to the car. I need to retrieve the evidence box to send to forensics.”
Aspen took his hand as he helped her down the slippery rocks, grateful the precipitation had stopped, although the wind rustled the brush and ruffled her damp hair. Her hands and feet were numb already, the chill inside her mounting. He paused to grab the crime scene kit with the evidence bags he’d stowed inside and hoisted it in one hand while keeping the other firmly on her arm to steady her.
By the time they reached the bottom, the sound of a helicopter echoed from above, its blinking lights sweeping the terrain and promising a recovery.
The helicopter touched down in the flatter part of the canyon and two men climbed out, the pilot and another big guy, an Indian, who frowned as he stalked toward them.
Dylan stepped forward. “Ryan didn’t say he was sending you, Bia. But I’m glad he did.” He gestured toward Aspen. “This is Aspen Meadows. Aspen, Special Agent Ethan Bia. He’s an expert tracker with the Bureau.”
The Indian nodded and glanced at Aspen. “Nice to meet you, Miss Meadows.”
“Please, call me Aspen.”
“Sure.” He angled his head toward Dylan. “Ryan didn’t know what we’d find, if the shooter was still hiding around here and you might be holed up in the mountains.”
“I ran him off,” Dylan said. “But we need to collect the bullet casings and take paint samples from my car. When we find this SOB, I want to make sure we have forensics to back up an arrest.”
Ethan nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll look for the bullet casings while the pilot flies you two back. Ryan’s sending a team and a tow truck for the car. I’ll wait on them and make sure CSI processes it.”
“Thanks.” Dylan shook his head, and curved an arm around Aspen, coaxing her toward the chopper. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up and to the E.R.”
Aspen had never ridden in a helicopter but she was too cold and tired to argue, so she crawled in beside Dylan, accepted the blanket he offered and burrowed beneath it while the blades of the chopper whirled and they lifted off.
Her gaze fell to Dylan’s car where it lay upside down in the rising creek, and she flinched. They could have died and they might not have been found for days or weeks.
The realization that that was the shooter’s plan sent another shudder through her. She had to remember what had happened nine weeks ago.
Her life depended on it.
THE NEXT FEW HOURS were hectic and strained as the helicopter transported them to the emergency room in Durango, and doctors examined and treated them for scrapes and cuts. Dylan earned four stitches to his forehead, but thankfully Aspen didn’t need stitches. Still, she was bruised and battered and had suffered minor lacerations on her hands and legs.
He phoned Miguel, explained the circumstances and suggested he take Aspen home to rest before she saw Jack. Miguel promised to leave a key to Aspen’s house hidden in the mouth of the horse sculpture in her front yard.
Fatigue lined her face as he secured a vehicle, dropped the evidence he’d collected earlier at the Kenner County Crime Unit in Kenner City, and drove toward the reservation. It was early morning, the gray dawn sky filled with the shadows of another impending storm. Neither of them had slept for over twenty-four hours, and he desperately needed a shower and food.
“Where are we going?” Aspen asked.
Her labored breath as she pressed a hand to her chest indicated her ribs were bruised from the impact of the air bag. If she felt like him, every bone in her body ached.
“To your house for some sleep. Then we’ll reconnect with your family. Your cousin dropped off some groceries earlier if you’re hungry.”
“But, Dylan—”
“Don’t argue, Aspen,” he said, cutting her off. “You’ve had a lot to deal with in the past twenty-four hours and need some rest before you face your family.”
And so did he. Because he wanted to be prepared when she saw Jack for the first time. “The doctor warned that you need to take it easy and not push things for your own health.”
Wariness dimmed her features, but exhaustion and trauma outweighed any protest as her eyes slid closed. He clenched his jaw, hating the bruises on her battered skin and the fact that she’d forgotten everyone she loved. That fact alone confirmed the extent of physical and mental trauma she’d suffered.
And as much as he wanted to question her about Jack’s paternity, he had to refrain.
Earn her trust. Give her time to heal. To reconnect with her family and home and let her memories return on their own.
Or he could drive the truth deeper into her psyche.
Which meant it would be even more difficult to find out who had attacked her.
And he had to do that to protect her.
If Boyd Perkins and Sherman Watts had tried to kill her, she’d have to testify so they could put the men behind bars.
Of course, they had to find the bastards first.
And if someone else was involved…well, he’d find that out and uncover their motive. If Jack wasn’t his son and another man was in the picture…
No, he couldn’t go there yet.
But he needed to brace himself for that possibility. Couldn’t allow himself to get too close to her or the baby until he knew the truth.
Did she think he wasn’t father material? Couldn’t she contemplate a future with him?
Agitated, mind racing with questions, he drove onto the reservation toward Aspen’s. He wasn’t surprised at the small pueblo style house with its adobe colors and Native American look. During their one glorious week in Vegas together, she’d talked about life on the reservation, her love of her culture, and her desire to teach the children and instill in them the importance of their heritage.
Aspen was deep in sleep, so he parked in the stone drive, climbed out and grabbed the key, his instincts on full alert as he scanned the property.
Satisfied no one was hiding in the shadows of the trees, he left Aspen in the car while he went to search the inside. Darkness bathed the interior as he entered, and he paused to listen for sounds of an intruder.
First thing tomorrow, he’d install a security system in Aspen’s home. One that went straight to him if anyone set off the alarm.
Slowly, he crept inside the dark entryway, flipped on a light, then scanned the foyer. Native American artwork decorated the adobe colored walls, collections of hand-made baskets, beaded jewelry, pottery and other artifacts and books filled the built-in shelves. A picture of a native Ute on horseback was centered over a soft brown leather couch opposite a woodstove in the den, which opened to the kitchen.
He moved to the left and found a master suite and bath, decorated in earth tones with accents of red, yellow and orange, and more Ute art. He searched the closet, beneath the bed, then moved to the guest bedroom on the opposite side of the kitchen.
His lungs tightened at the sight of the nursery. A primitive wooden crib sat in the midst of the freshly painted baby blue room, which held an assortment of stuffed animals, children’s books and infant toys.
Hissing a breath of relief that no intruder was inside, he stowed his gun inside his jacket, then went outside to the car and lifted Aspen from the seat. She moaned softly in her sleep, and snuggled against him as he carried her to the front stoop.
She was wrapped in the blanket, wearing the scrubs the nurse had given her at the E.R. when they’d removed her damp clothes, so he carried her to her bedroom, pulled down the covers and laid her on the crisp clean sheets. For a brief second her eyes flickered open, and she looked at him with glazed eyes.
He inhaled her sweet fragrance, the softness of her skin, and