froze, body humming with adrenaline-spiked fear. A knife was tucked into the leather pouch attached to his belt.
She had to run.
Slowly she slid off the bed to escape and yelled for help, but he moved at lightning speed and trapped her. His big hands covered her mouth to silence her screams. She bit his hand, then clawed at him and cried out, fighting with all her might to throw his weight off of her.
Suddenly hall lights flickered on and footsteps clattered toward the doorway, doors banging open. The man’s gaze shot sideways and he cursed, then lurched up, ran to the window and jumped out.
The sisters and three other women poured into the room, baseball bats in their hands, ready to attack.
The light flew on, throwing the room into a bright glare that nearly blinded her. Sister Margaret rushed to her, pulled her into her arms and soothed her. “He’s gone now. You’re safe, child.”
It took her precious seconds to stop trembling, then anger ballooned inside her. She was tired of running, of hiding, of not knowing. They’d all assumed that whoever had hurt her had been a violent boyfriend or husband she’d been running from.
But she couldn’t go on living like this. She had to know the truth. If her attacker was a boyfriend or husband, he’d found her. And she refused to be a coward.
Somewhere she had a life she’d left behind. And she wanted it back. Wanted the man who’d hurt her to pay.
And the person she’d lost—she had to face that truth, too.
“We should call the police,” she whispered. “Send them my picture, Sister. I want to find out who I am and who’s trying to kill me.”
ONCE THE IDEA that Jack might possibly be his son entered Dylan’s mind, he couldn’t let it go. The baby shifted against him, finally falling back asleep, but Dylan didn’t want to put him down. If the child was his, he wanted to know.
Dammit, he deserved to know.
Memories of his father taking him camping and fishing rolled back, and he saw himself doing the same thing with his own son one day.
When he’d first heard Aspen’s baby had been found in her abandoned car, he’d assumed she’d moved on with her life, that she’d forgotten him, and had become involved with another man, someone on the reservation.
Because they’d been careful. And he’d trusted Aspen, trusted that she would have told him if she’d gotten pregnant with his baby.
But looking at Jack’s big blue eyes now, he didn’t know what to believe.
He settled into the rocking chair while Miguel made Emma herbal tea. Color returned to her cheeks as she sipped the hot brew, although distress still lined her face and her hand trembled slightly as she set the teacup back onto the saucer.
“Emma,” he said quietly. “I have to ask you something, and I want you to be honest.”
Her gaze met his, and she nodded, although she fidgeted with the afghan Miguel had draped around her shoulders. “I told you all I saw.”
“It’s not that,” he said gruffly.
Her eyes softened as she watched the baby, indicating how much she loved her nephew.
“Emma, who is Jack’s father?”
Emma bit down on her bottom lip and glanced away.
“The truth,” he said, knowing if Aspen had confided in anyone it would have been her cousin. When Emma was a teenager, her mother’s abusive boyfriend had set fire to the house, killing himself and Emma’s mother. Emma had moved in with Aspen and her mother, Rose. After that, the girls had been more like sisters than cousins.
“I don’t know,” she said in a low voice. “Aspen never told me.”
He arched a brow, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Are you sure? You’re not keeping some secret?”
Miguel squared his shoulders and draped a protective arm around Emma. “If she says she doesn’t know, she doesn’t.”
“It’s important,” Dylan said, his throat thick. “Was she dating someone?”
Emma frowned. “Kurt Lightfoot, a builder from the reservation, was interested in her. They went out a few times. But…I’m not sure he fathered the baby.” She hesitated. “He certainly hasn’t claimed paternal rights.”
“Where are you going with this?” Miguel asked. “Are you thinking that Jack’s father might have been the one who attacked Aspen? That it wasn’t like we suspected, that Boyd Perkins and Sherman Watts tried to kill her because she saw them dump Julie’s body?”
Dylan hissed between clenched teeth. “I’m just considering every angle. And knowing Jack’s father is important.”
“Why is it so important to you?” Emma asked with odd twitch of her lips that made him wonder if she had a sixth sense about this, too.
He traced a finger over Jack’s cheek, then decided that Emma might confide more if he came clean. “Because I might be the father.”
Surprise flickered in Miguel’s eyes, although Emma gave him a sympathetic look. “I honestly don’t know,” she said gently. “Aspen simply said that the baby’s father wasn’t in the picture. I assumed that he didn’t want to be and didn’t push her on the subject. It seemed to upset her too much.”
Dylan’s jaw snapped tight with the effort not to defend himself. He would have wanted to be in the picture. And if he discovered Jack was his, Aspen wouldn’t get rid of him, either. Above all things, Dylan valued family and believed in a father’s duty to take care of his children.
“You and Aspen?” Miguel asked.
Dylan gave a clipped nod. “The timing is right. We met in Vegas when I’d just come off that serial-killer case.” God, the images of the dead Ute girls Frank Turnbull had killed still haunted him.
“Aunt Rose had just died then,” Emma said quietly.
Dylan nodded. “I guess we both needed someone.”
And he needed Aspen now and so did her baby…Possibly their baby.
Dammit, where was she?
Emma said she was in danger. Had Perkins or Watts found her?
Another possibility, one they hadn’t considered, nagged at him.
If he wasn’t the father, who was? Jack had been in that car when Aspen had crashed. He could have died, too.
If another man had fathered the little boy, had he tried to kill Aspen to keep his paternity a secret?
Dylan’s cell phone cut into the tense
