The Girl Who Wouldn't Stay Dead. Cassie Miles

her divorce seemed cold and unfeeling. Even in a dream state, she felt a little bit guilty. If she’d known he was ill, she might have forgiven him and nursed him through his final days. Or not.

      Leaving the merry-go-round, she hiked up a grassy knoll to an old-fashioned boot hill cemetery. She’d wanted to attend Jamison’s funeral and memorial service, but his maiden aunt Glenda, matriarch of the family, had made it clear that she was unwelcome. The family had kept her away, almost as though they were hiding something.

      Jamison shouldn’t be her problem anymore. They were divorced, and he had died. But there seemed to be a connection. Her car had been run off the road after leaving the Riggses’ house. Someone wanted her dead, had tried to kill her. She had to fight back. She needed to wake up. Oh, God, I’m too tired.

      Someone held her hand and comforted her. For now, that would have to be enough. She drifted back into silent stillness.

      * * *

      THE NEXT MORNING, Connor sat beside the hospital bed and patted Emily’s right hand. She hadn’t moved, but one of the monitors started beeping. A sweet-faced nurse whose name tag said Darlene came into the room and made adjustments to silence the alarm.

      “Has she spoken?” Darlene asked.

      “Not yet,” he said. “But her eyelids have been moving. It’s like she’s watching a movie inside her head.”

      “Rapid eye movement, we call it REM. Nothing to worry about,” she said in the perky tone of a confirmed optimist. “I’ll notify the doctor. We don’t want her to wake up too soon.”

      “Why is that?”

      “They use the induced coma to protect the brain and let it relax while the swelling goes down. She needs plenty of rest.”

      Though he didn’t know much about neurological sciences, he’d talked to a brain surgeon in New York who advised him about Denver-based referrals. His brain surgeon friend had given him an idea of all the stuff that could go wrong, ranging from stroke to seizure. Amnesia was a possibility, as was epilepsy. Head wounds were unpredictable and could be devastating.

      He wished he could be as cheerful as Darlene, but Connor was a realist. “It seems like she wants to wake up,” he said. “That’s a good sign, right?”

      “Well, I certainly think so.” Nurse Darlene pressed her fingers across her mouth as if she’d said too much. “I’m not qualified to give opinions. But if you’re asking me, this young lady is going to make a full recovery and come back to you.”

      And maybe she’ll bring the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus with her. Connor forced a smile. The nurse wanted him to be happy, but she really didn’t know—nobody knew, not for certain—if Emily would be all right. “Thank you, Darlene.”

      She patted his shoulder on her way out of the room. “Try to get some sleep, Connor. If you need anything, push the button and I’ll be here in a flash.”

      Sleep was an excellent idea, but he didn’t dare relax his vigilance; Deputy Sandoval had told him that Emily’s accident wasn’t an accident. Somebody had tried to kill her, and Connor needed to keep watch.

      There was a lot to be done today. First order of business this morning would be to hire a private detective. He’d checked with the investigator who worked for his law firm in Manhattan and had got the name of a local guy. Though Connor didn’t doubt Sandoval’s competence, the young deputy might appreciate outside assistance from a PI—a guy who could do computer research and help him figure out why Emily had been targeted.

      And Connor also needed to hire a bodyguard. The county sheriff and Aspen police didn’t have the manpower to provide a cop who could stand outside her hospital room and keep watch 24/7. Also, Connor wasn’t sure he trusted the locals. There was a high probability that the cops knew the Riggs family and wouldn’t consider them to be a threat, even if they strolled into her hospital room carrying two crossbows and a loaded gun.

      He squeezed Emily’s hand and smoothed the dark blond curls that weren’t covered by bandages. Even with a shiner and stitches across her forehead, she was uniquely beautiful. Her nose tilted up at the tip. Her bow-shaped lips were full. He brushed his thumb across her mouth. He’d never kissed those lips, except in a friendly way, and he was tempted to remedy that situation. Not appropriate. Kissing her while she was in a coma ranked high on the creepiness scale.

      Besides, he wanted her to be awake when he finally expressed his pent-up longing. He whispered, “Emily, can you hear me?”

      She said nothing, didn’t open her eyes and didn’t squeeze his hand.

      He continued in a quiet voice, “There was a deputy who came in here last night. His name is Sandoval. He looks young but said he was thirty-two, and he’s smart.”

      Her silence disturbed him. It was too passive. Being with Emily meant activity, laughter and a running commentary of trivial facts, usually about art.

      “Sandoval investigated,” he said. “He found skid marks on the road that might indicate two vehicles. One was your Hyundai, and the other had a wider wheelbase, like a truck. He couldn’t re-create the scene perfectly, but he thought the truck bumped your car toward the edge. You slammed on the brake, but it wasn’t enough. You crashed through the guardrail.”

      She must have been scared out of her mind. If Sandoval’s theory was correct, a lot more investigation would be required. The sheriff’s department would need to haul the wreckage of her Hyundai up the hill so the forensic people could go over it. And Sandoval could start looking for the truck that had forced her off the road.

      “Do you remember? Why would someone come after you?”

      His only answer came from the blips and beeps from the machines monitoring her life signs while she was in the coma.

      He asked, “Did you see who was driving?”

      Even if it was possible for her to comprehend what he was saying, she might not be able to identify her attacker. He continued, “I don’t have evidence, but the attack on you has something to do with the Riggs family. If not, the timing is too coincidental.”

      He could easily imagine a member of the family or one of their minions chasing her in a truck and forcing her car off the road. It would help if he knew why. There had to be a reason.

      “On the phone, you told me not to come,” he said. “You expected things to get ugly between you and the Riggs family, and you didn’t want to force me to take sides. Don’t you know, Emily? I’m on your side, always.”

      Jamison’s dumb-ass infidelities had pretty much ended their decade-long friendship. Connor was outraged by the betrayal of Emily. He hated the humiliation she’d endured. When she left Jamison, he’d worked with her Denver lawyer to make sure that she was financially cared for. By juggling the assets she shared with her wealthy husband, he’d finagled a way for her to have enough cash to cover her move back to her hometown of Denver, rent a bungalow and set up her own little art gallery. When that money had run dry, Connor dipped into his own pocket.

      He wanted her to have a good life, a beautiful life. As a friend, he’d always be close to her. It wasn’t hard to imagine being more than a friend. If only Jamison hadn’t met her first in Manhattan, he and Emily would have been a couple.

      After he brushed a light kiss across her knuckles, he placed her hand on the blanket, went to the window and raised the shade. The mountain view was incredible as night faded into pale dawn. If the window had been open, he would have heard birds chirping while the sunlight spread across rock faces, dark green conifers and a bright golden stand of aspens.

      For a long moment, he stood and drank in the spectacular landscape. Between his Brooklyn apartment and his Manhattan office, he hadn’t come into contact with this much nature in weeks. This scenery knocked him out.

      He checked his wristwatch. Five minutes past six o’clock meant it was after eight in New York. He pulled out his phone to check in