State Of Emergency. Cassie Miles

Jordan’s attorney had obtained a change of venue for the trial.

      “I don’t know,” Emily said, “but Jordan Shane just doesn’t act like a murderer.”

      “As if you’d know.” Yvonne gestured toward the giggling girls and Spence. “Why not hook up with somebody like him?”

      “Spence? No way. There’s one thing I learned as a nurse—don’t fall in love with a doctor.”

      “Why not?”

      “It never works.” She’d found out the hard way. “Besides, I’ve already selected my favorite beau. His name is Pookie.”

      Yvonne gave a disbelieving snort. “Pookie is a golden retriever puppy and not very bright.”

      “But he keeps me warm at night,” Emily said. “Which reminds me, I’ve left him home alone too long. I should be going.”

      Before Yvonne could launch into a birds-and-bees explanation on the difference between sharing your bed with a dog and sleeping with a man, Emily bid her hasty goodbyes and left the Cascadia S.A.R. headquarters.

      Though community service played an integral part in her life and the demonstration with the Brownies justified her minimal monthly stipend from Search and Rescue, she was glad to have this task over. With her Saturday morning errands already accomplished, she was free to spend the rest of the weekend curled up with a good book or hiking with Pookie or starting on the million and one maintenance chores she needed to do before the first snowfall.

      Emily slipped behind the wheel of her old Land Rover, a vehicle too ancient to be considered an SUV, and drove through town. In less than twenty minutes, she was bouncing along the seldom-traveled graded road that led to her even more desolate turn-off. Emily’s log cabin—which had been in her family for as long as she could recall—bordered on National Forest land and she had no neighbors, except for the chipmunks, the elk and the hummingbirds. Sometimes, she went for days without hearing another human voice.

      Though she occasionally worried about turning into an eccentric tangle-haired hermit, Emily loved her secluded mountain lifestyle. Tucked safely in her cabin, she no longer needed daily doses of antidepressants. Her anxiety attacks seldom occurred anymore. She’d made the right decision when she left behind the frenzy of activity and constant tension of the big city E.R. where life-and-death situations were daily, if not hourly, occurrences. The pressure had been too great. Now, at age thirty-two, solitude was preferable, even necessary.

      She parked at her cabin, surrounded by conifers on a ridge warmed by the western sun. Outside the vehicle, she stood for a moment. On this crisp September afternoon the skies stretched above her in deep, endless blue. God, it was beautiful! A brisk wind brushed against her cheeks and tangled in the curly blond wisps that escaped her ponytail. Autumn was her favorite time of year. The changing aspen leaves colored the slopes with shimmering gold. Fresh snow glistened on the distant high peaks near the continental divide.

      A flash of caramel-colored fur loped toward her. She’d been trying to train Pookie, following the program that Yvonne outlined, but Emily secretly enjoyed the way her puppy wiggled all over with crazed joy every time he saw her. And she adored his muffled woofs.

      “Moof, moof.” Pookie launched himself at her. His overlarge paws groped at her thigh, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth.

      “How did you get out?” she asked as she scratched behind his ears. “I know I left you inside.”

      “Burf moof.” He sat back and cocked his head to one side, giving her the doggy equivalent of a shrug.

      “Raccoons,” she muttered. Those masked vermin could break into anything. They must have pushed open a cabin window.

      With Pookie following, she climbed the front steps onto the porch. Her front door was unlocked. Had she left it that way? As soon as Emily stepped inside, she was grabbed from behind. The cold bore of a pistol dug into the small of her back. A harsh voice whispered, “Don’t scream.”

      Though she’d taken self-defense classes in the city, her mind went blank. The sudden assault stunned her, and she froze. Her breath caught in her chest. Her heart paused midbeat.

      “I won’t hurt you,” he said. There was the hint of a southern accent in his voice. “I need your help, Ms. Foster.”

      He knew her name. “Who are you?”

      He said nothing. His muscular forearm clamped across her throat, exerting slight pressure on her windpipe. Her body pressed against his, and she could tell that he was very tall. The top of her head barely cleared his shoulder. Struggle was futile. Even without the gun, he could easily overpower her.

      What did he want? She trembled, unable to accept this harsh reality. She was supposed to be safe here. Her breath returned in a frantic gasp.

      Her impending panic had no effect whatsoever on Pookie. The puppy bounced around them, stumbling over his own paws and seeming to enjoy this new game. “Murf, bork, bork.”

      “Please,” Emily said, “let me go.”

      “I’m thinking about it.”

      He was toying with her, reveling in his superiority. An edge of anger cut through her terror. She had to act, to escape from him. Her arms tensed as she prepared to thrust her elbows backward into his midsection. Caution tempered her actions. Remember the gun. The worst thing she could do was to anger this person and cause him to lash out. In a controlled voice she said, “You wanted my help, and I’ll do what I can. Just don’t hurt me or my dog.”

      “Fair enough.” He released his grip.

      Free from his grasp, she pivoted and faced him. He wore prison-issue denim pants and a blue workshirt with a black number stenciled above the pocket. His dark brown hair hung shaggy and unkempt. His upper left arm was bloody. More blood smeared his face below the cheekbone. Returning her gaze, his expression hardened in dark, silent desperation.

      “Jordan Shane,” she whispered. “You escaped.”

      She’d been wrong about him. Until this moment, Emily had believed in his innocence. But innocent men don’t run. Jordan Shane was a cold-blooded murderer. In his right hand, he held a .22 caliber automatic, trained toward her midsection. “That’s my gun,” she said grimly.

      “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow this peashooter.”

      She kept the unloaded pistol in a wooden box on the top shelf in her closet. And the ammunition was stashed in her underwear drawer. He must have searched her house. The thought of a murderer going through her personal belongings disgusted her.

      And yet, Pookie snuggled congenially against him. Weren’t animals supposed to have a sixth sense about danger? Emily warned herself not to take Pookie’s judgment too seriously. Coldly, she said, “I didn’t notice a car outside. How did you get here?”

      “I parked in that shed behind your house and latched the door. Hope you don’t mind.”

      Of course, she minded! She was not in the habit of harboring escaped criminals. His phony politeness didn’t fool her for one minute. Jordan Shane had not dropped by for a spot of tea. “What do you want from me?”

      “I’m in need of medical attention. I’ve been shot.”

      Even if she hadn’t seen the blood, Emily would have suspected serious injuries from the occasional tremors that shook his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His complexion blanched white.

      This was a far different Jordan Shane than the handsome benefactor who had visited her cabin a year ago. When he’d been here before, he had a deep Florida tan. Six weeks in the Pitkin County jail erased that healthy glow. He looked thinner but not at all frail. His features were sharpened, as if his ordeal had sliced close to the bone.

      As she stared at him, her instinctive empathy emerged. It was an emotion more deeply ingrained than her fear or rage. For as long as she could remember, Emily had been driven to reach out to those who needed