WYATT HAD PUT the case out of his mind for the moment as they followed the winding road that led to the inn. He was thinking about Marin, maybe a bottle of wine, definitely the sofa. Then they rounded the last bend and all coherent thought was violently cut off.

Emergency vehicles were parked cheek by jowl in front of the house. Three patrol cars, an ambulance, the volunteer fire department. Wyatt felt the blood drain from his face.

Marin.

He was already out of the truck, racing across the yard before Spence had done more than tap the brakes.

I should never have left her alone.

His stomach clenched with a sick twist of fear at what he would find inside.

He burst through the back door into the kitchen, calling her name, simultaneously making silent and desperate deals with the Almighty that she just be safe. He dimly registered the strangers who looked up from the kitchen table before he barreled through the swinging door into the dining room, toward the buzz of conversation.

“Marin!” Wyatt could hear the edge of desperation in his voice.

The foyer was full of emergency personnel, who were all gathered around a closet.

Oh, God, no. His senses sprang to full alert, searching for the scent, the sight of blood and death. But all he smelled was the incongruous odor of damp earth.

“Marin!” He pushed past the group of men outside the closet and looked inside. But instead of a body, instead of shelves or coats, there was a gaping black hole.

“Wyatt?” Her voice sounded from somewhere above him.

He backpedaled, automatically looking up, eyes seeking, finding her on the stairs, her arms full of blankets. Relief spurted through him as he sprinted up the steps, two at a time. He stopped just below her and took her face in his hands as he had after the nightmare. And just as he had then, he traced his fingers over her face and neck, eyes following the motion until he steadied. Then he just lowered his lips to hers.

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