FBI,” he said quietly. “And I’ve never been here, understand? If I hear you told anyone different, I’ll be back and that won’t be good for you.” As he spoke, he shaped the warning, driving it like a knife into her brain until she nodded, looking disoriented.
“FBI.” She rubbed her forehead as if it hurt. “Sure—never seen you,” she repeated.
He sensed that she was afraid of him now. Pleased, he tightened his knapsack over one shoulder. After reinforcing his warning and wiping her memory of him, he headed out into the night, but it was hard to focus. His head ached and the coffee left him a little dizzy.
He heard the rumble of distant tires and the blast of a truck horn. He needed to make contact with his brother as soon as possible.
Maybe he’d chance taking the waitress’s car and driving to Albuquerque. He had her keys now, and he’d picked up the model and color of her car. Cruz hesitated, considering the idea. He’d made a deep wipe of her mind, but he wasn’t sure how long it would last. In recent weeks his skills had become unreliable. Sometimes he could pull the faintest thought from a crowded room. Other times he could barely remember his own name.
And if the waitress reported the theft, the police would be watching for her car.
The truck horn blasted again and he swung open the restaurant’s grimy front door, smiling up at the nonfunctioning surveillance camera as he left.
The truck didn’t seem to be slowing down, and a second rig was straining up the hill maybe a hundred yards back. Cruz took in the Illinois plates and the muddy windshield. Long-haul trucker with no reason to stop at a crummy little diner three hours from anywhere.
He flipped up the collar of his stolen jacket. He liked the feel of the sheepskin lining and the soft suede body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a coat this nice.
Turning away from the well-lit parking lot, he melted into the trees while an owl called somewhere in the night.
An unmarked white sedan pulled into the parking lot from the other direction. Drawing back into the shadows, Cruz studied the two men who got out.
Hard faces. Concealed carry holsters.
If they hadn’t been sent by Ryker, they were sent by someone close enough that it didn’t matter.
The restaurant door opened. The waitress walked out, looking confused. She stared at the parking lot as if she didn’t know where she was, and the men from the white car started walking toward her—the last thing Cruz needed.
Somewhere the owl cried its two-note dirge and Cruz followed the sound, his eyes cold and focused.
The owl’s dark shape cut through the darkness, headed back toward the bright lights and the woman who was turning slowly, studying the parking lot. Like a sleepwalker, she crossed beneath the big mercury lamps, one hand shading her eyes.
“Ma’am, is something wrong?” The two men were walking faster now.
Cruz watched the owl with renewed intensity. He wasn’t going back into a cage.
Not ever again.
The owl circled, dropped. The second truck was up the hill now, motor racing as it picked up speed. Cruz focused, feeling pain behind his eyes, down his neck. But the pain brought power.
The owl folded its wings and plummeted, talons extended, striking the waitress, who covered her head vainly. Cruz focused on the attack as the owl surged upward and plunged again.
The men from the sedan were shouting now as they ran toward her.
The waitress stumbled and then ran out into the path of the oncoming lights….
And screamed.
MOONLIGHT CREPT SLOWLY across the old adobe walls. The kennels were quiet. A hawk cried somewhere in the night, and the long wings of a hunting owl hissed over the juniper trees.
Baby awoke suddenly, shooting to her feet and waking Diesel, who was curled up beside her. She sniffed the air, her body tense.
In the shimmering glow her fur looked like dark water beneath new ice. Only her eyes held the snap of heat and restless energy. Though she didn’t move, all the other dogs awoke.
Soon they were standing together, noses to the wind, painted in cold moonlight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CAUGHT IN SLEEP, one foot in dreams, Kit heard a low, steady tap-tap on the roof, a rare sound in the desert.
Yawning, she burrowed back under the covers. During the last storm, Baby and Diesel had raced through the mud like creatures gone mad, scampering in circles, their heads raised to the sheeting rain. Butch and Sundance had simply lain down and rolled until they were completely encased in brown slime.
A dark nose rooted under her quilt, searched right and left, and then a second nose appeared.
“How did you guys get out of the kennel?”
Downstairs, pots clanged. Kit took a deep breath as she smelled the unmistakable aroma of coffee brewing.
Wolfe.
Hit with a sudden dose of memories from the night before, she closed her eyes. She’d heard the sound of breaking glass, armed herself with her father’s rifle and moved quietly down the hall….
And then Wolfe had knocked her weapon away, tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and dropped her in the closet.
Baby’s head appeared from under the quilt. Her tail banged loudly on the edge of the bed, signaling keen excitement. Diesel wiggled out next and laid his head at an angle over Baby’s.
“High-handed jerk,” Kit muttered. She didn’t care if the man was back or how he looked. She didn’t care why he’d come back either. She’d had a crush on Wolfe Houston for way too long, but it was over now. He was no good for her, and nothing was ever going to happen between them, so she’d packed up her memories and shipped them off to the same dead letter box that held her belief in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.
He wasn’t swooping into her life again, no way. She was over him and that was final. Guaranteed. Definite. The thought made her feel good.
Kit frowned at what Wolfe had told her about Emmett’s return and break-in. The man was nuts as well as nasty, and she had called to report him to the local police before she’d gone to sleep. The deputy was the son of her father’s best friend, and he’d assured her that Emmett would be taken into custody the following day.
More pots rattled downstairs. Diesel took off at a run, clearly hoping for edible handouts.
What was the freaking man doing down there, cooking for the 75th Infantry Division? Sighing, Kit looked at Baby, who gave two quick barks. “Okay, I’m coming. After a quick shower, everything is bound to look better. But I’ve made up my mind. I’ll eat his food—assuming it’s edible—and drink the coffee I smell brewing, and then I’ll kick him out on his tight and very attractive butt. I don’t need his kind of trouble back in my life. Not for a second.”
She’d dreamed about him for ages and planned her future around possibilities that involved him. But somewhere in the last months working with these four special dogs, Kit had grown up and gotten over her fantasies. She had important things to do with her life and she wouldn’t go on looking over her shoulder, hoping for an illusion.
Baby’s tail thumped.
Pleased with her determination, Kit threw off the covers—and fell back with a groan.
Pain hammered at her back. Her knees felt frozen. She tried again to sit up and grimaced, wishing she could tell herself it was nothing. But she knew what her X-rays looked like. After fifteen months, she’d read enough online medical articles to be nearly as conversant with her illness as her family doctor.
But that was books, and this