Sophia, inwardly burning, considered cutting them off . . . or doing something worse, but she had to keep her cool and hope they didn’t read the papers, see her name tag, and put two and two together.

She saw the woman who’d nursed her Jack Daniel’s quickly gather up her things, fling a bill on the bar, and abruptly leave.

For a second, Sophia thought Marshall had said something offensive. Or maybe it was Gus or Bruce. Then, through the window, she saw the headlights through the trees separating the hotel property from the lane to James’s home. Her heart soared. He was home! She caught a glimpse of the woman with the red hat hurrying out the front doors.

She’d been waiting for James.

As Sophia had suspected.

A quick flash of jealousy cut through her—and then a deeper emotion as she finally remembered where she’d seen the woman. On TV.

“Crap,” she whispered under her breath.

Ms. Whiskey Straight Up was really Charity . . . Charity Spitz, no, Spritz, like wine spritzer. She was occasionally on TV as a local reporter whenever a station in the tri-cities to the east, or Seattle and Tacoma in the west, needed local talent to report on a story, usually weather.

Sophia had only seen her a couple of times, but she recognized that face and, more importantly, the questions lurking in her eyes. Maybe the men in their thirties hadn’t recognized her, but Charity Spritz certainly had.

And now she was going to talk to James.

“Hey! How ’bout another?” Bruce asked. “We’re getting thirsty.”

“Right away,” Sophia said automatically and pinned her for-the-customer smile on her face. “The same?”

“Si, si,” he said. “Another shot of Jose for me and my amigo!”

They both laughed uproariously, and it was all she could do not to spit in their drinks.

* * *

This was crazy, Rebecca thought, shivering in the night. Certifiably crazy.

And illegal.

And possibly emotional suicide.

Nonetheless, Rebecca trudged through the snow along the lane to James Cahill’s house and managed to keep her footsteps in the already packed-down trail, her breath a cloud. As the drive opened to a clearing, with a rise upon which the farmhouse had been built, she still kept to the deep ruts that had already been broken by the footsteps of cops and rescue workers, reporters and curious neighbors who had wandered over before the place had been cordoned off. With any luck, the new snowfall would cover her tracks, and she wouldn’t be exposed. Inside the pocket of her jacket, she crossed her fingers, then glanced over her shoulder for the umpteenth time to assure herself that she wasn’t being followed.