A Night Without End

“And what’s murder?” he countered, not buying her claim of being an officer of the law for a millisecond.

“I didn’t—”

“Lady, I walked into this cave and found you next to Jackson.” He fought down the urge to shake her until the lies from her chapped lips ceased. Although she was strong for a female, her neck looked fragile, easy for him to snap. Fighting his own grief, anger and lust for revenge, he sought to tamp down his wildly surging emotions.

“That doesn’t mean I killed him.”

“The murder weapon was in your hand.”

“Which hand?”

“The left.”

She glanced at the blood-smeared cuff of her left sleeve. “I’m right-handed.”

She sounded indignant at his accusation, but then what could he expect from a killer? He shrugged away his doubts. “The way you wield that knife, you’re probably ambidextrous. No doubt you’d have liked to kill me, too.”

Her voice was calm and even, as if accustomed to dealing with tough situations. “I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“Really?” He didn’t believe her story, not with the evidence right before his eyes.

“I came to and sat up. I didn’t even know the knife was in my hand. Then you attacked.” She stared at him as if she thought he was the one who was confused.

But he wouldn’t be taken in so easily by her innocent demeanor. That’s probably how she’d killed Jackson. He frowned and raised his voice. “You expect me to believe your flimsy explanation?”

At his harsh accusation, her entire body shuddered and slumped. Her eyes rolled to the top of her sockets.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

He wanted answers. And she’d either fainted on him or she was an excellent actress. Either way, Sean wasn’t taking any chances. Without relinquishing his grip on her wrist, he perused Jackson’s supplies.

A rabbit snare caught his eye. Perfect. Within moments he’d firmly tied the woman’s hands behind her back. He supposed she wouldn’t like her helpless position much once she came to and discovered that he’d trussed her like a goose—but she should have considered the consequences before she’d killed Jackson. Out here, men took care of their own.

Unwilling to risk any further unpleasant surprises, Sean unzipped her jacket and started to relieve her of the gun she’d reached for. He noted her curves with mechanical efficiency. What a waste. Unconscious, her features relaxed into an attractiveness he might have found appealing if they’d met under other circumstances.

She had unusually symmetrical features, wide-set eyes, angled cheekbones and lightly tanned skin framed by that lion’s mane of golden hair. No wonder she’d taken poor Jackson by surprise. But Sean wouldn’t let that angelic face fool him. His only interest in her womanly curves was to discover where she’d hidden the weapon she’d been so obviously reaching for.

He unzipped her jacket, parted the flap. Beneath her arm, she wore a shoulder harness with a sheathed gun clearly visible. He reached out to take the weapon.

She came to with a groan. Startled, he jerked his hand back, grazing her breast.

She stared at him accusingly—as if he were doing something wrong. “What are you…?”

He watched her arms strain as she discovered her tied wrists, noted the slight widening of her eyes that betrayed a hint of fear. He opened her jacket wider.

She flinched. “Don’t!”

He could have reassured her. But a murderer didn’t deserve courtesy. “I’m taking your gun—before you shoot me.”

Her brows furrowed and a shadow hovered in her sea-green eyes. “Why would I want to shoot you?”

She spoke with such conviction he almost believed in her innocence. But he’d already seen her weapon. And she wouldn’t distract him with clever questions. Reminding himself she was his prisoner, slowly and deliberately, he reached for her weapon. With her hands tied behind her, pulling her arms tight, her gun lay wedged between her arm and her breast. He slid his fingers over the handle of her gun, watching her stiffen as the back of his thumb touched the curve of her breast. He’d sensed how much she’d detested the brush of his fingers. Tough. Letting her keep the weapon wasn’t an option. But he wouldn’t take advantage of her helplessness, either. He would honor Jackson by respecting what the old miner had taught him, and that homespun knowledge included acting the gentleman. He drew the gun out firmly, knowing she thought the worst of him, uncaring whether she believed he was about to harm her.

She’d taken his only family. She deserved to pay.

After checking her weapon to ensure the safety was on, he stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket. She watched him warily, only her ragged breathing revealing her fear. Starting beneath her arms, he patted her down, noting her lean waist, slender hips and long legs with trim ankles tucked into high-topped boots. By her clenched jaws, he surmised she was gritting her teeth, but she didn’t utter a protest—not that it would have stopped him from searching for identification or another weapon.

He half expected her to attempt to kick him and remained alert. But although he could feel anger radiating off her, she remained stiff, unmoving.

When he reached her ankles, she rolled to her side. “Satisfied?”

Her question annoyed him. Who did she think she was to utter challenges? She could damn well answer his questions. He rocked back on his heels and stared at her. “Why did you kill Jackson?”

“Who’s Jackson?” she countered with what appeared to be genuine puzzlement.

Sean resisted slamming his fist into her face. It wasn’t in him to hurt a woman—no matter what she’d done. However, he had no intention of revealing that fact. He might extract more answers if she feared him. “Come on, lady. I don’t have time to play twenty questions.” He jerked her to her feet.

A moan broke from her tightly compressed lips and she slumped and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her. For her thin frame, she was surprisingly heavy. Remembering her strength, he realized she must be lean muscle.

Frowning, he eased her down onto Jackson’s bedroll. “You hurt?”

She didn’t answer but curled her legs under her and tried to scoot away from him like a wounded animal in a trap.

He pressed a firm hand to her shoulder. “Hold still, lady, before you do more damage.”

“The name’s Carlie. Carlie Myer.”

Bill’s wife? Stunned, Sean rocked back on his heels, suspicious as hell. She couldn’t be Carlie Myer, could she? Two years ago, Bill had been one of Sean’s best friends. They’d hunted and fished together, and Bill even owned a two percent share in the mine. Sean had been sorry when Bill had left Alaska and gone to Florida but was happy for his friend when he’d married a beautiful blond cop named Carlie and settled down.

Last year, Bill’s death had hit him hard. He’d even written the widow a letter of condolence, but until today, Sean had never set eyes on Bill’s wife.

And now both Jackson and Bill were dead.

Last time Sean had flown into town, he’d picked up a surprising message from his friend’s widow. She’d wanted to visit him, so Sean had laid in supplies. Two weeks ago, he’d been expecting Carlie Myer’s visit. In all the scenarios he’d played over in his mind about why she’d wanted to see him, he’d never imagined her turning up alone at the Dog Mush. He’d expected her to come to Alaska to check out her inherited investment in the mine. When she hadn’t shown up in Fairbanks on the prearranged date, he’d figured she’d changed her mind and stayed in Florida.

Now she’d arrived, literally out of nowhere. And finding her way into his neck of the mountains wasn’t easy, especially for a woman born and bred in Florida’s Suncoast. Perhaps she wasn’t alone? Maybe an accomplice had run off into the woods and left her for dead. Warily he looked over his shoulder, but he spied nothing amiss.

Once more he reminded himself that if she was Carlie Myer, she was a cop and sworn to uphold the law. Bill had been a straight arrow, unlikely to hook up with a cold-blooded killer. Bill might have judged her incorrectly, but his friend had been keenly perceptive about people’s characters. And just knowing this woman had been married to his friend made Sean question his previous conclusion that she was a murderer. Still, he’d found her with the knife in her hand.

She’s your best friend’s widow.

Yet minutes ago he’d been so sure she’d killed Jackson. He’d seen Jackson’s blood on her left sleeve, the knife clenched in her fingers. The hard-packed floor of the mine gave him no sign that anyone else had or had not been here.

But she’d said she was right-handed.

So why was the blood on her left sleeve?

She’s a cop.