Collecting Evidence. Rita Herron

to care about, men who treated their women like property.

      Had she left her family to protect them from the man after her?

      Twice she’d seen a tall Ute man lurking outside, lingering near the fence surrounding the shelter. A Ute man who’d watched her and the other women with intense gray eyes that chilled her to the bone…

      Was he the man who’d sneaked into her room and attacked her? Had she known him before?

      And if he wanted her dead, would this FBI agent be able to protect her?

      

      DYLAN’S EMOTIONS pinged between hopeful anticipation and trepidation over what he might find when he saw Aspen. He couldn’t imagine the woman he knew deserting her child or not contacting her cousin to assure her she was safe.

      Which meant her injuries must have been serious.

      That or she was too scared to call home. And if that was the case, what had changed her mind?

      The landscape swept by him with its pieces of flatland mingled with red-and-gray rocks, some twisted into convoluted shapes that as children, he and Miguel had played a guessing game to name when their family had driven through Colorado and Utah on family vacations. His mother had stopped to photograph the children playing outside their Navajo Indian houses. They’d camped along the San Juan and Colorado Rivers, visited Goosenecks State Park with its view of the steep cliffs and terraces, parked along the overhang and watched rafters take the long boat trip to Lake Powell.

      God, they’d had so much fun during those trips. Muley Point had offered another view south over the twisting entrenched canyon to the desert beyond, and Monument Valley and the Valley of the Gods had been other favorite stops.

      Baby Jack’s face flashed into his mind and he wondered if he’d ever get to take his son camping along the ridges. If he’d be able to drive through the eerie formations of the Valley of the Gods and watch Jack’s reaction when he first saw the sixty-foot-wide sombrero-shape rock that had inspired Mexican Hat’s name.

      He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck—jeez, he was already thinking like Jack was his. Hoping he was…

      If so, he had to find a way to make sure he stayed in the boy’s life. Nothing Aspen could say would deter him.

      U.S. 163 led him straight into town, and he let his GPS guide him down a side road to the shelter, a nondescript adobe building surrounded by a ten-foot iron gate. Inside, a massive cross stood in front of the steel door as if to guard its residents and stave off evil.

      Dust and a wave of heat engulfed him as he climbed from his sedan, the gray night sky casting the center in dark shadows. He glanced around the outside but saw nothing amiss, so rang the buzzer at the gate entrance.

      A second later, a woman’s voice echoed through the speaker. “Yes?”

      He produced his badge, then identified himself. “Special Agent Ryan spoke with you about the photo you faxed to the Bureau, about the woman you have staying here. Aspen Meadows.”

      “Yes, just a minute.” A buzz sounded, and the gate swung open, a nun appearing in the doorway to the building. She checked his identification before letting him enter, then led him to a small office to the right.

      “I need to see her,” he said without preamble.

      Her eyes seemed to be assessing him. “First, we need to talk. My name is Sister Margaret.”

      He gave a clipped nod, noting the modest furnishings, a battered wooden desk and desk chair, two wooden Windsor chairs and a ratty plaid sofa that had seen better days. She gestured for him to take a seat, so he claimed one of the Windsor chairs, and she settled onto the sofa. But the pinched look on her face and the way she fidgeted with her habit spoke volumes about her mental state.

      His gut churned with anxiety. “Is something wrong, Sister? Is Aspen all right?”

      She pursed her lips and sighed, a sound that disturbed him even more.

      “Did you personally know Aspen?” Sister Margaret asked.

      He was accustomed to asking the questions. But this woman was as protective as a mother hen, so he knew he had to answer. “Yes. A while back. I’ve been investigating her disappearance for weeks. Her cousin is worried sick about her.”

      “Yes, about that…”

      Dylan leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Just cut to it, Sister. Is Aspen all right?”

      “Yes, and no,” the sister said. “When she first came to us, she was suffering from hypothermia, and multiple bruises and lacerations covered her body and face. Along with that, she had a couple of broken ribs, a fractured wrist, concussion and it appeared as if someone had tried to strangle her.” She shuddered, and Dylan’s mind raced with the visual image she’d painted.

      “Can you tell me what happened to her?” Sister Margaret asked. “Who hurt her?”

      Sweat beaded on Dylan’s neck, and he took a deep breath, struggling to control his anger. “We don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet. We believe she may have witnessed a murder. Either that or she saw the killer dumping a woman’s body. When the killer realized Aspen had witnessed his criminal actions, he came after her. We found her car crashed along the San Juan River. Her son was inside.”

      “Oh, my.” A horror stricken look passed over Sister Margaret’s face. “Aspen has a son?”

      “Yes, a baby boy named Jack. He’s fifteen weeks old now.” And he might be mine.

      Sister Margaret pressed a hand to her pale face. “We thought she might be running from an abusive boyfriend or husband, but she never mentioned a child, so we had no idea. If we had, we would have reported her missing right away.”

      Dylan arched a brow, confusion clogging his head. “I don’t understand. Didn’t Aspen tell you what happened?”

      “That’s the reason I wanted to talk to you,” Sister Margaret said softly. “Aspen was unconscious when she was brought in. And when she regained consciousness…well, she didn’t remember anything.”

      Dylan’s chest pounded. “You mean, she didn’t remember the car crash or attack?”

      Sister Margaret shook her head sadly. “I mean, she didn’t remember anything. Not about what happened to her, not even her name or that she has family.”

      Dylan sat back in the chair, trying to absorb the missing piece the woman had just revealed. Amnesia would explain why Aspen hadn’t contacted Emma or returned home for Jack.

      Or called him for help.

      “What did the doctor say about the amnesia?”

      Sister Margaret looked shaken. “That the head injury could have caused her memory loss, but that the trauma could have been a factor, as well.”

      “Basically, she blocked out the events because they were too painful,” Dylan said.

      “Yes.”

      “Will she regain her memory?” Dylan asked.

      The sister shrugged, her hands twisting together in her habit. “Probably. But that may take time. And Dr. Bennigan advised us not to push her, that doing so might traumatize her even more.”

      Dylan stewed over that revelation, bracing himself to meet an Aspen who had no idea who he was. “So what prompted you to finally report her appearance to the police?” Dylan finally asked.

      The sister shifted nervously. “Someone broke into the center earlier, into the room where Aspen was sleeping and attacked her. She told us to call the police.”

      Dylan fisted his hands by his sides. Dammit, had Perkins and Watts tracked down Aspen and broken into the shelter to finish the job?

      

      ASPEN SAT ON THE FLOOR with the