Heart pounding, she kept low, hidden, using desert brush for cover. With the hot sun beating down overhead, she was sweating in rivulets, but didn’t risk movement to wipe them away. Her plan was to see. Period.

  No way she was going to take on a potential murderer out in the desert alone. Or risk giving Devon more reason to be suspicious of her. But if she could see what the camera could not...could see how the man traveled, what kind of boat, which direction he went when he left the camera view...if she could get a good enough look at him to give Devon a decent description, some kind of identifying characteristic...he could let his experts know and maybe they’d be closer to finding the truth that was going to set them both free.

  And show Devon that he could have trusted her all along.

  She understood the man’s struggle to have faith in anyone. His belief that his father had been framed and killed. And then, with the lottery win—there were stories all over the internet about lottery winners whose lives had been ruined by the huge influx of cash. About people coming out of the woodwork with their stories. Once-trusted friends. Using, hounding...

  She got it.

  She just didn’t want his doubts shining on her.

  If for no other reason than because her heart cried out for him to have one person in his life he’d learned he could trust. If she could leave him with that...

  Brush moved down shore from her. Off Devon’s land. She watched from the shelter of a wall of Mexican Birds of Paradise plants, peeking through the curtain of orange flowers on the tightly growing thin branches. A man moved rapidly, bent over, from place to place. Occasionally glancing over his shoulder.

  And searching under every piece of brush, debris and plant along the shore.

  The other trespasser? Companion to the man who’d turned up dead in a crate the night before?

  Chest tight, Kacey pulled out her phone. Snapped pictures. Afraid, from her distance, they wouldn’t enlarge clearly enough. She had to get this right.

  To contribute, not just be needy.

  In long shorts that hung to his calves, and what looked like water shoes, the man’s T-shirt was tight around a slightly protruding stomach. Looked more sloppy than athletic. And his skin...browned from the sun? Or ethnicity? She couldn’t tell. Dark hair, maybe black. With the sun shining so brightly, and his hair looking wet...

  She looked for tattoos on the exposed skin of his arms, his neck.

  Maybe there were some. There had to be something.

  He was too far away to tell for sure.

  What else might help Devon recognize him?

  Calming herself with thoughts of the man she was helping, more than thoughts of helping herself, she made herself tune out everything around her and focus only on the body, trying not to panic as the man moved further away.

  He stood straight—she had him for around five ten—was facing further downstream away from her, though. Show me your face, she implored silently. Snapped another photo anyway.

  Saw the man run and feared that her camera lens in the sunlight had somehow alerted him to her. Started to shake as she lost sight of him. Then caught sight of him again. Further away from her, not closer. Nearer to the water where the bank was steeper. Moving as quickly as she could from one safe spot to another, she lost sight of him, gained it back again, lost him, and...found him just in time to see him attempting to carry and shove what looked like a heavy container of some sort—a crate?—inside a large cluster of the same type of brightly flowering Mexican Bird of Paradise she’d been hiding within.

  Shooting as many pictures as she could, she saw the man down on his knees, giving one last shove with his shoulder. She snapped one more shot, glanced at the photo on the screen, saw the plants, with nothing else visible.

  She had to know what he’d hidden. What if Devon didn’t make it back before the man returned to claim whatever it was he’d found?

  She could wait until he left. If he left.

  At least get a picture of the crate.

  Keeping her male prey in sight, she was already studying the landscape for a safe path she could take to his stash while staying out of view, when she saw him freeze. His back was to her, but his head was turned to the side facing the desert.

  Had she made some sound that had traveled?

  Following the direction of his glance, she almost stopped breathing. A pack of coyotes stood between Kacey and the man, looking in both directions. On first glance, she figured seven adults, at least. Maybe as many pups. Her guess was that they’d been sleeping under or near where the man had shoved his find.

  The only way she knew of to scare off coyotes was to make a lot of noise.

  She couldn’t do that. And didn’t figure the man wanted to draw attention to himself, either, based on all the looking over his shoulder he’d been doing.

  While some of the wild animals seemed to be trained in her direction, more were facing the man. Holding her breath, Kacey stayed completely still, watching, and saw the man run toward the shore.

  One of the animals took pursuit, followed by one more. As far as she knew only packs that had become humanized by exposure chased after people, but she watched as the dogs flew at the man’s ankles, one at least nipping him, as he jumped over the bank.

  Whether he hit the water deeply enough to survive, she had no idea.

  And didn’t wait to find out.

  Picking up as many rocks as she could find while staying hidden, she took off her shirt, placed the rocks in it along with her phone, and started shaking the shirt as hard as she could to make noise, while slowly backing away to a cluster of cholla. The tall dense cactus stalks had needles that were known to jump out at anything that got too close, so she didn’t, but with any luck, the coyotes would move on.

  She didn’t want to scream, to alert any other human beings who could be lurking, to her presence. Slowly, keeping her eye on the animals, she backed toward Devon’s land, with the sun beating down on the untanned skin of her back and midsection, covered only by the bra Devon had purchased for her. If the coyotes came at her, she’d throw the shirt. Took the phone out of it, pocketing it, so she’d have the pictures, and then picked up another, larger rock, one that barely fit in her hand, to throw as well, if she needed to do so.

  Shaking, near tears, she wanted to run so badly she ached with the need, but continued her slow, steady backward pace, taking herself closer to the water, but careful to stay out of sight of the river in the event the man was down there, swimming to wherever he’d come from. Probably a raft tied somewhere onshore.

  She didn’t so much see the coyotes turn away. More like, they didn’t follow her far. Once they were out of sight, she turned and started walking as swiftly as she could, dropping the rocks from her shirt and sliding back into it. Keeping watch behind her as she did so.

  Her gun was loaded. Within reach. She could shoot an animal coming at her. Her abilities didn’t extend to taking down a pack of them. Nor did she have enough bullets to do so.

  By the time she got back to land she knew was Devon’s she took her first full breath. And felt it catch in her throat, too. The man...the crate he’d hidden. She had no idea what was in it.

  But knew it mattered.

  And couldn’t avoid the obvious conclusion, either.

  Her kidnappers were somehow involved. The trespassers had been on Devon’s land her first day there. He’d never been breached before.

  At least one of the men who’d abducted her was looking for a missing crate of supplies.

  Someone had been found dead in a crate the night before.

  Lying on a partial wrapping from an adult movie.

  Akin to the one she’d found on the shore.

  It was all adding up to something.

  She just couldn’t figure out what.

  But had a feeling her time to save herself, or Kyle, was running out.

  Devon, though...she’d die saving him.

  * * *

  Gun in hand, Devon was canvassing his property like the top-rated detective he was, searching for anyone—his houseguest or any possible compatriots—when he saw Kacey walking several yards to his right, heading at a quick pace toward the cabin.

  To make it back home before he did?

  He’d seen her move in close to one screen in the laundry room. Had had a 911 from Sierra’s Web when she’d left the house. They’d both been back over the tape she’d been studying. Saw what looked like a beaver briefly showing itself on his land.

  As soon as he’d docked the riverboat, he’d jumped in his vehicle and sped home.

  She wouldn’t be expecting him for another half hour at the earliest. Longer if he stopped in the bar to see Rachel. Which he would have done.

  Should have done.

  Because it was routine.

  Instead, there he was, practically stumbling over himself at the sight of her well and able and heading home.

  Relieved that she was safe.

  And thankful that she’d returned of her own accord.

  None of which pleased Tommy Grainger at all. He’d enjoyed the company of a lot of women. Not one of them had called him back as Kacey Ashland did.

  Keeping his distance, watching her, he dealt with the battle going on inside himself, and came out the cop he knew himself to be. A man who had to wonder why the woman had left the only place she was relatively safe, risking her life—and possibly his—by heading down to the river.

  He hadn’t taken the time to study all the video yet, but Hudson Warner had filled him on what the team there had seen, which had been very little. She’d run the entire way from the cabin to just short of the river. And then had quickly disappeared after that. Most of whatever Kacey had been up to had happened off-screen.

  In the space of about twenty minutes.

  And then she’d been back. Pulling her shirt down over the waistband containing her gun.

  He hoped to God she hadn’t used the weapon.

  Felt a bit sick at the thought that she had.

  And had to consider the most obvious explanation for her hurried departure. A lot of people knew he’d been expected at work that day. The three men in the bar could easily have found out. A simple question at the marina regarding the day’s trips would have told them.

  Did Kacey get a signal telling her to get down to the water? Something prearranged with her twin during their phone call? The one she’d insisted on keeping private?

  The idea that there’d been some kind of rendezvous was the only thing that made sense.

  So why wasn’t he shoving her out the door? Calling the local police and reporting what he knew? As Devon Miller, recreational river guide?

  He followed her to the cabin. Knew the exact moment when she saw his vehicle and knew he’d made it home before she did.

  She’d stopped. Looked around.

  And then picked up her pace to the cabin? Like she was eager to see him?

  Or to explain away her absence.

  She’d have answers ready. He had no doubt about that at all. She knew he’d see the screens.

  But if she thought he was going to be blinded by her combination of innocence and allure, toughness and sweetness, strength and vulnerability, then she was in for a surprise.

  Devon Miller was done being played.

  * * *

  Kacey burst into the cabin, words fighting to tumble themselves over her lips. The container. With him home early, they had a better chance of getting back to the container before the current trespasser did. When she didn’t see Devon in the kitchen or living area, she made a beeline for the laundry closet.

  Was about to turn away from the emptiness there when she saw movement on a screen close to the cabin. Heart pounding, fearing she’d somehow brought trouble closer to home than ever, she moved in.

  And recognized the purposeful gait of the man getting closer with every quick step he took.

  He’d been behind her?

  Following her?

  Without calling out?

  He’d been spying on her.

  Maybe he hadn’t gone to work at all. Just driven far enough away to be out of his property’s camera range and had been sitting there watching the surveillance screens on his phone, watching her, the entire day.

  Filled with urgency and anger, she was standing by the couch, leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, hoping she appeared calm, when he walked in.

  His tense expression collided with hers immediately. He didn’t trust her. That was his problem. She had nothing to apologize for.

  To the contrary, she had important news to report.

  He’d get that information when he quit looking at her like she was some stranger.

  She’d taken on coyotes, she could handle Devon Miller.

  And had no time.

  Chin up, she kept her gaze shooting solidly into his for a full thirty seconds. Time they weren’t going to get back.

  “What in the hell were you thinking?” he finally blurted out. His gaze held steady. He didn’t approach. “You have some death wish you need to tell me about?”

  His words pierced her heart. Flooding warmth through her veins when only adrenaline should be there. He’d been scared for her. Maybe he knew that. Maybe he didn’t.

  Didn’t much matter to her what Devon was ready to acknowledge. The fact that he’d cared melted the armor she’d pulled up around herself before he’d walked in.

  She had no intention of letting him know that, however. They were equals, or they were nothing at all. And had business at hand.

  “I was thinking that I had a chance to help figure out what’s keeping me a prisoner in my own life. Thinking that I’d rather risk that life than just sit around and wait for others to risk theirs to help me. I knew that turning in that bloody knife could have negative repercussions for me. A heated argument in the dark? A bloody knife? Getting involved in that, even just by having to testify to what I’d seen, wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. I chose to do so, anyway. Now it’s up to me to deal with whatever I unknowingly stepped into. To find a way out of it. If I can prevent it, I am not going to die.”

  He didn’t relent. Much. A softening of his shoulders, maybe. “You figure a desert rat or some other small animal scrounging on the shore has something to do with the mess you’re in?”

  Not the kindest way to describe having been kidnapped. The man almost didn’t deserve to hear what she had to tell him. Except that he’d rescued her from death.

  Had been attentive, kind, welcoming, in spite of his doubts.

  Was still asking questions, rather than storming in and demanding she leave. Her mind calculated. Her heart was on hold.

  “I figure an animal doesn’t have fingernails,” she told him, and while she would have liked to walk to the laundry room, showing him her images, knowledge of the crate that was likely going to be taken away, if it hadn’t been already, was pushing at her more.

  She’d had her minute of standing up to Devon. Life mattered more. Walking toward him she pulled out her phone, shoved it at him, gallery open.

  “Who is this?”

  “How should I know?” she said sharply, and then added, “I was thinking maybe the second trespasser? I never got a look at his face.”

  Devon’s thumb moved rapidly, scrolling through all the photos she’d taken. And then he was out the door, jumping into his off-roader. She had no doubt he’d have roared off without her if she hadn’t run after him, jumping in the passenger side. He gave her a glance, but didn’t argue, just pushed the pedal to the floor and sent her head back against the seat as he tore off across his land.

  Chapter 20

  The container was gone when they got there. Devon could see exactly where it had been. He’d had Kacey send the photos she’d taken to his phone and knew, comparing branch to branch, they were in the right spot. And saw evidence on the ground, in real time, too. There were no discernible footprints, but a fresh ditch in the hard desert ground beneath the tall sprawling plant gave him at least the length of the container that had been there.

  A small boat had come ashore just below it. Some kind of long flat surface had been run from the vessel to the plant as best he could tell by the surface of the shore.

  A ramp of some kind. Maybe even just some two-by-fours.

  His guess was that whoever had returned for the container had dragged it down the ramp.

  “He sure got back here quickly.” Kacey’s voice came from behind the thick wall of six-foot-high thin flowering branches. He’d suggested that she stay back, out of view of the shore. No sense in taking chances that boaters would go by and see her.

  “Probably had a shore runner moored close by.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, but I think he was hurt.”

  After taking a few quick photos of the scene as he’d found it, Devon scrambled up to Kacey, feeling sick again. “He was hurt? You didn’t think to mention that before now?” He had a flash of the gun she’d pulled her shirt over.

  “There were coyotes,” she told him as they walked back to his off-roader and climbed inside. She’d been completely silent on the trip to the shore, but filled him in on the details of her afternoon of amateur detecting on the return journey. Impressed by her quick thinking, her capability in the face of danger, he wasn’t at all pleased about most of what he heard.

  Except that she’d made it back safely.

  “Do you think this guy’s the other trespasser?” she asked as he pulled up out in front. “And if so, could that container hold more of those movies?”

  “Seems likely,” he told her, scrambling to put the pieces together. Antonio was dead, and Jerome had been out looking for something? Found a container, hid it, returned for it? He had to talk to Rachel. To Sierra’s Web.