said nothing. His muscular forearm clamped across her throat, exerting slight pressure on her windpipe. Her body pressed against his, and she could tell that he was very tall. The top of her head barely cleared his shoulder. Struggle was futile. Even without the gun, he could easily overpower her.
What did he want? She trembled, unable to accept this harsh reality. She was supposed to be safe here. Her breath returned in a frantic gasp.
Her impending panic had no effect whatsoever on Pookie. The puppy bounced around them, stumbling over his own paws and seeming to enjoy this new game. “Murf, bork, bork.”
“Please,” Emily said, “let me go.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
He was toying with her, reveling in his superiority. An edge of anger cut through her terror. She had to act, to escape from him. Her arms tensed as she prepared to thrust her elbows backward into his midsection. Caution tempered her actions. Remember the gun. The worst thing she could do was to anger this person and cause him to lash out. In a controlled voice she said, “You wanted my help, and I’ll do what I can. Just don’t hurt me or my dog.”
“Fair enough.” He released his grip.
Free from his grasp, she pivoted and faced him. He wore prison-issue denim pants and a blue workshirt with a black number stenciled above the pocket. His dark brown hair hung shaggy and unkempt. His upper left arm was bloody. More blood smeared his face below the cheekbone. Returning her gaze, his expression hardened in dark, silent desperation.
“Jordan Shane,” she whispered. “You escaped.”
She’d been wrong about him. Until this moment, Emily had believed in his innocence. But innocent men don’t run. Jordan Shane was a cold-blooded murderer. In his right hand, he held a .22 caliber automatic, trained toward her midsection. “That’s my gun,” she said grimly.
“Hope you don’t mind if I borrow this peashooter.”
She kept the unloaded pistol in a wooden box on the top shelf in her closet. And the ammunition was stashed in her underwear drawer. He must have searched her house. The thought of a murderer going through her personal belongings disgusted her.
And yet, Pookie snuggled congenially against him. Weren’t animals supposed to have a sixth sense about danger? Emily warned herself not to take Pookie’s judgment too seriously. Coldly, she said, “I didn’t notice a car outside. How did you get here?”
“I parked in that shed behind your house and latched the door. Hope you don’t mind.”
Of course, she minded! She was not in the habit of harboring escaped criminals. His phony politeness didn’t fool her for one minute. Jordan Shane had not dropped by for a spot of tea. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m in need of medical attention. I’ve been shot.”
Even if she hadn’t seen the blood, Emily would have suspected serious injuries from the occasional tremors that shook his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His complexion blanched white.
This was a far different Jordan Shane than the handsome benefactor who had visited her cabin a year ago. When he’d been here before, he had a deep Florida tan. Six weeks in the Pitkin County jail erased that healthy glow. He looked thinner but not at all frail. His features were sharpened, as if his ordeal had sliced close to the bone.
As she stared at him, her instinctive empathy emerged. It was an emotion more deeply ingrained than her fear or rage. For as long as she could remember, Emily had been driven to reach out to those who needed help and nurturing. She was a natural-born nurse. She truly believed in the motto of S.A.R.: “…That Others May Live.” In this case, however, her instincts were dead wrong. Jordan Shane was a dangerous man. “I can’t help you,” she said. “If I did, I’d be aiding and abetting a criminal.”
“Not if I force you,” he said, casually displaying the gun. “I didn’t come here to get you in trouble, Ms. Foster.”
“Then why? Of all the places in the world you could have run to, why did you come to me?”
“It was logical.” Jordan took a step away from her and leaned against the arm of the plaid sofa. He was light-headed, but he didn’t think his condition came from loss of blood. More than likely, he was disoriented by his own audacity. He’d never been the sort of man who acted without thinking, and now he was on the lam from the Pitkin County sheriff. At this very moment, a massive search effort would be getting underway.
“Logical? You came here because it was logical?” “That’s right.”
His mental process was a little fuzzy, almost as if today’s events had happened to someone else. He clearly remembered being left in a windowed room at Sardy Field in Aspen. He was being transported to Denver where his trial was slated to start on Monday. Another prisoner waited with him. With no explanation, Deputy Frank Kreiger had entered the room, removed their shackles and cuffs and left them alone again.
The other guy went to one of the windows, unfastened the latch and pushed it open. Fresh air washed inside, and Jordan was drawn toward the scent of freedom.
“I don’t understand your definition of logical.” He heard Emily speaking. Her voice echoed as if she were talking from the bottom of a deep well. “Would you explain?”
He truly didn’t know. Jordan hadn’t consciously decided to escape, but he was suddenly outside, ducked down and running alongside the hangar toward the tarmac.
Gunshots exploded. A stinging heat penetrated his left arm. He turned halfway around and heard a bullet whiz past his cheek. The other prisoner lay flat on the ground, awaiting recapture.
Jordan ran. He dodged and backtracked through the airport where he’d been dozens of times before. He found the employee parking area. After he hot-wired a late model Dodge, he drove away from Aspen. He had no clear escape route in mind but found himself on the road leading toward Cascadia. He remembered the directions to Emily’s cabin from when he came here to drop off the contribution. He also recalled that this location was remote with no troublesome neighbors.
He offered her a summary explanation. “I remembered that you were a former emergency room nurse, and I figured that you’d know how to deal with a gunshot wound.”
“I do.” Her green eyes narrowed. She was guarded, suspicious and wary. Perfectly normal reactions. She probably believed, like everyone else in Pitkin County, that he had murdered Lynette.
“Patch me up, Ms. Foster, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Please call me Emily,” she said with an admirable show of bravado. “After your armed assault, I think we should be on a first-name basis.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. It had been weeks since he’d smiled. “You have a sense of humor, Emily.”
“A sense of survival,” she corrected. “And I’d feel a whole lot more comfortable if you’d get rid of the gun.”
She held out her hand as if he’d be stupid enough to surrender his weapon. “I think not.”
“Don’t you trust me, Jordan?”
“Hell, no.” She
