Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Couldn’t help the tears that ran down her face. She prayed that he was safe.

That he would come back to her.

And that it would be soon.

Chapter Sixteen

Just shy of the logging road, Santana pulled up on the reins. So far he’d seen nothing other than a snowshoe hare peeking from beneath the needles of a icy hemlock tree, and he’d traveled nearly two miles.

He searched the ground for any sounds of footprints, but the blanket of white was undisturbed, the snow coming down faster than ever, tiny crystals stinging against his face.

He’d thought he could find the spot where the attacker had left his vehicle, a wide area in the old access road where it curved close to the back fence of the Lazy L.

It only made sense.

Santana knew the area and the fence line like the back of his hand, and if he were trying to sneak into the property, to gain access to the house without being seen, that would be the spot he would choose.

CHOSEN TO DIE

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He kept his gaze on the ground as the horse steadily walked on and wondered what the connection was between the Star-Crossed Killer and whoever had blown Brady Long away. He’s someone familiar with the territory. Someone you’ve met.

A loner who knows the hills as well as you do. An ace marksman, who is agile and strong enough to walk miles carrying a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman, a survivalist type who has a hidden lair and knows the area well enough to stay off the cops’ radar. Maybe he’s a cop. Someone on the inside staying one step ahead. Turning the investigation in the wrong direc- tion.

He considered the deputies and detectives he’d met in the department, but he didn’t know them well enough to start narrowing the field. Besides, that was reaching, wasn’t it? Why would a cop go off his nut and start abducting and torturing women? He suppressed an inner shudder.

Approaching the fence line, he rode along the taut strands of barbed wire, searching for any tracks in the abandoned logging road, but the snow was unbroken, no trail of footsteps visible, no tire tracks marring the surface.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. What was he missing?

What?

He thought of Regan and wondered if she was even still alive.

Hell!

The thought hit him hard. A sucker punch to his gut.

He clenched his gloved fists and fought sudden 214

Lisa Jackson

despair. She was too alive. Too vibrant. After their first meeting, he’d pursued her and she’d had nothing to do with him. In fact, her exact words had been, “Listen, cowboy, no offense, but take a flying leap.”

Still, that hadn’t stopped him. The more she’d played hard to get, the more interested he’d become, which, even at the time, had seemed damned foolish, but there it was. She’d taken the time to explain to him that she wasn’t interested in any kind of a relationship and her reasons in refusing to date him were simple: she had kids to think about and a job that sucked up every ounce of her energy. She didn’t need or want to give up the time, or exert the effort it would take to add a man to her life.

“Besides,” she’d confided when he’d caught up with her at Wild Will’s one night, “I’m not all that great a judge of character when it comes to men. Consider yourself lucky, okay?”

He hadn’t, and eventually he’d worn her down. They’d met for a drink at the bar in a restored hundred-year-old hotel overlooking the falls. One drink and lots of conversation had led to another, then another. Eventually, on a dare, she’d challenged him to a wrestling match and he’d paid for a room upstairs where she, within seconds, had pinned him on the floor and lay breathing hard over him, the floorboards of the ancient hotel smooth against his back.

“Give?” she’d said, her breath smoky with the whiskey she’d consumed.

“Don’t think so.”

“But I’ve got you.”

“Do you?”