Bear Claw
Conspiracy
Jessica Andersen
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
About the Author
JESSICA ANDERSEN has worked as a geneticist, scientific editor, animal trainer and landscaper … but she’s happiest when she’s combining all of her many interests into writing romantic adventures that always have a twist of the unusual to them. Born and raised in the Boston area (Go, Sox!), Jessica can usually be found somewhere in New England, hard at work on her next happily ever after. For more on Jessica and her books, please check out www.JessicaAndersen.com and www.JessicaAndersenIntrigues.com.
Chapter One
“Help! Help … She’s … I need help!”
The shout came from outside Ranger Station Fourteen, followed seconds later by the sound of someone running flat out, skidding on the loose gravel of the trailhead.
Matt Blackthorn bit off his briefing mid-sentence and strode from his office, his pulse kicking and then leveling off as he went into crisis mode: six feet and two inches worth of black-haired, green-eyed competence, laced with the determination of his part-Cherokee forebears and the killer instincts that had once been his trademark.
Grizzled park service veteran Bert Grainger was right behind him, while young charmer Jim Feeney veered off to put the dispatcher on standby in case they needed outside help. The station’s fourth ranger, a clever brunette named Tanya Dawes, was already out in the field. Hopefully, they wouldn’t need her.
As Matt headed through the station’s front room, he mentally reviewed the hikers who’d checked in at Station Fourteen—the most remote and isolated of the Bear Claw Canyon ranger stations—over the past few days. He fixed on the newlyweds who had come through earlier that morning. They had been too busy mooning over each other—and their new city-bought hiking gear—to really pay attention to his spiel on backcountry safety precautions.
Muttering a curse, he stiff-armed the door leading outside. Damn it, I told them to head back down toward Bear Claw. Station Three, with its brightly marked trails and pre-planned walking tour, would’ve been a better fit for those two. Fourteen was no place for city softies.
They hadn’t listened, though. And sure enough, Mr. Newlywed—Cockleburr? Cockson? It was cock-something, anyway—was pelting toward him across the dirt parking lot, eyes frantic enough to have Matt’s gut twisting.
“Oh, thank God you’re here.” Newlywed’s words tumbled over each other as he staggered to a halt and sucked in a ragged breath. “She’s hurt, unconscious, and—”
“Stop!” Matt said firmly, using his cut-through-the-panic voice. When Cochran—that was it, Cochran—quit babbling, Matt said, “What happened to your wife? Did she fall?” The trails were dry as hell and starting to crumble in places.
But Cochran shook his head furiously. “Tracy’s fine. The woman we found is one of yours.”
“One
