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About the Author

Though born in Chicago and raised in L.A., CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Seviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.

Unforgettable
Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Sara Hanson, the next writer in the family.

As always, to Rick.

Chapter One

Morning sunlight sliced into the rocky alcove where he had taken shelter. A blinding glare hit his eyes. The sun was a laser pointed directly into his face. He sank back into the shadows.

If he stayed here, they’d find him. He had to move, to run … to keep running. This wasn’t the time for a nap. He shoved himself off the ground where he’d been sleeping and crouched while he got his bearings.

Behind him, the rock wall curved like bent fingers. Another boulder lay before him like a giant thumb. He had spent the night curled up inside this granite fist.

How did I get here?

Craning his neck, he peered over the edge of the thumb. His hideout was halfway up a slope. Around him were shrubs, lodgepole pines, more boulders and leafy green aspen trees. Through the trunks, he saw the opposite wall of a steep, rocky canyon.

Where the hell am I?

His head throbbed. The steady, pulsating pain synchronized with the beating of his heart.

When he raised his hand to his forehead, he saw a smear of dried blood on the sleeve of his plaid, flannel shirt. My blood? Other rusty blotches spattered the front of his shirt. Was I shot? He took a physical inventory. Apart from the killer headache, he didn’t seem to be badly hurt. There were scrapes and bruises but nothing serious.

By his feet, he saw a handgun. A SIG Sauer P-226. He checked the magazine. Four bullets left. This isn’t my gun. He preferred a Beretta M9, but the SIG would do just fine.

He felt in his pockets for an ammunition clip and found nothing. No wallet. No cell phone. Not a useful packet of aspirin. Nothing. He wasn’t wearing a belt or a holster. Though he had on socks, the laces of his steel-toed boots weren’t tied. Must have dressed in a hurry.

He licked his parched lips. The inside of his mouth tasted like he’d been chewing on a penny. The coppery taste was a symptom, but he didn’t know what it meant. I could ask the paramedics. Oh, wait. Nobody’s here. Nobody’s coming to help me.

He was on his own.

His fingers gingerly explored his scalp until he found the source of his pain. When he poked at the knot on the back of his head, his hand came away bloody. Head wounds tended to bleed a lot, but how had that blood gotten on the front of his shirt?

He remembered shots being fired in the night. A fist-fight. Running. Riding. On a horse? That can’t be right. He wasn’t a cowboy. Or was he?

No time for speculating. He had to move fast. In four days …

His mind blanked. There was nothing inside his head but a big, fat zero.

In four days, something big was going down, something life-changing and important. Why the hell couldn’t he remember? What was wrong with him?

The chirp of a bird screeched in his hypersensitive ears, and he was tempted to go back to sleep. If he waited, the truth would catch up to him. It always did. Can’t escape the truth. Can’t hide from reality.

He closed his eyes against the sun and gathered his strength. A different memory flashed. He wasn’t in a forest but on a city street. He heard traffic noise and the rumble of an overhead train. Tall buildings with starkly lit windows loomed against the night sky. He fell on the pavement. Shadows devoured him. He fought for breath. If he lost consciousness, he would die.

His eyelids snapped open. Was he dead? That was as plausible an explanation as any.

This mountain landscape was the afterlife. Through the treetops, he saw a sky of ethereal blue. One thing was for damn sure. If he was dead, he needed to find an angel to tell him what came next.

CAITLYN MORRIS STEPPED onto the wide porch of her cabin and sipped coffee from her U.S. Marine Corps skull-and-crossbones mug. A crisp breeze rustled across the open meadow that stretched to the forested slopes. Looking to the south, she saw distant peaks, still snowcapped in early June.

A lock of straight blond hair blew across her forehead. She probably ought to do something about her messy ponytail. Heather was going to be here any minute, and Caitlyn didn’t want to look like she was falling apart.

She leaned her elbows on the porch railing and sighed. She’d moved to the mountains looking for peace and solitude, but this had been a busy little morning.

At daybreak, she’d been awakened by an intruder—a dappled gray mare that stood outside her bedroom window, nickering and snorting, demanding attention. The mare hadn’t been wearing a bridle or saddle, but she had seemed tame. Without hesitation, she’d followed Caitlyn to the barn. There, Caitlyn kept the other two horses she was renting for the summer from the Circle L Ranch, which was about eight miles down the winding dirt road that led to Pinedale.

After she’d tended to the wayward horse, sleep had been out of the question. She’d gotten dressed, had breakfast, put in a call to the Circle L and went back to the horse barn to check the inventory slip for the supplies that had been delivered from the hardware store yesterday.

A handyman was supposed to be starting work for her today, even though it was Saturday. Most of her projects didn’t require two people, but she needed help to patch the barn roof. She checked her wristwatch. It was almost nine o’clock, and the guy who answered her ad had promised to be here by eight. Had he gotten lost? She really hoped he wasn’t going to flake out on her.

When she saw a black truck coming down the road, her spirits lifted. Then she noticed the Circle L logo and the horse trailer. This wasn’t her handyman.

The truck pulled into her drive and a tall, rangy brunette—Heather Laurence, half-owner of the Circle L—climbed out. “Good to see you, Caitlyn. How are you doing?”

There was a note of caution in the other woman’s voice. Nobody from this area knew exactly why Caitlyn had come to live at this isolated cabin, which had been a vacation home for her family since she was a little girl with blond pigtails and freckles.

She hadn’t wanted to tell her story, and folks from around here—even someone like Heather, whom she considered a friend—didn’t push for explanations. They had a genuine respect for privacy.

Caitlyn held up her skull-and-crossbones mug. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The heels of Heather’s cowboy boots clunked on the planks of the porch as they entered the cabin through the screen door.

When Caitlyn arrived here a month ago, it had taken a week to get the cabin clean enough to suit her. She’d scrubbed and dusted and repainted the walls of the front room a soothing sage green. Then she’d hired horses for company. Both were beauties—one palomino and the other roan. Every day since, she’d made a point of riding one in the morning and the other in the afternoon. Though she certainly didn’t need two horses, she hadn’t wanted to separate one from the others at the Circle L. No need for a horse to be as lonely as she was.

Sunshine through the kitchen windows shone on the clean-but-battered countertops and appliances. If she decided to stay here on a more permanent basis, she would resurface the counters with Turkish tile.

“Looks nice and homey in here,” Heather said.

“It had been neglected.” When she and her brother were living at home, the family spent every Christmas vacation and at least a month in the summer at the cabin. “After Mom and Dad moved to Arizona, they stopped coming here as often.”

“How are they doing?”

“Good. They’re both retired but busy.” Caitlyn poured coffee into a plain blue mug. “Cream or sugar?”

“I take it plain and strong.” Heather grinned. “Like my men.”

“I seem to remember a summer a long time ago when you were in love with Brad Pitt.”

“So were you.”

“That sneaky Angelina stole him away from us.”

Heather raised her coffee mug. “To Brad.”

“And all the other good men who got away.”

They were both single and in their early thirties. Caitlyn’s unmarried status was a strategic career decision. She couldn’t ask a husband to wait while she pursued her work as a reporter embedded with troops in war zones around the globe.

“That crush on the gorgeous Mr. Pitt must have been fifteen years ago,” Heather said. “A simpler time.”

Fifteen years ago, September eleventh was just another day. Nobody had heard of Osama bin Laden or the Taliban. “Before the Gulf War. Before Afghanistan.”

“You’ve been to those places.”

“And it doesn’t look like I’ll be going back any time soon.” A knot tightened in her throat. Though Caitlyn wasn’t ready to spill her guts, it wouldn’t hurt to tell her old friend about some of the issues that had been bothering her. “The field office where I was working in the Middle East was closed down due to budget cuts.”

“Sorry to hear it. What does that mean for you?”

“I’ve got a serious case of unemployment.” And a lot of traumatic memories. Innumerable horrors she wanted to forget. “I’m not sure I want to continue as a journalist. That was one of the reasons I came here. I’m taking a break from news. No newspaper. No TV. And I haven’t turned on my laptop in days.”

“Hard to believe. You were always a news junkie, even when we were teenagers.”

“Your brother used to call me Little Miss Know-It-All.” Her brother was four years older and as cute as Brad Pitt. “I had such a huge crush on him.”

“You and everybody else.” Heather shook her head. “When Danny finally got married, you could hear hearts breaking all across the county.”

Danny was still handsome, especially in his uniform. “Hard to believe he’s a deputy sheriff.”

“Not really. Remember how he always played cops and robbers?”

“Playing cowboy on a ranch is kind of redundant.”

After days of solitude, Caitlyn enjoyed their small talk. At the same time, she felt an edge of anxiety. If she got too comfortable, she might let her guard down, might start welling up with tears, might turn angry. There was so much she had to hold back.

She looked through her kitchen window. “Do you know a guy named Jack Dalton?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“He answered my ad for a handyman. And he was supposed to be here over an hour ago.”

“Caitlyn, if you need help, I’d be happy to send over one of the hands from the ranch.”

She wanted to remain independent. “This guy sounded like he’d be perfect. On the phone, he said he had experience as a carpenter, and he’s a Gulf War veteran. I’d like to hire a vet.”

“You spent a lot of time with the troops.”

“And I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t mean to be rude, but I just can’t.” Suddenly flustered, she set down her mug on the countertop. “Let’s go take a look at the horse that showed up on my doorstep.”

After years of being glib and turning in daily reports of horrendous atrocities, she hated to find herself tongue-tied. Somehow, she had to get her life back.

WEAVING THROUGH THE BOTTOM of the canyon was a rushing creek. He sank to his knees beside it and lowered his head to drink. Ice-cold water splashed against his lips and into his mouth. It tasted good.

No doubt there were all kinds of harmful bacteria in this unfiltered water, but he didn’t care. The need for hydration overwhelmed other concerns. He splattered the cold liquid into his face. Took off his flannel shirt and washed his hands and arms. His white T-shirt had only a few spots of dried blood.

As far as he could figure, he’d been sleeping in his boxers and undershirt. He’d been startled awake, grabbed his flannel shirt and jeans, jammed his feet into his boots and then …

His scenario was based on logic instead of memory. The remembering part of his brain must have been damaged by the head wound. His mind was like a blackboard that had been partially erased. Faint chalk scribbles taunted him. The more he concentrated, the more they faded. All he knew for sure was that somebody was trying to kill him.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been on the run, but he didn’t know why. Was he an innocent victim or an escaped felon? He suspected the latter. If he’d ever rated a guardian angel, that heavenly creature was off duty.

His first need was for transportation. Once he’d gotten away from this place, he could figure out what to do and where to go.

He tied the arms of his flannel shirt around his hips, tucked the SIG into the waistband of his jeans and started hiking on a path beside the creek. Though it would have been easier to walk along the nearby two-lane gravel road, his instincts warned him to avoid contact.

The canyon widened into an uncultivated open field of weeds, wildflowers and sagebrush. This landscape had to be the Rocky Mountains. He’d come to the Rockies as a kid, remembered hiking with a compass that pointed due north. It was a happier time.

A black truck hauling a horse trailer rumbled along the road. He ducked behind a shrub and watched as the truck passed. The logo on the driver’s side door read: Circle L Ranch, Pinedale, Colorado.

Good. He had a location. Pinedale. Wherever that was.

He trudged at the edge of the field near the trees. His head still throbbed but he disregarded the pain. No time for self-pity. He only had four days until …

He approached a three-rail corral fence in need of repair. Some of the wood rails had fallen. Two horses stood near a small barn which was also kind of dilapidated. The log cabin appeared to be in good shape, though.

He focused on the dark green SUV parked between the cabin and the horse barn. That would be his way out.

A woman with blond hair in a high ponytail came out of the barn. Around her waist, she wore a tool belt that looked too heavy for her slender frame. At the porch, she paused to take a drink from a water bottle. Her head tilted back. The slender column of her throat was pure feminine loveliness. That image dissolved when she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her denim shirt.

He didn’t want to steal her SUV. But he needed transportation.

Coming around the far end of the corral, he approached.

When she spotted him, she waved and called out, “Hi there. You must be Jack Dalton.”

It was as good a name as any. “I must be.”

Chapter Two

Caitlyn watched her new handyman as he came closer. Tall, lean, probably in his midthirties. He wasn’t limping, but his legs dragged as though he was wading through deep water. Rough around the edges, he hadn’t shaved or combed his thick, black hair. His white T-shirt was dirty, and he had a plaid shirt tied around the waistband of his jeans.

When he leaned against the corral fence, he seemed to need the rail for support. Was he drunk? Before ten o’clock in the morning? She hadn’t asked for references. All she knew about Jack Dalton was that he was a veteran who needed a job.

“On the phone,” she said, “you mentioned that you were in the army.”

“Tenth Mountain Division out of Fort Drum, New York.”

Colorado natives, like Caitlyn, took pride in the 10th Mountain Division. Founded during World War II, the original division was made up of elite skiers and mountain climbers who trained near Aspen. “Where were you stationed?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

After the time she’d spent embedded with the troops, she had a great deal of empathy for what they had experienced. To be completely honest, she had self-diagnosed her own low-grade case of post-traumatic stress disorder. But if Jack Dalton had come home from war an alcoholic, she had no desire to be his therapist. “Have you been drinking, Jack?”

“Not a drop, ma’am.”

In spite of his sloppy clothes and posture, his gaze was sharp. He was wary, intense. Maybe dangerous.

She was glad to be wearing her tool belt. Hammers and screwdrivers were handy weapons. Just in case. She looked behind him toward the driveway leading up to her house. “Where’s your car?”

“I had an accident. Walked the rest of the way.”

“Are you hurt?”

“A bit.”

“Oh my God, I’m a jerk!” She’d been treating him with suspicion, thinking he was a drunk when the poor guy was struggling to stay on his feet after a car accident. “Let’s get you inside. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Caitlyn. I feel terrible for not realizing—”

“It’s all right.” He pushed away from the fence, obviously unsteady on his feet. “I was hoping you could loan me your car and your cell phone so I could go back to my truck and—”

“You’re not driving in your condition.” She went to him, grabbed his arm and slung it over her shoulder. “Come on, lean on me.”

“I’m fine.”

He tried to pull away, but she held on, adjusting his position so none of her tools poked into his side. Jack was a good seven or eight inches taller than she was, and he outweighed her by sixty or seventy pounds. But she could support him; she’d done this before.

As they moved toward the back door to her cabin, she flashed on a memory. So real, it felt like it was happening again, happening now.

The second vehicle in their convoy hit a roadside bomb. The thunder of the explosion rang in her ears. Still, she heard a cry for help. A soldier, wounded. Reporters weren’t supposed to get involved, but she couldn’t ignore his plea, couldn’t stand by impartially and watch him suffer. She helped him to his feet, dragged him and his fifty pounds of gear to safety before the second bomb went off.

Her heart beat faster as adrenaline pulsed through her veins. If she closed her eyes, she could see the fiery burst of that explosion. Her nostrils twitched with the remembered stench of smoke, sweat and blood.

At the two stairs leading to the door, Jack separated from her. “I can walk on my own.”

With a shudder, she forced her mind back to the present. Her memories were too vivid, too deeply carved into her consciousness. She’d give anything to be able to forget. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

His shoulders straightened as he gestured toward the door. “After you.”

The back door opened into a smallish kitchen with serviceable but elderly appliances and a beat-up linoleum floor of gray and pink blobs that she would certainly replace if she decided to stay at the cabin through the winter. Mentally, she started listing other projects she’d undertake. Repair roof on the horse barn. Replacing the railing on the porch. Staying busy kept the memories at bay.

She led Jack to the adjoining dining room and pointed to a chair at the oblong oak table. “Sit right there, and I’ll bring you some water.”

“Something’s wrong.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

He stood very still, watching her, waiting for her to talk. Not going to happen. She knew better than to open the floodgate and allow her nightmare memories to pour into the real world.

Deliberately, she changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

“I could go for a sandwich.”

Up close, he was disturbingly handsome with well-defined features and a dark olive complexion. His eyes were green—dark and deep. Not even his thick, black lashes could soften the fierceness in those eyes. He’d be a formidable enemy.

She noticed a swelling on his jaw and reached toward it. “You have a bruise.”

Before her fingers touched his face, he snatched her wrist. His movement was so quick that she gasped in surprise. He had the reflexes of a ninja. Immediately, he released his grasp.

As he moved away from the table, she could see him gathering his strength, pulling himself together. He went through the dining room into the living room. His gaze darted as though assessing the room, taking note of where the furniture was placed. He ran his hand along the mantle above the fireplace. At the front door, which she’d left open, he peered outside.

“Looking for something?” she asked.

“I like to know where I am before I get comfortable.”

“Reconnaissance?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Trust me, Jack. There’s nothing dangerous in this cabin.” He wasn’t entering an insurgent hideout, for pity’s sake. “I don’t even have a dog.”

“You live alone.”

Women living alone were never supposed to admit that they didn’t have anyone else around for protection, especially not to a stranger. Her hand dropped to the hammer on her tool belt. “I’m good at taking care of myself.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Though he kept his distance, she didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Like a predator. “Would you please stop pacing around and sit?”

“Before I do, I need to take something out of my belt.” He reached behind his back. “I don’t want you to be alarmed.”

Too late. “Of course not.”

He pulled an automatic pistol from the waistband of his jeans. The sight of his weapon shocked her. She’d made a huge mistake by inviting him into her cabin.

THE THROBBING IN HIS HEAD made it hard to think, but he figured he had two options. Either he could shoot Caitlyn and steal her car or he could talk her into handing over the car keys voluntarily.

Shooting her would be easier.

But he didn’t think he was that kind of man.

He reassured her again, “Nothing to worry about.”

“I’d feel better if you put the gun down.”

“Not a problem.” He placed the SIG on a red heart-shaped trivet in the center of the table, took a step to his left and sat in the chair closest to the kitchen. From this angle, he had a clear view of the front door.

She asked, “Do you mind if I check your weapon?”

“Knock yourself out.”

She wasted no time grabbing the gun. Expertly, she removed the clip. “Good thing you had the safety on. Carrying a gun in your waistband is a good way to shoot your butt off. Why are you carrying?”

There were plenty of lies he could tell her about why he was armed, but an efficient liar knows better than to volunteer information. “It never hurts to be prepared.”

She gave a quick nod, accepting his response.

Apparently, he was good at deception. When she’d asked about his military service, he hadn’t hesitated to cite the 10th Mountain Division, even though he didn’t remember being in the army or being deployed.

His story about the car accident had been a simple and obvious lie. Everybody had car trouble. Claiming an accident prompted automatic sympathy.

If he’d planned to stick around for more than a couple more minutes, he would have felt bad about lying to her. She was a good woman. Kindhearted. When he’d said he was hurt, she’d rushed to help him, offered her shoulder for support.

Taking his gun with her, she headed toward the kitchen. “I hope egg salad is okay.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I told you before, call me Caitlyn. I’m not old enough to be a ma’am.”

And you can call me Jack, even though I’m pretty sure that’s not who I am. He rolled the name around in his memory. Jack Dalton. Jack. Dalton. Though the syllables didn’t resonate, he didn’t mind the way they sounded. Henceforth, he would be Jack Dalton.

Caitlyn poked her head into the dining room. “If you want to wash up, the bathroom is the first door on the right when you go through the living room.”

He followed her directions, pausing to peek into the closet near the front door. If he was going to be on the run for any period of time, he’d need a jacket. A quick glance showed a couple of parkas and windbreakers. Nothing that appeared to be his size. A rifle stood in the corner next to the vacuum cleaner.

At the bathroom, he hesitated before closing the door. If the men who were chasing him showed up, he didn’t want to be trapped in this small room with the claw-footed tub and the freestanding sink. He checked his reflection in the mirror, noting the bruises on the right side of his face and a dark swelling on his jaw. Looked like he’d been in a bar fight. Was that the truth? Just a bar fight? The simplest answer was usually the correct one, but not this time. His problems ran deeper than a brawl. There were people who wanted him dead.

He searched the medicine cabinet. There was a wide selection of medical supplies. Apparently, a woman who swaggered around with a tool belt slung around her hips injured herself on a regular basis. He found a bottle of extra-strength pain reliever and took three.

After trekking through the forest, his white T-shirt was smeared with dirt, and he didn’t exactly smell like a bouquet of lilacs. He peeled off the shirt and looked in the mirror again. In addition to patches of black and blue on his upper right arm and rib cage, a faded scar slashed across his chest from his clavicle to his belly button. He had a couple of minor scratches with dried blood. A deeper wound—newly healed—marked his abdomen. What the hell happened to me? These scars should have been a road map to unlock his memory.

Still, his mind was blank.

He washed his chest and pits. His worst injury was on the back of his head, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. No matter how he turned, he couldn’t see the damage.

There was a sound outside the bathroom door. A car approaching? They could be coming, could be getting closer. Damn it, he didn’t have time to mess around with bandages or sandwiches. He needed to get the hell away from here.

He slipped through the bathroom and looked out the front window. The scene in front of her house was unchanged. Nobody was coming. Not yet.

Caitlyn called out, “Hey, Jack.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She charged into the living room and stopped when she saw him. A lot of women would be repulsed by his scars. Not Caitlyn. She stared at his chest with frank curiosity before lifting her gaze to his face. “White or rye?”

“Did you get a good look?”

She shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”

Her attitude intrigued him. If he hadn’t been desperate to get away from this area, he wouldn’t have minded spending time with her, getting to know what made her tick. “Are you a nurse?”

“I used to be a reporter, embedded with the troops.” She moved closer. “I know some basic first aid. I could take care of those cuts and bruises.”

He didn’t like asking for assistance, but the head wound needed attention. He went to his chair by the table and sat. “I got whacked on the back of my skull.”

Without hesitation, she positioned herself behind him. Her fingers gently probed at the wound. “This looks bad, Jack. You should be in the hospital.”

“No doctors.”

“That’s real macho, but not too smart.” She stopped poking at his head and pulled a chair around so she was sitting opposite him. Their knees were almost touching. “I want you to look at my forehead. Try to focus.”

“You’re checking to see if my pupils are dilated.”

“If you have a concussion, I’m taking you to the hospital. Head injuries are nothing to fool around with.”

He did as she asked, staring at her forehead. Her eyebrows pulled into a scowl that she probably thought was tough and authoritative. But she was too damn cute to be intimidating. A sprinkle of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Her wide mouth was made for grinning.

In her blue eyes, he saw a glimmer of genuine concern, and it touched him. Though he couldn’t remember his name or what kind of threat brought him to this cabin, he knew that it had been a long time since a woman looked at him this way.

She sat back in her chair. “What really happened to you? You didn’t get that head injury in a car accident.”

How could he tell her the truth? He didn’t have the right to ask for her help; he was a stranger. She didn’t owe him a damn thing. “I should go.”

“Stay.” She rested her hand on his bare shoulder. Her touch was cool, soothing. “I’ll patch you up as best I can.”

For the first time since he woke up this morning, he had the feeling that everything might turn out all right.