Rocky Mountain Maverick. Gayle Wilson

      Her eyes briefly touched on the knee she’d pointedly avoided asking him about, in spite of its obvious impairment.

      “Hospital and then rehab,” he said. That, too, was probably obvious, given what she already knew.

      “That’s why you retired?” This time her acknowledgment of the injury he’d suffered was more open, her eyes tracing along the long, blue-jean clad length of his leg, stretched out on the coffee table between them.

      Was it? That wasn’t a question he’d allowed himself to think too much about.

      “Partially.”

      “I’ve thought about the timing of your disappearance. About what was going on then. Wondering if there was a connection.”

      “And you think you’ve figured it out,” he said flatly, reading confidence in her tone.

      “I asked some questions.”

      “And got answers?” he asked, his voice deliberately quizzical.

      He hadn’t quite been able to put together how, living here, his sister could know things no one outside the intelligence community should know. Nor had he figured out where her questions were headed. He’d be willing to bet, however, that this conversation wasn’t about familial concern. Nor was it the product of an idle curiosity.

      “A few. Enough, I think. San Parrano maybe,” she suggested.

      The words evoked memories he never wanted to think about again. He had worked hard on erasing the nightmare images from what had been a joint Special Forces/CIA counterterrorist mission. One that had gone very wrong very quickly.

      “You were there, weren’t you?”

      He nodded, then raised the glass and tossed down the last swallow of liquor. It burned a path along the back of his throat, despite the ache that had formed there.

      “And you don’t want to talk about it.”

      “I don’t want to think about it,” he said truthfully. He leaned forward, setting the empty glass down on the coffee table.

      “I understand Waigner sent his best people.”

      “Most of them died. Hardly a recommendation.”

      “I don’t know. It’s good enough for me.”

      The small smile was back, but he couldn’t quite read it. A little self-satisfied. Maybe even challenging. In response, he tilted his head, raising his brows in inquiry.

      “I could use some help right now,” she said, “and since you’re here…”

      Get up now, he told himself. Walk down the hall to your bedroom, thoughtfully located on the ground floor. Crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and pretend this conversation never happened.

      “Help with what?” he said instead.

      “An assignment.”

      After she’d left the police department, Colleen had set up her own private investigation agency. She ran it from behind the scenes, and from what she’d told him earlier, it had become very successful.

      This offer to join it was probably her way of getting him back on his feet, as misguided as the idea was. He’d been approached by other people with the same purpose during the last couple of months. His answer hadn’t been repeatable. He mitigated his response to his sister, however, because he truly believed she acted out of love.

      “I’m no P.I., but thanks for the thought.”

      “You think I’m patronizing you.”

      He smiled rather than responding with what he thought.

      “I really do need your help, Michael. I’m assuming your security clearances are all in order.”

      “For what it’s worth.”

      “A baby’s life,” she said softly. “What would that be worth to you?”

      Chapter Two

      Every time he thought he’d figured out where this was going, Colleen threw him a curve. He didn’t much like this last one. “Whose baby?”

      “Samuel Langworthy’s grandson.”

      Even as he’d asked the question, Michael had realized there was only one baby who’d occupied the headlines of the nation’s newspapers during the past two weeks. He’d read stories back in Virginia about the Langworthy kidnapping. The coverage here in Colorado had probably been ten times as intense, not only because of the political ramifications, but because it involved one of the founding families of the state.

      The Langworthys were Colorado’s version of the Kennedys, and to most people here they were every bit as glamorous. Samuel, the patriarch, had served as governor. His run at the Senate had been interrupted by heart trouble, so his political dreams were being lived out by his son, Joshua.

      A Harvard Law grad who had come home to work for the Department of Justice, Josh Langworthy was currently running for governor. There were also two Langworthy daughters, but Michael had been away from the state too long to remember their names.

      “Langworthy hired you?”

      “Not Langworthy,” Colleen said. “This is…something official.”

      “Meaning what?”

      He wondered for a moment if she’d maintained some connection to the Denver police. That wouldn’t explain, of course, how she had known so much about what he had been doing for the past eight years.

      “ICU has been recruited.”

      Investigations, Confidential & Undercover was Colleen’s agency, which she’d started after she left the police force. Who might have “recruited” a private investigation firm and to do what was another question.

      One he refused to ask. She seemed to want to tell this in her own way. He had plenty of time to listen.

      “You probably don’t remember Dad’s friend, Mitch Forbes.”

      “From Texas?”

      Colleen nodded and leaned forward to refill his glass. When she had, she held it out to him across the table. As he reached for it, she said, “He asked me to organize a branch of the investigative arm of the Department of Public Safety here in Colorado, just as he’s done in Texas. Something called Colorado Confidential.”

      “I’m not sure I follow. To investigate what?”

      “Threats to the public safety,” she said, as if that explained everything. “On a local level, of course.”

      “And the Langworthy baby’s kidnapping qualifies as a threat to public safety?” He didn’t bother to mask his skepticism.

      “Someone in DPS thinks so.”

      “And that’s good enough for you?”

      “Did you question Jack Waigner when he sent you to San Parrano?”

      “I should have.”

      She smiled, recognizing the gallows humor for what it was.

      “I don’t question my orders either. I try to carry them out to the best of my ability. And frankly, you’d be a real asset right now in helping me accomplish that.”

      “I think that would be a matter of opinion.”

      “Yes, it is. Mine. All I’m asking is that you sit in on a meeting. Offer suggestions. Criticisms. Maybe undertake a little legwork.” Again her eyes touched on his knee. “Whatever you feel up to.”

      If there was anything more likely to get him to agree than that note of unctuous concern in his sister’s voice, he couldn’t imagine what it would be.

      “Anybody ever tell