Sorrow could not find her in the forest.
In spite of the heavy weight permanently nestled in Valerieâs heart, she fancied the sun-dappled pines that bristled the mountain ridge somehow had the power to protect her, to wick away her grief with their delicate needles as she drove past. Temporarily, at least.
Spotting something at the side of the road, Valerie eased the truck along the dusty road past one more stretch of dense shrubbery and pulled to a stop, shading her eyes against the southern California sun. A red-haired man with pale eyes gave her a rueful smile. The tear in the knee of his khakis indicated heâd taken a fall. He wore an orange shirt, telling her he was part of the crew working on rebuilding park cabins that had been flooded in last winterâs deluge.
âHelp you?â she asked. Though she was an arborist, not a park ranger, sheâd lent a hand to many stranded hikers and workers during her tenure at Angelâs Loft National Park.
âThanks,â he said, English accent strong, smile wide. âWent for a walk during our lunch break and took a bit of a tumble.â
He climbed in. No limp from the injury, she noticed. âFirst time working in the park?â
He nodded as she pulled the truck back onto the road.
She eyed the tear in his khakis, which looked neater than sheâd first thought, more of a cut really. A second look convinced her he was in his thirties, older than sheâd first imagined. Older than most of the guys on the work crews. âIâm Valerie.â
The pointy-toothed grin that split his face revealed something different than the friendly redheaded hiker sheâd seen a moment before. Something malicious.
She swallowed. It was her imagination. Again. âWhere can I drop you?â
The grin didnât waver. âThe cabin on Sharpâs Peak. You know it.â
There was only one cabin on Sharpâs Peakâhers. Terror rippled through her. âI wonât.â
âSure you will,â he said.
The thought echoed crazily in her mind: Sorrow canât find me in the forest⦠She kept repeating the mantra, even as he opened the pack on his lap and took out the pruning knife.
Her pruning knife.
The one sheâd left on her kitchen table that morning.
Jackson would have enjoyed the ride to Sharpâs Peak a lot more in his 1958 Bel Air than the SUV he was driving, but the Bel Airâs pristine chassis wasnât cut out for mountain roads. Picturing that car made his heart thump harder. Or was it the memory of Valerie sitting next to him in it, white-blond hair dancing on the breeze, that wondrous smile lighting her freckled face?
Let it go, Jackson. The day you got released from the hospital, she couldnât run away fast enough.
The small box of her possessions on the seat next to him seemed a ridiculously pitiful representation of the months they had been together, months that apparently counted for nothing with Valerie.
He shifted, recalling how many times heâd cut things off with women in the past. Something about a firefighterâs uniform seemed to encourage female attention, but heâd never met a woman who impacted him like Valerie. She knew him inside and out, the real Jackson, and sheâd loved him.
Or so heâd believed.
He pulled up her long drive, surprised to find her sitting in her truck, engine idling. Just get it over with.
Nerves taut as wire, he grabbed the box and marched resolutely to the open driverâs window.
âCan I help you?â Valerie said.
His mouth fell open from the combined shock of Valerieâs indifferent tone and the fact that there was a guy in the passenger seat with his arm around her.
The man waved. âHello, mate.â
Jackson felt his jaw tighten. This redheaded clown was his replacement?
He tried unsuccessfully to wipe the scowl from his face. In mute surprise, he handed her the box.
She didnât look at the contents. âThank you. Iâll tell my father his tools have arrived.â
Jackson took a step back, a cold sensation washing over him.
Valerieâs father was dead.
Long dead.
Jackson returned to his car, pretending to pat his pockets for keys as he watched them out of the corner of his eye. The man got out of the truck first, going around to open Valerieâs door for her. He kept his hand hidden at his side. Knife or gun, Jackson guessed. He hoped it was the former.
âTell your dad I said hello,â Jackson called as he got in his SUV and turned on the engine.
Valerie was faced away from him now, and the guy had her around the waist. With gritted teeth, Jackson backed out a few yards before he shifted the car into Drive. Breathing a prayer that he would not wind up killing them all, he hit the gas. Hard.
The SUV lurched forward, wheels pinging gravel all over the road. He bore down on Valerie and her companion. Two heads snapped around to look at him. He could tell by Valerieâs face that she was terrified, but that she had been expecting some kind of action on his part. The red-haired guyâs eyes widened in surprise. For a terrifying moment, Jackson thought he would pull Valerie closer, but instead he stepped away, a knife in one hand, the other reaching for something under his shirt.