investigation, at least for the time being. Nick had already established her role and Quinn wasn’t going to step on his toes.
Not yet, anyway.
So the sheriff had brought in the Feds again.
It was easy to spot the city boy, all done up in new blue jeans, stiff boots, unused down jacket. All the times the hotshot government types came to town looking for clues, they’d found nothing.
Because he was smarter than all of them.
He recognized Agent Peterson. He’d been around before, a long time ago. He’d proven to be an able opponent then—he’d been so close, but couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
He almost laughed at his pun. Fools. All of them.
Except her. The one who got away.
His entire body tensed and the horse beneath him shifted uneasily on the mountain path, high up from where the cops milled about. He forced himself to relax, patted the gelding gently until the horse calmed. Soothing the animal also helped him contain his anger.
He wanted to kill Miranda Moore so badly he could feel her body beneath his. He pictured himself inches from her face. Grabbing her hair and jerking her head back. Exposing that white throat. Feeling her entire body tremble as he unsheathed his knife and held it to her neck.
One swift slice and her warm blood would coat him and the earth.
But she’d got away. He’d lost. His failure ate at him, a reminder that he was flawed. He should never have gone after a local. It wasn’t her he’d wanted, anyway. It was the blonde she had been with. He didn’t have a choice; if he wanted the blonde, he had to take her friend.
He still wanted to kill her, but he couldn’t.
She’d won, after all.
Twelve years ago his greatest fear of being caught lay with Miranda Moore. Had she seen or heard anything that would lead the police to him? He’d been so careful, but he hadn’t thought she’d live. He’d felt cheated watching her fall off the cliff into the Gallatin River, certain she wouldn’t survive.
He’d been surprised and worried when he saw the news reports the next day that she was alive.
But as time passed, he relaxed. She didn’t know anything, either didn’t remember or never saw him.
No, he couldn’t kill her now. But if she got too close, that would change.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. He hadn’t planned on being here this late. Gently urging the gelding along the narrow mountain path, he headed South.
CHAPTER
6
“Do you all understand what you’re supposed to do?” Nick asked after detailing the responsibilities of the search team. One sworn
Gallatin
County
sheriff’s deputy or Bozeman police officer was paired with one volunteer. Three out of four on-duty cops stood there, some worried, some excited, most sipping the hot coffee Miranda’s father had had the foresight to send with her.
Miranda looked around at the men and women who made up the search team. They’d be searching for evidence. Bullet casings, footprints, torn clothing. Anything that might lead them to the killer.
She caught Assistant Sheriff Sam Harris staring at her and turned her head. She didn’t like the man who’d lost the election to Nick when he ran for sheriff a little over three years ago, six months before the Croft sisters were killed. When Nick made the fifty-year-old deputy the undersheriff, Miranda told him he was making a mistake. Harris would undermine him every chance he got. Nick disagreed, and Miranda tried to keep her feelings to herself.
It was one-thirty P.M. They had less than five hours of daylight left.
Miranda intended to pair off with Cliff Sanderson, a Bozeman cop she respected who helped her teach the self-defense class at the University. She waved at him as she crossed the clearing and he smiled back, his boyish dimples taking ten years off his thirty.
“Nick,” she said as she approached him for her assignment. “I want grid C-1 through 10. Sanderson and I can cover it, and I think—”
“You should stay here,” Quinn
Not yet, anyway.
So the sheriff had brought in the Feds again.
It was easy to spot the city boy, all done up in new blue jeans, stiff boots, unused down jacket. All the times the hotshot government types came to town looking for clues, they’d found nothing.
Because he was smarter than all of them.
He recognized Agent Peterson. He’d been around before, a long time ago. He’d proven to be an able opponent then—he’d been so close, but couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
He almost laughed at his pun. Fools. All of them.
Except her. The one who got away.
His entire body tensed and the horse beneath him shifted uneasily on the mountain path, high up from where the cops milled about. He forced himself to relax, patted the gelding gently until the horse calmed. Soothing the animal also helped him contain his anger.
He wanted to kill Miranda Moore so badly he could feel her body beneath his. He pictured himself inches from her face. Grabbing her hair and jerking her head back. Exposing that white throat. Feeling her entire body tremble as he unsheathed his knife and held it to her neck.
One swift slice and her warm blood would coat him and the earth.
But she’d got away. He’d lost. His failure ate at him, a reminder that he was flawed. He should never have gone after a local. It wasn’t her he’d wanted, anyway. It was the blonde she had been with. He didn’t have a choice; if he wanted the blonde, he had to take her friend.
He still wanted to kill her, but he couldn’t.
She’d won, after all.
Twelve years ago his greatest fear of being caught lay with Miranda Moore. Had she seen or heard anything that would lead the police to him? He’d been so careful, but he hadn’t thought she’d live. He’d felt cheated watching her fall off the cliff into the Gallatin River, certain she wouldn’t survive.
He’d been surprised and worried when he saw the news reports the next day that she was alive.
But as time passed, he relaxed. She didn’t know anything, either didn’t remember or never saw him.
No, he couldn’t kill her now. But if she got too close, that would change.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. He hadn’t planned on being here this late. Gently urging the gelding along the narrow mountain path, he headed South.
CHAPTER
6
“Do you all understand what you’re supposed to do?” Nick asked after detailing the responsibilities of the search team. One sworn
Gallatin
County
sheriff’s deputy or Bozeman police officer was paired with one volunteer. Three out of four on-duty cops stood there, some worried, some excited, most sipping the hot coffee Miranda’s father had had the foresight to send with her.
Miranda looked around at the men and women who made up the search team. They’d be searching for evidence. Bullet casings, footprints, torn clothing. Anything that might lead them to the killer.
She caught Assistant Sheriff Sam Harris staring at her and turned her head. She didn’t like the man who’d lost the election to Nick when he ran for sheriff a little over three years ago, six months before the Croft sisters were killed. When Nick made the fifty-year-old deputy the undersheriff, Miranda told him he was making a mistake. Harris would undermine him every chance he got. Nick disagreed, and Miranda tried to keep her feelings to herself.
It was one-thirty P.M. They had less than five hours of daylight left.
Miranda intended to pair off with Cliff Sanderson, a Bozeman cop she respected who helped her teach the self-defense class at the University. She waved at him as she crossed the clearing and he smiled back, his boyish dimples taking ten years off his thirty.
“Nick,” she said as she approached him for her assignment. “I want grid C-1 through 10. Sanderson and I can cover it, and I think—”
“You should stay here,” Quinn
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