“It’s a hazard,” agreed Charles.

THEY CALLED DR. Connors from the gas station. She gave them directions to the cabin where she was staying at an RV park in town.

“The RV park has a cabin,” said Anna cautiously.

“Don’t they all,” agreed Tag with a grin.

“Place like this,” said Charles, “you get creative about making a living—or you move on.”

The town showed signs of struggling, for sure, Anna thought. But it was set down in the heart of the mountains—she could see why people would fight to stay in a place like this.

Tag said solemnly, “You can feed your wallet, or you can feed your soul, but you seldom can do both at the same time.” He took in a deep breath out his open window.

They turned, as Dr. Connors had directed, in front of the Bigfoot statue.

“Do you reckon they got the size just right?” asked Tag, looking up at the scrap-metal giant. “I admit the only time I saw them in their real shape, they looked at least that big to me. But I expect that was more terror than reality.”

“Most men overestimate size,” said Anna, deadpan.

Tag sighed dramatically. “I disappointed her in that department, that’s for sure. She expected someone taller.” He gave Anna a wicked grin from the backseat.

They pulled into the RV campground and drove around until they found the cabin Dr. Connors had described to them, parking next to an aging but immaculate Volvo station wagon.

As they got out of the car, a woman opened the door of the small cabin and stood on the porch, watching them. She was a little taller than average. Her skin was tanned dark and her shoulder-length brown hair was sun-faded and caught back in an indifferent ponytail. She wore cutoffs that actually looked like they had begun life as jeans, rather than having been bought that way, and a gray tank top that showed just how lean and muscled she was. Her bare arms sported a few scars, mostly thin stripes.

If Anna had to pick out a word for her, it would have been “tough.” She remembered ruefully that she’d thought about going in jeans and a T-shirt instead of dressing for a boardroom. This woman evidently had had the same thought and made the other choice—or possibly not worried about it at all.

“Hello,” she said as they approached. “I’m Dr. Connors. You must be Anna Cornick.”

Anna nodded. “This is my husband, Charles. And our—” She hesitated too long and gave Tag time to chime in.

“Henchman,” he said with a grin that widened as Anna frowned at him. At least the sunglasses were nowhere in sight.

She shrugged. “Henchman, Colin Taggart.”

“Call me Tag,” he told Dr. Connors, who did not appear to be charmed.