ONE

      Roscoe’s fierce growl sent a chill skittering down Claire Mitchell’s spine. She slid back from the rickety table, bouncing to her feet as her dog continued to give his warning. It was gloomy in the old one-room hunting shack. A kerosene lantern cast a hazy glow over the notes she studied. She’d been on the run for weeks. From the outside, the shack should look unoccupied. The nights had become chilly but she hadn’t indulged in the luxury of a fire, too worried the smoke would give her away. There were only four windows in the small dwelling, one on each wall. She’d had to make do with what she’d been able to scrounge up. Threadbare bath towels had been tacked over each pane. They should block the minimal kerosene light, even in the evenings.

      It wasn’t dark yet but would be soon. Her heart slammed against her rib cage, each thump pushing ice through her veins. She’d been telling herself if someone found her, she was prepared. She’d almost believed the lie.

      She was a murder suspect.

      But she was not a worthy adversary of Xavier Ambrose’s hired henchmen.

      Roscoe growled again. Mild-mannered and loving most of the time, rottweilers were fiercely loyal protectors. Having his companionship and protection eased her mind, making it worth the extra trouble to keep him with her.

      His sturdy body guarded the door, the only way in—or out—of the shack. His teeth were bared and his posture rigid. There was no need for her to try to peek outside to confirm that she was about to be ambushed. Roscoe’s change in demeanor made it clear.

      “Hush!” She hissed the word under her breath. She was grateful the dog was well-trained, courtesy of Alex Vasquez, her ex-fiancé. He wouldn’t bark, giving away the fact that she wasn’t alone in the shack. She couldn’t chance the intruders hearing him growl, either. Roscoe was her best chance at escape.

      With trembling hands Claire shoved the notes she’d been working on into the backpack that rested at the center of the table. It cost her precious seconds, but the contents were even more precious. She slipped the backpack over her shoulders. She tugged at the cord around her neck, finding her poor excuse for a weapon at the end of it. Palming the vial of pepper spray, she snuffed out the flame in the lantern.

      Roscoe huffed, his huge body nimbly pacing back and forth in front of the doorway.

      Claire darted over to him. She pressed herself against the rough plank wall of the shack. Not for the first time she futilely wished the place had another escape route. The windows were small and simple, nothing more than single panes of glass built into the frames. They would need to be shattered because they couldn’t be wedged open. She wouldn’t risk the noise announcing an escape attempt, nor would she risk being sliced to ribbons trying to squeeze through the small space.

      “Heel.” The command was barely a whisper. Roscoe gave her a bewildered look before he complied.

      The doorknob jiggled. It sounded like a cannon against the silence.

      She had been under no illusion that she would be safe here indefinitely. That hadn’t stopped her from hoping for more time. With limited resources, two weeks hadn’t been nearly long enough to compile the evidence she needed to clear her name.

      “Claire, we know you’re in there,” a deep, gravelly voice taunted from the other side. “Open up and we’ll take it easy on you.”

      A second menacing voice warned, “Make us come in after you, and you might not live to regret it.”

      It was an empty threat. She was well aware of the fact that she might not live to regret it either way.

      Terror mingled with the intense determination to stay alive. A hard edge dug into her palm as she held her hand at eye level, poised and steady.

      Mia’s precious face flashed through her mind. Her dark curls, her spunky smile. It had been far too long since she’d been able to give her three-year-old daughter a hug. A kiss. Far too many nights had passed without reading her a bedtime story.

      For Mia, she had to get out of this mess. She would not leave her daughter parentless.

      The thin wood shuddered as a body slammed into it.

      Roscoe whined as he crouched, ready to attack.

      Please Lord, please Lord, please Lord, Claire silently prayed. She could string together nothing more coherent than this simple, frantic prayer. She trusted He knew what she was asking, even if she was far too panicked to find the right words to say.

      Another assault shook the entire shack. The flimsy door splintered at the bottom.

      Claire gritted her teeth and braced for the inevitable. She pressed herself as tightly as she could against the wall.

      When it shattered, pieces of wood flying everywhere,