He tipped his hat and rode away. Morie finished her biscuit and coffee and went back to work.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MORIE WAS CONFUSED about her feelings for Mallory and her growing concern about Gelly Bruner's interference and antagonism. The woman really hated her, and she was going to find a way to make trouble. Not that Morie was willing to run from a fight. If worse came to worst, she could always tell them the truth about herself. Except that Mallory, who hated lies, would think her a hopeless liar and probably never speak to her again.

She finished her cold biscuit and cooling coffee and sighed. Just as she started to get up, she heard a twig snap. There was another sound of movement, rhythmic. Any hunter knew that to walk normally was a dead giveaway to prey he was stalking. Animals never moved rhythmically. They'd hear the odd rhythm and know it was a human even before they caught his scent.

Morie looked toward her saddled horse, where her pistol was. She did have her cell phone in her pocket, though. She stood up and pulled it out, fumbling as she tried to turn it on. Of all the times not to have it activated...!

"Don't do that" came a curt, masculine command from behind her.

She whirled, frightened and shocked, to see a tall, sandy-haired man with a hunting rifle standing just a few yards away. She trembled and dropped the phone. Her wide brown eyes were appalled as she looked at the rifle and hoped that she'd lived a good enough life that she wouldn't go somewhere horrible when she died.

She didn't speak. It would be useless. Either he'd kill her or he wouldn't. But the bore of that rifle barrel looked ten inches wide as she stared down it. She lifted her hands and waited.

But surprisingly, he didn't shoot. He lowered the gun. "Where did Tank go?" he asked suddenly.

"T...tank?"

"Tank Kirk," he said curtly. His blue eyes were dark and glittery.

"That wasn't Tank. It was Cane." She faltered. "He just came to offer to ride the fence line with me, because there's an escaped murderer on the loose."

"Murderer," he scoffed. "It was an accident. The idiot fell into a brick wall and his even more idiotic girlfriend lied and said I did it deliberately. Getting even, because I knew what she was and I wanted no part of her."

She lowered her hands slowly. Her heart was slamming against her ribs. "You're Joe Bascomb." She faltered.

"Yes, unfortunately." He sighed. He stared at her. "Have you got anything to eat out here? I'm so sick of rabbit and squirrel-bad time of year to eat either. They're not really in season. But a man gets hungry."

"I have a biscuit left. No coffee, I'm sorry, but I have a bottle of water." She offered both.

He put down the rifle and ate the biscuit with odd delight, closing his eyes on the taste. "Mavie must have made these." He sighed. "Nobody cooks like she does." He finished it off in a heartbeat and washed it down with half the bottle of water.

Morie watched him with open curiosity. He didn't act like a murderer.

He noted her gaze and laughed shortly. "I wasn't going to end up in a maximum-security prison while my lawyer spins out appeal after appeal. I hate cages. God, I hate cages! To think I could ever end up like this because of some spiteful, vicious woman...!"

"If you'd had a good defense attorney, he could have taken her apart on the witness stand," she returned.

"My attorney is from legal aid, and they come in all sizes. This one's meek and mild and thinks that women have been victimized too much in courts, so she wouldn't say anything to hurt my accuser's feelings."

"You should have asked the judge to appoint someone else."

"I did. They couldn't get anyone else to volunteer." He sighed heavily and ran a restless big hand through his hair. "She did say she'd appeal. I think she finally realized that I was innocent, after I'd been convicted. She said she was sorry." He glared at Morie. "Sorry! I'm going to get the needle, and she's sorry!"

"So am I," she said gently. "The justice system usually works. But people are the odd element in any trial. Mistakes get made."

"You'd know this, how?" he asked, but with a smile.

"My uncle is a state supreme court judge," she replied. "In Texas."

His eyebrows arched. "Impressive."

She smiled. "Yes, it is. He used to work for legal aid and donate time, when he was younger. He still believes everyone is entitled to proper representation."

"I wish he sat on the bench in Wyoming," Bascomb replied sadly.

"You should turn yourself back in," she advised. "This is only going to make things worse for you."

"They couldn't get much worse," he replied. "I lost my wife last year. She died of a heart attack. She was only twenty-nine years old. Who dies of a heart attack at twenty-nine?" he exclaimed.

"There was a football player at my high school who dropped dead on the playing field at age seventeen of an unknown heart problem," Morie replied. "He was a sweet boy. We all mourned him. People get all sorts of disorders at young ages. You don't think of little children having arthritis, either, do you? But some grammar-school kids have rheumatoid arthritis that limits them in all sorts of ways. Kids also have diseases like diabetes. We don't only get things wrong with us when we're old."

"I guess so. It's not a perfect world, is it?" he added.

She shook her head.

He finished the bottle of water. "Thanks. I've been going by my mom's place for food, but they've got people watching it. I don't want her to suffer for what I've done. I've been hunting for food."

"What about water?" she asked gently. "It's dangerous to drink water from springs...."

He pulled a packet of tablets out of his vest pocket and showed her. "It makes any water potable," he said. "I was in the military. Tank and I served together in Iraq. That seems like a hundred years ago." He grimaced. "He testified for me.

It was a real brave thing to do, when everybody thought I was guilty. The local boy's family is known and loved, and that made it a lot harder for me to get an unbiased jury. In fact-" he sighed "-one of the jurors was actually an illegitimate blood relation. My attorney didn't catch that on voir dire, either."

She caught her breath. "That's a disqualification. Grounds for a retrial."

"You think so?" he asked, curious.

"I do. You should speak to your attorney."

He laughed shortly. "She's not my attorney anymore. I read in a discarded newspaper that she said she couldn't represent someone who proved himself guilty by running away. So now I've got no defense and nobody to advise me."

She moved a step closer. "I'm advising you. Turn yourself in before it's too late."

He shook his head. "Can't do that. I can't survive locked up in a cage. I've had months of it. I'd rather die than go back, and that's the truth."

She could sympathize. She didn't like closed places, either. "It will go harder on you that you didn't wait for an appeal."

"I don't care," he said heavily. "My wife is dead...the life I had is all gone. I've got no reason to go on anyway. If they shoot me down in the woods, well, it won't be so bad. God forgives people. Even bad people. I don't think He'll send me to purgatory."

"You can't give up," she said, driven to comfort him. "God puts us here for a reason. We may never know why. It may be to inspire one person, or give another a reason to keep them from suicide, or be in the right place to give aid to save someone's life who may one day save the world. Who knows? But I believe we have a purpose. All of us."