Chapter 1

The motorcycle skidded to a halt at the edge of the hard-packed dirt road. Connor MacCormac slowly loosened his grip on the handlebars and raised the dusty visor of his helmet, never taking his eyes off the town nestled in the valley below.

He didn’t need a map to tell him it was Pine Butte, Colorado. The pattern of houses, the weathered sign proclaiming it as the home of Wesley Mining Inc., the shape of the road twisting down the mountain were all burned into his memory. No, he couldn’t forget Pine Butte.

Snapping the visor into place, he jump started the motorcycle and pressed the accelerator just a little too hard. The bike slid to the side, then righted itself and roared toward the next switchback. Pine Butte was fifteen minutes away.

A pair of eagles soared in the turquoise sky, and the tree-covered mountain next to him dappled the road with shadows. He barely noticed. All his attention was focused on the town that drew steadily closer. Anticipation, anger and the memory of old shame curled through him as he looked down on the houses, still no larger than tiny pebbles below him.

This time would be different, he told himself. The motorcycle shot forward. He wasn’t a boy anymore. This time he was a man, and justice would be done.

He spared only a glance for the car that approached around the curve of the next switchback. It was going too fast, judging by the plume of dust that trailed behind it. But hell, if some fool wanted to throw himself off the side of the mountain, it wasn’t his business.

As the car approached, he instinctively moved to the far side of the road. He’d give the idiot all the room he wanted. The car seemed to accelerate as it got closer, and Connor moved over a hair farther. Glancing at the edge of the road, he realized with a lick of uneasiness that there wasn’t anywhere to go but down.

The car barreled toward him, going much too fast for the curving, narrow road. Connor stared at it, his hands clutching the brakes as he tried futilely to stop.

In a horrible kind of suspended motion, he saw the car swerve toward him. Searing pain ripped up his leg as the fender flashed past. As he fell, spinning through the air, he realized that Pine Butte had won, after all.

* * *

Sarah Wesley stepped back, dropped a kiss on the small blond head of the sobbing girl sitting on the examination table and pulled a brightly colored sticker out of her pocket with great ceremony. As she’d hoped it would, the appearance of the prize stopped the tears as if by magic.

“You don’t have this one in your collection yet, do you, Jenny?” she teased gently, trying to distract the child from the pain of the injection.

Jenny shook her head vigorously and reached for the sticker. “No! Can I go show it to Tommy?”

“Go ahead, honey,” Jenny’s mother said. “Your brother’s in the waiting room.” As the child ran out the door, the woman turned to Sarah. “What now?” she asked with quiet desperation.

Sarah leaned against the counter and unwound the stethoscope from her neck with a sigh. “I don’t think you have any choice, Mary. I think you need to get the surgery done.”

The girl’s mother paled. “She’s so small, Sarah.”

“I know.” Reaching out, she took the other woman’s hand. “But the heart specialist in Denver is wonderful. I wouldn’t send you to him if I didn’t think he was the best.” After squeezing Mary’s hand, she let it go and turned around, scribbling a name and phone number on a piece of paper. “At least call and talk to him. I’ll write up a history for him and send it off today. If nothing else, go up to Denver and have him look at Jenny.”

Mary rested her hands on the rounded swelling of her abdomen, as if protecting her unborn baby from the news. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

“That’s why I want you to talk to the specialist,” Sarah replied firmly. “All this stress and worry isn’t good for you or the baby.” Pressing the slip of paper in her friend’s hand, she said, “Call him today, Mary.”

Sarah watched as her oldest friend turned and walked slowly out of the exam room, collected her two children and left the office. Mary looked as if she bore the weight of the world on her slender shoulders.

Wishing sadly that she could have given Mary good news, Sarah stared for a moment at the place where she had disappeared, then turned and walked into her little cubicle in the corner. Her desk was overflowing with papers, books and magazines. A stack of patient records stood in one corner, silently demanding her attention.

Throwing herself into her chair, she sat for a moment with her head cupped in both hands. A wisp of inadequacy and helplessness fluttered in her chest and was quickly banished. Useless wishes wouldn’t help either Mary or Jenny. Writing this letter would.

Engrossed in her description of Jenny Johnson’s medical history and symptoms, she didn’t register the commotion in the waiting room of her clinic. Not until her assistant burst into her office, breathless, did she look up with a start.

“What’s the matter, Josie?”

“An accident,” the girl panted. “Up on Eagle Ridge Road. Someone on a motorcycle went off the edge.”

Sarah jumped up and looked around for her emergency bag. “How long ago?”

Josie shrugged. “Sheriff just found him. All he said was the guy needs help, real bad.”

Heart pounding, palms already beginning to sweat, Sarah tossed syringes and bottles of medication into her bag, grabbing anything she might conceivably need. “Get him on the radio and tell him I’m on my way.”

Jumping into her ancient pickup truck, she threw the bag onto the seat next to her and looked down with disgust at her shaking hands. Clenching her teeth against the automatic reaction to the news of an accident on Eagle Ridge Road, she used both hands to insert the key into the ignition. With a cough and a sputter, the engine started up. A few seconds later she was on Main Street, heading toward the mountain.

Taking deep breaths, she banished from her mind the nightmare images of horribly tight curves and steep drop-offs. Running through all the different injuries a motorcycle-accident victim might have, she forced herself to think only about her job.

For about the millionth time she cursed the fact that she might not have enough training to save the victim. As a nurse practitioner, she could handle a lot of emergencies, but there were some things she just couldn’t do. For the second time that day the old regret burned in her throat. If only she had been able to go to medical school.

Gripping the steering wheel more tightly, she steeled her mind against that useless thought. Regretting the path her life had taken wasn’t going to do this accident victim any good. As she bumped along the dusty road, she prayed that she could help her patient until they could get the evacuation helicopter into Pine Butte.

Just around the next curve, she spotted the flashing lights of the sheriff’s car. She jumped out of her truck almost before it had stopped and ran to the edge of the road.

The sheriff crouched beside a figure dressed all in black lying prone and very still among the rocks. Down the slope, sunlight reflected off the crumpled remains of a motorcycle. Scrambling around the scrub bushes and larger rocks, Sarah skidded to a stop next to the sheriff and knelt.

“Is he still alive?” she asked, her hand automatically reaching for a pulse on the body.

Tom Johnson nodded without looking at her. “He’s breathing.”

Her gaze swept quickly over the body that lay so still, stopping at the sight of her reflection in the visor of his helmet. Ignoring the sheriff kneeling next to her, she gently pulled away the blanket covering the unconscious man. A huge gash on his left thigh oozed blood steadily. The ground beneath it was soaked with blood, and she saw that the sheriff had placed a tourniquet just above the cut.

“Looks like you got here just in time, Tom. He could have bled to death without that tourniquet.” She pulled open her bag, then fastened her stethoscope over her ears, unzipped his black leather jacket and listened to his chest. When she’d finished that, she examined him carefully from the tips of his toes to his neck. His muscles were hard and fit, his shoulders broad beneath the jacket. The visor on his helmet refused to budge when she tried to raise it to look at his face.

“He may have a few cracked ribs,” she announced, dropping her stethoscope into her bag and reaching for a syringe. “Nothing else is broken, and I don’t think he’s bleeding internally. I’m afraid to take his helmet off right now. Stumbling around on this uneven ground could make any head or neck injury worse. It can wait until he’s at the clinic.”

“Okay, what next?”

“Run up to my truck and get the board.”

As the sheriff struggled up the slope, Sarah sat back on her heels and looked at the man lying so still in front of her. He was long and lean, his muscles sleek rather than bulky. Even when he was unconscious, vitality radiated out of him with every beat of his heart beneath her fingers. Her hand tightened on the pulse in his wrist, then she gently laid his hand on the rocky ground. She would make sure all that life and vitality didn’t slip away.

“You’re going to be all right,” she murmured. “Tom’s getting the stretcher, and we’ll get you into the clinic.” He didn’t stir or give any indication he’d heard her, but she kept talking, murmuring reassuring nothings to him.

She wondered who he was. Not anyone from Pine Butte, she knew that for a fact. This man wasn’t one she would have forgotten, and as the only medical person in the town, she was sure she knew just about all of them. No, he was a stranger. “We’ll take care of you,” she whispered, again taking his hand in hers.

As she laid her other hand on his chest to monitor his breathing, the heat of his body burned into her fingers through the thin material of his T-shirt. She wondered where he’d been headed. Watching his motionless form intently, she beat down a whisper of envy. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how free he must have felt, roaring up and down the mountains with the wind in his hair.

“Here’s the board, Sarah,” Tom Johnson panted, interrupting her thoughts. Laying it down carefully next to the faceless stranger, he squatted. “You lift, I shove?”

“You got it, Tom.”

She stood and moved to the man’s head. Slowly, carefully, trying not to shift the position of his neck at all, she raised his head and shoulders just enough for Tom to slide the board underneath. The feathery ends of his hair at the bottom of his helmet slipped through her fingers like silk. She kept up a soothing monologue, explaining every move to the faceless, motionless stranger. They repeated the process on his chest and finally his legs, until eventually his whole body was lying on the board.

Sarah quickly and efficiently strapped the man’s helmet-covered head, chest, abdomen and legs to the board, completely immobilizing him. Then she turned to the sheriff. “Ready, Tom?”

He squatted next to the feet and grunted. Crouching in front of the man’s head, she slipped her hands under the board and began to lift.

He was heavier than he looked. Arms straining, the muscles in her back tightening, she finally managed to stand upright. Inching backward over the uneven ground, she glanced anxiously at Tom Johnson. “Careful, Tom,” she warned breathlessly. “Don’t jostle him so much.”

The sheriff shot her an exasperated look. “We got him strapped down, Sarah. We’re not going to get him up this mountain without a little jostling.”

“I know,” she muttered. She tensed her arms, trying to absorb the bumps herself, reluctant to cause him any more pain. Glancing at the limp body again, she tried to walk a little faster. “Just a few more minutes,” she whispered to the unconscious man.

By the time they reached the road, sweat poured off her, and her slender arms and legs burned from the strain. After shuffling to the truck, she and Tom eased the board into the makeshift support she’d built into the back of the pickup. They didn’t often need an ambulance in Pine Butte, but she was fervently glad now that she’d planned ahead.

It took only a few moments to secure the man in the truck. “I’ll meet you back in town, Sarah,” said Tom tersely as he got into his car and drove off.

She raised a hand in answer, still staring at the faceless, nameless man in the back of her truck. None of his features was visible beneath the dark visor of his helmet. His black clothes blended into the dim light that filtered through the cap of the truck, making it look as if he was fading away.

“I won’t let that happen,” she vowed fiercely. Amazed at the conviction in her voice, she stepped closer to the unconscious man, staring for a moment at his motionless body.

Every patient was important to her, she told herself uneasily, gripping the truck more tightly. So why did she feel so strongly about this man? It was because he looked so alone, so helpless, lying in her truck without even a face or a name. It was only natural that she would feel protective of him. She was the only one he had right now.

She closed the door to the back of the truck with a quiet click, got into the cab, turned the truck around carefully and started toward town.

By the time she arrived at her storefront clinic, several people waited in front of the building to help her carry the man inside. She directed them to the largest exam room, and after they’d laid their burden on the table, she gently but firmly shooed them out the door.

“I promise I’ll let you know how he is as soon as I know myself,” she assured them.

After hurrying to the exam room, she stood staring at the still figure for a moment, feeling that same jolt of empathy, then turned and called, “Josie!”

“I’m right here,” her assistant answered from behind her, carrying an armload of equipment.

“Let’s start an IV first, then we’ll get this helmet off.”

As soon as the electrolyte solution began flowing into the patient’s arm, Sarah turned her attention to the helmet. Carefully unfastening the buckle under his chin, she loosened the strap that held his head firmly to the board and slid one hand under his neck.

His skin was hot and somehow felt very much alive. Pausing for a moment, she imagined she could feel his life force pulsing just below the surface.

Wondering at her flight of fancy when she had a patient to treat, she muttered to herself, “Too much hot sun for you today.” Sliding her other hand under the helmet so his head was supported, too, she said over her shoulder to Josie, “Okay, I’ve got his head and neck. You slide the helmet off. Slowly.”

As the helmet slipped upward, she saw a full mouth, an angular face that would never be called pretty and eyelashes that lay against his pale skin like brushes. A tiny gold hoop earring hung from one ear, and his too-long black hair was tousled and matted with sweat.

As she examined his scalp for signs of injury, she heard Josie inhale sharply behind her.

“What’s wrong?” Her hands still supporting his head and neck, she glanced over her shoulder, dread gathering in her stomach. Had she missed something?

Her assistant’s face looked almost as white as the victim’s. “Do you know who this is?”

“Is it someone you know?” Sarah asked, quickly turning to look at the man. She’d been so preoccupied looking for injuries she hadn’t even thought about his identity.

As she looked again, she felt the blood drain from her face. It was impossible. Her hands tightened momentarily on his head and she said faintly, “Josie, get the brace.”

When the cloth-covered piece of wood had been fitted around his head and neck, she slowly withdrew her shaking hands and stuffed them in her pockets. “It can’t be,” she whispered.

“It is,” Josie replied, staring at the unconscious man. “It’s been a long time, but I’d know that face anywhere.”

“Connor MacCormac,” Sarah whispered. “What is he doing in Pine Butte?”

“I guess we’ll just have to wait until he wakes up and find out, won’t we?”

“He isn’t going to be anywhere near Pine Butte when he wakes up.” Sarah walked to the exam table and checked his IV line. “Call the evacuation helicopter and have them come pick him up right away.”

She didn’t wait for Josie to answer. Her gaze drifted over the long, lean form lying on her table, and she found herself studying Connor’s face. It definitely wasn’t that of the wild, sulky boy he’d been twelve years ago. This face was eons older and infinitely harder. Connor MacCormac had grown up.

And after twelve years, what could he possibly want in Pine Butte? His mother had died long ago, and her house had stood empty ever since. As far as Sarah knew, not one person in Pine Butte had heard from him since the summer day he’d taken off.

And now he was back. Not only back, but a patient on an exam table in her clinic. She took his blood pressure, telling herself that she had to be objective. No matter how she felt about him, he was still a patient.

As she stood next to him, urging herself to get busy, she saw his eyelids flutter. His hands twitched, his left hand straining against the restraints still wrapped around him. When he groaned and struggled to sit up, she put her hands on his shoulders and eased him gently back onto the board.

“You can’t move. Lie still.”

“Can, too. Gotta get going.”

The muscles of his legs tensed as he threw his weight against the straps, and blood ran from his wound.

“You’ve been injured,” she said clearly in her best impersonal nurse voice as she held onto him. “You have to hold still until we can take care of you.”

“Gotta go,” he mumbled, drifting into unconsciousness again.

“Very soon,” she soothed. She hoped to God the helicopter was on its way.

Josie stuck her head around the corner. “Bad news. One of the copters is out of commission and the other one is picking up a critical newborn on the other side of the state. It’ll be a while before they can get here.”

Glancing at Connor MacCormac, Sarah took a deep breath. She would get through this. She’d patch him up, and by that time the chopper would be here. “Okay, let’s get busy and suture that wound. We can’t wait for the doctor or he’ll lose too much blood. Come help me get his pants off.”

The two women struggled to cut off his black jeans, now stiff and rust-colored with congealing blood. The cut on his thigh was deep, but as she cleaned it up Sarah stared at it, puzzled. It should have been ragged and uneven, the result of tumbling down that rock-covered slope. Instead, the edges looked almost surgically neat.

“Lucky guy,” she muttered as she swabbed it with the yellow iodine solution. Trying to ignore his long, tightly muscled legs and the skimpy purple briefs he wore, she finally finished cleaning the wound and covered the lower half of his body in a green drape. The sooner she finished with Connor MacCormac, the sooner she could forget all about him.

Forty-five minutes later she tied the last suture and stepped back. He was still unconscious, for which she was profoundly grateful. If he wasn’t awake, she wouldn’t have to think about who lay on her table. She could just pretend he was an anonymous stranger who’d had an unfortunate accident near her town.

She wouldn’t have to wonder why he was back after so many years and wonder what he wanted. She wouldn’t have to look at him and know, with sickening certainty, that things would never be the same again in Pine Butte now that Connor MacCormac had come back.

* * *

The beast sat on his chest, holding him down, smothering him. Its breath smelled of blood and pain. The tentacles spread over his body, enveloping his arms and his legs. With a rush of panic, Connor tried to move and found he was held prisoner.

And it was dark. So dark that he couldn’t see a thing except the glimmer of fire. The fire that was pulling him out of the darkness, that was showing him the way out.

But if there was fire, why was he so cold? He could see the flames, but he shivered convulsively. Ice cubes bumped through his veins, chilling him to the core. He had to get closer to the fire to get warm.

Forcing his eyes open took all his will. Now there was light coming from behind the fire. Still the fire hovered over him, just out of reach. He needed it more desperately than anything else. He shivered, his muscles clenching with the cold; his body throbbed with pain. He needed to make the cold go away.

The flame came closer, leaned over him. Forcing his eyes open, he looked into a face. A face surrounded by a nimbus of gleaming red-gold hair.

“Can you hear me, Mr. MacCormac?” It was the voice again, the one that had smoothed away the fear and panic before. The soft sound spread over him like a warm blanket, taking away the chill. It was closer this time, but still seemed to come down a tunnel from a long way off.

He tried to nod, stopping abruptly when a giant hammer came out of nowhere and slammed into his brain, making his head explode with the pain. “Yes,” he finally managed to croak.

“Move your left toes for me.”

He must have obeyed, because the voice said, “Okay, now your right toes.”

After a few moments the woman nodded and turned away. The light seemed to dim as she stepped out of focus. He tried to raise his hand to hold her close to him, but he couldn’t lift his arm. Panic returned and he began to struggle against the weight holding him down.

“Please don’t move just yet, Mr. MacCormac,” her soft, musical voice said. “I need to make sure you don’t have a more serious neck or head injury before I untie you.”

Neck or head injury?

“What happened? Where am I?” His voice sounded completely foreign to him, slow and indistinct.

The woman with her glowing hair moved closer to him, and again he felt inexplicably soothed by her presence. “You’re in Pine Butte, Colorado.” Why had her voice changed, become almost frosty? “You had an accident with your motorcycle outside of town and you’re in my clinic.”

The picture suddenly clicked into focus. He remembered the car careening toward him, the sharp pain before everything went black. Head and neck injuries. “What’s wrong with me?” His voice was strained and harsh.

The woman leaned closer, no doubt curious about the change in his voice from confused patient to authoritative questioner. She stepped back, fiddling with his IV line. “I don’t think it’s life-threatening,” she soothed. “We’ll know better when the evacuation helicopter gets here.”

“I want to know now, damn it. What did you find?”

Even through the pain-induced haze, he saw her eyes turn cool and assessing. “Very well. You have a concussion, possibly with mild subdural hemorrhage. Three or four ribs are cracked. I haven’t looked at your X rays yet to determine the severity. There was a three-inch laceration on your left thigh with moderate arterial bleeding. As far as I can tell, there is no bleeding into your abdominal or chest cavities. You’re able to move all your extremities, so the possibility of spinal cord injury is slight. Are you satisfied?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes, letting the pain take him under again. When he woke up next time, it would be less. “Thanks, doc. Sounds like you did a good job.”

“You’re welcome. And I’m not a doctor,” she said tightly.

He lifted his eyelids again, held them open by sheer force of will. “No? You know an awful lot about medicine.”

“I’m a nurse practitioner. In Pine Butte, I’m all there is.”

“Good thing I landed where I did, then,” he breathed, closing his eyes and sliding away into the welcome darkness. The last thing he saw was the red-gold of her hair.

* * *

He was back in the hospital. Phones shrilled, people barked instructions in the next room, instruments clattered into trays, and the smell of blood and disinfectant hovered in the air. He had to get up.