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“This is the wound.” With a red marker pen, Emily Foster drew two parallel dots, representing the fang marks of a rattlesnake, on the arm of a seven-year-old Brownie. The other eight girls and the troop leader stood in a tight circle around the Formica-topped table in the Cascadia Search and Rescue headquarters. “Can anybody tell me what to do next?”
“I know,” said an angelic little redhead. “You gotta shoot the dang rattler.”
“The snake will be gone.” Emily preferred not to discuss snakebite treatment in her first aid lectures. Given her druthers, she’d never talk about reptiles at all—those slimy, sneaky, altogether terrifying creatures. But kids always asked about worst-case scenarios. Potential encounters with rattlesnakes, cougars and grizzly bears were a lot more dramatic than learning how to identify poison ivy. “Anybody know what we do next?”
“Suck out the poison,” said Libby Hanson, the daughter of the troop leader. “Then spit it out.”
The red-haired cherub gave a naughty smirk. “What if somebody gets bit on the butt?”
“Gross,” said a tall, feminine girl with a long braid that hung to her waist. “I wouldn’t ever suck anybody’s rear end.”
“Except for Johnny Jamison,” the naughty angel said.
“Settle down, girls.” Yvonne, the troop leader and mother of four, spoke with the voice of authority, but the Brownies weren’t listening. They’d caught an extreme case of the giggles.
“Settle down,” Yvonne repeated. She held up her hand in the sign for quiet.
Those who weren’t making sucking noises on their arms were wiggling their skinny little bottoms at each other.
“Quiet!” Yvonne threatened, “Or no snacks.”
Immediate silence descended, and Emily nodded an appreciative thank-you. She’d never been comfortable with children, especially not in a group. Controlling them was like juggling spaghetti. “Actually, we don’t recommend the suck-and-spit method, anymore. First, we clean and disinfect the wound.” She pantomimed that action. “Then wrap an Ace bandage above the wound. Not too tightly. Most of all, you want the victim to remain calm.”
The supposedly snakebit Brownie eased into a prone position on the tabletop, and Emily completed the treatment by taping a folded gauze pad over the bite. “This is to apply direct pressure to the wound. Now, what’s next?”
“Get help,” said Yvonne’s daughter.
“That’s right.” Emily gave a thumbs-up. “Any other questions?”
Tall and Feminine raised her hand. “Is that your real hair color?”
Emily touched her curly blond ponytail. “Yes.”
“I wondered ’cause your eyes are kind of a weird green and not blue like most blondes.”
“Let’s get back to first aid, shall we?” Emily loosened the Ace bandage on her volunteer victim’s arm.
The irrepressible angel asked, “Did you have anybody die from getting bit by a rattler?”
“Never.”
“But you’ve seen people die ’cause you’re a nurse.” Before she moved to Cascadia three years ago, Emily had experienced more than her share of senseless, violent death when she worked in a Denver hospital emergency room. God, yes, she’d seen people die. The helplessness and horror branded deep into her soul. Real-life death wasn’t an appropriate topic for seven-year-old Brownies. “The important thing,” she said, “is to avoid danger. Can you tell me the first rule of mountain safety?”
“Think ahead and be careful,” they recited back to her.
“Second rule?” Emily asked.
“Be prepared.”
“And if an accident happens?” she prompted.
“Keep calm. Call 9-1-1. Use first aid.”
“I don’t get it,” said Tall and Feminine. “9-1-1 is Sheriff Litvak’s phone number. Why is it the same for Search and Rescue?”
“The 9-1-1 dispatcher contacts S.A.R.,” Emily explained.
“Does he call you at home? Like, what if you’re busy?”
“Drop everything and come running,” Emily said.
“We usually meet right here, behind Dr. Spence’s office.”
The headquarters for the mostly volunteer S.A.R. unit based in Cascadia, Colorado, was the size of a two-car garage and almost as glamorous. The furnishings included secondhand tables, chairs, desks and an ancient refrigerator. Their rescue equipment, however, illustrated state-of-the-art preparedness with skis, snow shoes, carry litters, pitons and miles of nylon rope. Sophisticated aerial-photograph maps covered every wall. There were walkietalkies, a satellite phone and two computers—electronics that were beyond Emily’s comprehension.
Concluding her demonstration, she passed out miniature first aid kits with the address and phone number for Cascadia S.A.R. attached with a sticky label. From past experience, she knew that most of these kits would be used as toys, but at least the girls would be thinking about safety.
Dr. Spence Cannon, a young and much-loved general practitioner, poked his head through the door that connected with the offices for his regular practice. “I thought I heard some mice down here.”
Excited, the Brownies flocked around him. “We’re not mice!”
“Then how do you explain those big ears?” Spence tugged at a couple of their braids. “And these long tails?”
“I’m an eagle,” said the redhead. She spread her arms and began to soar.
“Yeah? Well, I’m a wolf.” Libby Hanson bared her fangs and snarled.
Tall and Feminine struck a pose. “I’m a supermodel.”
Emily stepped back beside Yvonne, and they watched as Spence and the Brownies settled around a table for Kool-Aid and snacks. “He’s great with kids,” Emily said.
“You bet,” Yvonne agreed. “We’re so lucky he settled here. With that streaked blond hair and those baby blue eyes, Spence could’ve made big bucks with a practice in Aspen.”
Though Cascadia lay only an hour’s drive from the fabled ski area, this small working-class community was a million miles distant in terms of economics. Cascadia couldn’t be described as a resort. It wasn’t a picturesque mountain town with châteaus, chalets and cutsey shops. Most of the people who lived here worked in Aspen. Their homes were humble cabins off the beaten path or trailers or rented rooms in the barracks-like motels.
“Spence fits in here,” Emily said. “He’s a nice guy.”
Coming from her, “nice” represented a genuine compliment when applied to an M.D. In her years as an emergency room nurse, she’d developed a potent hostility toward the usually egotistical doctors.
“Thanks for talking to the kids,” Yvonne said. “Those first aid kits are nifty. How did our underfinanced S.A.R. afford them?”
“We received a contribution that was specifically earmarked for mountain safety training and first aid. Ten thousand dollars.”
“Wow!” Yvonne’s eyes popped wide. In addition to motherhood duties, she raised and trained rescue dogs—an endeavor that could always use extra financial aid. “Who is this benefactor? Somebody from Aspen?”
“Somebody who’s dead. Lynette Afton-Shane.”
“Oh my! You know I hate to brag, but I’ve been to that house. The Afton Château. Big stone monstrosity. Gorgeous antiques.”
“How did you manage that?”
“It was a kid thing.” Yvonne clucked her tongue and lowered her voice, not wanting the Brownies to overhear. “That poor woman. Being killed in cold blood by her own husband.”
“I don’t think Jordan Shane did it,” Emily said.
“Do you know him?”
”Not really. I’ve met him twice.”
The first time had been over a year ago when he attended one of her mountain safety lectures in Aspen. The second time, he came personally to her cabin to deliver the contribution. He insisted the ten thousand dollars be credited to his wife’s name even though the check had been written on his personal account.
“Come on, Emily. I want details. What’s he look like?”
“Dark brown hair. He wears it kind of long.” When she’d met Jordan, he was another woman’s husband. It would have been improper for Emily to notice his cleft chin, high cheekbones and smouldering dark eyes. She had absolutely no right to admire the breadth of his shoulders and the way his snug Levi’s outlined his muscular thighs. “He has a southern accent. I think he’s from Florida or something.”
Yvonne’s dark eyebrows lowered in one of those reproachful mother looks. “Please don’t tell me you have a thing for him.”
“How could I? He’s married.”
“Was married,” she said darkly. “Now, he’s a murderer.”
“He’s accused of murder,” Emily corrected. She’d been following the much-reported case in the newspaper. “The trial hasn’t even started.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t he found standing over the body with a smoking gun in his hand? And there was nobody else in the house? No sign of forced entry?”
“That’s right,” Emily conceded.
“He had motive, too,” Yvonne said. “I heard the couple was talking divorce, and Jordan would lose out on her inheritance.”
Nearly everybody in the surrounding mountain communities had already decided that Jordan Shane, the outsider, was guilty of murdering his popular, wealthy spouse. On the strength of negative local opinion, Jordan’s attorney had obtained a change of venue for the trial.
“I don’t know,” Emily said, “but Jordan Shane just doesn’t act like a murderer.”
“As if you’d know.” Yvonne gestured toward the giggling girls and Spence. “Why not hook up with somebody like him?”
“Spence? No way. There’s one thing I learned as a nurse—don’t fall in love with a doctor.”
“Why not?”
“It never works.” She’d found out the hard way. “Besides, I’ve already selected my favorite beau. His name is Pookie.”
Yvonne gave a disbelieving snort. “Pookie is a golden retriever puppy and not very bright.”
“But he keeps me warm at night,” Emily said. “Which reminds me, I’ve left him home alone too long. I should be going.”
Before Yvonne could launch into a birds-and-bees explanation on the difference between sharing your bed with a dog and sleeping with a man, Emily bid her hasty goodbyes and left the Cascadia S.A.R. headquarters.
Though community service played an integral part in her life and the demonstration with the Brownies justified her minimal monthly stipend from Search and Rescue, she was glad to have this task over. With her Saturday morning errands already accomplished, she was free to spend the rest of the weekend curled up with a good book or hiking with Pookie or starting on the million and one maintenance chores she needed to do before the first snowfall.
Emily slipped behind the wheel of her old Land Rover, a vehicle too ancient to be considered an SUV, and drove through town. In less than twenty minutes, she was bouncing along the seldom-traveled graded road that led to her even more desolate turn-off. Emily’s log cabin—which had been in her family for as long as she could recall—bordered on National Forest land and she had no neighbors, except for the chipmunks, the elk and the hummingbirds. Sometimes, she went for days without hearing another human voice.
Though she occasionally worried about turning into an eccentric tangle-haired hermit, Emily loved her secluded mountain lifestyle. Tucked safely in her cabin, she no longer needed daily doses of antidepressants. Her anxiety attacks seldom occurred anymore. She’d made the right decision when she left behind the frenzy of activity and constant tension of the big city E.R. where life-and-death situations were daily, if not hourly, occurrences. The pressure had been too great. Now, at age thirty-two, solitude was preferable, even necessary.
She parked at her cabin, surrounded by conifers on a ridge warmed by the western sun. Outside the vehicle, she stood for a moment. On this crisp September afternoon the skies stretched above her in deep, endless blue. God, it was beautiful! A brisk wind brushed against her cheeks and tangled in the curly blond wisps that escaped her ponytail. Autumn was her favorite time of year. The changing aspen leaves colored the slopes with shimmering gold. Fresh snow glistened on the distant high peaks near the continental divide.
A flash of caramel-colored fur loped toward her. She’d been trying to train Pookie, following the program that Yvonne outlined, but Emily secretly enjoyed the way her puppy wiggled all over with crazed joy every time he saw her. And she adored his muffled woofs.
“Moof, moof.” Pookie launched himself at her. His overlarge paws groped at her thigh, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth.
“How did you get out?” she asked as she scratched behind his ears. “I know I left you inside.”
“Burf moof.” He sat back and cocked his head to one side, giving her the doggy equivalent of a shrug.
“Raccoons,” she muttered. Those masked vermin could break into anything. They must have pushed open a cabin window.
With Pookie following, she climbed the front steps onto the porch. Her front door was unlocked. Had she left it that way? As soon as Emily stepped inside, she was grabbed from behind. The cold bore of a pistol dug into the small of her back. A harsh voice whispered, “Don’t scream.”
Though she’d taken self-defense classes in the city, her mind went blank. The sudden assault stunned her, and she froze. Her breath caught in her chest. Her heart paused midbeat.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. There was the hint of a southern accent in his voice. “I need your help, Ms. Foster.”
He knew her name. “Who are you?”
He 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?”
