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Under The Agent's Protection
Jennifer D. Bokal
In tracking a killer… will he choose duty—or desire? Everly Baker knows her brother’s death was no accident, and its connection to another more sinister case makes it impossible for FBI Agent Wyatt Thornton to turn down—and so does his desire to protect the woman he’s grown to love…


“You’re wrong, Everly. You can’t trust me.”
But will he choose duty—or desire?
After leaving the FBI, the last thing Wyatt Thornton wants is to get involved in a murder investigation. Yet Everly Baker is desperate for his help in solving her brother’s mysterious death. The connections between cases tantalize Wyatt, as does the victim’s sister. And when a criminal puts Everly in his crosshairs, Wyatt must trust his crime-solving instincts to protect her—and catch a killer!
JENNIFER D. BOKAL is the author of the bestselling ancient-world historical romance The Gladiator’s Mistress and the second book in the Champions of Rome series, The Gladiator’s Temptation. Happily married to her own alpha male for twenty years, she enjoys writing stories that explore the wonders of love in many genres. Jen and her husband live in upstate New York with their three beautiful daughters, two aloof cats and two very spoiled dogs.
Also By Jennifer D. Bokal (#u1a1c30fa-d106-5a39-91c5-0226220446aa)
Wyoming Nights
Under the Agent’s Protection
Rocky Mountain Justice
Her Rocky Mountain Hero
Her Rocky Mountain Defender
Rocky Mountain Valor
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Under the Agent’s Protection
Jennifer D. Bokal


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-09445-0
UNDER THE AGENT’S PROTECTION
© 2019 Jennifer D. Bokal
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Everly stood in the middle of the living room.
The unmistakable glint of a metal blade was at her neck. The perpetrator was hidden behind her, face obscured. Wyatt’s heart beat in triple time. His palms grew damp and a bead of sweat trickled down his back.
He inhaled and exhaled, slowing his racing heart. There were only two things Wyatt needed to do: save Everly’s life and catch the serial killer. Good thing he’d brought a gun to a knife fight.
“Drop that blade or I’ll shoot,” he said, remaining hidden in the shadows.
The knife flashed, gouging Everly’s skin. Like a seam had opened, a bead of red blood gathered on her cheek. She shrieked. A shadow took form and rushed from the room. The back door shut with a crack.
Wyatt sprinted through the living room and pushed against the door. It didn’t budge. He fumbled with the doorknob and leaned his shoulder into the door, knowing it was a smart move on the intruder’s part. Barricade the door. Wyatt was trapped—a prisoner in his own home.
Dear Reader (#u1a1c30fa-d106-5a39-91c5-0226220446aa),
I am beyond thrilled to continue the Rocky Mountain Justice series. Yet, there is one person who I need to thank above all others—and that is you, Dear Reader! As excited as I am that I get to continue to write the RMJ series, the exhilaration pales in comparison to the fact that the previous books were enjoyed by readers everywhere. I’m sure you’ve heard before that writing is a solitary endeavor. While that is somewhat true, authors don’t publish books to stay hidden. In fact, we write because we are driven to share our stories.
Thank you, Dear Reader, for giving all of the Rocky Mountain Justice books a place in the world.
Under the Agent’s Protection, along with the subsequent four books in the miniseries, began with an editor’s single suggestion: You know what we’d love to see? A serial killer.
That seed took root in my imagination. It was watered with a good bit of research and interviews about the formation of serial killers and what drives those who study and pursue them. In writing this book, I was forced to ask a very personal question: What frightens me the most? Rocky Mountain Justice expanded from Colorado and took up residence in the small town of Pleasant Pines, Wyoming. To all of that I added four separate love stories, and this newest miniseries flourished! As always, it is my honor to create smart and sexy books for you, Dear Reader. I hope you enjoy reading Under the Agent’s Protection as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Regards,
Jennifer D. Bokal
To John. You are always the one.
Contents
Cover (#u0b12130a-6104-519f-b7e3-1b7c8acbedee)
Back Cover Text (#ue010a9fc-f00e-5bd0-86d6-36b3b8296a6b)
About the Author (#ue7dc4df0-cc88-5c26-874f-b39af48e171a)
Booklist (#uf24d5b1a-763d-590e-b7f9-173d3f8d79ef)
Title Page (#ub67877e6-2f02-5547-8e75-0e428c4f2be7)
Copyright (#u5040ae1b-8169-5f1c-b8c1-cf11314213b7)
Note to Readers
Introduction (#uc3b39b1b-d18f-543a-b00a-e64b8cc58961)
Dear Reader (#ue786446b-cfc9-530f-a5cf-f24929d29321)
Dedication (#uce0f76ed-d82b-5755-b687-87b9043db33e)
Prologue (#u3906540c-f02c-587e-85d4-dfbf4c9feeea)
Chapter 1 (#u4fa96a87-535f-47fa-9aa1-de91205ce75b)
Chapter 2 (#u0aedf933-9072-5950-8d7e-78c5cf9d6ff0)
Chapter 3 (#u62c37794-9247-5b42-b5b2-478a4d8d3f4a)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#u1a1c30fa-d106-5a39-91c5-0226220446aa)
Wyatt Thornton cocked back his arm as far as he could, then released his grip. The stick somersaulted through the air. Kicking up the remnants of last winter’s snow, his dog, Gus, barked happily and gave chase. The land, these miles of foothills in the Rocky Mountains, belonged to Wyatt. It was more than a home, it was a refuge—his place of escape, where the world hardly knew he existed.
A place he could truly be alone.
Gus returned and dropped the slobbery branch at Wyatt’s feet. After ruffling the Lab’s ears, Wyatt once again picked up the stick. This time, he threw it harder, sending it sailing through the clear blue sky. With another excited bark, Gus raced after it, disappearing into the woods.
Turning his face to the sun, Wyatt closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He’d never gotten used to the sweet, fresh Wyoming air—not when compared to the miasma of exhaust fumes, cigarettes and sunscreen he had lived with for more than a decade in Las Vegas. The scents of the Strip, everyone used to joke. After exhaling fully, Wyatt again inhaled. A primal wail shot through the silent morning and his breath caught in his chest.
“Gus?”
Heart pounding and legs pumping, Wyatt rushed between the shadows cast by the towering trees.
“Gus,” he called. “Where are you, boy?”
He heard a yelp in the distance and his chest contracted. All the dangers that might have befallen his faithful companion came to him in one horrifying rush. A newly awake and hungry bear. An unseen ditch and the dog’s broken paw. Poor footing on a slope that ended with Gus maimed at the bottom of a ravine.
He stopped and listened. The silence was total, not even interrupted by the whisper of a breeze.
“Gus? Where are you?”
His call was answered with a bark. The noise ricocheted off the hills, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Wyatt stopped and focused.
The first bark was followed by another, this one louder and definitely from his right. Wyatt’s pulse spiked, and he followed the sound up a hill. The soft ground crumbled underfoot, and he scrambled on hands and knees to the top of the rise. One hundred yards in the distance stood the old schoolhouse, the farthest point on his land.
Made up of a single room, the century-old stone foundation was still intact. There was a hole in the ceiling where part of the roof had collapsed in the corner. Gus stood on the threshold, whole and healthy. He barked, and his tail was a wagging blur.
Wyatt wiped his hands on the seat of his pants, while his racing heartbeat slowed. “There you are,” he said between breaths as he half jogged to the schoolhouse. “Come here.”
Gus barked again. With a whine, the dog looked over his shoulder.
“What is it, boy?” Wyatt asked.
Gus darted into the dilapidated building. Wyatt approached and stopped short, recognizing the smell of decay. It was like the rot of a slaughterhouse, but stronger.
Swallowing down his deepest sense of revulsion, he stepped slowly into the structure.
Gus stood near a far corner and pawed at the floor. Behind the dog was the unmistakable form of a corpse.
“Easy, boy,” Wyatt said to his dog. With a slap to his thigh, he added, “Come here.”
With one last look at the lump on the floor, Gus moved to his master’s side.
No matter how long he’d been out of the game, the skills Wyatt had developed over years of training rose to the surface. He began to catalogue all the details—some obvious, others more subtle.
The deceased was male and Caucasian. His age appeared to be between 25 and 40—quite a range, but a wild animal had gotten to his face and throat, making a more exact guess impossible. Wyatt looked around for blood splatter on the walls or floor.
There was nothing.
Wyatt moved in for a closer look, kneeling next to the body.
Dressed in a flannel shirt, down-filled coat and lined denim jeans, John Doe wore the same outfit as three quarters of the state of Wyoming. What made him interesting were the accessories—his hiking boots were high-quality and retailed for over 700 dollars per pair. Wyatt knew that fact as he had a pair himself. The treads were worn, and the tops were scarred with scuff marks. John Doe also wore a top-of-the-line smartwatch. The screen was blank.
But there was no visible sign of trauma. No blackened bullet hole to the chest. No knife wound to the side, crusted over with blood. It was almost as if this man had wandered into the abandoned schoolhouse and died.
No, Wyatt thought, correcting his thinking, there was no almost about it.
Cardiac arrest? Perhaps.
Wyatt began to question the scenario before him. Perhaps John Doe—a wealthy tourist, no doubt—had lost his way while hiking in the mountainous terrain. Maybe he’d sought shelter from the frigid temperatures in the old schoolhouse. But in the mountains, it wouldn’t have been enough.
The lack of snow was deceptive. The last few nights the temperature had dropped into the low twenties, maybe even high teens. Either way, it was cold enough for someone to die from exposure. It happened all the time, so much so that it was hardly news anymore.
Then again, there were other things that Wyatt would’ve expected to see and didn’t. He touched the flagstone floor. It was smooth, cold and inexplicably spotless. Wyatt inspected the corpse’s hands. The fingernails were clean and smooth. It meant that John Doe had hardly struggled in the wild to survive.
No footprints.
No injuries.
No clues.
He pulled a wallet from the man’s back pocket and checked for ID. There was an Illinois driver’s license in the name of Axl Baker. Conflicting feelings of trepidation and adrenaline dropped into Wyatt’s gut. It was the same feeling he had at the beginning of every new case. And even though the scene felt familiar, this time it was different. This time, Wyatt would have nothing more to do with the dead guy on the floor.
Because Wyatt Thornton had left the FBI for a good reason. And nothing, not even an unexplained death, could force him back to work.

Chapter 1 (#u1a1c30fa-d106-5a39-91c5-0226220446aa)
The radio in Sheriff Carl Haak’s truck crackled a moment before the 911 dispatcher’s voice came through. “You there, Sheriff?” she asked.
Carl looked at the clock on the dashboard. It wasn’t even 7:00 in the morning yet. He lifted the radio’s handset and pressed the talk button. He continued driving as he said, “Go ahead, Rose.”
“A call came in. A body’s been found in the old schoolhouse.”
Carl’s shoulders pinched together with tension and he eased the truck to the side of the road. He only had a couple of weeks left until retirement and looking into another death was not how he wanted to spend his time. Pushing his cowboy hat, emblazoned with a sheriff’s tin star on the band, back on his head, he asked, “A body? Whose?”
“A man by the name of Axl Baker. All the way from Chicago, Illinois.”
“What happened?”
“Don’t know, but the guy who found him didn’t think that it was foul play, if that’s what worries you.”
“What guy?”
“The one who bought the Hampton place a few years back,” said Rose. “Wyatt Thornton.”
The Hampton family hadn’t owned the sprawling piece of land for decades and still Carl knew exactly what property Rose meant. In fact, he passed it every day as he drove to work. “Not foul play? How does Mr. Thornton know?”
“He said there was no sign of injury and that Axl Baker probably died of exposure.”
Rose’s voice was wistful, and Carl knew why. Ever since Wyatt Thornton had moved to the area several years ago, he’d mostly kept to himself. That didn’t mean that his rare appearances in town didn’t cause a commotion—amongst the local women, at least. She continued, “He was so sweet on the phone. As nice as he is handsome. He almost reminds me of a movie star.”
“What would your husband think of you being sweet on Mr. Thornton?”
“Wyatt,” she corrected. “He told me to call him Wyatt, and by the way, Carl, it doesn’t do any harm to look. You know, I’m not dead yet.”
Carl ignored Rose’s comment. Pressing down on the radio’s handset, he asked, “How’d he know it was a natural death? Is he a doctor or something?”
The radio was filled with static, as if Rose was no longer on the other end of the call. The silence stretched. In reality, Carl knew next to nothing about Wyatt Thornton. When the other man first arrived in Pleasant Pines, Sheriff Haak thought about digging into his past.
Yet, Thornton didn’t drink, fight, drive too fast or even listen to his music too loud. In short, he was a model citizen. The job of sheriff was a busy one, more important cases arose and Carl never did get around to investigating Thornton.
Now, he wondered if that decision, made long ago, had been for the best.
Finally, Rose answered. “Honestly,” she said, “I don’t know. He just seemed positive, that’s all.” Another pause. “He’s waiting at the old schoolhouse.”
Pressing the talk button, Carl said, “Find out what you can about the victim.”
“Sure thing, Carl.”
Turning on his lights and siren, Carl swung the truck around on the empty road and dropped his foot on the accelerator. Fifteen minutes later, he was at the turnoff for the old schoolhouse. It was just a wide spot in a dilapidated barbwire fence with low scrub on what used to be a well-worn path.
The ground was covered with frost, and his truck’s undercarriage passed well above any dead bushes or brambles. In the distance stood the one-room building. As he got closer, he saw Thornton and his dog standing by the door.
“Just two weeks,” he mumbled to himself. Then Carl would be moving to South Carolina, where it was warm all the time and there was a beach two blocks from his tiny condominium. He put the truck in Park and killed the engine. The lights went dim and the siren fell silent.
Stepping into the cold, he shrugged on his jacket. The smell of death permeated the air.
“Morning, Mr. Thornton,” he said.
Thornton stepped forward, offering his hand. “Call me Wyatt.”
They shook, then the sheriff turned to business. “Well, Wyatt, can you tell me what happened?”
Wyatt gave a succinct rundown of his typical morning walk that today, ended with the dog finding the body. He concluded with, “There’s no signs of trauma, so I don’t think it’s murder.”
Carl hefted up his jeans by the belt loops. “How can you know that?”
“Experience,” said the other man.
Carl waited for a moment for more information. None was offered. “You a doctor, or something?” he asked, repeating his original assumption.
Wyatt shook his head. “No, I’m not a doctor.”
“A movie star?”
Thornton gave a quiet chuckle. “Not a movie star, either.” After a beat, he added, “I used to work for the Behavioral Sciences Unit of the FBI.”
“You got any identification that says so?” Carl asked.
“What? That says I used to work for the Bureau? I still have my old creds. You can stop by and see them if you want.”
“I might do just that. Then again,” said Carl, “I’m retiring soon. Two weeks then I’m off to South Carolina.”
He waited for Wyatt to say something or offer the expected congratulations. Thornton said nothing. Carl cleared his throat. “One thing I know is that Rose will be excited to hear that we have a real-life G-man in Pleasant Pines.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Wyatt with a lifted palm, “I’d like to keep my former career in the past.”
With a nod, Carl said, “I respect a man of discretion.”
Wyatt gestured with his chin to the schoolhouse. “Sheriff, you should probably get a look at the scene.”
Wyatt walked through the front door and stopped. Carl followed. His gaze was drawn to the corpse at the far side of the room. A dead eye, gone milky white, stared straight at Carl.
Shaking off the skittering sensation that crawled up his spine, he got to work examining the body and the scene. Sure, he’d seen a few deaths in his time on the job—but something about this one just felt wrong.
“If you don’t mind,” said Wyatt. “I want to point out one thing.”
“What is it?” asked Carl.
“The floor’s clean,” Wyatt said.
A beam of sunlight shone from a hole in the roof, illuminating the interior of the structure. Where Carl would’ve normally seen dirt and debris, there was nothing. “Odd,” he agreed. “I would expect at least some dirt collected in a place like this.”
“Me, as well,” said Wyatt.
“How’d you get a name for the corpse?” Carl asked.
“I found his wallet in his pants pocket. He has a license from Illinois. I left it next to the body.”
Carl walked inside and found the wallet. Flipping it open, he found the driver’s license, complete with a picture. He looked back at the body. Even with the post-mortem injuries, they were undoubtedly the same man. Legally speaking, it was all he needed to make a positive identification on a John Doe. Standing, Carl dusted his hands on the seat of his pants. “Looks like this is Axl Baker.”
“I don’t want to disturb anything more than I already have. So, unless you need me,” Wyatt said while stepping toward the door, “I’ll be on my way.”
“I have to get an official statement,” said Carl. He followed outside. “Stop by my office tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”
“I’ll see you then,” said Wyatt. He called his dog and set off.
Carl watched until they disappeared below the crest of the hill. Returning to his truck, he picked up the radio. “Rose, you there?”
“I am, Sheriff. What d’you need?”
“Call Doc Lambert. I need him to come out and pick up the body.”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Did you get a next of kin for Axl Baker?”
“I did. It’s his sister, one Everly Baker, also of Chicago.”
Carl scribbled Everly’s number on a scrap of paper before signing off. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Even here, there was a strong signal. He entered the number and held his breath. A woman answered the call.
“Yes?”
“Everly Baker?”
“Yes.” Her voice rose an octave. “Who is this?”
“Ms. Baker.” Carl paused. His temples began to throb, and he held his breath. Calls like this were the worst part of his job. With an exhale, he said, “This is Sheriff Haak in Pleasant Pines, Wyoming. I’m sorry to be bothering you, but I have some awful news...”

The following day
To Everly Baker, it looked as if Pleasant Pines had been carved out of the forest. Pine trees ringed the perimeter, and the center of town was taken up by a village green, complete with a gazebo. Wrought iron lampposts stood on each corner.
There had been a sign, welcoming all visitors and proclaiming that the population was a mere 3,200 people.
The streets were lined with businesses—a grocery store, a diner, a dentist’s office and the regional newspaper. People moved about, busy with their own lives. It looked as though not much had changed in the sleepy town for years. A spring snow had started, the flakes swirling across the road. Everly would’ve found the scene charming, if not for the circumstances.
After receiving the sheriff’s call about her brother, she’d caught a flight from Chicago to Cheyenne. From there, Everly rented a car for the last leg of her journey. After almost twenty-four hours of travel, she decided that Pleasant Pines was more than secluded—it was actually cut off from the rest of the world.
Driving down Main Street, Everly shuddered. She still couldn’t believe that this nightmare was real. Axl, dead? How could that be? The very idea that her brother was gone forever—and she was all alone in the world—was too overwhelming to handle.
Easing her car into a parking place, Everly turned off the engine. Her throat tightened as a fresh wave of anguish rose from her gut. She drew in a deep breath and waited for the grief to pass.
Using the rearview mirror, she checked her appearance quickly. Her green eyes—puffy. Cheeks—blotchy. Lips—colorless. For the day, she’d swept her hair into a ponytail and a tendril of auburn hair had come loose. Everly was far from put-together. But then again, what did she expect? She’d gotten the call as she was getting ready for work, and still wore the same clothes she’d changed into—black leggings, shearling-lined boots and a long cream-colored sweater.
It was 11:10 a.m. She’d reached her destination with twenty minutes to spare until her meeting with the sheriff.
She hoped that it gave her enough time for a quick detour—even if it wasn’t as much as she wanted. Years of experience in public relations had taught Everly to never attend an important meeting without getting all the facts. And as far as Everly was concerned, there was nothing more important than finding out what really happened to her brother.
After draping her purse across her forearm, she hustled through the biting wind to the hospital, situated two blocks from the town square. She followed signs to the morgue, which was located in the basement. The slap of footfalls on the tiled floor kept time with her racing heart as she descended the stairs.
Cold sweat covered her brow as she walked down the white-tiled hallway. A blue plastic sign hung, suspended by chains from the ceiling. Morgue. A metal door was the only thing that separated Everly from the truth. With a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped in.
A row of metal tables bisected the large room. There was a figure on the center table, shrouded with a blue sheet.
Sure, the sheriff had told Everly that her brother’s body had been found. And yeah, the body had Axl’s ID. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder—what if it wasn’t Axl under the sheet? What if this had all been a mistake? Because there was one thing Everly knew for sure—her brother didn’t die of exposure as the sheriff suggested was the most likely possibility.
She reached out with a shaking hand. Her fingertips inched closer to the sheet, brushing the fabric.
“May I help you?” A man with sparse hair, glasses and a goatee stood next to the sink at the far side of the room.
Everly gasped and pulled her hand away, startled. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as her racing heart slowed.
“I hope so,” she said. “I’m Everly Baker, Axl Baker’s sister. I spoke to Sheriff Haak yesterday and he informed me that I needed to identify my brother’s body.” Her voice faltered slightly on the last words, and she took another breath to steady her emotions.
“I’m Doc Lambert, ma’am, and very sorry for your loss.” The man picked up a clipboard and lifted a sheet of paper. He looked up over the rim of his glasses. “I didn’t expect you until after noon, but once the sheriff arrives, we can make the ID.”
“Are you the medical examiner?”
“Medical examiner. Pediatrician. General practitioner. Sometimes surgeon.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see my brother now,” she said.
“It’s not the way Sheriff Haak likes things done,” said Dr. Lambert. “Besides, if the sheriff told you to meet him here, I’m sure he’ll be along directly.”
“He’s not coming right now,” said Everly, knowing that the doctor misunderstood her early arrival. Moreover, being direct was the only way to deal with the situation. “But I’m here now.”
Still looking over the rims of his glasses, he repeated, “Like I said, Miss Baker, it’s not how we do things in Pleasant Pines.”
“I have to be honest with you. I think there’s been a mistake.”
“Mistake? How?”
“I don’t think this is my brother.” She gestured to the figure on the table.
“We found an ID with the body. He’d checked into the local hotel and used a credit card in his name.”
“But aren’t I here to see the...corpse and make a positive identification? To me, that means there’s a question.”
“There is some postmortem gouging to the face.” Doc Lambert paused. “Maybe I should call the sheriff.”
“Is there a rule in Wyoming that says a law-enforcement officer needs to be present to see a body?”
“Well, no. It’s just that Sheriff Haak is particular about his cases.”
“No offense,” said Everly, knowing full well that she was being persistent—possibly too persistent, “but I’m pretty particular about knowing whether my brother is dead or not.”
With a sigh, Doc Lambert set aside his clipboard. “Since it’s not against the law, I suppose there’s no harm.” He moved to the table and pulled the sheet from the body, exposing the head, neck and shoulders.
Everly’s chest constricted. A great wave of grief washed over her, threatening to drown her. She reached out to touch her brother’s hair then pulled her hand away as the urge to scream flooded through her, pushing its way up into her throat. Yet, she stood without breathing and stared at his lifeless body.
“It’s him,” she whispered. “That’s my brother.” It was like a physical blow, acknowledging that he was, indeed, gone for good. “What happened?”
“I won’t know until I conduct the autopsy and get some test results back, but it looks as though your brother got caught out in the forest at night and died of exposure. It is fairly common in these parts. Heartbreaking, but natural.”
The loss of her brother—her rock for so many years—was unspeakably painful. She didn’t know why or how, but Everly was certain of one thing: Doc Lambert was wrong. Her brother’s death wasn’t natural.
And she was going to find out what really happened to him.


Doc Lambert had given Everly directions to the county office building, only a few short blocks away. It was located on the town square in a three-story granite building, complete with pillars and arched windows. She found the sheriff’s office on the second floor and pulled the door open.
A man with dark hair and eyes stood just inside, his hand outstretched, as if he’d been about to reach for the knob. His abrupt appearance aggravated her already frayed nerves. Her heart slammed into her chest as she jumped back. Her purse wobbled on her arm, and her phone and keys fell onto the floor in the corridor. She bent to get them, and the rest of the contents—lipstick, sunglasses, wallet, receipts, chewing gum—spilled out.
“Damn.” She dropped to her knees.
The man let the door to the sheriff’s office close and kneeled down next to her. “Let me help you with that,” he said.
She reached for her phone in the same instant as the sexy stranger. His fingers grazed the back of her hand. A shiver of awareness traveled up her arm, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.
She jerked her phone away. “Thanks,” she grumbled. “I can manage.”
“No, really.”
He handed her a tube of lipstick. “It was my fault.”
With a shake of her head, she said, “It’s nobody’s fault.” She sighed. “I just don’t need any help. Okay?”
The man lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay.” And yet, he didn’t leave.
As Everly scooped the rest of her belongings into her bag, she examined him from beneath her lashes. He was tall, well over six feet. His shoulders were broad and, beneath the fabric of his shirt, she could see the outline of his muscular biceps. Without question, he was more than just attractive—he was achingly handsome. His eyes were a rich and deep brown. He wore a plaid flannel shirt with tones that matched his eyes. He also had on a burnt orange vest—his look was rugged and yet, casually trendy.
Despite everything, Everly’s heart gave a flutter.
His outfit was hardly anyone’s idea of a uniform. But in an out-of-the-way place like Pleasant Pines, Wyoming, who knew?
“Are you Sheriff Haak?” Her voice trembled as an electric charge danced across her skin.
“Sorry, no.” The man smiled and hitched his chin toward the office behind him. “He’s in there.”
Everly’s face flamed red and hot. She had no reason to be embarrassed for the mistake, and yet she was. Immediately, she knew why. She’d been hoping all along that the tall, dark and gorgeous stranger might be the local law in these parts.
What a cliché.
The stranger stood and held out his palm to Everly. She ignored the offered hand and stood as well, taking time to zip her purse closed. Gaze still on the floor, Everly’s eyes burned with tears that threatened to fall. How could she feel anything beyond miserable? When she looked up, the man was walking down the hallway.
Exhaling heavily, Everly entered the sheriff’s office. Two desks, both empty, sat next to windows that overlooked the town square and gazebo. At the back of the room was an inner office with the sheriff’s name stenciled onto the glass panel of the door with black paint.
Sitting behind his desk, Sheriff Haak wore a dark brown uniform and a khaki-colored tie. A six-sided tin star and gun completed his outfit. In his sixties, balding and with a definite paunch, he looked much more like a grandfather than the Adonis she had just run into. Everly decided it was all for the best that she not let anything distract her from her goal—finding out what really happened to Axl.
“Ms. Baker, I presume,” said the sheriff as he rose from his seat. He waved her into his office. “I’m sorry to meet under such terrible circumstances.”
Everly approached and tried to speak, but sadness strangled her words and she just nodded.
“Sit, please,” said Sheriff Haak as he gestured to a chair opposite his desk. As she sat, he reached for an opened folder. “An autopsy is required in Wyoming to determine cause of death. First, you’ll need to see the body and give an identification. I warn you, it may be difficult—”
“I know,” said Everly, interrupting what she imagined was a well-worn speech. “I’ve already been to the morgue.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I met with Doc Lambert and identified the body.” She sighed. “It’s my brother’s.”
“That’s not how we do things around here,” said the sheriff.
“I heard,” said Everly, “I’m not interested in procedures. Only in finding out what happened to Axl.”
“Doc Lambert is as good a medical man as you’ll find anywhere, and will conduct a full examination. After that, you can take your brother’s body back to Illinois. I’d have to say that the ME’s findings will be like mine. Sadly, we have several cases like this each year—tourists who don’t understand the danger of the mountains. The way I see it, your brother died of exposure and his death was accidental.”
“You’re wrong,” she said.
The sheriff spluttered. “I’m what?”
She had gone through the scenario several times in her mind, but now that she had the chance to plead her case the reasoning seemed thin. No, she reminded herself. It wasn’t her case. She was here for Axl. And Everly would be damned if she was going to let a small-town sheriff talk her out of what she knew to be true.
“My brother was an experienced outdoorsman. He worked as a wildlife photographer,” she continued. “He was here for his job—and more than that, he’d never wander off alone. He was murdered.” There, she’d said it.
“Hold on a second.” The sheriff poked the desk with his finger. “With all due respect—this isn’t some big city, where folks get shot on every corner. Pleasant Pines is a nice, quiet town with nice people, and I’ve kept them all safe for decades.” The sheriff leaned forward, his tone softening. “I’m sure this is all very hard for you to accept.”
“My brother had been a wildlife photographer for more than twelve years. Even if he did end up lost on a cold night, he’d know what to do.” Everly knew she had to convince the man. “My brother has photographed Alaska’s Denali National Park in winter. He’s also done photo shoots of Death Valley at noon in July.” She pressed on. “What about his camera? Did you look at the pictures he’d taken so far? There might be some kind of photographic evidence.”
The sheriff leaned forward in his chair. “There wasn’t a camera found with the body,” he said pointedly.
Everly went numb. She’d given Axl a top-of-the-line camera for his thirtieth birthday two years ago. It cost as much as her last month’s rent and he kept it with him always. “Are you sure?”
The sheriff slid a piece of paper across the desk. “This is the list of all his belongings from the scene. I catalogued everything myself. There’s no camera.”
Her pulse began to hammer, and her breath froze in her chest. She scanned the list, not seeing anything. “This doesn’t make any sense. If my brother wasn’t taking pictures, why was he outside in the middle of the night?”
“Even a seasoned outdoorsman, like your brother, could’ve gotten lost,” said the sheriff. “I’ve likely been sheriff longer than you’ve been alive, Ms. Baker. In my experience, in cases like this, there’s alcohol involved. And if your brother’d been drinking...” His voice trailed off, but she heard the implication loud and clear.
She couldn’t deny that the sheriff’s explanation was plausible. Sure, it had been years since the last time her brother drank. But, more than once, Axl had sworn off drinking, then fallen back into old habits. Was the explanation really so simple? She wasn’t sure, but Everly refused to give up on her brother so easily.
“Have you searched for his camera?” she asked.
“Until now, I didn’t know to look for one.”
“Well, you should see what you can find.”
Sheriff Haak gave an exasperated sigh. “Ms. Baker, why don’t you let me do my job?”
Biting off what she really wanted to say, Everly clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. This man wasn’t going to be any help, she could tell. That meant it was up to Everly to discover the truth. “Then if you can point me in the direction of where my brother’s body was found, I’ll look myself.”
“Can’t do that.”
The hollow nothingness of grief was slowly replaced with a seething fury. She managed to keep her voice calm and steady. “Why not?”
“First, you could contaminate the scene,” he said. “But there’s more. Your brother was found on private property. You’d need the owner’s permission to go traipsing around his land. He was the one who found Axl Baker, by the way, and called in the report.”
Jaw still tight, she asked, “Can you introduce me to the owner of the property?”
“Don’t need to. You’ve met him already.”
Before Everly could ask what in the world the sheriff meant, he said. “Wyatt Thornton—he’s the man who almost knocked you ass-over-teakettle at the door.”
Not bothering with a goodbye, Everly rose to her feet and rushed into the corridor. She knew it was probably a bad idea to blow off the sheriff like this, but she refused to miss a chance at finding Wyatt Thornton and learning everything he knew.
But where had he gone?
She pushed out the front door and stood in the bitter cold. Luckily, Wyatt Thornton was tall, and therefore easy to find. He stood on the opposite side of the square with a large tank of propane in each hand. He began to cross the street and she rushed after him.
“Mr. Thornton,” she called. “Mr. Thornton, can I speak to you for a minute!”
His pace increased.
She ran after him, her lungs burning with the thin mountain air.
He stopped next to a blue pickup truck and set the tanks in the rear bed, before strapping them in place. He removed a set of keys from his pocket.
“Mr. Thornton,” she said as she advanced, her breath ragged. “That is you, right? I need your help.”
Without a word, he opened the door. “I thought you said you didn’t want my assistance.”
So that’s how he was going to act? Childish? Everly swallowed down the sharpest edges of her anger. “Look, I’m sorry if I was rude before. But I need to speak to you. It’s important, Mr. Thornton.”
“Wyatt,” he said.
“What?”
“Call me Wyatt.”
“Okay, Wyatt, I just need a few minutes of your time.”
He didn’t ask what she needed, but neither did he walk away, so Everly continued. “The sheriff told me that you found my brother’s body yesterday. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Nothing.
Repeating what she’d told the sheriff, she said, “My brother was a wildlife photographer. If he was out in the middle of the night, it was for a reason—likely some assignment or other. Did you find his camera?”
Shaking his head, Wyatt said, “I didn’t, but I didn’t know to look for one, either.”
It was the same thing the sheriff had told her. “If I could just get your permission and some directions, I could take a look. I won’t be a bother, I promise.”
“Sorry, but no.”
“No?” she asked, her voice reedy. “Why not?”
“I told the sheriff everything. The investigation’s up to him.”
“I just want to see where you found his body. It might help me understand what happened. He was my brother, my only family.” She paused, hating that she had shared more than she intended—hating even more that she was about to beg. “I really need answers. Please.”
For a long moment, Wyatt said nothing. Everly could sense the war raging in his mind, see the furrows between his brow, his jaw flex.
“Please,” she whispered again.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I can’t get involved, and letting you come out to my place won’t bring your brother back.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Wyatt looked at the ground as he scraped his toe on the cracked sidewalk. “The medical examiner’s report will be in later today or tomorrow. After that, you’ll have the answers you need.”
Another thought came to Everly—Wyatt Thornton was hiding something. To hell with being polite—she was done. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“The mountains are a hard place to survive, even with training. Accidents happen. The death of your brother is a monumental life event and you want it to have a greater meaning than just...he simply ran into bad luck.” He met her gaze. “But sometimes that’s all you have—a lousy destiny. I hope the autopsy gives you the answers you need.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Go home, anyway. There’s nothing here for you,” he said, not without sympathy.
With that, Wyatt Thornton got behind the wheel. She remained rooted to the spot as he started the engine and backed up. She watched as he drove down the main road and out of town.
He wanted her to go home—give up was more like it. Well, if he thought that she was going to be that easy to get rid of, Wyatt Thornton had better think again.

Chapter 2 (#u1a1c30fa-d106-5a39-91c5-0226220446aa)
Everly parked in front of the Pleasant Pines Inn, a sprawling late 19th century building of stone and timber that overlooked the town. It was the only hotel for miles and while it wasn’t a five-star property on Michigan Avenue, it had loads of charm and would suit her needs nicely.
Trailing her suitcase behind her, she approached the front desk. A tall and muscular woman, with her blond hair pulled into a tight bun, greeted Everly with a smile. “May I help you?”
“I need a room,” said Everly, stating the obvious.
“Reservations?” the woman asked.
In her haste to get out of Chicago, Everly hadn’t bothered with the online registration. “No,” Everly said. “I hope you have something available.” If not, she’d have to make the three hour commute from Cheyenne.
The desk clerk tapped on a computer keyboard. “You’re in luck. We have one room available, second floor. There’s also a pub on-site along with a restaurant that serves dinner and breakfast. Both open today at five o’clock.” She pointed in the direction of the establishments as she spoke. “What brings you to Pleasant Pines?”
Without question, the clerk was the most helpful person she’d met in Pleasant Pines. Everly read her name tag. “Darcy, can you tell me if Axl Baker had a room here?”
The desk clerk looked over her shoulder before answering in a low voice. “He did...but Mr. Baker’s room is off-limits by the order of Sheriff Haak.”
At least Everly knew for certain that her brother had been at this hotel. The question was, how could she get the sheriff to let her search her brother’s room? Or rather, she knew that answer—he wouldn’t. What she needed was a way, legal or not, to get inside the room.
She didn’t have much time to plan, so her strategy was simple. Yet, it might just work.
Coughing, Everly touched her throat. “Any chance I can get a bottle of water?”
Darcy held up one finger. “Just a second, I can grab you one from the back.”
Heart racing, Everly waited until the other woman disappeared through a doorway. On tiptoe, she looked over the edge of the counter. Papers. Pens. A computer keyboard. She lifted a pile of papers and it fell out. It was the size and shape of a credit card with two stylized pine trees intertwined with the words Pleasant Pines in gilt script. Written in marker were four other words, the ones she needed to see: Front desk. Total access.
She’d found a passkey. Score.
She didn’t hesitate and slipped the keycard into the palm of her hand. She put the papers on the desk and stepped back just as Darcy returned.
“Here you go,” she said, holding out the water.
Everly took the bottle awkwardly with her left hand. “Thanks,” she said, slipping her right hand into her pocket, where she deposited the stolen card.
Reaching for the handle of her suitcase, she turned from the front desk. How many rooms did this inn have and, more important, how would she find out which one had been her brother’s?
“Ms. Baker?” Darcy called.
Everly increased her pace, as if she could outrun the awful truth that she had stolen a key to every door in the hotel.
“Ms. Baker? Ms. Baker?”
Damn, she’d been caught. Everly tried to think of an excuse. Nothing came to mind. Her mouth went dry. She stopped and turned around. “Yes?”
“You forgot your key.” Darcy held up a keycard, a twin to the one she had in her pocket, save for the note in marker. “Room two twenty-three. Second floor. The elevator is at the end of the hallway.”
Everly swayed as her knees went weak. She was determined to find out what really happened to her brother, a few rules be damned. And yet, she was hardly used to a life of crime. What she was used to—and quite good at—was public relations, which meant knowing her customer. If her read on Darcy was right, the other woman was likely to be helpful and sympathetic.
“Thanks,” she said again. Then she asked, “Do you happen to remember Axl Baker? He’s my brother. He was my brother.” Everly’s voice cracked on the last word.
Darcy lowered her eyes. “I heard what happened. I’m so sorry, hon.” She lifted her gaze to Everly’s. “I wasn’t at work when he checked in, but he did come through the lobby on his way to and from the pub.”
The pub. Had Axl decided to have a beer? Or more? It wouldn’t have been the first time he thought that he could handle a little alcohol and been wrong. Hadn’t she worried that eventually out-of-control drinking would be the death of him? More than that, the sheriff had all but predicted that drinking was involved in the accidental death.
That was, if Axl’s death was an accident. “Any idea what he was doing?”
“I’m not sure,” said Darcy with a shake of her head. “He wasn’t there long—thirty minutes or so.” She paused and bit her bottom lip. “The bartender comes in at four o’clock—she might remember something.”
Everly checked her phone for the time. 12:04 p.m. What might Everly discover in the next three and a half hours?
Did it really matter in light of the fact that Axl was gone? Was what Wyatt Thornton had said been true? Did Everly want a monumental explanation for a simple set of facts? No. She owed her brother the truth and she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t find out what happened.
“Oh, if you could talk to the bartender and see what she remembers I would so appreciate it,” said Everly with a small smile. “You’d be the first person actually trying to help me around here.”
Turning, she wheeled her luggage down the main corridor. There were a dozen rooms on the first floor, and she guessed there were twice as many on the second. A deep green runner stretched the entire length of the hallway, with identical doors on each side. Brass numbers were affixed to each door, along with a keycard entry.
Since she had no idea which room had belonged to her brother, Everly decided a room-by-room search was in order. She also decided to start on the second floor, when something caught her eye. A paper tag had been placed over one of the locks. Do Not Disturb had been preprinted on the label. But it was the printed memo from the Pleasant Pines sheriff’s office on the door that caught her attention:
No entry by order of the Sheriff’s Department.
Bingo.
Everly didn’t want to wait another minute to get into her brother’s room. Looking over her shoulder, she found that the corridor was empty. After fishing the passkey from her pocket, she opened the door. Even before she stepped into the room, she knew she’d found the right place. It smelled like Axl. It was a combination of grass and dirt. No matter the occasion, Axl always smelled like the outdoors. Yet, to smell it now was both cruel and beautiful. She bit the inside of her lip hard enough to staunch a new flood of tears.
To Everly, it looked like the sheriff’s deputies had already gone through the place. All the clothes had been taken from the suitcase and were piled haphazardly on one of the beds—something Axl wouldn’t do. Likewise, the closet doors were open, his jackets thrown next to the pile.
A fine gray powder covered the dresser. The nightstand. Even the TV remote. It must be fingerprint powder.
For a moment, she wondered about all the crime shows she’d ever watched on TV. Was she contaminating the room, with her fingerprints or hair, just by being here? Then again what she needed were facts about what happened if she wanted to get the sheriff to look into Axl’s death.
Setting aside her suitcase, she left the door slightly ajar. The curtains had been drawn and only a sliver of light shone through the place where the seams did not meet. In the dim light, she scanned the nondescript hotel room. A bureau with a TV stood against one wall. A mirror hung just to the left. A desk was next to the bureau. A chair and small table took up a corner.
There were also two beds. Both were made, but one had an opened suitcase and a shaving kit piled on it, but no camera. She riffled through the suitcase and patted down the pile of his clothes. In the pocket of a fleece jacket, she found Axl’s cell phone.
Alarm bells began ringing in her mind. Like the camera, Axl was never without his phone. Everly picked it up and pressed the home button. At one time her thumbprint had been programmed into the phone. But was it still?
Holding her breath, she waited.
The home screen appeared. She scrolled through the texts—all from his work. There were no voice mails. She checked his calendar...and found one entry.
9:00 p.m. March 21. Meet at bar.
So, he had gone to the bar to meet someone. But who? More than that, was the sheriff right? Had her brother been drunk and foolish?
Everly heard the whisper of a sound and turned. As her gaze passed over the mirror, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy form. Blood froze in her veins and she began to scream. The sound died in her throat as a sharp pain filled her skull. Everly stumbled, her legs no longer able to hold her upright.
And then she pitched forward, falling into a pool of blackness.


The engine revved as it climbed the hill. The wrought iron gate that led to Wyatt’s property stood open and inviting. In the distance, he saw the wide porch of his refurbished farmhouse. The newly installed solar panels winked in the early afternoon light. Pressing down on the accelerator, he rocketed past the driveway, cursing himself for what he was about to do.
Three years ago, Wyatt walked away from the FBI, after realizing he could no longer trust his instincts. So why was he now returning to the place where Axl Baker’s body had been found? Did he not have any confidence in the sheriff? Had Baker’s sister goaded him into looking for something that may not exist?
Or was it what he feared—that the similarities to his final case proved that he was still stuck in the past after all this time?
Wyatt didn’t like any of the possibilities.
Nothing that happened was really any of Wyatt’s business. Yet, he couldn’t let it go.
It was almost twelve fifteen when the turnoff for the old schoolhouse came into view. Pulling onto the shoulder, Wyatt turned off the ignition. With a final curse, he leaped from the truck. Wind whipped off the mountains and howled as it danced along the plain. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his vest, he walked slowly to the rutted track.
He kneeled next to a sapling. The little tree was hardly higher than ten inches, and yet it had been snapped in half. Wyatt recalled the sheriff clambering out of his large truck, the undercarriage more than a foot off the ground. There was no way that the big truck had broken the little tree.
If not Haak’s vehicle, then what had?
On foot, Wyatt followed the path. It was as if every plant that grew above four inches had been mowed down. Definitely done by the grille of something low—most likely a sedan. Was it a clue to a mystery, or simply an oddity with a reasonable explanation?
Clouds roiled at the peaks of the Rockies, promising to bring cold, wind and more snow. In less than ten minutes, he’d covered the last half of a mile and the little schoolhouse came into view.
The first thing he noticed was that the stench of death was gone—once the body had been taken away, no doubt the structure had been able to air out. Yellow-and-black police tape had been stretched across the door, barring entry. But it was more of a warning than a true obstacle and Wyatt ducked underneath to enter the single room. Without the body, the space seemed bigger and brighter. Less ominous.
Wyatt spent a minute trying to imagine the room in a bygone era, with a score of children sitting obediently behind rows of wooden desks. The image never held, and his mind returned to what he had seen yesterday. The body. Stone and wood. Sunlight and shadow.
A gust of wind shook the walls and sent a leaf skittering across the floor. Bit by bit, the natural world was laying claim to the structure. He kneeled and picked up the leaf, twisting it between his fingers. Yesterday the floor had been clean, and now not.
There had to be something that he’d missed.
Thinking back to Everly Baker’s insistence about her brother’s habits, Wyatt stepped back outside, scanning the ground around the cabin for any sign of Axl’s missing camera. The glint of metal. Glass, reflecting the light.
There was nothing.
With his back to the door, Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest and looked across the horizon. The mountains. The plains. The sky. And him alone in the world, just like he wanted.
Still, the mystery of Axl Baker’s death was now, uncomfortably, a part of him, like dirt tattooed into the creases of his knuckles. The unanswered questions lingered, pinging away at him like popcorn in a hot pan. A body with no evident cause of death. No signs that the deceased had struggled, either. The floor, that yesterday was swept clean. Plants, broken on the trail. The missing camera. The sister, desperate for answers.
Each was a piece to a puzzle. But in reality—together, did they create a picture? Or were they even connected in the first place?
Was the broken vegetation a clue? Not really, especially when Wyatt considered that the medical examiner would’ve followed the same path when he came to collect the body. The dirt-free floor was harder to explain but wasn’t impossible.
But what about Everly Baker? He had the power to help her. What had he offered? Nothing but trite advice. Definitely not his finest hour.
He spoke her name out loud. “Everly Baker.” The wind stole the words before he could decide if he liked the way they tasted.
The feeling of their accidental touch lingered on his fingertips. Her skin had been soft, and a sweetly spicy scent surrounded her. It was somehow homey and sexy at the same time. Her eyes, a jade green, had spoken of sadness and strength.
He rubbed his fingers on his jeans.
But it had been there, something he hadn’t felt—or wanted to feel—for such a long time. It was a connection with another person.
He’d come to Wyoming three years before to escape. Escape the scrutiny of higher-ups. Escape all of the questions from the media. Escape the stress, and, most important, escape the doubts that constantly nagged him, even in his dreams.
No. He wouldn’t get involved in the unexplained death. He’d left the need to hunt down killers in his past life—that was, if Axl Baker hadn’t died of natural causes. A few stray snowflakes danced on the wind. He looked at the mountains and the peak was gone—completely obscured by the clouds. Soon enough, the storm would be in the valley and Wyatt didn’t want to be caught lingering by the old schoolhouse.
Turning back to the track, Wyatt began the walk to his waiting truck. From there, he’d take the road home and return to the life that kept him safe. Sheltered.
Alone.


Everly was swimming. The water was dark and cold. The surface hovered above her, just out of reach. A voice called to her from the shore.
“Ms. Baker? Ms. Baker? Can you hear me?”
Everly wanted to speak, but her mouth filled with murky water. Gasping, she broke the surface and found that she was lying on a carpeted floor. She could feel a rough mark imprinted on her cheek, yet nothing else seemed real.
“Ms. Baker?” A tall blond woman was kneeling next to Everly.
And then it all came back to her—Axl’s death, his missing camera, her stealing the keycard to get into his room. But why was she on the floor?
“Ms. Baker, can you hear me?” It was the woman who worked at the front desk and her name was Darcy; she now remembered that, too.
“What happened?” Everly’s mouth was dry, her lip was tender.
“I came down the hall and saw that the door was opened a bit. I thought maybe one of the deputies had come by. I almost closed it without looking, but I peeked in and saw you on the floor.”
Everly sat up—the back of her head throbbed. She glanced at the bedside clock. She’d only been out for a few minutes. “I was hit,” she said, recalling the single glimpse of the silhouette in the mirror.
“Hit?” echoed Darcy. Her voice was a whisper. “By who?”
“I didn’t see a face,” said Everly. “Just a shadow.”
“Are you sure? There wasn’t anyone in the hall. Nobody came through the lobby, either.”
“Well, I know what I saw, and I know what happened to me,” Everly insisted.
“You wait here,” said Darcy as she got to her feet. “I’m going to call Sheriff Haak, and the doctor, too. A hit to the head that’s strong enough to knock you out probably gave you a concussion.”
The sheriff? So far Darcy hadn’t pressed Everly for how she got into the room, even though it was obvious. What would the sheriff say? Certainly, Everly had broken at least one law when she stole the keycard and entered a room that wasn’t hers—the official order to stay out notwithstanding.
Then again, Everly would bet anything that the attack hadn’t been random. She’d been targeted. That didn’t put anyone else at risk, but it left her exposed. The bump on the back of her head was a warning—nothing more. If anyone wanted her dead, they could’ve easily killed her in the minutes that she was unconscious. The thought left her chilled, and she crossed her arms over her chest to staunch a tremble.
“Hold on a second,” she called to Darcy. Everly stood slowly, the throbbing at the back of her head increasing in tempo and intensity. “I’m not sure that I was hit. I mean, I hit the back of my head—but I might have fainted and come down on the edge of the nightstand.”
“You were so sure you’d been attacked just a minute ago.”
“My brother died unexpectedly, and I flew all night from Chicago to be here. I was standing in his room and it smells like he did, you know. It was overwhelming.” Everly sighed and touched the lump on the back of her head. She winced. “To be honest, there’s nothing that I’m actually sure of right now.”
“Even if you don’t know, you should still talk to the sheriff.”
“I really don’t want him involved.”
Darcy shook her head. “You have been through a lot and I don’t want to make trouble for you. Just, please, don’t make any more trouble for yourself. Sheriff Haak is a good man—he’ll figure out what happened.”
“I hope so,” said Everly.
“If you fell, you still need to see a doctor. I can call him for you.”
“I’ve met Doc Lambert already. I’ll get in touch once I get to my room,” said Everly, even though she had no intention of calling anyone.
“Are you sure?” asked Darcy.
As if to prove that she was fit, Everly grabbed the handle of her suitcase and rolled it from the room. “Positive,” she said, then added, “Thanks for everything.”
Darcy followed Everly and pulled the door closed. “Call the front desk if you need anything at all—that’s legal at least.”
Everly held out the purloined keycard. “Sorry about that,” she said.
Darcy took the card. “Just don’t do it again, and we’ll be even.”
After giving the desk clerk a wave, she walked to the elevator. Thank goodness Everly knew how to sell a story. In fact, her bit about fainting had been so convincing that Everly almost believed it herself. Now that she didn’t have to deal with the sheriff, she needed to find out who would want to keep her away from Axl’s death.
In her estimation, there was only one suspect. It was the same man who wanted her gone and had also found her brother’s body.
Everly wheeled the luggage to her room and entered. Despite the fact that her head still throbbed, she sat at the desk. Removing her laptop, she powered it up and entered two words into the search engine. Wyatt Thornton.
There wasn’t much on the internet about Wyatt Thornton. A real-estate transaction, along with a local address. She wrote down the address. And a notice that he’d adopted a dog from a county rescue.
There had to be more. In this day and age, nobody lived off the grid. And if they did, it was because they didn’t want to be found.
She tried again. W. Thornton.
The search was met with a question. Did you mean Special Agent W. Thornton? Thousands of hits followed. She scanned headlines from articles about a notorious serial killer in Las Vegas and the FBI profiler in charge of the case: W. Thornton. She moved the cursor to hover over the No icon. Then she stopped. Her eye was drawn to a photograph of several FBI agents, and one of them was unquestionably the same one she met earlier today, Wyatt Thornton.
His hair was longer now, with just a touch of gray that he hadn’t had when the photo had been taken years ago. The suit he wore had been replaced with jeans, but it was him.
Immediately she wondered why he’d come to Wyoming and, more important, why not tell Everly if he had a professional opinion about her brother’s death?
She clicked on the article, which was four years old. A string of killings—all single men—had stunned the hard-to-shock city of Las Vegas. The FBI, through their behavioral scientist, Thornton, had a suspect. On closer scrutiny, the suspect had an alibi for one of the killings. It was a fact that had been missed, or possibly suppressed, by Thornton.
The media didn’t have a killer, but they had an incompetent or possibly dishonest FBI agent. Thornton had been crucified by the press. And the killings? They stopped. One subsequent article wondered if it hadn’t been a fabrication of Thornton’s all along.
For a moment, she felt sorry for Wyatt. And then she wondered—if he’d have come to her for public-relations help, what would she have said? Probably that he should move someplace where no one knew who he was, or didn’t care.
At least she knew what he’d been trying to hide and why he wanted no part of a possible murder investigation.
She hesitated for only a minute before pushing back from the desk. She grabbed the keys to her rental car. As she picked up the hastily copied address, she made a decision. Wyatt Thornton had investigated murders before. He was an expert in unexplained crimes. He would know how to put all the puzzle pieces together and his was an expertise she was determined to use.

Chapter 3 (#u1a1c30fa-d106-5a39-91c5-0226220446aa)
Wyatt sat behind his desk and stared at the computer screen. Nearby, a fire crackled in the hearth. Gus was lying in the middle of the room, soaking up the warmth. Eyes closed, the dog’s chest rose and fell with each breath.
Call it a compulsion, but despite vowing that he’d leave the Axl Baker investigation alone, Wyatt had dug an old case file from where he stored his important paperwork in the spare bedroom. He’d also opened an internet search for the deceased. So far, there was nothing of interest. Criminal record: two DUIs along with one violation of the Illinois open-container law. All three incidents had occurred more than seven years ago.
Wyatt also found a testimonial from Axl detailing his time in a Chicago addiction treatment center, along with several of his photographs that were part of an auction held five years back. Since that time, there’d been nothing.
Professionally, Baker was a successful photographer who worked freelance for some of the world’s most popular nature magazines. Just as his sister had said, he had plenty of experience to survive a night or two outside in the wilderness. Could it be suicide? It was impossible to really know anyone. Still, taking his own life didn’t seem to fit the profile here.
Gus lifted his head and looked toward the window, letting out a bark.
He heard the engine a moment before he saw the car’s light cutting through the gathering storm. A car turned from the main road onto his driveway. The promised snow had arrived, and the car’s headlights illuminated the flakes as they fell.
Standing at the window, Wyatt peered into the storm. Gus moved to his side and lifted his paws to the sill, barking as the car pulled up to the house.
“I see her, boy.” Even from a distance, he could see the driver—Everly Baker. The feeling of her hand beneath his fingertips returned. The memory ran up his arm and traveled down his spine. With a shiver, he threw another log on the fire.
Gus began to bark in earnest and Wyatt saved the internet search for Axl Baker, then powered down his computer. The doorbell chimed, and he paused a moment. Everly Baker was the first visitor to his house and Wyatt’s jaw instinctively tightened.
He glanced around the room—sofa, desk, easy chair. TV on the wall. Exposed wooden beams on the ceiling. He’d done all the work to the house himself, knocking down walls to create a single room. More that, Wyatt had kept the original moldings and window seat. Through all his time and effort he had created more than a home—a refuge.
Yet, he hadn’t dedicated years to have his house invaded by an uninvited guest.
He opened the door and there she was, on his stoop, hand lifted and ready to knock. The wind whipped through her hair, making it look like she was surrounded by flames. She was more than beautiful, she was fierce—the vengeful goddess of a Celtic clan. Then he reminded himself that her problem was not his and he decided to be as unfriendly as possible. “What do you want?”
Gus nosed past Wyatt, his tail wagging. The dog approached Everly, panting.
She bent down and ran her hands through the dog’s coat. “Well, who’s a handsome boy?”
The dog licked Everly’s chin. So much for being unfriendly. She giggled.
“Gus, come here.”
His order went ignored.
“Gus,” he said, dropping his voice.
The dog looked over his shoulder and trotted to stand at Wyatt’s side.
“Sweet dog,” said Everly, rising to her feet.
Wyatt shrugged. “You didn’t come here to meet my dog. What do you want?”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said.
“It’s freezing out here and I just want to talk to you for a minute.” She blew on her hands and rubbed them together. “I bet Gus has a warm belly that he likes to have rubbed.”
The dog barked excitedly. Wyatt opened the door. “You can have a minute but leave my dog’s belly alone.”
After leading her to the den, he gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.”
She sat as he took a chair opposite her. She slipped out of her coat and Wyatt took a moment to admire her outfit and the way it molded to her curves. A long, cream colored sweater accentuated her breasts and a pair of leggings skimmed over her long legs. Despite the simplicity of her outfit, Everly Baker was chic and totally out of place in his modified farmhouse.
“I won’t waste your time with small talk,” she began. “I need your help.”
“Lady,” he said. “I’m the wrong person to come to for help.”
She ignored his statement and continued to speak. “There’s something wrong regarding my brother’s death and I don’t know what it is. I get the feeling the sheriff wants this all to go away quickly and aside from him, there’s no one I can trust.” Everly paused, then said, “Except you.”
“What makes you think I’m trustworthy?”
Gus wandered to the sofa and placed his head on Everly’s lap.
Traitor.
“I did a little Googling.” She stroked the top of Gus’s head and continued, as if talking to the dog. “It wasn’t like the information was hard to find. I know who you are, Special Agent Thornton. More than that, I know that you can help me figure out what happened to my brother.”
Wyatt hadn’t been called Special Agent for years. Nor did he ever want to hear his old title spoken again. His insides turned cold and hard. “You really should leave.”
“The press didn’t treat you fairly,” Everly continued as if he hadn’t just ordered her from his home. “I mean, it’s their job to sell papers and get viewers—but I don’t think you did anything wrong.”
Who was she to decide how he’d been treated? She wasn’t there. She didn’t know what it was to have his life ruined by innuendo and implications. Rising to his feet, he pointed to the door. “Out,” he said.
Everly lifted her palms. “Like I said, I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. I need an expert and you’re an expert. I need you. I can pay, if that’s the problem. Just name your price.”
“My past is none of your business and I’m definitely not interested in your money.” His pulse raced, pounding in his skull. Clenching his teeth, Wyatt said, “Get the hell out of my house and don’t ever come back.”
Gus whimpered and slunk to his bed in the corner.
Everly stood. All the color drained from her cheeks, leaving her chalky. She drew in a deep breath. It didn’t do much for her complexion. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.”
Snorting, Wyatt said, “You’re kidding, right? You look me up on the internet, find out all my dirty secrets, get my address and then come to my house uninvited? The only thing you’ve done is invade my privacy.”
With a nod, Everly turned to go. She picked up her coat from the sofa and slid it over her shoulders. “You’re right,” she said. “I didn’t care anything about your privacy, but I need to know what happened to my brother. I snuck into his hotel room and was attacked. That’s why I found you on the internet—”
“Attacked?” Wyatt interrupted. “By whom?”
With a shake of her head, Everly said, “They came up from behind and hit me hard enough to knock me out. When I found out who you are—were—I knew I had to ask for help. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“What did the sheriff say about the attack?” Wyatt really had to stop acting like he cared. Someone might get the wrong idea.
Everly regarded him for a moment. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles. She didn’t just look tired, she looked exhausted. “I imagine Sheriff Haak would be more upset that I broke into Axl’s room than that I’d been assaulted.”
“I’m sure you know that you shouldn’t be driving if you’d lost consciousness.”
“I was healthy enough to drive out here, wasn’t I?”
“No offense, but you look like crap.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You just look like you’ve had a rough day, that’s all.”
“The worst of my life,” she said. Her eyes shone with tears and she looked away.
Wyatt hesitated. Against his better judgment, he could feel his resolve softening slightly. “If you looked me up on the internet, then you can guess why I don’t want to get involved in any suspicious deaths.”
“You think there’s something to investigate?”
“I didn’t say that,” Wyatt retorted. “I meant that there’s no immediate medical reason for your brother to have died.”
“Axl was found on your property, right? You can take me there now and show me where you found him, at least. Maybe we can find his camera. It wasn’t in his room, which means it’s still out there, somewhere. There’s got to be a link or a clue.”
Wyatt refused to admit that she was right. He also refused to admit that he’d already looked for the camera but found nothing. He turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows and saw nothing but the whiteness of the swirling snow. “There’s no real road out to the old schoolhouse, just a rutted track. With weather like this, it’d be easy to get disoriented or stranded. So, I’m not going out there until the weather clears, and neither are you.” He exhaled, realizing that he was about to make the worst decision of his entire life. “I’ll give you a ride back to town while the roads are clear, though. You shouldn’t be driving with a head injury and in a storm, no less.” He held up a hand to stop her protest. “And, I’ll agree to review all the facts and evidence that we have so far. If there’s something that doesn’t seem right about your brother, I’ll talk to Sheriff Haak personally.”


Back in Pleasant Pines, Everly stood on the sidewalk in front of a restaurant. The wind was turning the snow into projectiles that left the skin on her face raw. The lump at the back of her head thumped with each beat of her heart. “Pie?” she said, echoing Wyatt’s last word.
“Yeah, pie. Flaky crust. Filling of choice.”
A lock of hair blew across her face and she pulled it away. “Why pie?”
Wyatt lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “I like pie,” he said. “It’s like a ritual. Helps me think.” Pulling open the glass door, he gestured for her to enter. “Come on. Let’s get out of the cold.”
Everly stepped into Sally’s on Main. Half a dozen booths lined the wall by the door. Opposite was a counter with stools and in between sat several small tables. Aside from another couple in the back booth and a woman behind the counter, the restaurant was empty.
Wyatt slid into a booth halfway back and Everly took the opposite seat. The woman from behind the counter approached with a pen and order pad in hand.
“Hey, sugar,” the older woman said to Wyatt. “What can I get for you?”
“Got some apple pie, Sally?”
“Sure do,” she said. “You want that warmed and served with ice cream?”
“Is there any other way?” asked Wyatt. “And a cup of coffee.”
Sally turned to Everly. “What about you, hon?”
“I’d love some apple pie, thanks.”
The couple from the back of the restaurant stood and walked forward. The man, tall with a shaved head, nodded a greeting at Everly, then glanced at Wyatt and stopped abruptly. “Wyatt? Wyatt Thornton? I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Marcus?” Wyatt got to his feet and shook the other man’s hand. “Marcus Jones, it’s great to see you. What’re you doing in Pleasant Pines?”
“I’m grabbing a late lunch with my friend Chloe Ryder. She’s the local district attorney.” He whistled through his teeth. “I honestly never thought I’d see you again. You disappeared after leaving the Bureau. What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“I live in Pleasant Pines.”
“Well, it’s great to see you. Wyatt, this is Chloe. Chloe, Wyatt.”
Chloe, a tall brunette with a fringe of bangs, took Wyatt’s hand. “It’s a pleasure,” she said with a smile.
“Nice to meet you, Chloe,” Wyatt said. “Ah, this is Everly Baker.” He paused, and she wondered how he was going to explain her to the duo. “She’s from Chicago.”
Pleasantries were exchanged and then Wyatt asked, “How’s work? Are you still the special agent in charge in the Denver office?”
“I left the Bureau, if you can believe that.”
“Been there, done that, have the T-shirt.”
Marcus laughed. “Anyway, I joined a private security group out of Denver and we’ve opened an office in Wyoming. What about you? Where are you working now?”
“Me?” Wyatt shook his head. “I quit altogether after what happened in Las Vegas. A quiet life suits me just fine.”
“Maybe you should stop by. You could be a great asset to the team.”
“I’m not much into being a team player anymore,” said Wyatt.
“You never know. Private security might suit you better than a quiet life.”
“Private security,” Wyatt repeated. “What does that mean? Are you a private investigator? Do you find cheating spouses?”
“We are so much more than that.” He took a pad of paper and a pen from his coat pocket and scribbled for a moment. “That’s my cell number. Call and I’ll give you the tour—tell you a few war stories. Hell, some of them might even be true.”
“I’m not interested in work, but thanks.” Wyatt waved away the offered paper.
“Take it,” said Marcus. “You never know when you might need a friend.”
Wyatt folded the sheet of paper placing it in his back pocket.
“Anyway,” said Marcus, “Chloe has to get back to work, and I’ll let you two get back to your date.”
Date. The one word hung in the air, like smoke. It reminded Everly of how handsome Wyatt Thornton was and how very long it had been since she’d actually gone out on a date. “He seems nice,” said Everly once they were alone.
“Marcus Jones is as good as they come.”
Sally returned with their pie and coffee. The conversation stalled as she set everything on the table. Everly took a bite, chewing slowly. The crust was light and buttery, the apples inside sweet, with just a touch of spice. She sighed. “You’re right,” she said. “Best pie ever.”
Wyatt smiled. “I’m glad you like it, but let’s get back to why we’re here to begin with. First, do you know what your brother was supposed to photograph?”
“A wolf-pack migration, I think,” she said. She bit her lip. “I can’t recall the magazine he was on assignment for, but I can find out.”
“Do you think he was targeted because of his work?”
She took a sip of coffee, which was surprisingly good for a diner in Nowheresville, USA. “No way. My brother was a good person and could charm the hell out of anyone. And he was good at what he did, the best photographer I’ve seen. Everyone loved Axl.”
Wyatt scooped a bite of pie into his mouth. “What else?”
Everly’s mind had been so full of possibilities, but now it was empty. Then she remembered. “The sheriff gave me a list of all Axl’s possessions.” She dug through her purse and found the folded note.
Flattening the sheet on the table, she read aloud. “Shirt, shoes, socks, wallet, three credit cards in the name of Axl James Baker. One hundred and twenty dollars in twenty-dollar bills and half of a two-dollar bill.”
“Wait,” said Wyatt. “Go back. Read the last line again, the one about the money.”
“One hundred and twenty dollars in twenty-dollar bills and half of a two-dollar bill.”
“The last case I worked.” He paused.
“The serial killer in Las Vegas,” Everly offered.
“He left a calling card of sorts on each of the victims. To avoid copycat killers, we never shared that fact with the media.” Wyatt paused and took a drink of coffee. “It was half of a two-dollar bill.”
Everly began to tremble. She grasped her hands together and asked with a whisper, “Are you saying...? Did a serial killer murder my brother?”
“It’s worse than that,” said Wyatt.
Everly couldn’t imagine what might be worse. “Really? How is that possible?”
“Not only was your brother murdered, but the killer is on the loose in Pleasant Pines. As that bump on your head proves, he knows exactly who you are—and you could very well be the next victim.”


The stench of antiseptic hung in the air and Carl Haak’s eyes watered. He leaned against the stainless steel counter and concentrated on the feeling of cold metal against his hip. The corpse of Axl Baker was laid out on a table, a cloth pulled up to his chest.
“My initial finding,” said Doctor Lambert, “is that the deceased had a blood-alcohol content of point-one-five.”
“That’s good and drunk,” said the sheriff, “and well above the legal limit, but not enough to cause death.”
Doctor Lambert was a slight man with gray hair and a pointy beard. The combination always put Carl in the mind of a billy goat. Doc Lambert stroked the end of his beard for a moment. “I don’t think so, either.”
“Then why do we have a corpse?”
“My best guess? Our Mr. Baker drank too much, got lost and either laid down to sleep it off or he passed out in the old schoolhouse. The alcohol would’ve slowed his circulation, making it easier for hypothermia to set in. He simply never woke up.”
“Are you willing to put that as the cause on a death certificate?”
Doctor Lambert stroked his beard again. “There’s no other explanation. No other trauma. No bruising anywhere. No signs of cardiac arrest. Nothing.” With a nod, he moved to the counter next to Carl and a tablet computer. After typing in a few notes, he said, “I’m calling it. Cause of death is accidental exposure. I’ll file the paperwork with the county office and the body will be ready for transport first thing in the morning.”
Carl quickly thanked the doctor and pushed open the door. He took in deep, gulping breaths as he strode down the basement hallway. A set of stairs led to the hospital’s ground floor. He avoided the main entrance and emergency room, sneaking out a side door instead.
A cold wind hit him in the face and blew away the remaining odor from the morgue. He pulled up the collar of his coat and shouldered his way through the gathering snow. Only two weeks, Carl reminded himself, and he’d be done with the bitter cold. Done with this job. Until then, a few things remained to be done.
He needed to meet with Axl Baker’s sister. And he was dreading the conversation.
Figuring she’d have checked into the Pleasant Pines Inn—since it was the only lodging in town—he headed in that direction. Walking down Main Street, he glanced in the window of Sally’s and stumbled. There, in one of the middle booths, sat Everly Baker along with Wyatt Thornton. No time like the present, he thought, so he pushed open the door and entered the restaurant.
Everly looked up and Carl lifted a hand in greeting. As he approached the booth, he said, “I saw you from outside and decided to stop. I hope you don’t mind, but I have news.”
Wyatt moved over in his seat, making room for Carl. “I’m glad you’re here, Sheriff. We have something for you, too.”
Carl didn’t exactly ignore the comment, but he didn’t want to be distracted. “I just spoke to the medical examiner. It seems your brother had a good bit of alcohol in his system. It decreases circulation and the cold and exposure likely affected his body temperature as well, no matter how good an outdoorsman you tell us he was.” He removed his hat, set it on the table and sat. “I’m sorry, Ms. Baker, but your brother’s death has been ruled as accidental.”
Everly’s cheeks reddened. “That’s impossible.”
“I know this is a shock and not what you’d hoped we’d find.” He wasn’t sure how to proceed and be delicate at the same time. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“It’s impossible,” she said again. “We have proof that he was murdered.”
Carl leaned back in the booth, looking skeptical. “Proof? What kind of proof.”
Wyatt spoke then. “When I was with the FBI, I investigated a string of killings. All the victims were white males and each body was left with half of a two-dollar bill in their pocket or wallet.”
“So?”
Wyatt pushed a sheet of paper in front of Carl. The sheriff recognized the list of Axl Baker’s belongings. Pointing to a line on the page, Wyatt said, “See...here—a two-dollar bill, and only half of it found with the body.”
“And this is your proof? That doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve gotten that money anywhere.”
“Tell me if I’m wrong but isn’t it odd to find only half a bill?” asked Everly.
“You’re wrong,” said Carl. “All you have is circumstantial evidence. You’re playing guessing games.”
“All the victims in Las Vegas had very high blood-alcohol content and had been left for dead.”
“Let me get this straight—you’re telling me that a murderer was killing people with booze? I’ve been a police officer for a long time. Too much drink will make you sick long before it’ll kill you. It’d be a tough way to murder someone.”

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