There was a clearing up ahead. If she remembered correctly, she would soon—

Yes. Exactly as she recalled.

Jane crouched and moved toward the clearing. Here she would be able to see for miles, and if Caleb was as close as she suspected, she’d soon know it.

Damn. There he was less than ten minutes behind. Knapsack slung over his shoulder, walking with that long, powerful stride. She knew he’d be able to track her, but it still amazed her to see him in action. He was already through the cemetery. He paused at the clump of trees she’d just entered, looking one way, then another. After a moment, he forged ahead into the woods.

Shit.

She was in love with a damn bloodhound.

*  *  *

Caleb pushed through the overgrown path. He was positive that Jane was nearby. The bent branches and freshly stepped-upon grass told him that someone had come through here in the last few minutes, and the farmer who had identified Jane from his phone photo indicated that she had walked in this general direction less than half an hour before. He was closer to her than he had been since he’d begun tracking her.

One thing he hadn’t quite worked out: What would he say to Jane once he found her?

She refused to believe she wasn’t somehow responsible for the attack on the Run. Of course, there were enough guilty feelings on that count to go around. He still had no idea how he’d ever make it up to MacDuff. Worry about that later. One crisis at a time…

Caleb followed the path up to the ridge that overlooked Kinsey Loch, a long body of water that twisted and turned for miles.

Damn. No sign of Jane. Maybe he’d been wrong about the direction she’d—

Wait!

There she was, walking along the loch’s northern side. If her goal was to remain inconspicuous, her bright blue Burberry rain slicker made that impossible.

Caleb left the path and ran down the slope’s side, working his way toward her. But as he drew closer, something didn’t seem quite right; her walk was different than usual, and Jane never swung her arms so broadly.

He jumped in front of her, and she recoiled with a start. “Hi.” Caleb pulled back the jacket’s hood.

It wasn’t Jane.

The woman couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen, and she was obviously terrified.

Caleb gripped her arm and inspected her slightly scuffed left sleeve. “This isn’t your jacket. Where did you get it?”

The woman spoke with a Shetland dialect. “She’s mine, sir. I promise you that.”

“Stop lying. This jacket belongs to my friend.”

The woman pulled away. “No, sir. She was given to me just a peerie bit ago.”