ambition and drive for success.
Right now, sitting so close to Russell that he could have reached out and cupped his neck, kissed his head, whispered to him that he was going to do everything necessary to protect him, the thing that scared Renner most in all the world was the idea that twelve complete strangers, the members of a jury called to pass judgement on Russell, might be able to discern that quality in him, too.
So as Renner talked of the heroes and villains of the Old West, of noble intentions and sacrifice and doomed romantic love, he renewed a vow he’d made to himself and to Connor four years before.
No trial of Russell Lane would ever take place. Renner refused to allow it. During the past four years, Nick Adams had proved highly adept at disappearing. He was entirely capable of teaching Kate Sutherland to live off the grid. So finding them both was never going to be simple. And if that meant taking an unconventional approach – even an unprecedented gamble, for Renner – then it was something he was more than willing to do.
Chapter Eleven
Kate lay in bed, thinking. The last time she’d fallen asleep in a darkened room a man had come to kill her. He’d gotten so close that she’d felt his breath on her face.
And now this.
A new room in a new place. A new look and a new identity. New people watching over her.
Nothing Miller and his team could offer her was legal. She’d have nobody to turn to if things went wrong.
Kate had never been a risk-taker. She’d always been painfully sensible, almost obsessed with being in control, a trait which had given her the discipline to excel as an athlete. She supposed she had her adoptive parents to thank for that. Her upbringing had been loving but strict. She’d been taught to believe in order and justice above all else. It was one reason, among many others, why she’d ultimately become a lawyer.
And yet she’d killed a man. She was in hiding.
So who was she now?
The question was terrifying. So much had changed in such a short space of time that it seemed inconceivable that anything could ever be the same again. Would she recognise herself tomorrow? Or the day after that?
She threw back her bedcovers and crept over to the door of her room. There was no noise on the other side.
She eased it open.
Miller was slouched on the sofa in the light of a fringed standing lamp, looking closely at a slip of paper, rubbing his thumb over the surface.
Was this a good man? Was he someone she could believe in?
He looked up sharply, as if somehow he’d heard her thoughts, and Kate glimpsed a flicker of hurt in his eyes, realising too late that she’d trespassed on something private.
She stepped back to push the door closed but Miller shook his head and beckoned her towards him.
Kate glanced over her shoulder at her bed, at the fears and the loneliness she might have endured, then bit down on the inside of her cheek and came forward in her T-shirt and panties, cringing at how it must look.
‘Can’t sleep?’ he asked. ‘It gets easier over time.’
‘Does it? Has it for you?’
He smiled, caught in the lie. ‘I keep hoping. Here.’ He patted the sofa.
She positioned herself at the opposite end of the couch, clutching a patterned cushion in front of her waist. She felt very aware of how close Miller was to her; of the space he was occupying, of the shape and size of his body.
‘What do you have there?’ she asked him.
Miller pursed his lips, then shrugged and rocked his head and passed the sheet of paper across to her. The stock was thin, the paper creased and wrinkled from years of handling. The edges were dinged and rounded and dirtied.
‘My daughter, Melanie, drew that for me when she was eight years old.’
‘I’d never have taken you for a horse rider.’
‘I’m not. Maybe she knew something I didn’t.’
The drawing was in faded crayon. In the foreground, Kate could see a blue man in a cowboy hat sitting on a brown horse. The horse was
Right now, sitting so close to Russell that he could have reached out and cupped his neck, kissed his head, whispered to him that he was going to do everything necessary to protect him, the thing that scared Renner most in all the world was the idea that twelve complete strangers, the members of a jury called to pass judgement on Russell, might be able to discern that quality in him, too.
So as Renner talked of the heroes and villains of the Old West, of noble intentions and sacrifice and doomed romantic love, he renewed a vow he’d made to himself and to Connor four years before.
No trial of Russell Lane would ever take place. Renner refused to allow it. During the past four years, Nick Adams had proved highly adept at disappearing. He was entirely capable of teaching Kate Sutherland to live off the grid. So finding them both was never going to be simple. And if that meant taking an unconventional approach – even an unprecedented gamble, for Renner – then it was something he was more than willing to do.
Chapter Eleven
Kate lay in bed, thinking. The last time she’d fallen asleep in a darkened room a man had come to kill her. He’d gotten so close that she’d felt his breath on her face.
And now this.
A new room in a new place. A new look and a new identity. New people watching over her.
Nothing Miller and his team could offer her was legal. She’d have nobody to turn to if things went wrong.
Kate had never been a risk-taker. She’d always been painfully sensible, almost obsessed with being in control, a trait which had given her the discipline to excel as an athlete. She supposed she had her adoptive parents to thank for that. Her upbringing had been loving but strict. She’d been taught to believe in order and justice above all else. It was one reason, among many others, why she’d ultimately become a lawyer.
And yet she’d killed a man. She was in hiding.
So who was she now?
The question was terrifying. So much had changed in such a short space of time that it seemed inconceivable that anything could ever be the same again. Would she recognise herself tomorrow? Or the day after that?
She threw back her bedcovers and crept over to the door of her room. There was no noise on the other side.
She eased it open.
Miller was slouched on the sofa in the light of a fringed standing lamp, looking closely at a slip of paper, rubbing his thumb over the surface.
Was this a good man? Was he someone she could believe in?
He looked up sharply, as if somehow he’d heard her thoughts, and Kate glimpsed a flicker of hurt in his eyes, realising too late that she’d trespassed on something private.
She stepped back to push the door closed but Miller shook his head and beckoned her towards him.
Kate glanced over her shoulder at her bed, at the fears and the loneliness she might have endured, then bit down on the inside of her cheek and came forward in her T-shirt and panties, cringing at how it must look.
‘Can’t sleep?’ he asked. ‘It gets easier over time.’
‘Does it? Has it for you?’
He smiled, caught in the lie. ‘I keep hoping. Here.’ He patted the sofa.
She positioned herself at the opposite end of the couch, clutching a patterned cushion in front of her waist. She felt very aware of how close Miller was to her; of the space he was occupying, of the shape and size of his body.
‘What do you have there?’ she asked him.
Miller pursed his lips, then shrugged and rocked his head and passed the sheet of paper across to her. The stock was thin, the paper creased and wrinkled from years of handling. The edges were dinged and rounded and dirtied.
‘My daughter, Melanie, drew that for me when she was eight years old.’
‘I’d never have taken you for a horse rider.’
‘I’m not. Maybe she knew something I didn’t.’
The drawing was in faded crayon. In the foreground, Kate could see a blue man in a cowboy hat sitting on a brown horse. The horse was
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