Jane paced across the shelter to avoid eye contact with Fletch. She had had crazy dreams while she slept, bits and pieces of a jumbled life and images triggered by her fears.
At this point, she didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.
A corkboard hung on the wall on the far end of the small shelter, an assortment of handwritten notes and messages tacked onto it that visitors had left to mark their stay or to pass on to others hiking the trail.
She studied the board and the crude messages, listing dates and times people had sought refuge from the elements, or when they were just weary from hiking the miles and miles of wilderness. Most who planned to hike from Georgia to Maine gave up somewhere along the way.
The terrain, weather conditions, long days of isolation and the physical exertion were too difficult. Enthusiasm for adventure waned as injuries and illness occurred, bitter cold set in, and insects and rodents infested the lean-tos with dangerous bacteria. Longing for hot showers and warm food intensified as the monotony of trail mix and dried food became increasingly harder to endure.
One message caught her eye. A note with dried flowers shaped into a heart. She smiled at the thought that a couple might be leaving each other love notes along the way.
She closed her eyes, willing images of her husband to surface. If he hadn’t hurt her, then maybe someone else had, and her husband was searching for her.
Hands knotted, she scanned the others and noticed another one, more cryptic. I’LL FIND YOU.
Her heart hammered as her attacker’s words echoed in her mind, and she looked down at her hands. Blood still stained her skin and darkened her fingernails.
“Jane, are you all right?” Fletch’s gruff voice broke into her thoughts.
She hated living in the dark. She wanted answers. If she wasn’t trapped here, she’d go to the police. What would they do?
“We probably should take samples under my nails to give to the police when we get out of here, in case I scratched my attacker.”
Fletch’s brows rose. “I thought about that, but I didn’t want to do so without your permission.”
Her gaze met his, and for a moment doubts set in again, kidnapping cases taunting her. If Fletch had attacked her, he could have brought her here and pretended to take care of her to win her trust.
She’d heard of kidnappers keeping victims in seclusion until they developed Stockholm syndrome.
“Jane?”
She frowned, wondering why that thought had occurred to her. Logically her theory made sense, but when Fletch examined her wound, his touch had been gentle, not harsh like a man who’d ever hurt a woman. If Fletch had wanted to kill her, he could have left her in the woods to freeze to death.
The radio buzzed, a sound that startled her in the silence.
Fletch jumped to his feet and hurried toward his radio. He tapped the receiver. “Fletch here. Over.”
A rattling sound. More static.
“Fletch here. Can you hear me?”
“Todd. Checking on your status.”
“Holding our own at the shelter. News?”
“Blizzard supposed to pass around four a.m. Warming tomorrow.”
Jane sucked in a breath. Once the snow stopped and the temperature rose, they could get off the mountain.
What would happen then?
“About the missing woman, Jacob called.”
Fletch glanced up at Jane. “Go on.”
“Said...” A sudden gust of wind snapped the air, the sound of tree limbs falling outside thundering as limbs crashed against the shelter.
“Todd?”
“S...” Static crackled and popped, cutting off the man’s voice.
Fletch made several more attempts to reconnect but failed.
A frisson of nerves danced along Jane’s spine. Jacob was Fletch’s brother, the sheriff of Whistler.
Had he learned her identity?
FLETCH SILENTLY CURSED as the radio died again. Dammit. Jacob might have figured out Jane’s identity or if she had family looking for her.
Knowing who she was might lead them to answers about her attacker.
He tried the radio again, but static popped and the connection failed.
Exhaling in frustration, he decided to wait a little while before making another attempt. At least his team knew their location, and for now, Jane was safe.
“You were right about your nails,” he said quietly. “There might be DNA there.”
She stretched her hands in front of her and studied them. “I do want to know,” she said, although fear laced her voice.
He removed a small tool and a baggie from his pack, then walked over to her. Her eyes flickered with unease at the sight of the tool.
He offered it to her. “You can do it if you want.”
Relief echoed in the breath she exhaled. “No. I...trust you.”
Their gazes locked for a brief second, heat flaring to life in the dim confines of the shelter. The days were shorter now, and night was already setting in. He stooped down beside her, then eased her small hand in his. Her fingers were long and slim, her nails broken and jagged from the attack. Her ivory skin looked pale in contrast to his bronzed skin, her hand soft and delicate next to his calloused one. Her eyes bored into his for a second before she broke eye contact.
She was a beautiful woman. Her features were put together in a sexy kind of way, her eyes a pale startling green. At the moment, they were intense and full of pain and questions.
A hint of sexual awareness tugged inside him, heating his blood.
Dammit, not the time. He had to wrangle his libido under control.
Focusing on his task, he lifted one finger of hers, gently eased the tip of the tool beneath her nail and scraped particles of dried blood and dirt. Hopefully there were skin cells from her attacker, too.
When he finished, he handed her sanitizing wipes to clean her hands.
She thanked him, then used another wipe over her face and throat. The slender column of her neck was smooth but marred with a bruise as well, as if someone had tried to strangle her. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the discoloration was showing, handprints evident on her skin.
Son of a bitch. Only a coward would hurt a woman.
Fresh anger shot through him at the thought. Strangulation could have dangerous aftereffects not recognized at an initial examination.
She propped her back against the wooden wall of the shelter, drew her knees up and leaned her folded arms on them. “Tell me more about your family,” she murmured.
“Not that much to tell.” Fletch had never been a talker.
“Please,” she said. “It helps distract me.”
He heaved a breath, struggling for what to say.
“Do you have any leads on that arsonist you mentioned?”
“Not really. A woman named Cora Reeves gave birth to a baby girl the night of the fire. Her baby was kidnapped, so we suspected the fire was a diversion by the kidnapper to allow him time to escape.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Was it?”
Fletch shook his head no. “Cora and her husband divorced, but she stayed in Whistler. She never gave up looking for her daughter.”
“I don’t blame her. Did she find her?”
A small smile tugged at Fletch’s mouth. “Yeah, a few months ago. She thought the little girl living down the street was her child, and got my brother involved. Turns out she was right.”
“So who stole Cora’s baby?”
“A woman named Hilary... She was in love with Cora’s husband and thought she could break up their marriage if the baby wasn’t in the picture. And she was right. Their marriage fell apart, and Cora’s husband ended up marrying Hilary.”
“Did he know what Hilary had done?”
“No. He was shocked when he learned the truth.”
“What happened to the baby?” Jane asked.
Fletch’s heart squeezed. “She was adopted. But when Cora started looking at the little girl down the street, Hilary murdered the adoptive mother and tried to kill Cora. Jacob saved Cora and the child, and now Cora has her daughter back.” He rubbed his neck. “My brother Jacob married Cora and is raising the little girl.”
“So there’s a happy ending?” Jane said quietly.
He heard the ache in her voice. Would there be a happy ending for her?
Fletch swallowed hard. There would be if he had anything to do with it.
EAGER TO DISTRACT herself from her problems, Jane probed Fletch for more information about his family.
Although he didn’t seem like the talkative type, she managed to convince him to tell her about his childhood, what it was like growing up with three brothers and about life in Whistler.
He told her about Jacob and Cora’s outdoor wedding at a small private vineyard, with Cora’s little girl standing beside them.
“It was informal,” Fletch said. “Cora wanted flowers from her own flower garden, with picnic-style tables for the reception.”
A woman’s wedding was supposed to be the highlight of her life, yet Jane couldn’t recall anything about hers. Remembering even the smallest detail might lead to her husband’s name or where they were living. “What about music?”
Fletch shrugged. “I play the guitar a little, so Jacob asked me to play.”
Something about his humble admission intensified Jane’s attraction toward him.
“I’d like to hear you play sometime,” she admitted.
His sexy eyes met hers, but he made no promises. How could he when her mind was a blank slate at the moment? She couldn’t move forward with her life until she figured out what she was running from in her past.
“I’ll keep trying the radio if you want to rest,” Fletch offered. “Hopefully, in the morning we can start down.”
She twisted her hands together, then snuggled beneath the blanket, curled on her side and closed her eyes. Maybe daylight would bring answers. At least she felt physically stronger now. Her limbs weren’t aching as much, and her headache had dulled to a light throb.
As she drifted to sleep, the sound of Fletch’s voice as he’d described his family echoed in her head. He’d painted the picture of a loving, close-knit family. He and his brothers met at least once a week for beer and bro night. Sometimes, they worked together, as well.
Her parents were dead, but what if she had a sibling? She strained to remember her childhood again, the picnic, the crossword puzzles, yet nowhere in there did she see a sister or a brother.
Sleep finally claimed her, but her dreams were confusing and scattered. Her father again... They finished the puzzle, and she climbed down to help her mother bake cookies. Her father’s phone rang and she heard his deep voice speaking low into the phone.
“DA made a deal. Life, no parole.”
Her father...was a lawyer? No...a judge.
Then another flashback to that night and the blood again. Police officers streaming in, snapping pictures. Her parents’ bodies sprawled on the floor. Her mother’s bloody hand reaching out as if trying to clasp her father’s.
Her father dead, unable to help her.
Next she was looking at more bloody bodies. A man and woman. Not her parents. Blood spattered the floor and walls. The white comforter and carpet, the woman’s hand stretched out as if reaching for her husband...
Then another couple. Different faces...different bedroom. A four-poster bed with a lemon yellow spread. Red dotting it and streaking the floor. The woman’s eyes bulging in death...
The images faded and she saw the man with the tattoo on his wrist. A wolf... His fingers as he slid the wedding ring on her finger. Then his hand clutching his chest as blood spewed... His body bouncing backward, slumping against the wall.
Her...hand shaking as she gripped the gun...
She jerked awake, lungs squeezing for air as questions pummeled her. Why was she seeing dead people in her dreams? Who were those couples? Was it real?
And the man with the wolf tattoo—her husband. Had she pulled the trigger and ended his life?