Cassie Miles - Rocky Mountain Manhunt

The questions continued. The police roamed through her house, peering into corners. She didn’t want them here. She wanted to be left alone.

Liam slipped his arm around her waist. “That’s enough,” he told the cops. “I’m taking her upstairs to bed.”

Over their objections, he whisked her up the staircase and into her bedroom where he closed the door.

Crossing the room, she turned on the bedside lamp. Compared to downstairs, it was quiet here—creating the impression of a peaceful, safe haven. But it was only an illusion, a pipe dream. “I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Have you got a suitcase?”

“Of course.”

“Throw some clothes in it. We’re getting out of here.”

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Here’s to the fabulous Rosemary Heiser, my mom.

And, as always, for Rick.

Though Cassie Miles is now a city creature living in Denver, she once lived in a small log cabin in the Rockies with no television or running water. It was quite the starter home and the greatest place in the world to get away and read. She’s still reading, of course. But it’s hard to imagine those long-ago days of chopping wood, knee-deep snow and hauling water up the hill from the creek.

Kate Carradine—Hiding out in the mountains for twenty-eight days, she can’t even remember her own name. Her only certainty is that somebody wants her dead.

Liam MacKenzie—He rescued Kate and will protect her. Though he loves her as a natural woman, the heiress side of her personality ticks him off.

Wayne Silverman—The family attorney disappeared in the mountains with Kate. Is he a victim, a criminal or both?

Elizabeth Carradine—Kate’s mother is overwhelmed by the responsibilities of the family wealth and business. Peter Rowe—Kate’s stepfather enjoys a life of ease and comfort. What crimes would he commit to keep his lifestyle?

Tom Rowe—Kate’s stepbrother is an expert marksman. As a glorified “gofer,” he resents the Carradines and wants to get back at them.

Jonathan Proctor—Though divorced from Kate, he maintains his position as CEO of the family business. His life would be easier with Kate out of the way.

Mickey Wheaton—The ambitious reporter knows a lot about Kate and the family business. Perhaps, too much.

Adam Briggs—The head of Colorado Crime Consultants uses his resources to help Kate and Liam, but he’s frustrated when they step outside the law.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

A raindrop splattered on her forehead. Another on her cheek. Her eyelids pried open, and she stared into a gray, stormy sky blanketed with clouds.

Lying flat on her back in a sloping field, her gaze lowered slowly. She saw distant peaks, a jagged cliff side and the edge of a dense, old-growth forest. She heard the rush of wind. Where am I?

Though she had never been here before, the terrain was familiar. Her fingers tightened on a clump of sweetgrass, and she smelled wild mint. The trees were mostly ponderosa pine, but there was also a stand of aspen with lean white trunks and the round green leaves of early summer. She knew that she was somewhere in the Rockies, probably in Colorado. But why am I outdoors? How did I get here?

Her brain floated—adrift in the hazy netherworld between sleep and wakefulness. Though she tried to think, she couldn’t draw upon memory. The slate had been wiped clean.

And yet, she could identify the plants. Sweetgrass. Burdock. Snakeroot. Goldenrod. She recognized the charred stench that rose from her clothing; it smelled like an old campfire.

Instinct drove her to sit up. When she tried to stand, her body screamed in agony, and she sank back to the earth. Her legs ached from running, endless running.

Every muscle throbbed, but the pain was more intense on her left arm. She peeled off her parka to take a closer look. The upper sleeve of her blue silk blouse was shredded. Dried blood stained the fabric and there was a fresh red ooze. She’d been wounded.

Reaching up, she touched the back of her skull and found evidence of another injury. Blood matted her long, thick, blond hair. Something terrible had happened to her.

Her gaze swept the meadow. Amid the faraway line of conifers, she caught a glimpse of movement, and she focused intently. The barrel of a rifle aimed directly at her heart. They were coming for her! The hunters were coming.

A wave of terror surged in her chest, and she gasped. Her throat tightened. She was drowning in her own fear—an urgent panic that flooded every cell of her body. She had to escape. To run. To hide.

Rolling thunder echoed through the mountain cliffs and valleys, and the rain began to fall hard. Vertical sheets of water pelted her head and shoulders.

Drawing upon her last reserve of strength, she staggered to her feet. Beside her was a backpack—a big one that was suitable for weeklong wilderness expeditions. She hefted the weight onto her shoulders. She knew inherently that she needed to keep this pack with her at all times.

Stooped over, she moved as quickly as she could toward the nearby sheltering trees. Every step was torture. Inside her hiking boots, her toes cramped. Her knees and ankles creaked like frayed hinges.

At the edge of the forest, she collapsed on a carpet of pine needles. Small, gasping sobs escaped her chapped lips as she squinted through the rain toward the hunters on the opposite side of the mountain meadow.

She saw nothing. They were gone. She peered so intensely that her eyes ached. Nothing. They had vanished so quickly. Did they even exist? Had she invented the hunters? No! She knew they were out there.

Fear was her only reality, her only truth. People were after her. Faceless men, hunters, tracked her down like an animal. My God, why? What have I done?

If they found her, they would kill her. They’d tried once already. The slash on her arm. The wound on her head. She had to stay hidden, here in the forest. It was the only way she’d survive. She had to be smart. But how? How could she pretend to be clever when her brain was addled and her memory was gone?

She couldn’t do this. It was better to surrender, to lie back and accept her fate.

“Stop it,” she whispered angrily. She wasn’t a 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.