Who would take them to Sharon?

Her body slammed against a boulder and she cried out, but realized immediately that she’d stopped moving. The current kept fighting with her, to send her farther downstream. But she held on to the rock and finally saw where she was.

Three feet to her left was a dead cottonwood lying partially in the water, its branches a trap for debris, turning the bank into a natural dam.

Three feet.

She’d run miles over the mountain, down the slope, and had been dragged along in the river. She could make it three more feet.

She had to. For Sharon.

Miranda breathed deep, gathered her strength, and angled herself toward the dam. One. Two.

Three.

She kicked out, stifled the scream that rose in her throat as she thought she’d missed the branches.

She made it. Her body slammed against the dam, and she held on. Slowly, she pulled herself out of the river. So slowly she thought she’d die of hypothermia. In the diminishing light her body looked blue. Maybe it was blue .

How long it took her to drag herself from the river, she didn’t know.

But she made it. And collapsed on the bank.

Two hours later the search team found her.

Miranda swiped at her tear-stained face, hating herself for letting the callous reporter get to her, for making her remember the day she lived and Sharon died.

“Miranda, do you want to talk?” Quinn said.

She’d almost forgot he was behind her.

“No.”

For Rebecca, Miranda could tolerate being within ten feet of Quinn; the dead deserved justice and she begrudgingly admitted that Quinn was damn good at his job.

“You okay?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“I’m fine.” He didn’t care, she reminded herself.

Once upon a time he’d cared. Or she thought he had.

She didn’t remember when her respect and appreciation for his determination turned to love. It hadn’t happened right away.

He’d listened to her without placating her. He’d encouraged her, and even when the days slipped away and they didn’t catch Sharon’s murderer, she felt that she’d accomplished something.

It wasn’t until a month after Quinn was pulled from the investigation, when there were no leads and nothing more he could do, that Miranda suspected she had romantic feelings toward the FBI agent. In fact, she hadn’t known she’d missed him until he showed up at the Lodge one Saturday morning, three months after the attack.

“Hi.”

She couldn’t have been more surprised when Quinn Peterson walked into the dining room where she sat, alone, staring out the plate glass window at the vast canyon below.

“Agent Peterson-I mean, Quinn. I didn’t know you were coming.” Her heart beat rapidly. “Do you have information? Did you find him?”

He shook his head. “No news. We didn’t have a lot to go on.”

“I know. I just hoped-” She sighed. “Then why are you here?”

He fidgeted as he stood in front of her, looking slightly less confident than usual. “I-I wanted to see you.”

Her heart beat rapidly. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It pounded in her ears and she thought for sure she’d misunderstood him. “Me?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

“Oh.” That sounded stupid.

“I know it’s inappropriate. Just tell me to leave, and I won’t bother you again.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

She didn’t know what she was doing, but at that moment she knew that if Quinn Peterson walked out of her life, she would regret it forever.

“I’m not going to rush you, Miranda.” He sat down across from her and reached for her hand, but didn’t take it.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said, staring at his hand. Maybe she was scared. Just a little.

Then she looked into his eyes and saw empathy, concern, and affection, but not pity.

Never pity.

She took his hand and squeezed it.

“One day at a time,” he told her.

“Okay.”

For the first time since the attack she believed she’d be okay. In time, she would make it.

And she had made it, in spite of Quinn Peterson.

She focused now on what was important: tracking Rebecca Douglas’s last steps. Her past with Quinn Peterson was just that, in the past.

The job demanded that she focus on the environment around her, look for freshly broken plants, torn clothing, anything that would help re-create Rebecca’s escape. Anything that could lead to the man who had hunted her like an animal and slit her throat.

Though last night’s rain and the rough terrain almost guaranteed they would fail today, hope was one thing that never deserted her. Hope kept her moving forward, each day, each year, after every abduction and every murder. Hope that they would find the Butcher and justice would win in the end.

If she lost hope, she would also lose her mind. Quinn would then shake his head smugly and say, “I was right.”

“I’ll take the left,” she told him, breaking free of her introspection. “You go that way.” She motioned to the far side of the narrow trail.

“Stop,” he commanded.

She turned to face him. They were far enough across the ridge that they could see no other teams, voices fading behind them.

Damn, he was handsome with his windswept dark blond hair and solid, square jaw. Even the slightly uneven angle of his nose was sexy. But she would not let his good looks shake her resolve.

“What?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“You’re not calling the shots, Miranda. I’m here-officially-to help the sheriff with his investigation. I can’t allow you to start giving orders.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Agent Peterson,” she said, keeping her face blank. “You may be the hotshot federal agent in to rescue the bumbling country idiots, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you have any real power here. I’ve lived here, worked here, made a home here. These people will listen to me. They trust me. Don’t pull rank or I’ll make your life hell.”

Anger flashed across his face and the familiar tic pulsated in his jaw. But she saw the realization in his eyes that she was right. Good. She started to turn back to the task at hand when he reached out and spun her around.

Her arm swung up and broke his hold on her. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice low. Her heart beat too fast. She remembered Quinn’s touch. His probing caresses, his lingering kisses. She burned with the memory of how combustible they were together. How much she had loved him. How he had shattered her confidence, her hope, her heart.

It had taken her a long time to learn to be touched by anyone. She’d become comfortable with physical contact again. Still, twelve years after the attack, if someone touched her when she didn’t expect it, her fear was almost palpable.

She hated the Butcher. He’d stolen so much from her.

Quinn looked momentarily surprised and took a step back. “Don’t make threats you have no intention of acting on,” he said, his voice matching her tone. “You won’t interfere with me because you want justice as much as I do. Maybe even more.”

They stared at each other. Miranda detested how he scrutinized her with his intelligent eyes, as if he could read her mind, see clear down to her damaged soul. She straightened her back and didn’t waver from his gaze.

“Since you have professional experience in search and rescue, you’re an asset,” he continued, “for now. But if I think for one minute that you are behaving in any way that is unprofessional or could jeopardize this investigation, I will have you pulled.”

Her jaw worked, itching to respond, but instead she turned away to control her unsettled feelings. It wasn’t his threat that bothered her-it hurt to realize he still believed that she would fall apart. For years, she’d harbored that same, almost crippling fear every waking moment. She pictured herself falling apart each night when she closed her eyes.

But she persevered. She’d made it ten years without collapsing under the weight of her fears; she couldn’t let his doubts weaken her resolve.

She wanted to share her struggles, but feared he would use her confidences against her as an excuse to take her off the investigation. Everything she’d told him before Quantico had been used against her, all her fears and insecurities and overwhelming need to right wrongs had forced him to expel her from the Academy. She had learned her lesson. She wouldn’t give him any ammunition now that might be used against her later.

She kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t broken twelve years ago, and she damn well wasn’t going to break today.

“Very well, Agent Peterson,” she said formally. She started down the path, focusing on the ground and the shrubs, concentrating on Rebecca. She heard Quinn fall into step with her, taking the right. He muttered something, but she couldn’t make out the words.

She hoped she’d pissed him off.

They proceeded carefully. Miranda kept the map. They spoke only to point out potential evidence, and Quinn photographed and tagged anything even remotely relevant.

About a mile from the ridge where Rebecca had been found, Quinn pointed to four deep impressions in the mud. “She fell here,” he said as he photographed the spot.

Miranda stared at the holes, seeing Rebecca’s naked body shaking with cold and panic. And hope. Because without hope, she wouldn’t have run.

Miranda closed her eyes. If she were alone, she would have gone back in time and remembered the many times she had fallen. Each time she questioned her ability to get up. Each time, she rose because she hoped she could make it.

“Miranda,” Quinn said quietly.

She quickly opened her eyes. Quinn of all people couldn’t witness her reliving the past. He knew too much about her, what she’d gone through; ultimately, she felt that had been the reason he’d kicked her out of the FBI Academy. He feared she’d lose it when on a case and jeopardize the team, endangering herself and others, if she found herself stuck in her own waking nightmares.

She had to keep her fear to herself.

“It was raining,” she said, coughing to cover up any emotion that might creep into her voice. The overgrown path was even denser here, though it was obvious someone had run through. The moist branches didn’t break easily, but there were a few hanging at a forty-five-degree angle, and several small plants and saplings had been trampled.