LITMIR.BIZ

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       Spirit of a Hunter

       Sylvie Kurtz

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      In memory of Charlotte L. Bégin.

       Her spirit of adventure will always be an inspiration.

      A special thanks to Bill and Lorrie Thomson,

       and Chuck Kurtz. For planning hikes in the

       White Mountains, then making sure I survived.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter One

      Sabriel Mercer guarded the church’s arched doorway, nodding curtly at each arriving guest, wishing he were anywhere but there. He rolled his shoulder against the starched stiffness of the rented tux and tugged at the noose-tight shirt collar with a finger. Only for a fellow Seeker would he endure such torture.

      Church bells pealed, echoing with joy in Winter-green’s Currier-and-Ives town square. Indian summer spiked the air with warmth on this first weekend of October. With their explosion of gold and red, even the trees got in to the celebration.

      A perfect day. His hands itched to plane the maple planks he’d joined for the kitchen cabinets of the cabin he was building. Instead, there he was holding a basket with a big cranberry bow. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve this public emasculation.

      “Cell phone.” Sabriel shoved the basket at Hale Harper, straggling in late, as usual. Rumor was Harper was Falconer’s cousin, which would explain the slack Falconer cut him.

      “It’s off.” Harper held the device up so Sabriel could verify his claim.

      “Orders from the boss. Hand it over.”

      Harper glowered, his dark brows and eyes pinching much like Falconer’s did when he wasn’t pleased. “Falconer?”

      “Liv.”

      Without another word Harper dropped his cell phone with the dozen already in the basket and made his way into the nave. There was no point arguing with Liv. Even the newest Seeker understood that Sebastian Falconer’s wife always got her way.

      Standing in the refuge of the vestibule, Sabriel scanned the crowd seated in the wooden pews. Most were strangers, people from the bride and groom’s hometown in Massachusetts. With no desire to join the crush, he melded deeper into the shadows.

      The organ overhead in the loft stopped its nasal whine midbar, then burst into “The Wedding March.” The notes plucked at memories he’d thought he’d reconciled. But was there ever a way to explain a senseless death?

      His jaw knotted. Eyes ahead.

      On the arm of her former WITSEC inspector, Abrielle Holbrook glided down the aisle. She glowed in champagne silk. Sabriel knuckled the tender spot at his breastbone, grinding down until the serrated pain dulled. His wife had done that, too—chosen an off-white dress because she’d wanted to shine on her wedding day. She’d said that pure white made her look dead.

      If only he’d known…. He shook his head and forced himself to concentrate on Reed and Abbie’s moment of happiness.

      Grayson Reed looked as if he’d swallowed the sun as his bride made her way up the crimson carpet.

      Noah Kingsley, Seekers, Inc.’s computer wiz, stood at Reed’s side, red suspenders visible under the black tux that fit his compact body as if it had been made for him—and probably had.

      Falconer and Liv, wrapped arm in arm, beamed at the bride.

      The newly engaged Dominic Skyralov held hands, fingers twined with Luci Taylor. His other arm looped around her son’s shoulders. There was a settled air about the blond cowboy that had been missing before he’d found Luci and Brendan. The corner of Sabriel’s mouth twitched. Watching Skyralov play Mr. Mom when Luci started at the police academy next month was going to be a kick.

      Sabriel squeezed his nape and the portrait of joy before him turned into mist. Had he ever been that happy? He couldn’t remember. He’d thought so once. But his few months with Anna were nothing more than a dream, eclipsed by the nightmare that had followed. He’d barely survived the Colonel’s revenge. But he’d kept Anna’s secret.

      A phone warbled a tinny melody. His? He frowned down at the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Other than the Seekers gathered in this church, only his mother and Tommy had this number.

      And neither would dial it unless he was their last recourse.

      LAST NIGHT.

      Tommy Camden had many faults, but the one quality he had in spades was patience.

      In the cold of night, he squatted by the Camden estate’s iron-and-stone fence, watching, waiting. He’d zapped the CCTV with a program to loop already filmed footage. His father had always underestimated him. Lack of military motivation didn’t equal lack of brains.

      Caesar and Brutus, the German shepherd guards, were chowing down on Benadryl-laced hunks of moose. Tommy had spent months priming them to override their training to be fed only by their handler—whose own free lunch had proved soporific. When he woke up, he wouldn’t tell. Not if he wanted to keep his job. Tommy smirked. And where else was there to work in this butt-end-of-nowhere town except for the Camdens?

      The balls of his feet were going numb and Tommy willed one more set of lights to blink out.

      Nora had protected their son for the past ten years, but if the conversation Tommy had overheard on his last visitation with Scotty was already in motion, then Nora would soon be caged in a loony bin, drugged to the gills, so far off the map that Scotty wouldn’t even appear in the margins. Then nothing would stand between the Colonel’s cruel hand and Scotty.

      Scotty was too good, too sweet to be broken. He should have a chance to make choices. He should get to laugh and play and be an ordinary kid.

      Nora would understand. She always had—even when Tommy had betrayed her. She knew what the Colonel was capable of doing. She’d see that Tommy had to save their son from this circle of hell.

      At precisely eleven, the Colonel’s bedroom light snapped off, and Tommy leaked out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d held prisoner. Only the security spots lit the perimeter of the I-shaped English country estate. For all his unbending rhetoric on tradition and heritage, the Colonel had all but gutted the interior of the house after Grandpop’s death eleven years ago. He’d modernized the gray stone house, with its slate roof and steeply pitched gables, to an inch of its original design—and destroyed everything that had comforted.

      What would Grandpop think of what the Colonel had done to his grand old home? Or to his business?

      Tommy shook his head. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Only getting Scotty out before it was too late mattered.

      Brutus groaned and stretched by the gate. Tommy petted the tan-and-black rump. “Sorry, boy, but I couldn’t let you or your brother alert the Colonel. You’ll both live to snarl another day.”

      Tommy stealed along the stone wall, a shadow among shadows,

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