LITMIR.BIZ

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added. “Let’s have another drink.”

      IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when Jeremy finally turned down the long, secluded drive to his house. He felt a little guilty about having left Henry alone all evening—but only a little. Henry had obviously been a very busy man. Not only had he bought Blane’s book, but he’d talked to Ellie about how the editing was going. Sure, Ellie was his best friend, but Jeremy’s writing was a very personal thing. On top of that, Henry had chosen not to attend the party. Well, it was his loss.

      The house was dark, and Jeremy entered as quietly as he could. He was glad that Henry had decided to go to bed. He didn’t want to talk about work—his or Blane’s.

      Easing down the darkened hallway toward his bedroom, Jeremy caught the glow of the computer screen reflecting off the panes of the window. He stopped. Henry was like an old maid about some things—especially computers. He’d never go to bed with text on the screen.

      Jeremy entered his study and stopped, stunned, as he saw the outline of the body on the floor. He moved forward automatically, then knelt beside the body.

      “Henry.” He shook him gently. It wasn’t until Henry didn’t respond that he allowed the terrible thought to come. “Oh, no.” He rolled the body over and saw the dark blood, the stab wounds. “My God.” It came out as a croak through the knot of horror in his throat. “What in the hell happened here?”

      He crossed the room and snapped on the overhead light. The scene was out of a nightmare. Blood had pooled beside the editor. Two sets of bloody tracks were distinct—his own, and another pair leading toward the window.

      Jeremy forced his body not to move. He carefully took in the scene. The desk was a jumble, as if a struggle had taken place. From the position of the body, the bloody tracks, the open window where the cut screen flapped in the night breeze, it seemed clear that someone had come in through the window.

      Henry Mills had been murdered. Someone had slipped into the house and killed him. But why? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that whomever had done it very likely had killed the wrong man. Jeremy was certain that he had been the intended target.

      “Henry,” he said softly. The reality of his editor’s death was like a kick in the gut. Henry had been a kind man. And now he was dead because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

      Jeremy’s first impulse was to call the sheriff. He even reached for the phone. But his fingers never picked up the receiver. He turned instead to study the tracks. He didn’t write about the West for nothing. He was a skilled rancher, and a man who’d grown up in the outdoors. He could read a set of tracks as well as—or better than—most. He studied the small footprints and determined they belonged to a small man or a woman. His best guess was a woman. The foot was slender, delicate, and wearing western boots.

      The scene in the bookstore came back to him. Anna Red Shoes. She’d had on jeans and boots. And she’d vowed to make him suffer. She’d threatened to harm him—legally and physically. Those were her words. And a knife had been her chosen weapon.

      He stood up and looked around the room. He almost didn’t see the knife. It had been dropped at the window and had fallen behind the draperies. Even before he walked over to more closely examine it, he recognized the bone-carved handle as a ceremonial blade used by Apache Indians. He’d done enough research to recognize the knife, which was used specifically for ceremonial kills.

      He’d also seen a similar knife very recently. In the hand of Anna Red Shoes. Her name was all but written in Henry’s blood. He knelt and felt the bloody tracks in the carpet. He wasn’t that far behind her, and there was no time to waste. He went to his closet and pulled out his hunting gear, including his Marlin 30-30. The problem with calling the sheriff was that Lem Polluck was sheriff in name only. He was a popular man who meant well, but he wasn’t a tracker or a hunter. And he didn’t have a brilliant record of crime solving.

      Lem was no match for a cold-blooded killer who was the granddaughter of Thunder Horse. He’d only muddy up the trail, confuse things.

      Jeremy made a quick decision. He’d track Anna and as soon as he captured her, he’d call the sheriff to make the arrest.

      Jeremy checked the gun, grabbed ammunition and went to his truck. One good thing about research was that he knew enough about the history of Anna’s fore-bearers to start his search for her. He’d bet dollars to doughnuts that he knew exactly where she was. There was a place on the west side of town that had been sacred to Thunder Horse. And Anna had mentioned something about camping. That was the place to hunt for her.

      He made sure his cell phone was in his pack so he could call Lem as soon as he found her.

      ANNA SHIFTED TO HER left side on the hard earth. Not thirty feet away, Calamity and Allegro grazed peacefully. The sound of the horses’ strong teeth pulling at the rough grass was soothing. When dawn broke, she’d saddle up and ride to the place where she’d scattered her grandfather’s ashes, the place that had once been sacred to her people—before it was stolen from them. Once she paid her respects, she’d pack up and head for home. The entire trip had been a fool’s errand.

      She drifted into a light sleep, deviled by nightmares of bodies, and a tall, broad-shouldered man who taunted her. He held a book and seemed to be laughing at her.

      Anna wasn’t certain exactly what brought her to full wakefulness, but she opened her eyes and saw that her fire was still high. She realized that the horses had stopped grazing. One of them blew out a loud snort.

      Anna listened.

      The sound of a truck engine suddenly stopped. Instead of sitting up, she forced herself to remain perfectly still in her bedroll, but her fingers found the small knife that she always kept beside her. Her rifle was only a foot away. She wasn’t a hunter—had never killed for food or fear. But she knew how to do it.

      But this wasn’t a coyote or panther searching for dinner. This was a creature far more deadly.

      Whomever it was came up the hillside with great care. Only the slip of a piece of shale, the rustle of winter grass not yet green and springy, gave away the progress of the stalker. Anna’s grip tightened on the knife, and she kept her breathing regular and easy as she waited.

      She rethought her steps. The hillside she’d chosen for her campsite was a place where her people had once camped. Below her the Guadeloupe River gurgled over flat, smooth rocks. To her knowledge, the land was not used by anyone, so she hadn’t bothered to seek permission. The person creeping up to her campsite might only be the landowner checking to see who was on his property. If that was the case, she didn’t want to act rashly. After all, she was the trespasser. Under the circumstances it would be better to remain calm and then explain her reasons for being there.

      But as she listened to the stranger’s approach, she knew better. The person headed her way was sneaking, taking great care to hide his arrival. That meant that he hoped to surprise her—and that, in turn, meant only one thing. Trouble.

      She didn’t move, though she could feel her heart thumping hard in her chest.

      She heard him, now only ten yards away as he came up on the level with the campsite. Though her back was to him, she could feel him staring at her. She imagined what he saw: a lone camper turned on her side, face to the cheerful fire.

      One of the horses stomped the ground and blew hard, a wheezing sound that spoke of distrust and fear. She wanted to speak to the horse, to calm her, but she kept silent. She wanted the stalker to get closer—close enough that she could jump him.

      She felt his approach. He made no sound, but she didn’t need her ears to tell her what was happening. Every one of her senses was attuned. She held the knife tightly, ready for her chance. It was as if her grandfather were beside her, whispering into her ear, telling her to be calm, to be brave, to wait for the exact moment.

      That moment arrived.

      Anna whipped out of the blankets, rolling low and fast and with enough momentum that when she caught the stalker in his lower legs with the full

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