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She needed a safe haven.
After nearly a lifetime in witness protection, Emma Graves depends on the anonymity of her false identity. But when her parents die under suspicious circumstances, and Emma is framed for murder, all security is gone. There is nothing to do but run.
Cop-turned-rancher Jake Kincaid is an unlikely defender. Why would an ex-cop believe an accused killer? Still, Jake makes Emma feel safe. With his drive to protect, she knows staying on his ranch endangers them both—but now that her heart’s engaged, she’s not sure she can walk away.
The dog hopped out of the truck as soon as Jake opened the door and followed close at his heels when he went back to check on the horses. He’d just opened the back gate of the trailer when she burst into a ferocious round of barking.
“Quiet,” he shouted over the keening wind.
She barked even louder, her attention riveted on the dressing-room door at the front of the trailer.
“What, did we pick up a mouse at the last barn?” He unlocked the door and reached inside to flip on the lights, hoping it wasn’t something larger than a mouse. The last thing he needed was to find that a barn cat had hitched a ride away from that last horse farm.
But it wasn’t a barn cat staring at him from the far corner with wide hazel eyes, tousled auburn hair peeking out from beneath a knitted hat, and pale skin turning blue with cold. It was a woman huddled in a pile of horse blankets, her teeth chattering and hands trembling.
And she had his rifle pointed straight at his chest.
ROXANNE RUSTAND
lives in the country with her husband and a menagerie of pets, many of whom find their way into her books. She works part-time as a registered dietitian at a psychiatric facility, but otherwise you’ll find her writing at home in her jammies, surrounded by three dogs begging for treats, or out in the barn with the horses. Her favorite time of all is when her kids are home—though all three are now busy with college and jobs.
RT Book Reviews nominated her for a Career Achieve-ment Award in 2005, and she won the magazine’s award for Best Superromance of 2006.
She loves to hear from readers! Her snail-mail address is P.O. Box 2550, Cedar Rapids, IA 52406-2550. You can also contact her at: www.roxannerustand.com, www.shoutlife.com/roxannerustand or at her blog, where readers and writers talk about their pets at www.roxannerustand.blogspot.com.
Roxanne Rustand
Duty to Protect
Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for what he has done. If you do this, you will experience God’s peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.
—Philippians 4:6–7
In loving memory of my mom, Arline.
Contents
ONE
The soft blanket of new snow glittered under the streetlamp and muffled her steps as Emma strode from the city bus stop at the end of the block to the side door of her garage. Anxiety twisted her stomach into a tight knot of fear.
The snow could muffle the sound of someone else’s steps, too.
And even now, that unknown person could be watching her. Waiting. Just as he had waited for her father last week.
She’d been only a few feet away from her dad, pushing a cart of groceries in the busy Safeway parking lot. He’d suddenly faltered to a stop. “We’ve got to leave,” he’d whispered urgently. “I just saw—”
Then he’d fallen face-first, a widening pool of crimson spreading through the slushy snow beneath him. He died at her feet, and she hadn’t even heard the gunshot.
Had he seen his killer’s face? Why hadn’t the shooter taken her out, too? The melee of screaming frightened people running for cover would have given the shooter ample opportunity to pull the trigger, and he probably wouldn’t have missed. From the perfect placement of the single bullet in her father’s skull, the cops figured the killer possessed sniper experience.
Which meant the killer was someone sent by the drug cartel that had been trying to kill Emma and her adoptive family for years. Orphaned at the age of seven and taken in by an older, childless couple a year later, she’d longed for love and security in her new home but had found little of either.
And now even that connection to a family was gone.
Taking a slow breath, she willed away the horrific images of blood and panicking people, and willed her heartbeat to slow. I’m okay. I’m almost home.
She unlocked the door of the garage and slipped inside, then rounded the rear bumper of her old Blazer, thankful that the dark, smoke-tinted windows hid its contents. No one could look inside and guess