Sean’s tight grip.
With his free hand, the man reached into the pea-green jacket, no doubt intent on retrieving another weapon. Like hell would Sean allow that sneaky maneuver. He twisted the surprisingly delicate wrist harder, drawing a grunt of distress.
And received a sharp kick to his shin, an elbow jammed into the ribs. Sean ignored the biting pain. With grim determination, he hung on, using his superior strength and weight to wrestle the other man to the ground.
Together, they toppled, Sean landing on top of a wiry body, straining to escape. He estimated his opponent at five foot nine to five foot ten, no match for his conditioned six foot four. Still the shorter man struggled.
The jacket’s hood fell back and sunny-gold hair spilled across the dirt. What the hell? His hot blood chilled. Sean flipped his opponent over and stared into the face of a woman with eyes as fierce and wary as a cornered fox.
Jackson’s murderer was a woman?
The astonishing revelation of her gender caused him to loosen his grip. That’s all she needed to take advantage. Strong, determined and clearly capable, she rolled away and kicked his feet out from under him. He fell hard, but not without grasping a handful of golden hair, trapping her beside him.
Panting furiously, she looked mad enough to spit bullets, confused enough to make a foolish mistake. She inched her hand inside her jacket.
“Don’t even think it.” He clamped his free hand over her wrist, imprisoning her.
She narrowed eyes that surged with green anger, bewilderment and a hint of fear. Now that he held her trapped, he expected her to plead, cry or beg forgiveness.
Instead she threatened him. “Assaulting a police officer is a federal offense.”
“And what’s murder?” he countered, not buying her claim of being an officer of the law for a millisecond.
“I didn’t—”
“Lady, I walked into this cave and found you next to Jackson.” He fought down the urge to shake her until the lies from her chapped lips ceased. Although she was strong for a female, her neck looked fragile, easy for him to snap. Fighting his own grief, anger and lust for revenge, he sought to tamp down his wildly surging emotions.
“That doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“The murder weapon was in your hand.”
“Which hand?”
“The left.”
She glanced at the blood-smeared cuff of her left sleeve. “I’m right-handed.”
She sounded indignant at his accusation, but then what could he expect from a killer? He shrugged away his doubts. “The way you wield that knife, you’re probably ambidextrous. No doubt you’d have liked to kill me, too.”
Her voice was calm and even, as if accustomed to dealing with tough situations. “I wasn’t trying to kill you.”
“Really?” He didn’t believe her story, not with the evidence right before his eyes.
“I came to and sat up. I didn’t even know the knife was in my hand. Then you attacked.” She stared at him as if she thought he was the one who was confused.
But he wouldn’t be taken in so easily by her innocent demeanor. That’s probably how she’d killed Jackson. He frowned and raised his voice. “You expect me to believe your flimsy explanation?”
At his harsh accusation, her entire body shuddered and slumped. Her eyes rolled to the top of her sockets.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He wanted answers. And she’d either fainted on him or she was an excellent actress. Either way, Sean wasn’t taking any chances. Without relinquishing his grip on her wrist, he perused Jackson’s supplies.
A rabbit snare caught his eye. Perfect. Within moments he’d firmly tied the woman’s hands behind her back. He supposed she wouldn’t like her helpless position much once she came to and discovered that he’d trussed her like a goose—but she should have considered the consequences before she’d killed Jackson. Out here, men took care of their own.
Unwilling to risk any further unpleasant surprises, Sean unzipped her jacket and started to relieve her of the gun she’d reached for. He noted her curves with mechanical efficiency. What a waste. Unconscious, her features relaxed into an attractiveness he might have found appealing if they’d met under other circumstances.
She had unusually symmetrical features, wide-set eyes, angled cheekbones and lightly tanned skin framed by that lion’s mane of golden hair. No wonder she’d taken poor Jackson by surprise. But Sean wouldn’t let that angelic face fool him. His only interest in her womanly curves was to discover where she’d hidden the weapon she’d been so obviously reaching for.
He unzipped her jacket, parted the flap. Beneath her arm, she wore a shoulder harness with a sheathed gun clearly visible. He reached out to take the weapon.
She came to with a groan. Startled, he jerked his hand back, grazing her breast.
She stared at him accusingly—as if he were doing something wrong. “What are you…?”
He watched her arms strain as she discovered her tied wrists, noted the slight widening of her eyes that betrayed a hint of fear. He opened her jacket wider.
She flinched. “Don’t!”
He could have reassured her. But a murderer didn’t deserve courtesy. “I’m taking your gun—before you shoot me.”
Her brows furrowed and a shadow hovered in her sea-green eyes. “Why would I want to shoot you?”
She spoke with such conviction he almost believed in her innocence. But he’d already seen her weapon. And she wouldn’t distract him with clever questions. Reminding himself she was his prisoner, slowly and deliberately, he reached for her weapon. With her hands tied behind her, pulling her arms tight, her gun lay wedged between her arm and her breast. He slid his fingers over the handle of her gun, watching her stiffen as the back of his thumb touched the curve of her breast. He’d sensed how much she’d detested the brush of his fingers. Tough. Letting her keep the weapon wasn’t an option. But he wouldn’t take advantage of her helplessness, either. He would honor Jackson by respecting what the old miner had taught him, and that homespun knowledge included acting the gentleman. He drew the gun out firmly, knowing she thought the worst of him, uncaring whether she believed he was about to harm her.
She’d taken his only family. She deserved to pay.
After checking her weapon to ensure the safety was on, he stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket. She watched him warily, only her ragged breathing revealing her fear. Starting beneath her arms, he patted her down, noting her lean waist, slender hips and long legs with trim ankles tucked into high-topped boots. By her clenched jaws, he surmised she was gritting her teeth, but she didn’t utter a protest—not that it would have stopped him from searching for identification or another weapon.
He half expected her to attempt to kick him and remained alert. But although he could feel anger radiating off her, she remained stiff, unmoving.
When
