Rocky Mountain Revenge. Cindi Myers

throwing things in it. She’d wait until after dark, then she’d leave. She’d drive as far as she could toward Denver. It was easier to get lost in the city. She’d ditch the car there, maybe buy a new one or take a bus. She couldn’t travel out of the country. The feds wouldn’t let her get a passport—letting her leave would be too risky, they said.

      But she had to leave. The last time she’d seen him, her father had vowed to erase her. That was the word he’d used—erase. As if she were a mistake he needed to blot out. She’d never seen such coldness in his eyes before. His daughter was dead to him already—disposing of her body was of no consequence.

      Never mind that she still had plenty of use for that body.

      A knock on the door made her freeze. She tried to think. Would the man who was looking for her knock and announce himself?

      Yes, she decided, he would. He’d want her to open the door. To let him inside where he could dispose of her quietly, without the neighbors seeing. He’d slip away without anyone noticing and tomorrow, when she didn’t show up at class, someone would find her. Someone else would discover her true identity, and the newspapers and gossip magazines would print the news in bold headlines. Mob King Takes Revenge on Daughter Who Betrayed Him or Mafia Princess Gets Hers.

      She waited, but no second knock came. No friendly voice called out in concern. She forced herself to breathe, ragged, metallic-tinged breaths that tasted of terror.

      When she could stand the tension no more, she tiptoed into the front room and peered out a gap in the blinds. The street in front of her house was empty. Dark. After another half hour of stillness, she decided no one was there. But maybe they were waiting across the street, waiting for her to open the door.

      She pulled on her coat and gloves, then took the loaded pistol from her bedside table and slipped it into the pocket of her coat. When she’d asked for the gun the Marshals had dismissed her, saying she had no need to be armed. She was merely an innocent schoolteacher. Patrick Thompson had assured her the U.S. Marshals Service would provide all the protection she needed. She’d argued with him to no avail.

      But three days after her arrival here she’d received a package in the mail. The handgun, ammunition and an unsigned note. I hope you never need this, the note read. But just in case...

      One hand on the pistol, she slipped out the back door. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees with the setting sun. The air was brittle with cold, the ground crisp beneath her feet. Staying close to the side of the house, she moved toward the street. She took a step, then waited, listening. She repeated this process all the way down the side of the house, so that twenty minutes passed before she reached the corner. She craned her head around to look toward her front door.

      The small porch was empty, the light shining down on the doormat and a rectangle of white that lay on the mat.

      Chapter Three

      Anne studied the rectangle of white that gleamed on the doormat. It looked like an envelope, and a simple envelope shouldn’t be so ominous. But this one was out of place. The mail carrier delivered letters through the slot in the door. Other people who had messages for her telephoned, or contacted her at school. Did this envelope contain an explosive to injure her, or a poison?

      Neither of those things were her father’s style. He believed in personal retribution—not necessarily from him, but from his goons. His representatives, he called them. She remembered overhearing him on the phone with a contractor he suspected of double-crossing him. His words had been so calm, in sharp contrast to the menace in his voice. “I’m sending a couple of my representatives over to discuss this with you.”

      When the police found the man, he was floating in the sound, his face gone. Cut off, she’d heard later, while he was still alive.

      Shivering with cold and fear, she turned and raced back around the side of the house and through the back door. She ran to the front, opened the door just wide enough to snatch the envelope from the mat, then sat on the sofa, shaking.

      She turned the envelope over and read the childish printing. Miss Gardener was rendered in uneven printing. Below that, a more adult hand had penned Happy Valentine’s Day.

      Inside the envelope was a crooked heart cut from construction paper, decorated generously with silver glitter and stickers bearing images of cupids and more hearts. The crayoned signature was from one of her students, a wide-eyed little boy who clearly had a bit of a crush on his teacher.

      She stared at the words through a blur of tears, hating how the sordidness of her old life had reached out to taint this sweet, innocent gesture. If she ran away, all of that ugliness would follow her, to whatever new town she settled in.

      She had friends here in Rogers. A place in the community. She wasn’t ready to give that up, not until she absolutely had to.

      * * *

      “AREYOUSTAYING in town long, Mr. Westmoreland?”

      The desk clerk at Rogers’s only hotel smiled at Jake, all but batting her eyelashes at him. He returned the smile. It never hurt to be friendly with the locals, especially in a place this small. You never knew who might give you the information you needed, or put you in touch with the one contact who could help you break a case. “A few days. I’m not sure, really.” He plucked a brochure advertising Telluride ski area from a rack on the counter. “This is such a beautiful place, I might stay longer than I planned.”

      “We’ve got plenty of scenery, that’s for sure,” she said. “Not much excitement, though.”

      “I don’t need excitement.” He’d had enough to last a lifetime. As soon as he was done with this last job, he’d stick to crunching numbers for the rest of his life.

      “You might stick around for the Winter Carnival next weekend,” the clerk said. “That’s kind of fun.”

      “What’s the Winter Carnival?”

      “It’s this little festival in City Park. Ice skating, ice sculpture, a broomball tournament. A bonfire. Different groups have booths selling food and hot chocolate and stuff. Real small-town, but a lot of tourists like it.”

      “I might have to check it out. Thanks.” The phone rang, and when she turned away to answer it, he took the opportunity to set the brochure aside and leave before she questioned him further.

      Outside, the sun was so bright he squinted even behind his sunglasses. The windshield of the car he’d rented in Grand Junction was thick with frost. He turned the heat on full blast and sat in the driver’s seat, debating his next move.

      He’d driven by Anne’s house last night, after midnight. Her car had been parked in the driveway, a single light in the back of the house glowing yellow behind the shades. Her bedroom. He’d thought of stopping, but she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him.

      Not that he intended to take no for an answer. He understood she was angry with him—upset and hurt by the lies he’d told her. Sooner or later she’d see he’d had to lie to protect them both. The fact that he’d failed so miserably made him more determined than ever to make it up to her.

      She was afraid; that was clear. Who wouldn’t be, in her position? Helping him would force her to admit that fear—that weakness. For all the changes in her life and her appearance, she was still a woman who never liked to admit any weakness. Take no prisoners. She could erase the words from her skin, but Jake was certain they were still inscribed on her heart.

      Approaching her at her house had been a tactical error. He could see that now. They needed neutral territory. With other people around she wouldn’t be so guarded.

      He spent the morning at the library, reading through back issues of the Rogers Reporter, learning what Anne’s life had been like these past nine months. Other than the announcement of her hiring, the new first-grade teacher had stayed out of the spotlight. She was playing by the rules of the Witness Security Program, keeping quiet and fitting in.

      At