LITMIR.BIZ

      To all the heroes in hiding from pasts they struggle to make peace with.

Chapter 1

      Snow flurries began to blow before Clint Ardmore left Conard City with his truckload of supplies. By the time he reached the county road leading to his ranch, it became apparent that winter was arriving. Big flakes whipped about in the wind, threatening a whiteout later when the temperatures dropped enough to make the snow nearly as fine as sand. As it was, the flakes reflected his low beams sufficiently to make the already dark afternoon seem darker.

      Winter pleased him. He liked the cold, the snow, the isolation it brought to his ranch. Not even the most determined salesman or missionary would try to make it up the road to his house, and the neighbors to whom he leased his land for their own stock were undoubtedly pulling the last of them in. Soon his ranch would become exactly what he wanted it to be—a hermitage he left only out of necessity.

      At least that was his cheerful expectation until he caught sight of a gray figure staggering alongside the road.

      Hell, no one ought to be out here on foot. Cussing under his breath, he jammed on his brakes and pulled over. The snow was only just beginning to stick, so he didn’t skid. Some drunk, no doubt, lost in the middle of nowhere. But whatever this person was doing out here, there was no way he could be left to wander alone in this weather. From here to the nearest ranch—his—it was another ten miles.

      Clint climbed out and slammed the truck door. The wind had taken on a nasty bite, presaging a deadly night for unprotected humans.

      Still cussing—he possessed quite an amazing vocabulary of cuss words in several languages—he stomped back toward the staggering figure in gray. The snow continued to swirl, thick enough to be almost foglike. He really needed this, he thought. Now he would have to drive back to town in this damn storm to make sure this idiot didn’t freeze to death out here.

      It wasn’t until he was only a few steps away that he realized the idiot was a woman and, worse, a woman dressed only in a gray sweatshirt and pants. And when she lifted her head at his approach, he saw a shiner that would have looked appropriate on a boxer, not on a tiny woman with straggly blond hair and blue eyes the size of saucers.

      At least they became saucer-size when they saw him.

      Well, he could kind of understand that. He was a large man, well over six feet, and years in Special Ops had given him a need to stay in shape that wouldn’t quit even though he’d left the military well behind him. Then there was his face. The faces on Mt. Rushmore looked less stony.

      Too bad.

      “Hey, lady!” he called. “You’re going to freeze!”

      She staggered another step, then turned and started to run. Only she couldn’t quite run, because her feet didn’t seem to be cooperating, and moments later she tumbled facedown on the shoulder.

      At once he raced to her side and squatted. “Lady …”

      “Go away!” she cried. “Get away from me!”

      “I won’t hurt you,” he said, making his voice as gentle as when he talked to his horses. Not exactly

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