Rocky Mountain Revenge. Cindi Myers

the side of the house, moving quickly toward the back steps. Maybe they should have agreed on some kind of signal, so she’d be sure it was him when he arrived. As he turned the corner toward the back of the house he froze, heart pounding.

      The back door to Anne’s house was open—not wide open, but cracked a few inches, sending a shaft of bright light onto a patch of trampled snow at the bottom of the steps. Jake drew the gun and sidestepped toward the door, keeping to the deepest shadows against the wall of the house. When he was sure the coast was clear, he took the steps two at a time, moving silently, and paused on the small landing at the top, holding his breath, listening.

      “You don’t remember me, do you?” The man’s voice was nasal, the words clipped and staccato.

      Anne’s answer was unintelligible, but the terror in her voice made the hair on the back of Jake’s neck stand on end. He nudged the door open a little wider with the toe of one shoe and leaned in.

      “I worked for your father, but you never noticed me. You were too high and mighty to pay attention to the help.”

      Jake heard a scraping sound, as if someone had shoved a chair out of the way. He decided they were in the living room, just beyond the kitchen. Was it just Anne and this man, or had the intruder brought along help?

      Jake slipped silently into the kitchen, keeping close to the wall, out of sight of the doorway between the kitchen and living room. “You deserve to die for what you did to your father,” the man said.

      “No!” Anne cried out and Jake rushed forward. He burst into the room and saw Anne struggling with a burly, dark-haired man. He aimed his pistol, but there was no way he could get off a clean shot without risking hitting Anne instead.

      Anne’s attacker wrapped one arm across her chest and pulled her against him, crushing her rib cage, lifting her off the ground. She writhed in his arms, kicking out. The man still didn’t know Jake was in the room. That gave him a slim advantage, but he didn’t yet see how to use it.

      Anne kicked out, knocking over a table, on which sat a lamp. The glass base of the lamp shattered, and then the lightbulb exploded with a shower of sparks. Anne wailed—whether in pain or frustration, Jake didn’t know, but the sound enraged him. He aimed the gun again, determined to get off a good shot.

      Anne beat her fists against her assailant, who held her with one hand now while he groped in his jacket pocket, probably for a weapon. If he drew a gun, Jake would have to fire, and pray Anne was not in the way.

      But just then, Anne leaned over and bit her attacker on the hand, hard enough to draw blood.

      The man howled and released her, and Anne whirled and landed a solid punch on his chin. Her attacker reeled back, but in the same moment he drew a gun from his coat. It was the last move he ever made, as Jake shot him, twice, the impact of the bullets sending him sprawling across the back of the sofa.

      Anne screamed, then stood frozen, her hands to her mouth, her face the same bleached ivory color as the wall behind her. “Is there anyone else?” Jake asked.

      She shook her head, still staring at the dead man draped across her sofa. Jake pocketed his gun and dragged the man onto the floor and laid him out on his back. He was a burly man in his forties, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and wearing a new-looking ski jacket, hiking boots and a knit cap. Anyone seeing him on the streets would have taken him for a local, or a visiting tourist.

      Except most tourists didn’t carry a Glock. Jake checked the weapon; it hadn’t been fired. He slipped it into his other coat pocket and took out the man’s wallet. “Robert Smith,” he read the name on the driver’s license.

      “That’s not his real name.” Anne’s voice was shaky, but surprisingly calm, considering she had a dead man laid out on her living room rug. “His name’s DiCello. Some of my father’s men called him Jell-O. He hated that.”

      “What’s this on his jacket?” He tugged at a laminated tag hanging from the zipper pull of the jacket. “It’s a lift ticket, from Telluride Ski Resort. Dated for yesterday.” Had Mr. DiCello decided to take in a day on the slopes before driving over to Rogers to do a little business with his boss’s estranged daughter?

      The loud jangling of the phone surprised a cry from Anne, who immediately put a hand to her mouth, as if to hold back further cries. Jake stared at the ringing instrument. Had someone heard the shots? “You’d better answer it.”

      She nodded and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

      She listened a moment, then forced a smile. “How sweet of you, Mrs. Cramer, but everything’s fine....Yes, I heard it, too. It must have been a car backfiring.”

      She hung up the phone and looked at him. “The neighbor lady, checking on me.”

      “You did great.” Better than great. She’d sounded perfectly calm and reasonable. As if thugs got shot up in her living room every night. “That was quite a punch you landed,” he said.

      She massaged the back of her hand—she’d likely have a bruise there tomorrow. “I’ve been taking boxing lessons. So I’d know how to defend myself. But it wouldn’t have saved me. Not if you hadn’t come along.”

      He moved toward her, intending to comfort her, but she stepped away from him, and hugged her arms tightly around her waist. He swallowed his disappointment. It didn’t matter if she hadn’t forgiven him; she still needed his help. “Your father’s found you. You have to leave.”

      “Maybe my father didn’t send him. Maybe he came on his own.”

      “Anne, look at me.”

      She met his gaze, and the anguish in her eyes cut him. He wanted to hold her close, to tell her again that he would protect her. But now wasn’t the time. “You don’t really believe this man, who you know works for your father, came here without your father’s knowledge, do you?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “No.”

      “Is there some place near here we can go that might be safe—just until we can make a plan?”

      She straightened, visibly pulling herself together. “There are some cabins in the mountains about fifteen miles from here. The area is remote, on National Forest land. In the summer, a few people live there, but in the winter they’re closed up. There’s a gate over the road, but I know the combination to the lock.”

      She hadn’t hesitated with her answer; she had all the details laid out. “You’ve been planning for something like this.”

      “I always knew I might have to leave. I didn’t want to, but...” Her voice died, and her gaze dropped to the man at their feet.

      “Pack a few things you’ll need and we’ll go. Now.”

      “What about him?”

      “I’ll drag him out back and hide the body under a pile of firewood. As cold as it is, it could be a long time before anyone finds him. If the police come looking for you, they might inadvertently lead your father to us.”

      “You think he’ll send someone else after me?”

      “You know he will.”

      She nodded. “Yes. What about the blood?”

      “I’ll clean it up. Now go.”

      Without another word, or a glance in his direction, she went into her bedroom and shut the door.

      Jake stared at that shut door; it wasn’t half as solid a barrier as the one she’d put around her heart. Fine. She could hate him all she wanted. Maybe he even deserved her hate. But that wouldn’t stop him from protecting her. And it wouldn’t stop him from finding the man who’d caused her so much pain, and making sure he could never hurt her again.

      * * *

      ANNESHOVEDUNDERWEAR, a change of clothes and a few cosmetics into an overnight bag. She added a phone charger and a box of ammunition. The thought of needing