The man was lost.
Emma was sorely tempted to leave him that way.
But here she was, walking down yet another one of the tote roads that spiderwebbed through her neck of the woods, trying to remember why she loved this business so much. Emma sighed, resigned to the fact that she would smile nicely when she found Tom Jenkins, tell him it was her fault he was lost, and get him tucked into his cabin.
When she rounded a curve in the logging road, though, she stopped in disbelief. Four men, supposedly her friends, were beating up her missing guest.
The brawl had been mighty, if the torn clothes and bloody faces and churned gravel were any indication. It must have been raging quite a while, too, from the looks of the hard-breathing men. But with the odds so uneven, the outcome was inevitable. Her lost guest was now being held between two burly loggers while another tried to pound him senseless.
Only the man was notTom Jenkins. Emma immediately realized that hiding behind all that blood, beard, and a mask of pain was the one man on earth she had sworn to kill should she ever get the chance.
He shouldn’t be here, in her woods, turning this beautiful October afternoon into yet another black day of her life. Even the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud, sending a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He was sixteen years older than the last time she’d seen him, but she would have recognized him in the middle of a blinding blizzard. He’d grown taller and his shoulders had widened, but it was him. And even held captive by two burly loggers, the man of her nightmares looked more dangerous than a cornered wolf.
Benjamin Sinclair was back.
Another blow landed on his defenseless torso, and Emma winced at his grunt of pain.
Damn. She should be cheering, not saving his rotten hide.
Emma shouldered her shotgun, clicked off the safety, and pulled the trigger.
The echoing boom and avalanche of pelting birdshot got everyone’s attention. Three men dropped to the ground, letting their victim fall to his knees. The man with the punishing fists spun around, his eyes wide with horror. Emma saw the moment he recognized her, because his face darkened and his shock turned to a ferocious scowl.
“Dammit, Emma. What in hell are you shooting at us for!”
“I’m postponing your war a bit, Durham.”
Durham Bragg spit on the ground in front of Benjamin Sinclair, who was dazedly staring at her, his own look of horror barely masked by his bloodied features. His other three attackers were strewn around him like fallen bowling pins, widened eyes peeking out from under their arms covering their heads. Emma looked back at Durham and waited with the patience of a hunter.
Her old friend snarled a curse she hadn’t heard since her father had died. “Dammit, Emma Jean! If you want to stay neutral, then stay the hell out of this! We’re having a little talk with this tree hugger before we send him back to his buddies.” Durham turned back to his victim.
Emma jacked a new shell into the chamber and raised the barrel of her shotgun again as the three other men started to rise. They immediately dropped back down.
“He’s not an environmentalist, Durham. He’s one of my guests. He’s signed up for two weeks of partridge hunting.”
Durham spun back to face her. “Emma! Look at him—his clothes all but shout tree hugger. And I swear I’ve seen his face before, probably on some damn Greenpeace poster.” Durham pointed at the man weaving on his knees. “For chrissakes, the guy could be a model for the L.L.Bean catalog!”
“His name is Tom Jenkins,” Emma said. “Stanley Bates dropped him off at the painted rock and gave him directions to Medicine Creek Camps.”
Durham shot a hesitant look at his kneeling victim. “Bates couldn’t give directions to a goddamn homing pigeon,” he said with a frustrated growl. He rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh. “Dammit. I knowthis guy from someplace.” He gave Emma a speculative look. “He could be registered as your guest and still be a tree hugger. Hunting partridge could be a cover.”
“Environmental soldiers don’t get lost in the woods.”
“Dammit, Emma Jean. Your daddy wouldn’t be pointing no shotgun at me.”
“Damn yourself,” Emma countered. “You beat up one of my guests. Go home, and leave this man alone in the coming weeks. I won’thave my sports harassed.”
Benjamin Sinclair, the lowlife snake, finally stirred. Emma ignored him until Durham grudgingly nodded agreement. Then she looked at the other three men, who were once more making their way to their feet, brushing the dirt from themselves as they glared at her.
She moved the barrel of her shotgun in their direction. “I’ll have your agreement also, gentlemen.”
They looked at her shotgun, at Durham, and then back at her. Finally, they nodded. Emma clicked on the safety, lowered her gun barrel, and looked at Benjamin Sinclair.
His right eye was swollen shut, his left one barely visible. His lip was split and blood was trailing down into the dark tangle of his beard. And now he was trying to stand while cradling his ribs. Durham finally helped him up with all the empathy of a hungry bear grabbing its dinner. Benjamin Sinclair groaned in agony and then glared at Durham with his one open eye.
“Happy hunting, sport,” Durham muttered, slapping his victim on the shoulder, sending him forward several faltering steps. Durham motioned to his buddies and started up the tote road. When he got beside Emma, he stopped.
“You just be careful, missy. That man don’t hit like any sport I’ve ever met,” he growled, rubbing his own swollen jaw.
Emma widened her eyes in feigned surprise. “You mean he actually tried to defend himself?”
Durham ignored that. “Emma Jean Sands, you know better than to go around pointing that gun at people, much less shooting the damn thing.”
“And you know violence won’t stop this war. Remember last time? People got killed.”
All signs of anger left Durham’s face. His eyes turned pained as he reached out one large hand and set it gently on her shoulder. “I remember, kiddo.” He turned and looked back at Benjamin Sinclair. “You could be right about this one. He does look more lost than threatening, now doesn’t he?” he added with a satisfied smile.
Durham and his band of bullies walked to his battered pickup without looking back. The truck started with a violent rev of the engine and its tires spun on the gravel, filling the air with a cloud of dust and debris.
Emma eyed their victim. Durham couldn’t be more wrong. No matter how beaten and battered he was, Benjamin Sinclair was the greatest threat alive.
She finally gathered her courage and slowly walked up to him. “You are Tom Jenkins, I hope.”
The lying snake looked her right in the eye and nodded.
“Well, Mr. Jenkins, Medicine Creek Camps is about six miles back.”
“Is there a reason you weren’t at the airfield this morning to pick me up?” he asked in an obviously pained growl, glaring at her from his one open eye.
“I was thirty miles north of town this morning, rescuing two lost canoeists who are staying at my camps.”
“And when you found them, were they also being beat up?”
“No, they were only half-drowned. I found them on a small island at the north end of Medicine Lake, huddled together to keep warm after they’d capsized their canoe.” Emma gave him a tight smile. “But then, they weren’t dressed like a sporting catalog model.”
Judging by his intensified glare, he didn’t care for that observation. Time to get Benjamin Sinclair patched up and away from Medicine Gore—and Michael—as fast as the next truck out of town could take him. Emma tucked her shotgun under her arm and stepped closer. “You need a doctor. Come on, Mr. Jenkins. My truck is up the road.”