Chapter 1

      Skylar Jamison sat near the top of a rise with a gorgeous view of a narrow river valley below and the soaring face of the Wyoming Rockies ahead of her. Fields of wildflowers in brilliant reds and yellows dotted the grassy slope where she sat, and she could see them in the valley below, as well as in patches on the mountains.

      From here she beheld a vast panorama of beautiful nature mostly unmarred by human presence.

      That’s why she’d come here. She needed to refresh herself, rediscover her joy in painting after a bad breakup. The pristine wilderness of the national forest around her washed away the sludge that seemed to have mired her heart and soul.

      She sat on the grasses on a paint-splattered lightweight tarp. Before her was a small easel holding a canvas on which she had daubed some of the incredible colors around her. Beside her lay a box of oil paints, some rags and a small plastic bottle of citrus cleaner for her brushes. When she was done for the day, she’d wrap her brushes in a cleaner-soaked rag and plastic until she returned to her motel room and could rinse them. On the other side of her was a camera with several lenses. Painting outdoors might inspire her creativity, but the light changed swiftly, and when it was especially good she’d snap photos to capture it, so that she’d have a visual reminder for working later.

      Up here, despite it being summer, the air was a bit chilly, and she had wrapped herself in an old sweater she didn’t mind ruining with paint. The quiet breeze tickled her cheeks and occasionally rustled the grasses around her, a great background to her rambling thoughts.

      A fluffy cloud blocked the sun temporarily, changing the light drastically, flattening the contrast and perspective. Something about the change gripped her and she reached for the camera, taking a number of quick shots.

      “Hey!”

      The sharp, annoyed cry was so unexpected that she nearly dropped her camera and swung around. A burly man was striding out of the woods just behind her to the left. He wore woodland camouflage head to toe.

      She gaped, uncertain how to respond.

      “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

      Still shocked by the unexpectedness of the man’s arrival and his apparent irritation, she sat frozen. One of the things she’d always hated about herself was her occasional slowness to react. It might have saved her some trouble at times simply because she thought first, but at other times it was potentially dangerous.

      The man strode closer, and there was nothing casual in his approach.

      Suddenly galvanized, she jumped to her feet, still holding the camera.

      “I asked what the hell you’re doing!”

      He was getting so close that nervousness assailed her. Instinctively, she braced herself in a defensive posture in case she needed to protect herself. They were all alone up here, miles from anywhere.

      “Painting,” she finally said.

      “That looks like a camera to me.”

      She wondered what the hell was going on, but surprise began giving way to anger as she measured the implied threat in his voice and his approach. “So?”

      He got close enough to see the canvas and hesitated. Finally he said, “We don’t like spies around here. You find some place else to take your pictures. I mean it.”

      He glared at her for a palpable second, then turned and strode away.

      “What the hell?” she said aloud to the now empty hilltop. “What is going on?”

      The grasses, trees and mountains didn’t answer. The breeze kicked up a bit, chilling her. She looked around, trying to re-center herself. Same hill, same mountains, so why did she feel she’d just slipped realities?

      “Idiot,” she muttered finally. Probably some cranky old curmudgeon who thought he owned the entire state. Defiantly, she picked up her camera and looked through the viewfinder and her telescopic lens. Mountains, trees, grasses, wildflowers. A cabin.

      She turned the camera back. She hadn’t really been looking that way because the lighting was bad and didn’t appeal to her, but examining more closely now she saw what appeared to be some kind of homestead across the valley on a higher elevation. She could have zoomed in more, but decided not to. Spy? Really?

      Damn it, she thought, this was national forest land. She wasn’t trespassing and had every right to be here. But did she really want to get into it with that nut?

      Annoyed, she squatted and began to pack up. There were probably a hundred places where she could get a view just as good without the hassles, and who needed the hassles? The stubborn part of her defiantly wanted to remain, but she’d come out here for peace, not conflict. God knew, she’d endured enough conflict for a while.

      She unscrewed the lens from the camera, slipped it into its case, then put everything in her camera bag. It took a little longer to put up her paints, soak the brushes and wrap them in cloth and plastic. When she was sure everything was secure in her backpack, she started to fold her tarp.

      Irritated in ways she couldn’t quite put her finger on, she damned the man for destroying a perfectly beautiful day. Part of her wanted to stay put, just to show him, but given the isolation out here, she had to admit that might not be wise. Just find another place, Sky.

      God, she was learning to hate men. Such a sense of privilege, as if they were masters of the universe. She had a right to be here, too.

      She was stuffing the tarp in her backpack when she saw another man emerge from the trees from the opposite direction, this one riding a horse. She tensed at once, then recognized the colors of the U.S. Forest Service. A ranger. She decided to stay right where she was and give this guy an earful about what had just happened. After all, wasn’t it his job to make sure the public wasn’t harassed on public land?

      She wasn’t at all clear what these folks did, but she was sure of one thing: at the ranger station before she’d come up here, a very nice woman had told her she was free to go anywhere she liked in the forest, but advised her to file a description of her planned activities and check in when she returned, just in case.

      “If we need to rescue you,” the woman said cheerfully, “it would be really helpful to have some idea when and where to start looking.”

      Raising her hand, Sky waved at the rider. At once he turned his mount a little and began to come directly toward her.

      God, he looked iconic, she thought. A big man on a big horse under the brim of a felt Stetson. There was no mistaking that long-sleeved light olive shirt with its patches and brass nameplate, or the dark olive jeans. And soon there was no mistaking the glint of a badge on his breast, or the gun holstered at his waist. Or the shotgun