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half afraid Johnnie might have bad news.
    She studied him for a second, as if not quite satisfied with his answer. Then she reached for a manila envelope that lay on the counter and passed it over. “Your girl’s been fading in and out. I tried to get a name, but it was no good. We removed all her personal effects before surgery. This was on her ankle, and I thought you might want to look at it.”
    Roan turned the envelope over in his large hands. The words Jane Doe were scrawled across it in black marker. He had a strange notion not to open it, not to proceed further and to let it go, let the woman go, before he found out something he didn’t want to know.
    It wasn’t possible. She was linked to one known robbery and might be implicated in others. His job was to find out who she was and turn her over to the justice system. As the parish sheriff, he had considerable authority, including some leeway as to who was or was not charged with a crime, but that power was a serious responsibility; abusing it was not in his rulebook or in his nature. He had sworn to uphold the law, and he would do it, regardless of who got hurt.
    With an abrupt gesture, Roan thumbed open the envelope and poured the contents into his hand. He thought it was a bracelet at first, until he saw the extra length and realized it was an anklet. It was surprisingly heavy, a fine yet intricate chain with the deep burnish and minute scratches of well-worn eighteen-karat gold. Linked into it was a set of letters formed with channel set stones that glittered with diamond fire. As he straightened the piece of jewelry alonghis palm with a fingertip, it seemed to carry a lingering hint of the body heat of the woman who had worn it. Then he saw that the linked letters formed a name.
    Donna.
    Roan wasn’t much given to New Age touchy-feely stuff or even to hunches. Still, holding the anklet to the light so the letters glittered up at him, he felt a shiver of premonition scrape down his spine.
    Donna.
    He frowned, a slow scowl that left an arch in one brow.
    Johnnie, staring at him, put a hand on one ample hip as she demanded, “What?”
    â€œNothing.”
    But that was an evasion, if not an out-and-out lie. His prisoner didn’t seem like a Donna. It was one more thing that felt all wrong.
    Roan didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
    â€œThere’s another problem,” Johnnie said.
    He looked up, alerted by something in her voice. “Yeah?”
    â€œShe needs more blood, O positive. The hospital had half the units she needs on hand, and it may be hours before we can get the rest here.”
    Roan’s type was O positive. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t bother to even think about it. “Why the hell didn’t you say so?” he demanded as he turned in the direction of the lab and began to remove equipment from his belt. “Let’s do it.”
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    â€œDonna? Donna, wake up.”
    The voice was deep, quiet and masculine, the appeal urgent. Though it wasn’t her name the man called, Tory felt she should respond. She lifted her eyelids a fraction, thensnapped them shut again as bright light from directly above her sent a stab of pain into her head.
    â€œDonna?”
    The light was snapped off. Her hand was taken in a warm grasp. The touch seemed to lend her strength. She lifted her lashes again with slow care.
    A man stood over her. His face was strained and somber in the subdued glow from behind vertical window blinds. The tan uniform he wore was familiar, as was the shiny badge on his chest.
    The sheriff. She stiffened, tried to drag her hand free.
    â€œCareful. You don’t want pull out your IV.”
    It was a second before the words penetrated the drug-induced haze in her mind. Then she saw the plastic tubing that snaked from her hand up her arm and across the sheets to disappear somewhere above her. White sheets, pale-green walls, TV set placed high on the wall,