The Hunt

CHAPTER 7

The hair rose on the back of Qui

He called out her name. He stood, looking for her, pulling his Sig Sauer from his holster, braced for anything that might happen.

Had the killer returned? To watch the investigation? His heart beat double time. If that bastard touched her- He clamped down on his emotions, focused his energy on finding Miranda. He prepared to call in reinforcements.

“Miranda!” he called again, louder. A command to respond.

“Over here.” Her voice was faint. He spotted her nearly a football-field length away, down the slope, in the middle of the clearing.

He sighed, frustrated and relieved. Keeping her reined in seemed an impossible task. He hoped Nick knew what he was doing.

She waited for him to catch up to her. “Don’t wander off,” he snapped.

Without acknowledging him, she pointed. “Look.”

He stared at the ground. Buried in the mud, barely discernible from the storm-disturbed earth, was a long gold rifle casing.

He photographed the shell, bent down, and with his gloved hands placed it in an evidence bag.

The find was incredible. They’d only recovered two other casings they could for sure say belonged to the Butcher. Either he picked them up after firing or the search parties simply couldn’t locate them in the dense wilderness. The casings had been wiped clean of fingerprints-he’d likely worn gloves while loading his rifle, but there was always hope the killer would make a mistake.

The killer used a.270-caliber rifle. Unfortunately, it was a very common gun used to shoot virtually every game animal on earth, so it would only help once they had a suspect and could inspect his guns. A firearms expert would be able to determine from the recovered casings and bullets if a specific gun was used; finding that gun was the proverbial needle in a haystack. Virtually every male over the age of fourteen in rural Montana owned the same type of firearm.

Little good any of the evidence they had would do them until they brought in a suspect, but anything was better than nothing.

“She almost got away,” Miranda said, her voice cracking.

Qui

He slowly rose and looked over to the narrow opening of the path that Rebecca had ultimately stumbled upon. “He shot at her from here,” he said, though it was u

“Because she was going to disappear into the undergrowth,” Miranda nodded. “He knew the road was only a few miles away. He took the shot, though it wasn’t ideal.”

She looked around slowly, absorbing the scene.

Qui

She finally looked at him, a strange combination of relief and fear on her face. She swallowed and it was gone, her control firmly back in place. “You’re right,” she said sharply.

He called Nick to fill him in on what they’d discovered.

“It’s nearly five, Qui

“Dammit!” Miranda pulled on her ponytail in frustration.

“He’s right,” Qui

“I know that,” she snapped, leaning against a tree. She sighed and her voice softened. “It doesn’t make the delay any less frustrating.”

They had several bullets, all extracted from the bodies of the Butcher’s victims. Qui

“We have an hour before we need to head back,” Qui

In silence, broken only by the call of birds and scurrying of small animals or the occasional scamper of deer disturbed from their feeding, they tracked the killer’s trail. The clearing went on for miles, and it was nearly five thirty when Qui

“Ten more minutes,” Miranda said without stopping, her eyes sca

“Miranda, tomorrow.”

“But-”

“No.” He reached out but stopped short of contact, remembering the quickly concealed fear in her eyes when he’d surprised her before.

Miranda obviously wanted no part of him. No use even trying to rekindle their flame.

She faced him, an i

Before she could argue, he reached for her shoulder and squeezed. She didn’t back off. The co

“Miranda, I’m just as frustrated as you are. There is evidence out here, evidence that very well may lead us to Rebecca’s killer. But we can’t do her any good searching in the dark when we can’t see the clues. Tomorrow morning we’ll come back and start right here. We’ll have the forensics team searching for the bullet, more people fa

“We’re close,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

Qui

The Butcher.

She may have lived, but he’d stolen her life just the same.

“You’re right,” she reluctantly agreed. “Let’s go.”

Qui

Especially from Qui

She led the way back to the ridge, grateful she didn’t have to look at Qui

Not her career, but her trust.

Miranda lay awake after midnight, alone, physically drained and weary. She’d staggered into her cabin after eating a sparse di

She couldn’t get Qui

“Go away,” she whispered to no one.

There was a time when she had counted the days until his next visit. When the sound of his voice over the phone made butterflies flutter in her stomach and brought a smile to her face.

When he started visiting her regularly after the Butcher investigation was put on hold for lack of evidence, she didn’t know what to think or feel or how to react. She had liked him, liked him a lot, but in the back of her mind she worried she’d never be able to care about a man, never be able to let a man touch her intimately. She was scarred, her body so permanently damaged that even surgery could do only so much. She would never be a normal woman, inside or out.

With Qui

They’d taken long walks and he’d held her hand.

They’d talked for hours about everything-his family, his career, his dreams. Her family, her past, what she wanted in the future. And they talked about the Butcher.

She found herself wanting him to kiss her, but he never made a move. She worried how she might react if he did kiss her.

One evening they had been sitting on her porch swing at sunset. “Qui

“Hmm?”

She glanced at his handsome, almost chiseled profile. His eyes were closed and he seemed at peace, a half-smile on his face. The setting sun made his skin more ruddy than normal, and she realized she cared far more for Qui

It had been a year since the attack. Her life had been on hold. She’d gone back to the University, but it wasn’t the same. She found no interest in her major, business administration, or even in her minor, English lit.

She was tired of treading water. She wanted, needed, to move forward.

And she wanted Qui

“Do you want to kiss me?”

She felt his body tense. Had she overstepped her bounds?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and looked away.

He lifted her chin with his finger and turned her to face him again. His brown eyes seemed black, his expression serious, and her breath almost stopped at the sheer beauty of his face. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since last September when I came back to see you. I’ve wanted to kiss you every day we’ve spent together, and every day we’ve been apart.”

Warmth, deep, satisfying affection, spread through her body as the sincerity of his words stroked her soul. She leaned forward a bit and whispered, “Kiss me.”

The light touch of his lips on hers made her shiver. Slowly, she put her arms around his neck. He kissed her with more urgency and she leaned into him. His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her close, his hands fisting in her hair at the base of her head, holding her tight but not too tight. To every shift she made, he yielded, every tentative touch on his face, his arms, his chest, he accepted.

She wanted more than a kiss.

“Stay with me tonight,” she whispered in his ear.

He moved so she could see his eyes. “Miranda, I want to. I want to make love to you. But not tonight. Don’t rush it.”

She blinked, coldness washing over her.

For two minutes, she’d forgotten about the Butcher. For two glorious minutes he’d been erased from her mind.

“It’s been a year,” she said, her voice flat. She turned away from him. “I haven’t rushed into anything.”

“I know. Honey, don’t be angry. I want to make sure you want the same thing I do.”

She bit her lip to stop herself from crying. Not because of Qui