Unforgettable. Cassie Miles

invested in his survival.

      Also, she was curious—an occupational hazard for a journalist. She wanted to get Jack’s true story.

      They sat at her dining room table, and she watched as he devoured an egg salad on light rye. She’d found him a faded black T-shirt that belonged to her brother, who wasn’t as big as Jack but wore his clothes baggy. The fabric stretched tight across Jack’s chest. Underneath were all those scars. How had he gotten wounded? In battle? The long ridge of puckered flesh on his torso was still healing and couldn’t have been more than a couple of months old. If he’d been injured in military service, he wouldn’t have been discharged so quickly.

      She nibbled at her own sandwich, trying to find a nonintrusive angle that might get him talking. In her work, she’d done hundreds of interviews, some with hostiles. The direct question-and-answer approach wouldn’t work with Jack.

      “You’re not from around here,” she said, “What brought you to the mountains?”

      “Beautiful scenery. Fresh air.”

      Spare me the travelogue. “Where did you grow up?”

      “Chicago.”

      Was he a kid from the burbs or a product of the mean streets? Instead of pushing, she offered an observation of her own. “One of the best times I had in Chicago was sailing on Lake Michigan at dusk, watching as the lights of the city blinked on.”

      He continued to eat, moving from the sandwich to a mouthful of the beans she’d heated on the stove.

      “Your turn,” she said.

      “To do what?”

      “I tell you something about me, and then you share something about yourself. It’s called a conversation.”

      His gaze was cool, unreadable and fascinating. The green of his eyes contained dark prisms that drew her closer. “You have questions.”

      “We’re just having a chat. Come on, Jack. Tell me something about growing up in the Windy City.”

      “The El,” he said. “I don’t care for underground subways, but I always liked riding the elevated trains. The jostling. The hustle. Made me feel like I was going someplace, like I had a purpose.”

      “Where were you going?”

      “To see Mark.” As soon as he spoke, his eyebrows pinched in a frown. He swallowed hard as though he wanted to take back that name.

      “Is Mark a friend?”

      “A good friend. Mark Santoro. He’s dead.”

      “I’m sorry for your loss.”

      “Me, too.”

      His friend’s name rang a bell for her. Even though she hadn’t been following the news regularly, she knew that the Santoros were an old-time but still notorious crime family. For the first time in weeks, she glanced longingly at her laptop. Given a few minutes to research on the internet, she might be about to solve the mystery of Jack Dalton.

      “I haven’t been honest with you, Caitlyn.”

      “I know.”

      “I didn’t have a car accident.”

      “What else?”

      “There are some guys looking for me. They’ve got a grudge. When I came here, I thought I could use your car for a getaway. But that’s not going to work.”

      “Not that I’m volunteering my SUV for your getaway, but what changed your mind?”

      “If I have your car, it connects you to me. I don’t want anybody coming after you.”

      She agreed. Being targeted by the Santoro family wasn’t her idea of a good time. “We should call the police. I have a friend, Danny Laurence, who’s a deputy sheriff. He’s somebody you can trust.”

      “I’m better off on my own.”

      He rose from the table, and she knew he was ready to depart. She hated the thought of him being out there, on his own, against powerful enemies. She bounced to her feet. “Let me call Danny. Please.”

      “You’re a good person, Caitlyn.” He reached toward her. When his large hand rested on her shoulder, a magnetic pull urged her closer to him. Her weight shifted forward, narrowing the space between them. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “It’s best if you forget you ever saw me.”

      As if that would happen. There weren’t a whole lot of handsome mystery men who appeared on her doorstep. For the past month, she’d been a hermit who barely talked to anyone. “You won’t be easy to forget.”

      “Nor will you.”

      “For the record, I still think you need to go to the hospital.”

      “Duly noted.”

      From outside, she heard the grating of tires on gravel.

      Jack had heard it, too. In a few strides, he was at the front window, peering around the edge of the curtain.

      A 1957 vintage Ford Fairlane—two-toned in turquoise and cream—was headed down her driveway. She knew the car, and the driver was someone she trusted implicitly. His vehicle was followed by a black SUV with tinted windows. “Do you see the SUV? Are these the people who are after you?”

      “Don’t know,” he said. “They’ve seen your car so you can’t pretend you’re not here. Go ahead and talk to them. Don’t tell them you’ve seen me.”

      “Understood.” She gave him a nod. “You stay in the house. I’ll get rid of them.”

      Smoothing her hair back into her ponytail, she went to the front door, aware that she might be coming face-to-face with the enforcers for a powerful crime family. Panic fluttered behind her eyelids, and she blinked it away. This wasn’t her first ride on the roller coaster. She’d gotten through war zones, faced terrorists and bloody death. A couple of thugs from Chicago shouldn’t be a problem.

      From the porch, she watched as the Ford Fairlane parked near her back door. The black SUV pulled up to the rear bumper of her car before it stopped.

      She waved to Bob Woodley—a tall, rangy, white-haired man who had been a longtime friend of her family. He was one of the few people she’d seen since moving back to the cabin. A retired English teacher, he had been a mentor to her when she was in her teens. “Hi, Mr. Woodley.”

      He motioned her toward him. “Get over here, Caitlyn. Give an old man a proper hello.”

      When she hugged him, he must have sensed her apprehension. He studied her expression. His bushy eyebrows pulled into a scowl. “Something wrong?”

      “I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “What brings you here?”

      “I was visiting Heather at the Circle L when these two gentlemen showed up. Since I’m a state congressman, I figured it was my duty to extend a helping hand to these strangers by showing them how to find your cabin.”

      She looked past him toward the SUV. The two men walking toward her were a sinister contrast to Mr. Woodley’s open honesty. Both wore jeans and sports jackets that didn’t quite hide the bulge of shoulder holsters. Dark glasses shaded their eyes.

      Woodley performed the introductions. “Caitlyn, I want you to meet Drew Kelso and Greg Reynolds.”

      When she shook their hands, their flesh was cold—either from the air-conditioning in their car or because they were reptiles. “What can I do for you?”

      Woodley said, “We understand that you had a visitor this morning.”

      How did they know about Jack? Had her cabin been under surveillance? “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

      “The dappled gray mare,” Woodley said. “You had Heather come over and pick it up.”