He kissed her, his arms wrapping around her shoulders and dragging her close. Sighing, she let her worries slide away.

"We need to get married," he said. "Soon."

"Don't worry, my father's not around and I don't even know if he ever owned a shotgun. It's not as if this is the first time this happened. You'd think by now that I would know how to keep this from happening."

"You do."

"What?" She hit his chest.

"I'm just saying that at some level we both wanted this without saying so, and we became less vigilant. And I'm glad. I love you," he added gently.

"Hmmm," she said, mollified. "Wait until I'm eight months pregnant and big as a whale or when we're at a soccer game for Little Santana and they think I'm the kid's grandma."

"Football, and you'll be the s.e.xiest d.a.m.n old lady rooting on the sidelines."

"Nice," she mocked.

"I've always had a thing for older women."

"You're digging yourself a deeper and deeper hole, you know."

"Why don't we elope?" he suggested. "This weekend."

"Nope. I still have to tell my kids. Once you have your own, you'll understand. I hope. And I don't want to leave until after Grayson's funeral. That's a week from tomorrow."

"Immediately after, then. Las Vegas. No arguing."

"This isn't my first rodeo, you know. The first couple times I said 'I do' didn't turn out all that great."

"Third time's a charm."

"What an optimist." But she was smiling.

"Come on, Regan. Take a chance on me. On us. You've already said, 'yes,' and are wearing the ring again-glad to see it-so let's just do this thing." He was so sincere, her heart nearly melted.

"It's a matter of timing, that's all." She thought about the cases that were outstanding, especially Sheree Cantnor's murder, then decided she, too, deserved a life. After all, she was going to be a mother again. "Just let me get through the funeral and take care of a few things, including telling my kids, then . . . then it's a go." She said the words and felt a little trill of excitement. Or was it trepidation?

"I'm holding you to it." His grin was a devilish slash of white.

"All right, Santana," she finally agreed and he gathered her close. Nose to nose, they smiled at each other in the darkness.

The next morning, Ryder waited in the snow flurries outside the Midway Diner until he saw the Tahoe drive into the customer lot at the front of the building. The SUV bounced a little at the curb where the snow was piled high, then disappeared beyond the building to the employee parking area around back. It was early, not quite six and still dark outside, but he recognized Anne-Marie through the gla.s.s as she appeared inside the restaurant a few minutes later. Her wig was in place as was the extra padding, hiding her figure enough that she had a little trouble tying her ap.r.o.n around her thickened waist.

Itching to move, to sneak to her vehicle and plant a small GPS device, he forced himself to wait. He'd seen the owner, two waitresses, and a couple of cooks show up, then finally another girl who worked as a busboy. Usually a kid in a souped-up Accord was the last to arrive and Ryder wanted them all inside before he started near the Tahoe.

A few minutes later, he heard the sound of after-factory exhaust pipes ripping through the winter air as the kid wheeled into the lot, his car nearly taking flight over the berm of ice and snow, the ba.s.s from his radio so loud it throbbed.

That should be it, Ryder thought. He gave the kid five minutes to get into the parking lot. Still, he had to be careful. The security lamp was illuminated and with all of the snow, the darkness was incomplete. Nonetheless, once he caught a visual of the Honda's driver tying on an ap.r.o.n and working at the service counter, Ryder climbed out of his truck. Staying to the shadows, he walked down a side street, then through an alley, and landed at the Dumpster behind the restaurant.

The back door was closed, thankfully. With one eye on the building, he slipped between the parked cars and tucked the tiny device on the undercarriage of Anne-Marie's SUV.

Headlights flashed, the beams washing over the Dumpster.

He froze, his heartbeat accelerating. For a second, he thought he'd missed an employee and would get caught.

c.r.a.p. How would he explain himself?

Fortunately, the beams disappeared quickly and he realized that the flash of illumination was from a vehicle turning into the front lot, a customer who'd shown up before the diner was open.

About to leave, he took a step toward the alley when the back door of the diner opened suddenly.

Ryder ducked down, hiding behind the Dumpster, certain he'd been seen. d.a.m.n!

Footsteps trudged through the snow.

"s.h.i.t, f.u.c.k, d.a.m.n! G.o.dd.a.m.n b.i.t.c.h," a male voice growled as the lid of the trash bin creaked open. Then, a falsetto voice, "Marlon, take out the garbage. Marlon, get your b.u.t.t in here. Marlon, do this. Marlon do that!" Thud. Something landed on the metal bottom, then the lid slammed down so forcefully it clanged and the entire Dumpster shuddered. "f.u.c.kin' G.o.dd.a.m.n b.i.t.c.h," he said again.

Ryder didn't so much as move a muscle. Getting found out wouldn't be good.

"Wish I could throw your scrawny a.s.s out with the trash!"

Noiselessly, barely breathing, Ryder waited, listening hard as snow collected on his shoulders and hat. He heard Marlon's heavy footsteps thump through the snow and fade away, then the sound of the back door creaking open to slam shut again. He held fast, mentally counting to thirty before he peeked over the top edge of the Dumpster to a.s.sure himself he was alone.

The parking area was empty and all of Midway Diner's employees appeared to be inside. Quietly, he made his way through the alley and eventually to his truck parked in the shadows.

Inside the cab, he took a deep breath as he watched another car drive into the lot. He stared at the diner's front windows, waiting for another visual of the woman he presumed was Anne-Marie. As a pickup signaled to turn into the diner's parking area, Ryder witnessed the blond waitress flipping the COME IN, WE'RE OPEN sign as the early birds, dressed in heavy jackets, boots, and caps, jonesing for their morning cup of joe, started bustling inside.

Time to make tracks.

For the next few hours, the diner would be busy with the morning rush and he'd have time to hook up equipment at the cabin in which he a.s.sumed she resided. He drove out of town and into the hills, his own GPS as his guide, until he saw the snag and boulder and on the other side of the road, a lane with obvious tire tracks. He kept going, drove to the next opening in the trees where a broken down gate with a faded PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPa.s.sING sign had been posted. He made short work of the gate, breaking the rusted lock and pushing the creaking metal gate inward. Ignoring the warning, he drove through. There were no tracks on the snowy land, so he drove cautiously through the opening in the trees, but, of course, he had no idea how far it wound or where the residence, if there was one, was located. Also, he would be guessing that the cottage or cabin or whatever Anne-Marie was using as a hideout was about the same distance from the main road. He hoped that was the case or otherwise he would lose valuable time searching for the place.

Less than an eighth of a mile in, the trees parted to a clearing where a house had once stood. It was a shambles-the roof collapsed, charred boards visible through the snow, a river rock chimney standing but losing stones. One wall with a broken window was still upright, though listing, and the remains of a staircase, about five steps, climbed upward to end abruptly, leading nowhere. Obviously, a fire had destroyed the cabin, the singed branches of a few nearby trees in evidence. Over the rubble, snow had drifted, softening the angles, muting the blackened boards.

Ryder wasted no time. From the bed of his truck, he grabbed his cross-country skis and snapped them on to his boots. Then he clipped his snowshoes to his backpack and slid his arms through the straps. The pack held electronic gear as well as other items he might need.

As dawn broke, a gray light stealing through the trees, snow forever falling, he started moving through the trees, gliding on his skis while using the compa.s.s on his phone to make sure he was heading in the right direction. The snow was thick enough to make skiing easy and soon he came upon a fence that was in the same condition as the gate and house, totally broken down and neglected. Without any difficulty, he skied through a wide gap in the mesh. Avoiding fallen trees and sliding over a frozen stream, he wound his way toward where he thought Anne-Marie's new residence might be. It took awhile. He had to double back once but finally caught a glimpse of a cabin through the trees. Carefully, he skied to the secondary row of evergreens surrounding the building and eyed it. No smoke trailed from the chimney, but the snow was mashed in the front of the cabin, multiple sets of tracks making ruts in the snow. The curtains were drawn, but it seemed as if no one was inside. He traded the cross-countries for his snowshoes and, after breaking off a low-hanging hemlock branch, he trekked across the shortest expanse of cleared area to the back of the house. After dumping his backpack onto the porch, he worked quickly, using a pick to open the lock, then took off his boots, and in his stocking feet, let himself inside.

The cabin was crude. Just the barest of essentials.

Quite a come-down for the princess.

The ancient cottage had none of the creature comforts she was used to. Located in this frigid section of the Bitterroots, her new, if temporary, residence was a far cry from the manicured lawns, graceful verandas and wide, magnolia flanked porches of her New Orleans home. No fancy paddle fans that moved the warm, sultry air of Louisiana, no white pillars or brick facades of the genteel Southern manor she was familiar with.

Nuh-uh. Just bare bones, and c.r.a.ppy bare bones at that.

No time for comparisons, he reminded himself, so he went to work. Quickly. Efficiently. The first order of business was to rule out that she'd set up her own security system. With a trained eye, he searched for any electronic equipment but found nothing. Next, he unfolded a small plastic sheet onto which he put all the pieces of his electronic equipment so that none would get lost. Then, he went about setting up tiny cameras and recorders, hiding them expertly. His training in the Special Forces served him well. Lastly, he hid the wireless transmitter. Military grade, it would broadcast to his receiver in his room at the River View.

Less than an hour after he'd arrived, he packed up his tools, walked out of the cabin, and relocked the door behind him. He stepped into his boots and after making certain the porch looked undisturbed, backed out within his original footsteps, using the hemlock branch to sweep them away. But if she returned in the next few hours, and there wasn't enough time for the snowfall to obliterate the tracks, Anne-Marie would realize someone had been at her cabin and she'd bolt again. However, he was betting on the snowfall and her shift at the diner keeping her busy until long after his tracks had disappeared. His plan was far from foolproof, but it was the best he had.

At the edge of the woods, he traded his snowshoes for skis and again whisked away his tracks with the branch until he was a hundred yards or so into the forest. Then he took off, skiing rapidly next to his own ruts and reaching his truck quickly. He threw his gear into the bed of his Dodge, turned the pickup around, and drove to the main road where he stopped to re-latch the gate. Thankfully no one drove by as he was securing the place, and he only hoped that Anne-Marie didn't miss her turn-off and happen to drive past this lane as she might notice that the snow had been disturbed.

If so, she'd run like a rabbit.

But this time, he'd be right on her tail.

Chapter 14.

"You're getting married? Like, soon?" Jeremy asked, dumbstruck. He was pulling a carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator.

"In the next couple weeks."

"Why?" Bianca had come out of her room at her mother's request and was as sh.e.l.l-shocked as her brother. "You can't."

"Why not?"

"But . . . but . . . is he going to live here? Because I'm not moving!" Her little face was set and she tossed her dark curls away from her face. Blue eyes thinned suspiciously. "Why now?"

Here came the lie. At least a partial lie. "Because life is short. That really came home to roost this past week or so."

Jeremy let the refrigerator door close. "Because of Sheriff Grayson." He took a big swallow from the carton.

"Gla.s.s, please," Pescoli said automatically.

"Don't talk about that. Too depressing," Bianca said with a shudder. She was dressed in skinny jeans and a sweater that hung off one shoulder, showing the strap of her black bra.

"It is depressing," Pescoli agreed.

"You're getting married and he's moving in here?" Bianca flounced into a kitchen chair. "This sucks."

"No one's moving anywhere yet. Santana and I haven't even talked about that part yet. We just decided the other night. We're planning on going to Vegas in a week or so. Depending."

"Are we, like, invited?" Bianca asked, her ears perking up at the mention of Sin City.

"I haven't got that far yet."

"It's your wedding, Mom!" her daughter declared.

"My third wedding. Not to put too fine a point on it."

"Well, it wasn't like I could go to either one of the first two because I wasn't born yet," Bianca said. "Jeremy got to be there when you married Dad."

"He was a toddler," Pescoli said at the same time Jeremy drawled, "Like I remember it."

Bianca lifted a shoulder and had to adjust the wide neck of her sweater. "Maybe it would, you know, make it suck less, if we were there."

"I'm not going to be blackmailed into this," Pescoli said. "If I decide it's the right thing to do, then we'll work it out. As I said, we'll all move in together once the new house is ready." She thought of the construction. "It'll be awhile yet. At least a month, maybe two, but probably three. It's not as if you haven't been expecting this. Haven't I been telling you to go through your things and start thinking about moving? How far have we gotten with that?"

"I'm not moving there." Jeremy finished off the juice and crushed the carton in one hand. "I'll get my own place."

"Good. I'll live with you," Bianca announced.

"Yeah, right," Pescoli said dryly.

"I'm almost seventeen!"

"Precisely."

"You just don't care what I want," Bianca huffed.

Refusing to be baited, Pescoli nodded. "That's right. I've never put your needs before mine in the last sixteen years."

"You don't understand!"

"Probably not."

"Do you know you're like . . . impossible?" Bianca charged, so angry she was nearly spitting, "It really doesn't matter because I'm moving in with Dad and Mich.e.l.le. They want me."

Pescoli just looked at her daughter. They'd had this argument before. Dozens of times, Bianca had angrily threatened to move out and live with Lucky and his second wife. Though the hot argument always ripped out Pescoli's heart, she'd learned to play it cool and keep her reactions to a minimum. "I think you should give living with Santana and me a chance. You could love it."

Bianca rolled her eyes. "Mom, I don't like him and I never will, okay? So don't get this super romantic idea that we're going to live like some big loving, blended family."

Pescoli slid a look at her son, who was leaning against the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the eating area. "I thought you might want to live in the apartment over the garage. Well, it's not really an apartment with all the bells and whistles, but it's big, kind of a bonus room with its own bath. If you wanted, you could take in a microwave and minifridge. It even has its own separate entrance."

Jeremy asked, "That's cool with Santana?"

"It will be."

"I thought you said it was going to be his office."

Pescoli lifted a shoulder because she wasn't really certain. "We can move things around. Besides, it wouldn't be forever."

"If Jer doesn't want it, I'll take it," Bianca said, seizing what she perceived as a prime opportunity to a.s.sert her independence.

"How would that work? You'd commute from Lucky and Mich.e.l.le's?" Pescoli asked.

Bianca glared at her mother. "I'd live there, as you well know. In the apartment over the garage."

Pescoli shook her head. "But not for a few years."

"That's just not fair!" Bianca actually stomped a bare foot and marched back to her room, slamming her door behind her.