Rocky Mountain Manhunt. Cassie Miles

quitter. Though she didn’t remember her own name, she knew this: she wasn’t the sort of woman who gave up without a fight.

      Her shoulders straightened. She would take responsibility for her own safety. She would forge a new life, a new identity. Here, in the forest.

      Following the custom of Native American tribes christening a newborn, she chose her name based on the first thing she had seen when she’d awakened.

      Rain. I am Rain.

      Chapter One

      At midafternoon on a sunlit day, Rain hunkered down beside a rippling creek. She reached into the cold, clear water and picked out a pebble. Round and smooth, the stone was the color of a tiger’s stripe and speckled with bits of quartz.

      After careful inspection, she decided the tawny color was perfect for today—a very good day because she’d caught a fish. Today, she was fierce as a tiger. She was the huntress instead of the hunted.

      Though she’d seen no sign of the men who had been pursuing her for days, she still felt their presence. At any given moment, they might appear.

      Rain turned her back on the creek and scurried toward her wilderness home. Careful not to follow the same route and create a path that might lead others to her hideout, she zigzagged toward a wall of pines and a towering granite formation. Behind three fat boulders was a cleared space with a fire pit. She pushed aside a clump of sagebrush and entered her shallow cave.

      Kneeling on the cave floor, she ceremoniously dropped the tiger pebble into a basket she’d woven from reeds and twigs. One pebble for every day of her new life. “Twenty-eight, so far.”

      Proud that she’d survived so long, Rain smiled. The sunburned skin across her cheeks stretched and cracked, and she rubbed her face. Without moisturizer, her complexion must be a leathery disaster. Not that she was planning to win any beauty pageants.

      Her jeans were torn, and so baggy that she held them up with twine she’d plaited from reeds and sweetgrass. Her blue silk shirt was in tatters. Several days ago, she’d given up on grooming her long, unmanageable, blond hair and had hacked it short—not stylish but functional. She didn’t have time to worry about how she looked. Every moment was dedicated to survival. Nothing else mattered.

      Though it was a bit early for dinner preparations, she couldn’t wait to cook the fresh trout that would go so well with her usual salad of goldenrod, burdock and mint. As she took the leaves from the cooking pot where they soaked in water from the creek, she wished that she had oil or butter for frying.

      Those were food items her backpack had not provided, but she wasn’t complaining. The pack had literally saved her life. Tucked inside, she’d found a Marmot Pinnacle sleeping bag, a serrated Buck knife, a collapsible fishing rod and Meals, Ready-to-Eat—the same kind of prepackaged, high-calorie food that the U.S. military used on maneuvers.

      Though the last of her MREs had been devoured thirteen days ago, Rain found plenty of edible foods in the wild. Bark and grass. Flowers and roots. And now, the chokecherries and elderberries had begun to appear. She wouldn’t starve.

      In fact, her health was good. Her wounds had healed, thanks to the first aid kit in her pack and her knowledge of medicinal plants.

      Though she still couldn’t force herself to recall what had happened to her, memories had appeared like snapshots—moments caught in time. Once remembered, these pieces of the past became hers, not to be forgotten again.

      Easily, she pictured her mother descending a sweeping staircase, being greeted by a golden retriever with a wildly wagging tail.

      And there was a Little League game she’d coached.

      On a green golf course, she practiced her swing.

      Rain remembered her own wedding. The pristine lace dress. The filmy veil. And roses, tons of pink roses. Unfortunately, the groom wasn’t a clear vision, and she had the sinking feeling that her marriage hadn’t turned out well.

      The elaborate, many-tiered cake, she recalled, had been delicious.

      With a longing sigh, she fantasized about all the marvelous foods she used to eat. Gourmet sauces. Cheese and bread. Cream and chocolate desserts. She especially missed the candy bars her father used to bring home when she was a little girl. He’d hold out his arms and allow her to search his jacket pockets until she found the chocolate.

      By far, her favorite memories were the days she’d spent with her father. A big, strong man, he’d taught her wilderness skills when she was a girl. They used to go backpacking together. He’d taught her how to forage; those skills had probably saved her life.

      Through the mouth of her cave, she glanced heavenward. Her father—his name was Eric—had passed away several years ago. “I miss you, Dad.”

      In her mind, she repeated his name. Eric. The golden retriever, also deceased, was Daisy. Her mother was Elizabeth. She’d remarried. Her new husband was Peter Rowe, and he had a son, Tom Rowe. All those names. But when it came to her own identity, she was still…Rain.

      Knowledge of her immediate past remained elusive no matter how hard she tried to remember. The only thing she knew for sure was that hunters were trying to kill her, and their pursuit was relentless.

      The only way to be safe was to stay hidden.

      This was her life. The forest was her home. And it was time to build the fire and cook her fish. She took the cooking supplies from the backpack and went to the fire pit where the twigs and sticks were already laid.

      Carefully, she guarded the flame of a match from her dwindling supply. For kindling, she used a hundred-dollar bill.

      PILOTING SOLO IN HIS modified Super Cub, Liam MacKenzie swooped low and made a pass through an isolated valley in Rocky Mountain National Park. Not a particularly safe aerial maneuver, this dive wasn’t anything he’d try with the people who regularly hired him as a charter pilot. But Liam had been flying this little Cub so long that she was like an extension of his own body; he could make her do anything he wanted. He tipped the wing and stared down at the waving grasses. There appeared to be nothing unusual.

      Nearing the edge of the meadow, he pulled back on the yoke, cleared the treetops and ruddered left, preparing to make another sweep. Two days ago, he’d flown high over several miles of terrain, including this meadow, taking aerial photos for a real estate developer in Grand Lake. When he’d gotten the developed pictures back and studied them, he’d seen a parka on the ground—a sign of human life where none should be.

      There were dozens of possible explanations. An animal might have dragged the parka there. Someone outside the sanctioned camping area might have lost their jacket. But Liam hoped the parka was a sign of two people who had been missing for nearly a month: Kate Carradine and her boyfriend, Wayne Silverman.

      The major search-and-rescue efforts had ended a couple of weeks ago and miles away from here. A forest fire had destroyed nearly a thousand acres, and these two missing people were presumed lost in the flames. No trace of them had been found. No bones. No rubber-soled hiking boots. And, significantly, no sign of a burned-out vehicle.

      The absence of a car gave rise to speculation that they hadn’t gone camping in the first place, had never been in the area and didn’t want to be found.

      None of these theories satisfied Kate’s mother, Elizabeth Carradine-Rowe, a wealthy socialite and—from what Liam had heard—a first-class pain in the rear. Miss Elizabeth couldn’t believe that her only daughter had disappeared. She’d contacted Colorado Crime Consultants. Through CCC, Liam had gotten involved.

      In a soaring loop, he brought his Cub around for another view of the mountain meadow. He volunteered his time and his plane for search efforts because he believed in CCC and in the founder, Adam Briggs. Their goal was pure: solving crime for the sake of justice and to bring closure for the victims’ family and friends. Everyone who worked for CCC’s loosely organized network was a private citizen with special expertise. There were doctors, medical examiners,