Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver

black-and-white, but she recognized it instantly. Long dark hair, outlaw mustache, harsh features… It was John! Oh, God. Had he been in an accident? Fumbling for the remote, she turned the sound back on.

      “…still at large.”

      She frowned, certain she must have heard wrong.

      “The other two prisoners were apprehended without incident this morning in Montreal,” the announcer continued. “Police are asking for the public’s help in locating Remy Leverette. He is thirty-three years old, stands six feet three inches, weighs two hundred pounds and has dark-brown hair and a mustache. If you have any knowledge of his whereabouts, please contact the authorities immediately.”

      It was a mistake, Dana thought, staring at John’s face. Somehow the TV station had gotten the pictures mixed up. Or maybe it was a bad photograph. The photo on her book covers didn’t look anything like her. Maybe the camera had made this Leverette person look like John.

      But even as she scrambled for explanations, she knew it was no use. The truth was there in the numbers that were held in front of his chest. It was a mug shot, and there was no denying that it was John. The camera had even captured the desperate edge to his haunting gaze.

      “…exercise extreme caution,” the newscaster droned on. “Leverette has served four months of a life sentence…”

      A life sentence? But how could that be possible? The gentle, quiet man who had shared her cabin couldn’t have hurt anyone, could he? And if he had, it must have been an accident, or self-defense, or…

      The excuses she had been grasping scattered like snowflakes on the wind with the announcer’s next words.

      “In the trial that shocked the quiet town of Hainesborough last year, Remy Leverette was convicted for the brutal stabbing death of his wife.”

      Chapter 4

      Dana crossed her arms tightly and rubbed her palms over her sleeves. Once the sun had gone down, the temperature had plummeted. She had heaped more wood on the fire and had plugged in the electric heater, but it hadn’t helped. The cold she felt went through to her bones.

      It didn’t have much to do with the temperature, though. This cold was harder to shake off because it came from within.

      How could she have been so wrong? she thought, for what had to be the hundredth time. How could he have deceived her so thoroughly? And how could she have wanted to kiss him…

      Damn it all, after two years of keeping to herself, of avoiding the possibility of any kind of relationship with a man, why did she have to choose now to lower her defenses? And why choose him?

      He could have killed her while she’d slept. He could have done anything he’d wanted to her, and she wouldn’t have been able to stop him. No, she would have let him. Welcomed him.

      He must have pegged her for a soft touch the minute he’d seen her. He knew about her books and decided to play on her ego. That wouldn’t have been hard to do—all writers were eager for even a crumb of praise. It had all been an act, a lie.

      There had been so many inconsistencies, but she hadn’t wanted to see them. The expensive coat he had worn didn’t match his plain chambray shirt and jeans. The salesman’s agenda book in his pocket didn’t go with the workman’s calluses on his palms. The look in his eyes wasn’t haunted, it was hunted.

      She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump that rose in her throat. What a fool she had been. About everything. And God help her, the worst of it was that even now she didn’t want to believe she could have been that wrong about John.

      No, not John. Remy Leverette. Escaped prisoner. Convicted wife killer.

      The sudden knock on the cabin door made her jump.

      “Miss Whittington? It’s Constable Savard.”

      Dana recognized the gravelly voice of the provincial police officer who had arrived twenty minutes ago. She hurried over to unbolt the door. “Did you find anything?”

      “No, ma’am.” He knocked the snow off his boots on the doorstep and stepped inside. With his gray eyebrows and round, ruddy cheeks, he looked more like a kindly farmer than a policeman. “I’ve been all around the lodge buildings,” he said, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them in the side pockets of his jacket. “If anyone had been there, I would have seen his tracks. The snow hadn’t been disturbed.”

      “I told you, he wasn’t at the lodge, he was here at the cabin.”

      “I didn’t see any tracks here, either.”

      “That’s because I shoveled the snow after he left. The plow went through, too.”

      “Ah. Did anyone else see this person?”

      “Well, no. And he said his name was John Becker.”

      “Yes, I made a note of that. Did you call anyone, ask for help?”

      “The phone lines were down. And the phone in this cabin wasn’t working. I think—” She paused, but then decided she might as well tell him her suspicions. “I think he did something to it. I replaced it with one from the lodge and that one’s working fine.”

      “I see. Do you live here year round, Miss Whittington?”

      “No, I’m acting as caretaker while my cousin’s in Florida. I needed someplace quiet to complete my book.”

      “You’re a writer?”

      “Yes. I write and illustrate children’s books.”

      He pulled a small notebook from inside his jacket and scribbled a few words. “So you make up stories for a living.”

      She frowned at his tone. “You sound as if you don’t believe me.”

      A flat voice crackled from the radio that was clipped to Constable Savard’s belt. He retrieved it and said a few words, his cheeks flexing with a suppressed yawn. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean any offense, but between the traffic accidents from this storm and the sightings of the fugitive it’s been a long day.”

      “Sightings? You mean he’s been seen somewhere else, too?”

      Savard nodded. “Since the picture hit the news two days ago, I’ve heard he’s been spotted everywhere from Kapuskasing to Kenora.”

      “Wait, I can prove he was here. I have a picture of him.”

      “Why would you take his picture?”

      “It’s not a photograph,” she said, going to her desk to retrieve the doodle she had made. “It’s a sketch.”

      He studied the paper briefly, then handed it back to her. “It looks kind of like the picture on the news, all right.” He jotted something else in his notebook and slipped it back inside his coat, then withdrew a card and handed it to her. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Whittington. We’ll be in touch. If you remember anything more, please call this number. That’s for Detective Charles Sibley. He dealt with Leverette before.”

      “That’s it? You’re not going to post someone here in case he comes back?”

      “Did this person threaten you?”

      Dana shook her head. The only thing that had been in danger from John had been her heart. “No, he didn’t make any threats.”

      “We’ll investigate this report as thoroughly as possible, ma’am,” Savard said, his voice rough with weariness as he pulled his gloves back on. “But rest assured that if the person you claim to have seen really was Leverette, he’d probably be halfway to Calgary by now.”

      The diner next to the gas station had been doing a brisk business right up until dusk. Located just before the turnoff to Hainesborough, it was on the main route between Toronto and the Trans-Canada Highway. It was a good place for snowplow drivers to stop and fill their thermoses