Grizzly Falls, Montana January

This has to be the place.

Jessica Williams stared at the dilapidated cabin and her heart sank. Of course she'd been hoping for an isolated place to live, one without the prying eyes of nosy neighbors, but this little cottage went far beyond rustic, with its mossy roof, sagging porch, and rusted downspouts. At least the windows weren't boarded over, and there was a garage of sorts, but it was all piled under nearly a foot of snow. She doubted very strongly that there was any central heat within the building. If she'd expected a haven, she'd been sorely disappointed.

Too bad.

For the foreseeable future, this little eighty-year-old building nestled deep in the forested foothills of the Bitterroots was going to be home, whether she liked it or not.

"Not, is what I'm thinking," she said as she hopped from the cab of her ancient SUV, a Chevy that had over two hundred thousand miles on its odometer, and into the pristine snow. The air was crisp and cold, the snow crusted over and no longer falling. For the last fifty miles of her long journey the Tahoe's engine light had been blinking on and off and she'd ignored the warning, praying that she would get there before the damn thing overheated or gave out completely. Somehow, subsisting on energy bars, bags of Doritos, Red Bull, and bottled water, she'd arrived after nearly thirty-six hours on the road. She was tired to the marrow of her bones, but she couldn't stop. Not yet.

She glanced behind her vehicle to what could barely be called a lane where there was the merest break in the trees, just wide enough for her rig to pass. Twin ruts broke up the pristine mantle of snow, evidence that someone was occupying the cabin.

Jessica Williams, she reminded herself. That's who lives here. That's my name now. Jessica Williams. The name felt uncomfortable, like a scratchy coat that rubbed her bare skin, but it had to be worn.

Before she started unloading, she broke a path to the rotting porch and trudged up the two steps. Snow had blown across the porch, a couple inches piling near the door, dark dry leaves poking up through the thin layer.

She inserted her key into the lock. If it were rusted, which she half-expected, she'd be in trouble. More trouble, she reminded herself. She tried the key and it stuck, unmoving, in the lock. She rattled it. "Come on, come on," she muttered under breath that fogged in the air.

She'd rented this place online, and struck a simple deal with the out-of-state owner. She paid him upfront, in cash, no questions asked. She only hoped he held up his end of the bargain.

With a final twist, the lock gave and she was able to push the door open.

"Oh, man," she said, peering inside. She flipped a light switch near the door and nothing happened, so she headed back to her SUV. She found her flashlight and a roller bag that worked only so-so through the snow as she returned to the porch and the open door. Snapping on the flashlight, she swept its harsh beam over the interior that looked as if no one had been there for a decade. It smelled musty, the air thick with dust. She ran the beam across an old love seat with faded, lumpy cushions and a scarred wooden frame. A coffee table sat in front of it and a rocker, with most of its stuffing exposed, was situated by a river rock fireplace where she suspected birds might roost in the summer. Old nests were probably clogging the flue and that didn't begin to count the bats.

"Fixer Upper's Dream," she said aloud. The ad certainly hadn't lied about that, nor, probably, "A Hunter's Paradise." The terrain and the building were beyond rugged. From the looks of the cabin's interior, mice and other rodents had been the last house guests and she half-expected a raccoon or worse to be cowering in a kitchen cabinet.

On that she was proved wrong. There were no cabinets. Just a table near an antique wood-burning stove and an empty spot where a refrigerator, or maybe an icebox, had once stood. All the conveniences of home, which had been advertised, were sorely lacking. She'd asked for running water, electricity, a septic system, and cell phone access, if not the ability to connect to the Internet. It seemed she might have none of the basics.

"Great." She reminded herself that the most important aspect of the cabin, her tantamount request, was isolation, and that had been provided. "La-di-frickin'-dah," she said, then caught herself.

She tested the toilet. Of course it didn't flush, but once she twisted the valves underneath the tank, water began to flow. A good sign. She'd been afraid that the pipes had rusted through or were frozen. "Will wonders never cease?" She flushed again and water swirled down the stained fixture. It worked and when she tested the sink, water ran through the faucet, all of it ice cold.

Good enough for tonight.

She toured the rest of the cabin, which consisted of the kitchen, a bedroom, the bathroom, and a small loft tucked beneath a sloping roof. A back porch overlooked a small stream that ambled through the hemlocks and firs that lined its shores. It was nearly frozen over, just a trickle near the middle indicating that the water was still running some.

There were no visible signs of a furnace, nor duct work, just a kerosene space heater tucked into a gun closet, and of course the river rock fireplace with its charred and well-used firebox. "Home sweet home," she said as she walked through the interior and out the front door. She needed to unload the Tahoe, clean the place up if she could, dare start a fire and settle in for the night.

As she walked outside again, she noticed dusk was settling in, twilight casting deep shadows across the small clearing. A soft snow began to fall again and, of course, cover the tracks her rig had made when she'd turned off the county road twenty miles into the hills surrounding Grizzly Falls.

Good.

Surely I'll be safe here, she thought, her gaze scouring the woods. There was no way he could find her. Right? She'd covered her tracks completely. Again, she looked at the ruts her SUV had dug into the unbroken snow. If ever there were red arrows pointing to a target, those ruts were it. Worse yet, she felt as if she had been followed, though she'd seen no one in her rearview for miles.

Paranoia crept in with the night stealing across the snowy landscape. She always felt as if someone were only a step behind her, ready to pounce and slit her throat. Absently, she touched her neck and reminded herself that she had friends in Grizzly Falls, people she could trust.

And what good will they do, if he finds you? They can't save you, Jessica, and you know it. No one can.

Despair threatened her just as a stiff breeze kicked up, rattling the branches of trees and swirling around the thin walls of the cabin.

Get over yourself. The law in Grizzly Falls was supposed to be different from what she was used to, the sheriff a thinking man with deep convictions and an ability to sort fact from fiction.

Dan Grayson would help her.

He had to.

Setting her jaw and tamping down her fears, Jessica hauled in her sleeping bag, a pillow, a backpack, her empty thermos, and a single bottle of water, which, along with half a bag of jerky and a banana that was turning brown, would be her dinner. She eyed the living room, searching for any kind of hiding spot. There was a vent in the back...