It was the second set of headlights, appearing only a few minutes later, that had drawn him out of the house. He doubted she’d bring anyone up here; she tried too hard to act as if she was fine, as if the past didn’t bother her, but it did. The amount of weight she’d lost was alarming.

Determined to investigate, he’d walked over. It was the Fourth of July, after all. The last thing he needed was a group of teenagers—teenagers who were even half as reckless as he’d been—coming up here and setting off fireworks. As dry as it’d been this summer, they could start a forest fire that would take every single cabin. But all he’d found was Claire’s Camaro. He’d been skirting the property and using his flashlight to comb through the trees in search of the second car when that scream sliced through him.

Claire!

Forgetting everything except getting to the cabin, he took off at a full run, moving much faster than he should have amid so many rocks, logs, gopher holes, pinecones and trees. With his flashlight bouncing every time his foot landed on the forest floor, the ground blurred beneath him. But he didn’t dare slow down—and that was why he never saw the tree branch that knocked him on his back.

The sudden impact left him breathless. Blinking up at the sky, he struggled to fill his lungs.

By the time he recovered and picked up his flashlight, which had gone flying, an engine roared to life on the far side of the property.

The other car. It’d gone beyond the cabin and circled behind, to an area he hadn’t yet reached.

Isaac almost changed direction. He hated that someone might’ve hurt Claire and would get away with it if he didn’t at least see the car. But if Claire was still alive and needed help, every second could matter.

The driver was tearing out of the forest as fast as possible, regardless of the damage such rough terrain might cause his vehicle. Isaac spotted a flash of taillights through the trees and wished he could see more, but he wasn’t in the best condition to follow, even if whoever was behind the wheel had been moving more slowly. Blood soaked his shirt, causing the fabric to stick to him. That branch hadn’t only knocked him down, it’d punched a hole in his chest.

But he might be in good shape compared to Claire. Afraid he was already too late, that she’d been killed as her mother had most likely been killed when they were in high school, he ignored the pain and hurried to the stoop, where he slowly pushed in the door. He wouldn’t have been able to hear her scream so clearly if she hadn’t been close…?.

Sure enough, there was blood at the entrance. And the door would open only partway…?.

Something, or someone, lay behind it.

When Claire came to, it was pitch-black and she was being carried. Where, she couldn’t tell. A man’s muscular chest provided a resting place for her head; one arm supported her back, the other her knees. She had no idea who she was with or where she was at, but she wasn’t frightened because both her surroundings and this person smelled so familiar.

David’s was the first name she thought of, but she disregarded that guess instantly. Her husband was dead. She’d had to remind herself of that every morning for the past thirteen months and had finally started to believe it, mostly because she felt so empty inside and she’d never felt empty when David was alive. Besides, David had sold insurance; he’d smelled like cologne, the occasional cigar and his briefcase. This man smelled like…soap and fir trees and wood smoke.

Where had she noticed that scent before?

With a groan, she lifted her head in an effort to see his face, but it was too dark. They were in the forest. The thick branches overhead blocked even the moon’s glow, but the beam of the flashlight he held in one hand—the hand cradling her legs—showed the ground and confirmed her location. So did the pine needles that threatened to catch in her long, curly hair as they hurried through the trees.

Why was she in the forest? Who was she with? What had happened?

Then it came to her. She’d been attacked. At her mother’s studio.

The man carrying her hadn’t reacted when she first stirred. He was too focused on getting them wherever they were going. But when she screamed and tried to get down, he dropped the flashlight.

“Shh,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? “Who are you?”

“How quickly they forget.”

The wry humor in his voice gave away his identity. This was Isaac Morgan. Of course. He lived closest. And it was no wonder she’d recognized his scent. During the two-year period when she and David had split up, when he’d attended Boise State and they’d both dated other people and been undecided about their future, she’d had sex with Isaac at least a hundred times. Maybe more. Often enough for her to have formed an addiction to his touch that hadn’t been easy to break. Even after so long, she avoided him if possible; just the sight of him could send a powerful charge through her. The memories were that good.

She raised a hand to her aching head. “Why—why’d you hit me?”

With a groan, he squatted and managed to recover the flashlight. “I didn’t hit you.”

“Who did?”

The way he sucked air through his teeth as he lifted her again suggested he was struggling to bear her weight, but she couldn’t figure out why. She weighed less now than ever, and he used to lift her up, hold her against the wall as long as he wanted while he—

Stop! She didn’t want to remember, had trained herself not to remember.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said when they were moving again.

The image of a man’s booted foot appeared in her mind. She’d seen that foot just before someone sprang at her and knocked the flashlight out of her hands.

Isaac probably had a similar pair of boots. Most men around here did. But she knew the person who’d shoved her after knocking her flashlight away hadn’t been Isaac. Any confrontation with Isaac happened head-on. The few people in Pineview who’d experienced the brunt of his temper made sure they never tangled with him again. Cynical and remote, he was indifferent to her and, as much as she’d once wanted to believe otherwise, always had been. If she needed proof she only had to remember their last encounter. When she knew David was returning from school, she’d tried to talk with Isaac, to tell him she’d developed feelings for him. She and David hadn’t promised each other anything, but they had a long history and he wasn’t seeing anyone. She’d wanted to determine how she should respond if he called her, whether or not she and Isaac had a commitment—and Isaac had let her know she’d been mistaken in thinking sex equaled love.

That night when she left his house hurt and humiliated, she swore she’d never go back. And despite the terrible cravings he’d evoked over the years—dreams that were sometimes so vivid she woke gasping with the kind of pleasure he’d given her—she’d kept that promise so she could have a more meaningful relationship with David.

And it’d been worth it. Maybe sex with David hadn’t been as all-consuming, as raw, as it was with Isaac. Maybe she missed that bone-melting intensity. But David had made up for it by giving her so much more. Moody, unpredictable men were excellent bait, but the women who bit down on that hook were fools.

She couldn’t believe she’d ever hoped for a commitment from Isaac. He wasn’t the type to settle down. She’d known that from the beginning. Although they’d never been close friends, she and David had gone to school with him—they’d been in the same grade—so she’d seen firsthand how standoffish he could be. Ever since she could remember, he’d walked around with a camera, always on the other side of the lens, filming life but removed from it. And, if she’d forgotten how hard it was to connect with him, practically anyone in Pineview could remind her, including the women who’d tried to capture his heart and failed just as miserably.