman than she was at eighteen. All brass and guts now.

She needed to be, as chief of police.

The Meggie he’d kissed as a teenager no longer existed. This Meggie wouldn’t spare one frivolous second mooning over some bygone childhood love.

That much he’d witnessed in the past six years after Mayor Hudson Leland and the town council hired her to run Sweet Creek’s police department. Hell, not long ago, she’d practiced at the former rifle range—shot bull’ seyes, in fact—an eighth of a mile from Ethan’s house. A range on the property left to him by his late grandfather that Ethan had bulldozed last June to make room for the therapeutic riding center he wanted to establish. Which, of course, didn’t sit well with the locals, including the mayor and his cronies—in particular Jock Ralston.

Lifting his head, Ethan sought out the mammoth boulder sitting like a rough-edged beacon across the lake. The boulder where he’d found the raptor.

Where, under a stadium of stars, eighteen-year-old Meggie McKee had once said she would love him forever.

Ethan grunted. Right. And there went a lake of water under that bridge.

Firmly cradling the bird in his arms, he walked down the hill toward the house in the trees.

A thicket of yellow aspen on the outskirts of town encircled Sweet Creek’s animal clinic. Turning into its lane, Ethan squinted as the dawn light glanced off the windshield of the doctor’s van in front of the tomato-red barn.

Three minutes later, after carrying the injured eagle into the reception area, he and his longtime friend and town veterinarian, Kell Tanner, considered the bird’s wounds on an examination table.

“Can you save her, Doc?” Ethan wanted to know.

“It’ll be touch-and-go. Only blessing is she has youth on her side.” He removed the tea towels Ethan had bound around the wings. Before bringing the bird in, he’d dribbled water into its beak with an eyedropper until its glassy yellow eyes blinked open, the nictitating membranes gliding slowly across the corneas, back to front. At that point, Ethan had breathed a sigh of hope.

Gently the veterinarian carefully probed the bird’s torn thigh and shattered wing. “Damn shame.”

And then some. “Do your best, Doc. She deserves it.”

Kell nodded. “Come back in a couple hours. She’ll be in recovery then.”

“Thanks.” Ethan headed for the door.

“You realize they’re not going to like what you’re thinking here,” Kell said over his shoulder. “That one of their gun buddies might be a poacher.”

They. The law or the town council? Ethan shrugged. “Guess I’ll take the chance.”

“Good luck.”

Ethan nodded.

Outside, mellow morning sunshine warmed his face as he looked toward the trees across the road separating the clinic from the town proper where two blocks away he’d noticed her pickup at the police station’s curb. Still the early riser, Meggie?

He pulled his ball cap from a hip pocket, settled it on his head.

Time to get the show on the road.

Resolute, he climbed into his pickup and pulled out of the clinic’s graveled parking lot. In the two minutes it took to get to the station, he thought about how she would react to his information, facts that would likely separate them further if he implicated the gun club. Or her son. Well, if that was how it played out he’d take the chance anyway. This was for the raptor.

Besides, Meggie lived her own life now—though he’d observed her hire on as chief, watched her son, Beau, grow from a kid with freckles to a teenager with a bad-boy attitude.

Like you were at that age.

And he had watched Meggie date other men, even get serious about one four years ago.

Not that there hadn’t been women in Ethan’s life. He’d had his share and then some. Except none had ever measured up to dark-haired, blue-eyed, long-legged Chief Meggie.

Meg. That’s the name she used these days. Meg. Hard and headstrong. Huh. Well, she’d always be Meggie to him. Soft and sweet natured. The girl he remembered.

Heart pounding, he parked in front of the rectangular wooden structure that had been the police station for nearly two and half decades. Moments later he pulled open its door to walk into a room that took up most of the front length of the building. LED day lighting presented the brightness of July at noon.

She stood to the right, viewing a county map tacked to the wall with her second-in-command Gilby Pierce and dispatcher/secretary Sally Dunn. All three turned, pinning Ethan like the map they’d been scrutinizing.

Meggie’s eyes went wide, then she caught herself, and a smile Ethan knew was meant for the sake of her companions curved her mouth before she stepped forward.

For five long seconds he couldn’t inhale. Meggie.

“Mr. Red Wolf.”

Mr. Red Wolf. Fine. She wanted to playact, he’d give her one hell of a performance. “Chief McKee.”

Blue uniform crisp, gun slung on her belt, she was all cop in her approach. “Something we can do for you?”

He looked into those beguiling blue eyes. Well now, Meggie-girl. You’re finally looking at me for longer than sixty seconds. How’s it feel?

Hell. He had no delusion that she saw him; it was the probable complaint he’d come about that held her interest.

“There is. An eagle’s been shot on my property, and I’m wondering if it wasn’t for possible profit.”

Those fine, black brows he had traced with his mouth twenty years before arced. “Care to explain?”

“Tail and wing feathers missing. Bird’s over at Kell’s getting its thigh sewn up and its wing bones splinted.”

“It’s alive?”

“Barely.”

She studied him for a moment, assessing his words while he assessed her. Her dark chocolate hair, worn in a neat bob, was shorter than his by several inches. She wore no lipstick, very little rouge, and her gaze was direct in a way it hadn’t been when she was a girl. Regret coursed through him at the sight of the hair-fine lines caging those same eyes. She’d had her share of heartache, he surmised. Hell, maybe she still mourned for her ex—the renowned Dr. Doug Sutcliffe—these six years. Ethan shoved away the notion. Meggie thinking about a man bothered him for reasons he did not want to investigate, especially when she was no longer his. Never had been, Ethan.

“Why don’t you step into my office?” Turning, she led him down a short hallway to a cluttered room with a long wooden desk supporting a computer. Several filing cabinets filled the right wall while the left held another county map, a half-dozen Wanted posters, and a corner window with—irony of ironies—a view of Blue Mountain.

Daily those lake-blue eyes saw the terrain where he lived.

Where she lived a shout away.

Did that ever cross her mind?

“Have a seat.” All business, she shut the door behind them.

Ethan took the only chair free of file folders. Mere feet from his knees, she hiked a slim hip on her desk and crossed her arms. “Where’d you find the bird?”

“Across the water from my place. On the shore,” he added and observed her pinpoint the area in her mind, remembering spots where, as high school sweethearts, they had done their share of kissing.

“Anyone been using the rifle range without your knowledge?” she asked.

“The range doesn’t exist anymore, as you know.” After the town’s rental lease had expired last spring, he’d demolished the target hill and shooting stalls, removed the obstacle course used for the annual Mounted Shoot. He had wanted no part remaining of the thirty-year-old range his grandfather founded. In its place Ethan was creating a healing-horse retreat where troubled kids could find a little peace. Kids like he’d once been.

But his plans were not her affair.

“I’m well aware the range is gone,” Meggie replied. “However, that doesn’t mean people won’t try to use those twenty acres.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “Old habits die hard. I was wondering if some folks still consider the field open for target practice.”

“I’ve posted No Trespassing signs.” He shifted his booted foot several inches from her police-issued shoe. “But you’re right. It doesn’t rule out the mayor’s gun cronies.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “What are you saying, Ethan?”

An air balloon’s torch whooshed through him. The last time his name crossed her lips…Hell, he couldn’t recall.

“I’m saying I’ve seen hunters on Blue Mountain.” And one of them was your son.

She slipped off the desk, walked around to her chair. “Who?” she asked, her fingers easy on the computer’s keyboard. All police business now.

“Couple kids.”

Her head swung around. “With rifles?”

“Twenty-twos.”

“I need names, Ethan.”

Ethan again. Twice in less than sixty seconds. “Randy Leland, Linc’s boy and the mayor’s grandson—”

“I know the Lelands,” she retorted. Her eyes softened. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap. It’s just…Let’s say it doesn’t surprise me.”

Of course it didn’t. Linc Leland and Jock Ralston—and sometimes her second-in-command Gilby Pierce—had blighted Ethan’s high school years, and Meggie, his noble, valiant Meggie, had tried to install herself as his shield. Until he’d had to physically fight Linc and Jock—and get his nose busted—to prove himself.

He gave her a half beat. “I also saw your son.”

“Beau?” Her pupils pinpricked. “With Randy? When?”

“Last weekend.” Labor Day weekend. “Sunday to be exact. They were popping shots at deadwood on my land.”

She typed in his response. “Did you talk to them?”

He hesitated. Her son hadn’t welcomed Ethan’s intrusion. “I told them to use the range at Livingston or Bozeman, that they were on private property now.” Her son had shrugged and said something about how Old Man O’Conner never gave a rat’s ass before, why should Ethan?

He’d told the boy if he didn’t get his ass off the property right quick, he’d find it hauled down to the chief’s office. Or words to that effect. The kid had laughed.

“Did they leave?” Meggie asked.

“They did.” Just to be sure, he’d followed them until they were in Beau’s Chevy pickup and roaring down the dirt road that wound around the lake and hooked up with the pavement to Sweet Creek’s town proper.

“Was that the only time you saw the kids on your land?”

“Beau was there once before, far as I know.”

Her expression remained bland. “When?”

“End of July. He was walking along the lakeshore around seven-thirty in the evening.”

“With the twenty-two?”

“Over his shoulder.”

“Did you talk to him at that time?”

“No. He was crossing my property line and heading up the mountain.” Foothill, actually. Blue Mountain was part of the timbered hills evolving into the Absaroka Range to the east.

Meggie got out of her chair and walked to the corner window where the strengthening morning sunlight fell in a block on the floor. Ethan envisioned her conjuring pictures of her boy on the mountain beyond. “Still doesn’t mean those kids shot that eagle.”

“You’re right,” he conceded. “It doesn’t.”

It could have been someone else, an adult, a poacher or poachers trafficking eagle parts. Off and on such stories had been on the nightly news, in the papers. Stories relaying the profit of wildlife products such as bear claws, teeth and gall bladders, antler velvet, hooves from elk and deer.

Of feathers and talons from birds of prey.

Or it could it have been a brash sixteen-year-old proving a point to his mother, officer of the law.

She returned to the desk. “I’ll need a statement from you. Please,” she added, and again the severity in her eyes lessened. “When Beau gets home from school this afternoon, I’ll talk to him.”

Ethan didn’t envy her the job. He’d heard the rumors, the gossip. Over the past year and a half, Meg McKee’s boy had transitioned into the classic badassed teenager.

The way he’d been once.

Old history, Ethan.

Except, people didn’t forget. Not in this town. Restless to leave, he took the pen and notepad she dug from a desk drawer.

“The room across the hall’s more private,” she said, and he saw something in her eyes. Something that had him wanting to reach over, touch her hair, that sleek short bob skimming to her chin. So different from when she’d been young. When touching had been easy and natural and they’d been crazy about each other.

Ethan shoved back his chair and stood. He’d seen the nameplate on the door of the interview room when he stood on the threshold of her office. The office of Meg, the cop. Meg, the woman he barely recognized.

She rose with him. Their eyes held. A long moment passed and all he could think was how nearly two decades had altered little of her physique. She retained those same long lean bones, but, tall as she was, the top of her head still remained below his chin.

He turned and walked across the hall, flicked on the light.

“Ethan,” she said as he rounded the small, stark table marred with dozens of scuffs and scratches and initials. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I know you will.”

She leaned in the doorway, her chief’s badge glinting in the ruthless lighting. She had something on her mind, he could see, something that bowed between them, eye to eye, and he remembered days long past when tension between them was as foreign as a bluebird nesting in winter.

“It’s…” she began. “It’s been a long time since…”

Since they’d stood within each other’s proximity. Since they’d talked, actually talked.

What do you want me to say, Meggie? That I haven’t forgotten what we had once? That I wish your best friend hadn’t died during prom week? That, God help me, I wanted so badly to soothe your grief, heal your heart?

“How’ve you been?” she asked softly, and he saw the question was genuine and came from a history long past.

“Good. Real good.” Same old mundane response.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, he glanced at the paper in his hand, focusing on his reason for being here—because if he didn’t, he’d step across the confined space and haul her into his arms. “Look, I should get this done.”

She straightened from the doorjamb. “’Course. Just leave it with Sally when you’re finished. And Ethan? Thanks again.” With that, she walked across to her office and closed the door.

He stared at the page. In his chest, his heart hammered. Well, it was a start, this dialogue between them. The proverbial ice had been broken. So where did he take it from here?

Think about her later.

He set aside her pen, drew the ever-present pencil from his shirt pocket. Trouble was, he’d never stopped thinking about Meggie McKee.

In the sanctuary of her office, Meg sat at her desk, propped her elbows on its surface and put her face in her hands. Ethan.

Still the rescuer of wild creatures. Still healer of the hurt. A thousand memories besieged her of a teenage Ethan, holding a maimed squirrel, a fledgling robin with a crippled foot; working to save a carstruck doe.

Lord, the years. Here today, gone tomorrow, and before you knew it a chunk of life vanished.

He looked so familiar—yet not. Lines fanned around those quiet, earth-colored eyes she’d gazed into ten million times, eyes that understood pain and loss and bias, and had spoken to her heart from the moment they’d met when he was eight and she seven.

His hair was far longer than it had been at eighteen. Back then, he’d still been trying to squeeze into a world that often shunned him. Today, he was his own man and that hair was artfully cut into a shaggy, raven mane that touched the collar of his denim jacket. Her fingers tingled to dive into the thick mass, feel the silk slide against her fingers.

But she had no right to touch anymore. No right to him. She had made the choice two decades past.

Oh, the losses. She couldn’t begin to tally them.

Dropping her hands, she looked at her closed door, heard the soft scrape of his boots as he came from the interview room and stopped outside her office.

Would he knock? Call her name?

No, he walked away. Away, as she had at seventeen.

Ethan.

It wasn’t lost on Meg that he hadn’t used her name during the interview. Undoubtedly, she had been a stranger, a woman he no longer recognized.

Well, wasn’t that what she wanted when she’d returned to Sweet Creek six years ago, why she had not sought him out, rekindled their friendship, their love?

God, he’d been her best friend. She’d told Ethan things she never told a soul, not her best girlfriend, Farrah; not her brother, Ash. Not even her ex-husband.

A knock sounded. He’d returned, changed his mind. “Come in.”

Dispatcher and receptionist Sally Dunn poked her head around the door. “Chief, you might want to see this before I scan it into the computer.” She held a sheet of paper.

“What is it?”

“Ethan Red Wolf’s…statement.”

Meg tamped back a sigh. “You’re going to tell me he didn’t give one.”

“Uh, well, actually he did. Just not the way you’d expect.” The dispatcher set the page on the desk.

A drawing. He’d done a sketch, an intricately detailed sketch. For a second Meg closed her eyes. Oh, Ethan. This is so you. How on earth was she supposed to submit this to court, if the investigation reached that point?

“What should I do with it, Chief?” Sally toyed with the gold chain around her neck.

Meg picked up the page, tossed it onto the stack of files loading her In box. “Nothing, Sal. I’ll deal with it.” With him.

“He left his cell phone number. Should I call and have him come back?”

Meg shook her head. “I’ll be taking a look out that way this morning. Need to get some pictures of the scene and the eagle over at the clinic.” Deliberately changing topics in an effort to remove thoughts of Ethan in those long, lanky Wranglers, she asked, “Has Gilby left yet?” It was the deputy’s turn to pick up the bagels from Old Joe’s Bakery today.

“Five minutes ago.”

“Good, let me know when he’s back. I’m starving.”

Sally laughed. “You’re always starving. Sheesh, I wish I had your metabolism, grazing on carbs all day and never gaining an ounce.”

“It’s called being the mother of a teen, Sal. Takes a lot of stamina.”

“I hear ya. Thank goodness those days are over in my house.” Chuckling, the dispatcher headed out the door.

The instant she was alone again, Meg picked up Ethan’s “statement.” A time line wove over the page. Along it, he’d created more than a dozen sketches, each intricately detailed and described with notes. His spiky, slanted initials angled across the bottom right corner.

She identified her son and Randy Leland, read the time and date. She recognized Beau’s obstinate attitude in his down-turned mouth. Randy looked out of the page with some reluctance, exactly as the boy appeared whenever he came to her house two miles east of Sweet Creek.

And a quarter mile from Ethan’s place. Don’t forget that, Meg.

No, she never forgot the fact as she watched the sun rise and set, ate and slept and argued with her son, just over a small bluff from the man she once loved so much she’d believed their souls were attached at the heart.

And when she had learned a year ago about his inheritance of the O’Conner place, about his plans to move into the house on land separated from hers by a narrow creek…God, she had walked around with a clog of fear in her throat for weeks. It was one thing to see him from a distance on her brother’s ranch; it was another to be Ethan RedWolf’s direct and only neighbor.

Blinking, she focused on his portrayal of her son and Randy Leland. They weren’t bad kids, just teenagers striving for independence. That’s what she kept telling herself.

She studied the female figure, back to the viewer, sitting on the boulder where Ethan claimed to have discovered the raptor.

A small jolt darted through Meg. It’s me. He’s drawn me at seventeen.

When her hair had been long enough to touch her belt, when innocence colored the future.

Why? she wondered. Why would he include her in a present-day time line? And suddenly she understood. She, sitting on that megaton rock, offered directions to the scene of the crime.

Oh, yes, he knew she’d recognize the boulder. They’d sat there for hours as kids, and he’d kissed her a thousand times, touched her breasts while, over lake and mountain, they had observed a pair of adult eagles seek prey to feed their offspring.

More than that, on that rock, she and Ethan had dreamed of the home they’d build together, of the children they’d raise. Years of life and love wending into the future from that base point. So many plans.

Oh, Ethan. You never forgot.

Admit it, Meg, neither have you.

Simply put, she’d been bullheaded about burying the key that locked her heart. But looking at her younger self, remembering the emotion in his eyes back then, remembering those eyes today harboring secrets, she wondered what he would say about her secret.

The scarred one under her shirt that said she’d been cancer free for seven years.

Chapter Two

Fifteen minutes after Ethan left, two more complaints were called in, the first involving five overturned headstones at the Sweet Creek Cemetery to which Meg sent Gilby. Then Beth Ellen Woodley carped about a Ford Bronco parked on her lawn with Ulysses McLeod snoring off an all-night drunk behind the steering wheel.

By the time Meg eked out an hour of free time, it was nearly ten o. “Sal, I’m going to Blue Mountain for a written statement from Ethan Red Wolf.” She strode past the dispatcher to her private office for her notebook and digital camera. “Hopefully it won’t take long, but if something—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sally grumbled, typing at the speed of light. “If the town floods or an earthquake happens, call your cell.”

Chuckling, Meg grabbed one of the sesame bagels Gilby had bought at Old Joe’s. “You know me well, Sal.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, Mom.” Her step lighter, Meg headed out the back door where the police SUV waited.

But by the time she had cleared the town’s outskirts, sweat dotted her skin and two fingers tapped nervously against the steering wheel. She’d be talking with him again, twice in the same morning. Okay, on official business, but still. Six years, and they had barely nodded across the street or spoken ten words in one sitting.

She’d heard he renamed his grandfather’s place. Instead of O’Conner’s Fishing Dock, it was now Private Property. Meg smiled. Simple and to the point.

No, she thought. Nothing ever had been simple about Ethan Red Wolf. The man was as complex and intriguing as his ancestry. Even his name Ethan resembled the word Earth, a word suited for a man at one with his environment.

Turning down Lake Road—a strip of asphalt carving a path above the pine and rocky shores of the small mountain lake—Meg wondered again what Ethan had cataloged with those keen, dark eyes in those moments back at her office.

Certainly he’d noticed the stress lines between her eyes, the gauntness of her cheeks, that her hair was bobbed short and careless—all signatures of her job and current life.

In the sketch, he drew you with long, wavy hair.

Well, those days were gone. Today he had the longer hair.

Contemplating the comparisons, she nearly missed the turnoff leading on to his forty-acre property. Shadowed by pines and golden quaking aspen, the single-lane dirt trail wove a half mile down an easy incline to spill into a delta of newly laid gravel.

He had been busy. Davis O’Conner’s rectangular house sported a fresh coat of terra-cotta paint that highlighted the reddish tint of aged pine needles on the ground. Ochre window shutters and a matching door offered a splash of vividness under the sweep of a roofed porch.

As Meg shut off the cruiser’s ignition, she surveyed the area. To the left of the house, the squat, slant-roofed building the old man once used as an equipment and canoe shed glimmered with fresh green siding. To the right, a hundred-foot grassy trail fed into the trees to another green structure. Ethan’s photography and art studio?

Over the years she knew he’d forged a name for himself with his environmental photographs, sketches and paintings. Paintings composed of swirls and shapes in brilliant, bold colors. Two summers ago, she had perused several in a Billings art gallery, and more recently bought calendars printed with his creations from Sweet Creek’s grocery and drugstore.

Noticing his pickup parked in front of the new green structure, she headed in its direction—and saw what the house blocked.

A thirty-foot weeping willow, its leaves aged gold, stood like a sentinel beside a partially renovated wooden pier, on which Ethan crouched, tool belt around his hips, hammer in his hand.

As she came around the rear of the house, he rose slowly, lifting his red cap to scrape back loose strands of hair before settling the visor low over his eyes again. A rottweiler she hadn’t noticed climbed to its feet and trotted down the dock.

“Lila.” Ethan’s low tone carried across the distance. “Be nice.”

Halting, the dog watched Meg walk forward. “Aren’t you the prettiest lady?” She kept her voice gentle as the wary animal sniffed her proffered fist. “Bet you’re a great watchdog.” Carefully, she stroked the animal’s broad head and finally received a hiney wriggle of welcome.

The peace of the place curled around Meg in soft measure: the breeze towing the leaves, a chickadee’s trill, Canada geese grousing their route southward—and everywhere the fundamental scent of mountain, water and earth assembling for winter.

And Ethan.

Ethan in work boots, ragged denim cutoffs and a white T-shirt, waiting motionless, a somber expression on his face.

“Ethan,” she said, stepping onto the pier.

“Meggie.”

For the moment she’d let the name stand. The year Doug had sent her the divorce papers she’d become Meg, a name with maturity. Only her family still called her Meggie, though her sister-in-law called her Meg. In the past two years, she and Rachel had become sisters; Ash’s wife understood Meg’s requirement for emotional strength and distance from the woman she had been once.

But Ethan lived in the past, saw her as the girl she’d been in another life. His sketch told of his memories. Memories she’d buried aeons before.

“I need to take some photographs of the spot where you found the eagle,” she said. “Do you have time to come along?”

He studied her. “You know where it is.”

She did; the boulder glared like a thumbprint in his diagram, and from the dock where she stood, she could see a section of beige rock across the water. “I’d like you to walk me through the scene, explain what you witnessed, a sort of reenactment.” Her gaze settled on him. “I’ll also need a written statement, Ethan.”

For the first time, the edges of his mouth lifted and amusement sparked in his eyes. “Can’t use the visual in court, huh?”

She felt a grin threaten in response. “Not when the judge knows you’re well-read.” He had been in high school.

He stared across the lake. “Will you catch the guy?”

The guy. Though he’d alluded to Beau in her office, his words indicated he didn’t consider her son the culprit. Relief slipped down her spine. “I’ll do my best.”

Unhooking his tool belt, he stepped past her. “We can take my truck around to Ted’s Landing, then walk in from there.” Turning, he eyed her uniform shoes. “Got hiking boots with you?”

“I do.” She’d learned early in her career to keep a change of clothes in her vehicle.

“Good. You’ll need them.”

About to say, “I grew up around here, remember?” she clamped her mouth shut. Within the tranquil ambiance, the comment seemed crass, and besides, he was heading for the shed carrying his tools, intent on her request.

Starting for her car, Meg glanced again at the house. How had she not noticed the broad cedar deck off his kitchen door? Deep planters and a trellis swaddled in leafy vines enclosed the platform, rendering it cozy and secluded. A pair of wooden Adirondack chairs painted green looked out toward the water, mountain and low hills.

What she wouldn’t give to sit in one of those chairs on an evening and just let the world…vanish.

She needed a vacation. Far away. On some bleachedsand beach. With drinks in tall, dewy glasses.

Meg frowned. Yeah, right. Like she had time to sit dawdling away time at some commercialized resort.

With a last look at Ethan’s Eden, she returned to her PC, changed her footwear, then retrieved camera and notebook from her duty bag. Move it or lose it, Meg.

She ignored the double entendre at the sight of Ethan heading for his truck. Was she prepared to reestablish their friendship, or would she let him go…again?

He drove with the window down, left arm on the sill, shifting the gear shift effortlessly on curves and hills. She watched his booted feet work the clutch and gas.

A small waterfall streamed through her abdomen at the sight of his bare brown calves and knees, forearms and biceps. She imagined their strength, the texture of compact muscle, how his skin—the color of dark-roast coffee with cream—would contrast against the paleness of her own.

Snapping around, she viewed the tiny lake skimming through the trees beyond the side window. What was she doing, thinking of skin and muscle and color—of Ethan Red Wolf—this way? She had trained herself never to think of men sexually, not for seven years, not since Doug Sutcliffe and before him…

Ethan.

Young and stupid, that’s what you were back then, believing you had what it took to entice a man. Believing that, no matter what, a man would see you as a woman.

Laughable, was what it was. Laughable because here she was in what much of the world still deemed a man’s job, toting a gun, wearing a mask of authority. Hiding.

Losing a breast to cancer tended to make a woman a tad more self-conscious. Especially when the man she’d married—the doctor she’d married—saw her as an altered person postsurgery.

And she would bet her badge, if Ethan knew, he wouldn’t draw pictures of her with silk locks and youth on her side. He would not remember moments from an era long dead.

And he damn well wouldn’t be glancing across the cab of his pickup with those eyes that embraced the secrets of the earth, and set her pulse off-kilter.

Well, to hell with him. To hell with them all. She’d gotten this far, hadn’t she? Did her best to raise her son, create a secure and loving home for him, whether or not he appreciated those aspects in his hormonal, independence-seeking stage. Hadn’t she?

Damn it. She just needed to stop smelling the man beside her, needed to quit inhaling the scent the sunwarmed breeze brought through the window: that musk of hard work cleaving to skin.

You’re sniffing like a dog, Meg.

God, she needed a life.

Eight minutes later they arrived at Ted’s Landing, a dilapidated pier so called because it had once anchored the float plane of Ted Barns—until Ted sold the plane and relocated to Kentucky.

Ethan brought the truck to a stop, dug out two iced water bottles from the glove box. After handing her one, he shoved open the door and climbed down. “We walk from here.”

“I know,” Meg retorted, uncapping her bottle and following him around the hood.

Did he think she couldn’t recall the rugged topography around Blue Lake? And that Ted’s Landing and a couple of other isolated flat acres were the only areas upon which people had built cottages and cabins? Before Ted’s Landing existed, this very spot had been hers and Ethan’s place to park, their spot to begin hiking two miles through dense bush to their boulder.

She stared across the miniature body of water that was more lagoon than lake. On its opposite shore, a bounty of autumn robes sheathed the rugged hills. Softening her voice, she asked, “Do you come this way often?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I circle the lake four or five times a week with my camera and sketchpad.”

Almost twenty miles on foot over some of the roughest geography within the county. But then, he’d always been a man at home in the outdoors, capturing beauty others missed. In her home office, Meg had hung this year’s calendar, printed with his photographs. September offered her favorite, a ladybug on a single blade of blueeyed grass sprouting amidst a cluster of river stones.

Evidently done with talking, Ethan cut through the tumbling rock and willows edging the lake, and Meg, focusing on his back, hurried into the woods after him. Twenty minutes later, hoping the sweat under her arms lay invisible on her gray short-sleeved shirt, she followed him into blue-sky sunshine once more.

The first thing she detected was how much the place had retained its identity over the past decades, and the countless details he’d sketched in the interview room. The elephant-sized boulder still nudged the shoreline, though cattails now led the way into the water. Behind the big stone, the cliff caught the late-morning sunshine, while willows and shaggy shrubs ascended the rock-embedded bank to the ledge that housed an immense eagles’ nest. From this angle, Meg had always thought it resembled one of those behemoth ladies’ hats popular in the 1920s.

“That thing must weigh a ton,” she remarked, staring up eighty feet. “Do they still come back every spring?”

From under the bill of his ball cap, his eyes were mystic. “It’s not the same pair, Meggie.”

That had been here when they were teenagers. Kissing on that rock.

“Of course not. I was just wondering if this spring’s pair returned the way the others did.”

“The nest was empty for a lot of years with the shooting range so near. This spring is the first I saw a pair return to nest.”

“I’m sorry, Ethan. I know how much you loved the eagles.”

His eyes were fathomless under the cap’s visor. “So did you.”

She had. As teenagers, they’d hidden among the trees and between kisses observed the birds with telescopes and binoculars, recording hatching times and feeding times and behaviors of both parents and young.

Taking a swig of her water, Meg stepped toward the boulder. “Show me where you found the injured bird.”

They went through the procedure step by step, she clicking pictures and rewriting the statement, he describing again what he’d discovered, where he had spotted her son and Randy Leland shooting at the deadwood along the shore. She snapped close-ups of the splinters in the driftwood, then of the twenty-two shells strewn among the rocks.

When it was done she presented the statement of his verbal explanation. “Mind reading it over, ensure it’s correct?” She pointed below the last paragraph. “Sign at the X.”

He reached over, slashed his name across the bottom of the last page.

“You’re not reading it?” She had expected him to examine every nuance of what she’d written.

He pushed the notebook more securely into her hands. “I trust you, Meggie.”

How could she respond to that? Trust was not something she expected from men. Ethan hadn’t trusted her in the past when she’d needed him after the death of her best friend Farrah, and Doug hadn’t trusted Meg’s oscillating emotions after her surgery, and Mark, the man she’d dated four years ago…He had understood even less than Doug or Ethan.

“Call me Meg,” she said, focusing on the present, the tangible, the necessary, hoping annoyance would set in so she could have an excuse to leave. “I don’t go by Meggie anymore.”

He tilted back his head, took a swallow of water, eyeing her all the time. As he recapped the bottle, his mouth twitched. “You’ll always be Meggie to me. Meg is the cop. Meggie is the woman.”

A spear of heat pricked her stomach. She turned to go. “They’re one and the same. I’m not the person you knew back then, Ethan.”

His biceps brushed her shoulder as he fell in step beside her. “Can’t promise to remember that.”

“Well, try. By the way, thanks for coming here with me.” For giving me a statement I can file.

“I don’t think your son shot the eagle.”

“That remains to be seen. He’s been—” She cut off the direction of thought. Ethan Red Wolf was no longer part of her life, and she had no business burdening him with her woes about a teenager dipping his toes in dark waters.

“Been what?” Ethan prompted. His stride slowed to match hers across the uneven, tricky landscape.

She paused in the cool shadows bordering the timberline. Across the water a loon bugled its lonesome call. “Let’s just say Beau has a rebellious streak.”

“Normal for teenagers.” The flicker of fun resurfaced. “I recall us having a streak of rebelliousness when we were sixteen.”

“We weren’t irresponsible,” she retorted. We didn’t flick cigarettes out car windows or write graffiti on the sides of buildings. “If we had, our parents would’ve kicked butt.”

Beneath the cap, his eyes laughed. “Oh, Meggie. You forget so easily. What about the time we did doughnut spins in my old truck across old man Freeley’s hay field? And the time you drove your dad’s pickup to the drive-in without permission. He sent the cops looking for us.”

Her lips pursed to hide a smile. “That was different.”

“How so?”

“We did it for fun. Beau’s got ten miles of attitude. He does things with intent.”

Ethan frowned. “You’re talking like a cop, not a mother.”

“Maybe I can’t separate the two.”

“Like you can’t separate the cop from the woman?”

She walked away from him, into the forest. “This conversation’s over.”

“Why, because I hit a nerve?”

“Because my relationship with Beau is none of your concern.”

“What about the relationship between you and me?” he called.

“A two-hour reunion isn’t a relationship.”

Several seconds later his fingers closed around her forearm. A pinch of fear rushed through Meg. He’d come up behind her, quick and silent, and they were on a mountainside, but most of all she had no tool of comparison for this somber-eyed Ethan to the one she’d suppressed in the memories of her past.

Scowling, he released his grip and stepped back. “Christ, Meggie. You know I’d never hurt you.”

Shame warmed her cheeks. He always could read her emotions. “It’s not that.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Look, this is my point. We no longer know each other.”

“We have a history,” he argued. “A long history. Which you chose to throw away by running off and marrying some other man.”

“I did not run off or throw away anything. You chose not to understand.”

“I understood full well. Your best friend committed suicide six days before prom night and you were so distraught all you wanted was to eradicate the memory. ‘Please, Ethan,’ you begged. ‘Help me erase the memory. Give me something else to put in its place.’ Well, sorry for not having the enthusiasm to take your virginity just so you could grab what I thought should be a sweet and tender first time for both of us, just to use it as a crutch in your grief. I loved you, Meggie. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”

From a far distance in her mind, the up-and-down motion of his chest registered. He breathed as if he’d sprinted a mile uphill. Resurrected, that night still bothered him.

Suddenly, she saw herself as he had. Walking away, crying and cursing him in the same breath. Without empathy for his broken heart, his gentle soul. Farrah had been his friend, too—along with Kell Tanner. Four kids growing up together. “Buds all the way,” they’d repeated on a thousand and one occasions, like a mantra.

Until Farrah made them a trio and life as they knew it died at the end of a rope in that closet with her.

As Meg stood looking up at Ethan, she remembered, too, the taunting words she’d said, words no better than those Linc Leland and Jock Ralston uttered years ago….

That night, after they’d changed from prom finery into jeans and sweatshirts, they had come here and she’d accused Ethan of letting them get to him, letting them victimize him. Like Farrah had been victimized.

Farrah’s death shouldn’t be the reason, he’d said. Shouldn’t be the reason to make love. To which Meg had responded, So, don’t let it scare you away.

And here she was, nineteen years later, the one scared away.

Scared of righting wrongs with Ethan. Of getting involved in a relationship. Most of all, most of all, scared of being a woman. A woman whose disease could return with a vengeance.

Oblivious of the turmoil in her head, Ethan stroked her cheek, a first in forever. “It’s long past,” he said quietly. His hand dropped. “Come on, let’s head back.”

She trailed him through the rugged, sun-speckled woods. And, watching the beacon of his white T-shirt amidst the shadows, she couldn’t help but think how once, long ago, she would have followed him into eternity.

Meg waited until Beau came through the back door after school, threw his backpack on a kitchen chair and strode for the fridge. Dark hair gelled, jeans low on his hips—but not so you could see his underwear—he hung onto the door, one high-top sneaker resting on the toe of its mate.

“Hey, honey.” She stood at the sink, grating carrots for a salad to go with the casserole she’d tossed together. “How was your day?”

He continued to stare inside the refrigerator. “Same.”

Translation: boring, stupid, wish-I-didn’t-have-to-go and I-hate-school.

Decision made, he hauled out a tub of yogurt, dug a spoon from the drawer, delved into the snack. Another time Meg would have reprimanded him for eating out of containers. These days she selected her battles.

The one about to occur was one of those diacritical choices.

She turned, set down the grater. He’d plunked himself on a kitchen chair. “Beau, I need to ask you something.”

“Wha—?” His mouth was full of yogurt.

On the towel hanging from the hook above the sink, Meg wiped her hands, gathered her thoughts. At times her moody son could be provoked to anger by the slightest word.

“This morning someone came in and made a complaint. Which concerned you.”

Flicking her way, his gray eyes, Doug’s eyes, told nothing. Did he know? She felt a cool finger tap her spine.

“Who?” he asked.

“Ethan Red Wolf.”

“The guy who took over Old Man O’Conner’s rifle range?”

“Mr. O’Conner to you, Beau.”

“Whatever.”

Pick your battles, Meg. “Have you been on his property?”

Beau shrugged. “Maybe.”

“When?”

“Can’t ’member.”

She didn’t like the smirk as he dipped his head for another spoonful of yogurt. “Let me refresh your recollection then. Labor Day and the last weekend of July.”

He slammed the container on the table hard enough to bounce a few blobs over the rim. “What am I, under investigation? If you’ve got something to say, Mom, then say it.”

“All right.” Meg shoved away from the counter and came to the table, where she sat down kitty-corner to her son. “Here’s the deal. Mr. Red Wolf saw you on his land on both those days. He spoke to you during the last meeting. Both times you were carrying a twenty-two.”

“So?”

“So first off, you know the rule about taking the gun without supervision.” Doug had bought Beau the rifle for his last birthday, something Meg had vehemently opposed.

“Big deal.”

“It is when you ignore my wishes, son. I’ll be taking the gun to the office in the morning. It won’t be returned until you understand the consequences for your actions.”

Irritated eyes rose. “Who needs a stupid gun, anyway?”

Indeed. “Second, you disregarded the No Trespassing signs on private property.”

“I was crossing it to go up the mountain.” His gaze skittered away. “Me’n Randy were target shooting.”

“There’s a range in Livingston for that, Beau. You could’ve asked me to take you.”

“Yeah, well, Randy’s embarrassed about his aim. Can’t hit a barn wall, so I was showing him some tricks without getting razed by those dork friends of his dad’s.”

Linc Leland, son of the mayor. She could well imagine Linc’s disappointment in his apprehensive son. What Beau saw in the boy, Meg couldn’t fathom. Beau was a leader, Randy a follower.

She said, “Randy’s problems don’t give you the right—or authorization—to use someone’s private property as a practice area. Or to shoot at eagles.”

“Eagles?” His eyes widened. “Who said we were shooting at eagles? The Blackfoot guy?”

“Excuse me?”

The tips of Beau’s ears pinked. “I mean, Mr. RedWolf.”

“Then say his name, Beau. Don’t be disrespectful of someone’s ancestry or heritage.”

“All right! I get it already.”

“Do you? Sometimes I wonder if you’ve learned anything I’ve taught you.” She should stop, but suddenly she saw a teenage Ethan in high school, heard the taunts by Linc Leland and his friend Jock Ralston. Hey, Tonto. Where’s your horse? She had hated those boys, but she’d hated the look in Ethan’s eyes more. That shame and regret for who he was, who he would always be. She had loved him for a thousand reasons, but one rose above the rest: that he stood alone against the odds.

He’d never quite believed her. And in the end her foolish arrogance had proven him right.

To Beau she said, “You constantly go behind my back. You ignore the ground rules. I’m trying to make a living for us, Beau, but when you do things—”

“Okay. You don’t have to rag on and on.”

She inhaled slowly. “This morning Mr. Red Wolf found a wounded eagle in the area where he spoke with you and Randy.”

“That doesn’t mean we shot it. He’s lying if he said that. Jeez, Mom, we know it’s illegal to shoot eagles.”

“Ethan didn’t accuse you, just said he found an injured eagle where he’d last seen you two boys. He’s asked that I do some investigating and get the matter resolved before—”

“And just like that you figured it was us shooting the bird.” Beau shoved back his chair. “Figures. You never believe me, no matter what I say.”

“That’s not it at all.”

“Forget it. Believe what you want, then. That’s what you always do anyway.” Spinning around, he stomped to the back door, flung it open and was outside before Meg could get around the table.

Damn it, she thought, watching him pace down the dirt path to where the battered old pickup she had bought him last spring waited.

Believe what you want, then. Her own words, echoing through the tunnel of her past. Words she had tossed Ethan the night of their prom. Believe what they say,

then. Don’t stand up for yourself. Don’t be the man I thought you were.

What goes around, comes around, Meg. With a heavy sigh, she went back to grating the carrots.

Chapter Three

Beau squealed his wheels out of the yard. God, his mother made him so mad. Since she’d caught him smoking in his bedroom a year ago, she’d been on his case about every nitpicky thing.

No matter what he did, she never took his side, always questioned his marks on tests, saying if he studied harder he’d get better grades, or if he finished his assignments and listened in class he’d understand the material better.

She questioned where he went after school and on weekends, and for how long and why and whom he was going with. She didn’t trust any of his friends.

Grinding gears, he hit the main road back to Sweet Creek. He didn’t understand his mom anymore. Hell, he didn’t understand himself anymore.

They used to be so close. Ever since his dad, wimpass Dr. Doug Sutcliffe, walked out on them when Beau was a little snot back in Sacramento. His mom hadn’t told Beau the reasons behind the divorce, but he knew. Didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure why the esteemed Dr. Doug left the family.

Pulse hammering, Beau slowed for the town limits. One of these days he was cutting out, leaving this backwater behind. Then he’d be free to do whatever he damned well wanted, whenever he damned well pleased. And to hell with both his parents.

Meg wanted to see the extent of the eagle’s injuries and ask veterinarian Kell Tanner what he was able to determine.

After parking the police cruiser, she pushed through the front door of Sweet Creek’s Animal Clinic, clinking the bell at the top of the jamb. In a short hallway beyond the reception area, Ethan stood with the vet; their heads turned upon her entry.

From under his ball cap, Ethan’s dark serious eyes latched on Meg. A cold sweat swiped her skin. Had the eagle died?

“Hey, Meg,” Kell said, eyes smiling. “Come to see my newest patient?”

Still alive. She breathed easier. “How’s it doing, Doc?”

“There’s a fifty-percent chance for survival. My bet is on the survival fifty.”

“Good to hear.” Her eyes wove back to Ethan, hoping to convey her relief for his sake. Rescuer that he was, the bird’s wounds would weigh on his heart. Turning to Kell, she asked, “What were your conclusions on the injuries?”

He jerked his head toward the rear door. “I was just about to tell Ethan. Why don’t you both come to the aviary and I’ll explain.”

They walked down the hall, Ethan tall and rangy beside her as they followed the doctor. Their hands brushed once. Outside, a roofed walkway linked the main structure to a small edifice. A sign reading Aviary hung above its door; inside, a birdcage contained the eagle.

Kell went to a small refrigerator, took a few bits of raw meat from plastic bag and walked to the raptor. White bandages wrapped its thigh and wings, and a plastic shield banded its neck. Yellow predator eyes watched them cautiously.

Ethan stood behind her shoulder, igniting a current of warmth between their bodies. He said, “Great job, Kell. As always.”

“Thanks. Barring infection, this little gal should make it.”

“Was she shot by a twenty-two?” Meg asked.

Kell pushed a piece of chicken through the wire mesh; the eagle gobbled the chunk. “I’m not an expert, but from the appearance of the exit wound in the thigh and from the minimal number of traumatized wing bones, it likely wasn’t a high-powered weapon.”

“And the tail feathers?” The bird had none.

“They were plucked, not molted.”

Which meant a poacher or someone with a sadistic bent. “Thanks, Kell. Let me know if her condition deteriorates.”

“Will do.”

Meg walked out of the aviary.

“Meggie,” Ethan called as he followed her outside into the breezeway.

She swung around. “Was the eagle unconscious when you found her?”

“Out cold. Probably hit her head on the rocks when she fell.”

Meg studied the trees surrounding the clinic. A wind eddied autumn leaves into the air and along the ground. “It’s possible they thought the bird was dead.”

Ethan said nothing.

She slanted him a look. “You don’t think so?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Which says more than words, Ethan. You always were quiet.” And observant.

His mouth hinted at a smile. “Not around you.”

Once, perhaps. Once they would’ve discussed every detail of their lives and feelings, shared hopes and dreams and planned their future—until she’d forced a separation between them.

Disillusioned, she turned to walk around the main building, for her truck.

“If it’s any consolation,” he said, walking beside her, “I’ve waited a long time for this day. I don’t like how it’s come about with the injury of wildlife, but I’m glad we’re talking again.”

She stopped at her vehicle. “Me, too.” Without the old weight of silence, her heart felt lighter. Opening the truck’s door, she got in behind the wheel. “See you later.”

“Count on it.” He walked back into the clinic, back to his eagle.

From her back porch, Meg peered through the starlit night toward the black stand of pine and birch mantling the knoll that rolled up and away from her three-acre property. A quarter mile, and on the other side of the rise, he slept in that lovely terra-cotta cabin.

Shivering inside her hoodie, she folded her arms against her middle, her senses attuned to the breeze rustling through the dying leaves, and the hint of early snow whispering down from the Absaroka Range.

Suddenly the wind sighed, He’s coming to see you.

A flush warmed her skin and her heart hurried.

You’re imagining things, she thought, yet her eyes strained to peel away the night.

A small thrill rushed up when he walked out of the trees, tall and illuminated by the stars. His feet made no sound, his arms swung easily at his side, his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes saw only her.

She stood riveted at the weathered railing, waiting. Waiting for him to mount the steps, to approach her. He wore buckskin leggings and a buckskin shirt draped his torso, and on his feet were red-and-white-beaded moccasins. A feather hung from a leather strand braided into his long, ebony hair.

Bewildered, she stared. She’d never known him to dress in the garments of his ancestry, to look as if he’d stepped out of another century. Throughout their adolescence, he had spurned his heritage; tried desperately to fit into the culture of his fair-skinned mother and grandfather.

He took the steps, stopped within reach.

As the question Where’ve you been? branded her mind, she frowned.

“Here, Meggie,” he replied.

Confused, she shook her head. “Not always.”

“Always. I’ve never left you.” Then he took her face between his callused palms, leaned down and kissed her.

His lips were warm and soft and mobile. The way she remembered. Pressing herself against him, she banded her arms around his neck, stretched up onto her toes, searching, wanting…

His hand slipped into the open panel of the hoodie, gently kneaded her breasts.

Her perfect breasts. Oooh, yes…!

Sitting bolt upright, she gulped air. Where…?

Around her, night delineated the ceiling of her bedroom, the pictures on the walls, the metal railing at the foot of her mattress. Curtains fluttered at the open window and a chill breeze goose-bumped her arms. Dreaming, she’d been dreaming about Ethan and…and….

Oh, God.

With shaky fingers she touched the left side of her chest where the fake swell rose with each agitated breath.

Stupid woman, Meg. Did you think it had changed?

But, oh, in the dream…

She had been whole.

Right. You should’ve known something was weird when you saw Ethan in those clothes, and with that hair.

Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed. She needed to think. Outside. She would go outside, onto the porch. The best place to think. Like in the dream.

She shook her head. Wake up, Meg. This is reality.

On the nightstand the clock read 1:34 a.m. Grabbing her housecoat from the foot rail, she headed into the hallway and padded past Beau’s closed door.

In the kitchen she stopped, shivered. Then turned and walked back down the hallway to her son’s room. Quietly, she opened the door, peeked inside. The covers were in a jumbled heap, shadows playing hide-and-seek across pillows and walls. Something nudged her inside, to tiptoe to the bed.

The stars that had revealed Ethan in her dream now glanced through the window and disclosed Beau’s bed. His empty bed.

Meg stared down at the sheets where her son should be, snoring gently with sleep. Her heart kicked.

“Beau?” The name echoed. Spinning around, she ran from the room. “Beau!”

Throughout the house she flicked lights, rushed out the front door. His old Chevy pickup sat parked beside her Silverado. Where was he?

“Beau!” Had he sleepwalked? He never sleepwalked.

Had someone entered the house, snatched her son while she lay in the throes of her dream?

The way Elizabeth Smart had been stolen…?

No! He’d gotten a ride from a friend….

Would he disobey his grounding?

He’s sixteen, Meg. Obstinate, mutinous and desperate to shed the clutch of dependence.

Another thought flashed.

Dear God. Had he gone to confront Ethan over that damn eagle situation?

That had to be it, had to be. Meg flung back into the house, raced for her bedroom, her jeans and hoodie. Yes, she and Beau had their problems, but he’d never left the house in the middle of the night, and certainly not without her permission. He knew the scope of her worry barometer when it came to disregarding curfews and house rules.

Number one: let Mom know.

Except, the circumstances surrounding the wounded eagle had pushed him to an emotional razor’s edge. She knew that. Knew it as if he’d elucidated his resentment in a three-page essay.

From the minute he slammed out of the house yesterday, he’d gone into a class-A brood mood, which—more than target shooting without consent—incited her to ground him with no nights out for a week. The curfew had served to fuel his resentment. Tonight he’d hunched over his supper and grunted when she asked him a question. Afterward, he’d disappeared into his room, leaving Meg alone for the rest of the evening.

Please, she thought. He’s been so unpredictable lately. Don’t let him do something rash.

Keys and wallet in hand, she hurried out to her truck—and hoped Ethan was a light sleeper.

She killed the headlights and the ignition before climbing out of the truck. Upon the water’s surface the moon painted its wafer-pale light. Twice in as many days she had driven to this place. His place. Next thing she knew, she’d be into a ritual.

The phone could have worked just as well, Meg.

About to get back in the truck and drive home, she heard his deep voice come through the dark.

“Out patrolling the neighborhood, Meggie?”

A shiver ran up her spine. The dream, his voice sounds the way it had in the dream. She remembered how his eyes had held her then, and in that interview room, and out by the boulder forty hours before.

Wood creaked. Focusing on its direction, she strained to see through the obscurity. Tall body limned in moonlight, Ethan stood on his front porch. The other morning she had envisioned earthen pots laden in blooms around its periphery, a patio table with an umbrella on the rear deck.

You’re losing it, Meg. This isn’t your home. And he’s not your man. “Not patrolling,” she said, more in control as she recalled her mission. “Looking for Beau.”

“At this hour?”

“He’s…not in bed. He’d been home all night, but when I woke up twenty minutes ago…” She pushed an uneasy hand through her hair. “His truck is parked in front of our house, so I thought maybe…. Never mind. I don’t know why I figured he’d come here.” She strode back to her Silverado.

“Wait.” Ethan came down the deck steps, the rottweiler trotting at his side.

Of course, Beau hadn’t come here. The dog would’ve announced his presence and Ethan would have called her because he was a man of integrity—one who would recognize Beau’s need to rebel the way Ethan had once rebelled against the school for not believing him about Linc and Jock.

He walked across the few feet to where she stood beside the truck. “Maybe a buddy picked him up.”

Meg opened the vehicle’s door. “Exactly. I should be on the phone calling his friends.” What kind of cop was she? Had it been anyone else’s kid, she would have given the same advice.

But it wasn’t someone else’s son. It was Beau. Her child.

That alone was reason to call Gilby, her second-in-command, get him to initiate the search. She was too close, too emotional.

With shaky fingers she tried to insert the key into the ignition.

Ethan set a hand on her shoulder, the simple touch easing her agitation. He’d always been able to soothe her fears years ago, too. Fears about her brother’s dyslexia or her dad holding the ranch together. All Ethan had to do was speak her name or touch her cheek and her world settled.

“Move over,” he said now. “I’ll drive.”

“I’m okay. I’m a cop, for heaven’s sake.”

He leaned in, took the keys out of her grasp. “You’re also a mother. Now, scoot over and let me drive. You can give me directions and focus on what needs to be done.”

Suddenly the rottweiler trotted toward the trees, low growl in her throat.

“Hold on a sec.” He walked around the truck’s hood. “What is it, Lila? A raccoon?”

Beneath the moon’s glow, Meg saw the dog lift her snout, sort through the scents layering the night wind. Pricking her ears, the animal let out a deep-throated bay and loped into the trees.

Meg grabbed the flashlight from the glove box, and jumped out of the pickup to rush around the hood, toward the black-silhouetted woods where Ethan strode, a shadow against shadows.

“Maybe it’s a coyote,” she called.

An unexpected pop sounded.

Gunshot?

She stopped, heart in her throat. “Ethan?” Immediately she snapped off the flashlight and tucked the tool into the hip pocket of her jeans. “Eth?” Oh, God, where was he?

Silence.

Why had the dog quit barking?

Peering through the night, Meg whispered again, “Ethan? Answer me.” Please.

Pop!

Ethan!

Had he been hit? Please, no. We’ve just gotten together…

Right hand automatically going to her hip where her Smith & Wesson 9 mm was belted on workdays, Meg raced for the trees. Why, why hadn’t she brought the gun tonight? Because you were looking for your son, not for criminals.

“Stay back, Meggie.” His voice came quietly from somewhere in the woods.

“Where are you?” she hissed, pushing branches out of her face, stumbling on a root. “Damn it! Ethan, get back here. Let me handle this. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Pulse beating a race pace, she halted. Thank God he was alive. But where?

The lake’s wind swished against the brittle leaves. She wheeled around.

Silently Ethan peeled away from a cottonwood.

“God almighty!” She nearly clocked him with the flashlight.

“Easy,” he murmured in her ear. “That thing will only serve to irritate your opponent, Meggie m’girl.” Humor highlighted his words.

Disregarding the endearment, the one he’d used when they were teenagers, when he’d been crazy about her, she snapped, “Go back to your porch.” Anger and worry vied for dominance in her chest. “Let me handle this.”

“You’re not armed.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m the police and that gives me the experience. I’ll go after Lila. You stay here.”

“Like hell. It’s my dog.”

Stepping in front of him, she pressed her palms against his chest, and felt the wonderful warm dampness of his sweat beneath fabric and the power that hadn’t been there at eighteen. “Ethan, for once don’t argue. If Beau is involved it’s my responsibility.”

“I’m going after my dog, Meggie,” he said stubbornly. “And your son. Are you with me or not?”

A lightning current flashed between them and for a moment memories of bygone years welled; she wanted to fling herself into his arms, those strong arms that waited at his sides, waiting for her.

Are you with me or not? Exactly what she had said one warm June night across the lagoon as she ranted at him about principles and being a man.

Shaking off guilt and remorse, she stepped free. “I know what I’m doing. This is my job.” And my son is missing. “Go home. Please.” She softened her voice. “If there’s a problem, I’ll call you on my cell. Besides, I’ll need you to direct backup.” In case it was required.

Turning, she plowed deeper into the forest, heading for the dog once again barking in the timber. If only she could turn on her flashlight. Right, and be a target for the gun-happy shooter.

If there was a gun-happy shooter.

Don’t let it be Beau.

Her toe caught a raised root, pitching her forward, and a hand grasped her shoulder. Adrenaline spiked through her body, lifted the hair on her head. “Damn it, Ethan,” she said, when she could speak. “Don’t you ever listen?”

“All the time,” he whispered against her hair, and her stomach spun at the feel of his mouth. “Be still and wait a sec, okay?”

They did. The forest lay hushed. Where was Lila? Beau? Had he done the shooting?

Or…had someone shot at Beau? The thought paralyzed Meg.

Shaking her head, she pushed forward. Think like a cop, Meg. Forget everything else.

A shout ricocheted through the night. Then came a shrill whistle—and a third shot. Somewhere within the black menacing trees, Lila went into a frenzy.

Dodging branches, Meg crested the knoll. A treeless patch gleamed under stars and moon. Beyond the narrow open space, more trees…and a glimmer of fire.

“Damn it.” She dashed through the grass, but Ethan was faster, his legs longer.

“This way.” He entered the trees directly above the spot where flames flickered.

Drinkers. She should have known. Images of forest fires and burning homes flitted across the screen of her mind. All at once Lila, tongue lolling, hind end wriggling, ran out of the night.

“Good girl,” Ethan soothed, patting the rottweiler’s sleek head. Gesturing with his hand, the dog came to heel.

They could see the campfire clearly. Meg counted six people: three girls cuddling on boys’knees. She scanned the area illuminated by the firelight. Where was the gun?

“Think the dog’s gone?” Lynn Osgood asked, turning her face to eighteen-year-old Miles, son of Jock Ralston, the high school bully when Meg and Ethan attended Sweet Creek High.

“Damn right,” Miles boasted. “I scared the crap out of it. It won’t be back.”

“Hey, we should do this every weekend.”

Beau. He had his back to Meg and was snuggling Zena Phillips.

“Shoot at dogs?” Zena wanted to know.

Chuckling, he nuzzled her neck. “No, silly. I mean party hardy.”

Meg wanted to throttle him. Before she could take the situation in hand, Randy Leland piped up, “Hey, Beau, how’d you get outta your grounding anyway?”

A shrug. “My mom’s clueless around me.”

The bluster in his voice and the girls’ giggles prodded Meg forward. That’s what you think, buster.

“Meggie, wait,” Ethan whispered.

No way. She stepped into the firelight. “Hi, Beau,” she said calmly. “Who’s clueless now?”

The boy leaped from the log, spilling Zena to the ground. “Mom! What the hell are you doing here?”

All except Miles scrambled to their feet as Ethan stepped into the light, Lila at his side.

“Where’d he come from?” Randy muttered.

Meg glowered around the group. “Who brought the beer?”

“Like we’re telling you.” Miles puffed out his youthful chest.

“And you’re underage, Mr. Ralston.” Her gaze caught Beau’s defiant one. “All of you are, so take this is as a warning. Next time you’ll be facing the juvie judge. Pack it up. Party’s over.”

“Next time you won’t find us,” Beau said, tone full of heroism for his friends. His gaze darted among them.

“Actually, Chief,” Miles Ralston sneered, then turned to Ethan. “Oops, got it wrong. This here’s the real chief.” The kid lifted a hand, palm out. “Yo—”

Meg saw red, saw Jock Ralston two decades before. “Miles Ralston. Get off that log, get your stuff together and leave.”

His lip curled as he rose slowly, a smart-mouthed boy in a man’s body. “Try and make me.”

She stepped into his space. He wasn’t lanky like Beau, but fit and muscled and she had to look up into his face. “Let’s get a few things straight. This is private property. Second, none of you is of legal drinking age. Third, campfires are prohibited this time of year.”

“We don’t give a sh—”

“I do,” she interrupted. “And so does Mr. Red Wolf.” She glanced at Ethan, hoped he could read the message in her eyes. I’m with you. “This is his land now. If you are not out of here in ten seconds, I will haul you down to the station. Got that?”

A silence fell.

The boy shrugged. “Let’s blow this pop stand,” he said to the others. “Too many chiefs around here.”

Letting his comment go, Meg picked up the twenty-two propped against a nearby tree, checked the cartridge. “This yours, Miles?” She pocketed the chambered bullet.

“Yeah.” A two-syllable word.

“Come by the office tomorrow with your dad. You’ll get it back then.”

Within seconds the teenagers had slipped into the night-shrouded woods. “Beau,” Meg called to her son as he followed his friends.

Beside her, Ethan murmured, “Take it easy, Meggie.”

The boy halted and she waited until he turned to face her. She said, “I want you in bed and asleep when I get home, understand?”

He stared at the flickering flames they had yet to douse. “You always ruin everything,” he grouched.

“Not now, Beau.” She did not want to fight him in front of Ethan. Tonight’s situation was humiliation enough. He had seen her parenting skills—or lack of them.

But Beau wouldn’t let go. “Don’t you get it? You embarrassed me in front of my friends, playing big-shot cop.”

“That’s enough,” Meg said.

Ethan ambled toward Beau. No, Meg thought. Not ambled. Moved like a cougar, all easy grace and benign power. “Don’t be disrespectful to your mother.”

A snort. “What, and she respects me?”

“Ever think she might be trying to teach you something?”

Beau looked Ethan up and down, as if the man was an insignificant blip, then her son turned and disappeared into the forest.

Meg’s cheeks burned. That kind of snubbing had been part of Ethan’s childhood, and now her child rubbed shoulders with a second generation of dolts.

The worst of it was Beau knew better. For sixteen years she had provided him with lessons in respect and kindness.

Now this.

She glanced over at Ethan. Moonlight swept along his broad shoulders, against a blade of cheekbone. Though the night shielded their concern, his earth-brown eyes held hers for several heartbeats.

Suddenly Meg’s energy drained and she plopped onto the massive log where her son had sat not five minutes ago, hugging Zena Phillips.

“God, some days it’s like he’s this…this person I don’t recognize.” Leaning forward, elbows on knees, she stared at the licking flames of the campfire and gusted a breath. “We lock horns on everything. Friends, school, his driving ability, meals, curfews…. Where’s that little boy I raised?”

She felt rather than heard Ethan slip onto the wood beside her. Their arms and hips bumped as he emulated her position. The urge to lay her head on his shoulder overwhelmed her, and for a moment she forced herself to keep her body still.

After a long minute he said, “He’s seeking his independence, just like we did at that age.”

“That may be. Doesn’t mean I have to like how and with whom he’s doing the seeking.”

He looked at her, a little amused. “We used to do the same thing, Meggie.”

“We never drank. Or ran around with fools.”

“No…but we did a lot of this.” He picked up her left hand, bounced it gently on his big, callused palm. “And a lot of this.” Between his thumb and forefinger, he stroked each of her paler fingers. “And this,” his voice lowered as he spread his hand, and she did the same, matching finger on finger.

Light on dark. Delicate on strong.

Slowly he closed the gaps between his fingers so her hand lay flat and narrow on his warm one for a few seconds before he reopened his fingers to entwine around Meg’s. “We couldn’t stop touching.”

Or kissing, she thought, enthralled by his voice, the strength of his bones and knuckles. The color of his skin.

“We weren’t so different, Meggie,” he said, and she heard gravel in his voice.

The ebbing fire burnished his cheekbones while the heat of his touch ignited her blood. All she had to do was turn her head, and his mouth would meet hers. She sensed him waiting. Waiting for her next move. For her permission.

In the smoldering coals, she saw the dream again, felt the kiss he’d given, the stroke of his hands. Her body shifted toward him, toward the magnetism that was Ethan Red Wolf.

The rottweiler walked over, lay down with a grunt at Ethan’s feet, and with a shudder Meg shot out of her trance.

What am I doing? She had to get home, see to her son. She had responsibilities, a life, a career. God, what had made her think she could sit here dreaming dreams she’d given up to pride a thousand years ago?

She jumped to her feet, and the crisp night air stole the sheltering warmth of his body. “I have to go,” she said, kicking dirt and stones onto the dying embers of the campfire.

He rose to assist. “Sure.” When night claimed the area again, when the last coal winked out, and she would have walked into the woods, he said, “Meggie, I’m glad I was here to help. If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

She stood across the deadened fire’s circle of rocks. Starlight danced in his black hair, and he had held her hand for the first time in nineteen years, and she had almost kissed him. Really kissed him.

Looking at the dusty fire pit, she said, “Beau will make this up to you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is. This is your land. He needs to take responsibility for his actions.” She lifted the twenty-two into the crook of her arm. “Do you need help around your place? Maybe with finishing the pier?”

The dog stood at his side, ready for direction from her master, who laid a hand on her head. “If working off his consequences is what you want, then, yeah, I could put him to work.”

“Fine. I’ll have him there around nine tomorrow.” Saturday.

She headed the way they had come, back through the trees, back to Ethan’s house and her truck, back to her solitary memories, while the imprint of his hand on hers burned other memories into her skin.

And a history of regret.

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