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dropped a hand into the pocket of his cargo pants. There he ran his finger over the sharp fang he’d pulled from the coyote’s jaw. It rattled against the molar he’d taken from the California girl before hiding her body. Just a little memento, to help relive it.
    Jangling with the thrill of it.
    He licked suddenly dry lips.
    The wind slapped him in the face and he backed away from the cover of scrub oak and pine, inching his way toward his cave. He’d have to move soon, find a new place to hide out. Especially since he knew his message had been delivered. But he’d expected as much.
    He would need to back off, stay out of sight. He couldn’t always have this bird’s-eye view of their torment, though there were plenty of other ridges around the valley that would give him a good vantage point.
    And it was just so damned good to see the old man squirm.

Chapter Three
    Colton sprawled in his easy chair in front of the fire—more embers now than flames—and sipped at a glass of scotch. The blizzard was shrieking around the corners of the house as he stared at the glowing red coals, his thoughts drifting. He was reminded of another fire, the one that changed his life, the smoke and crackling flames casting a gray haze over what had once seemed like a bright future. Colt had lost his uncle, he’d lost his girlfriend and he’d pretty much lost track of his own clear path.
    There had been terror that night, roaring terror, along with a realization that being born a Dillinger didn’t make one infallible. Well, yeah. These days, he knew that firsthand.
    Straightening, he saw that he’d forgotten to include the RSVP card in the fire, where his father’s initials were entwined with those of Pilar Larson, a woman who could well be his daughter.
    Pilar . . .
    He’d briefly been enthralled with her once himself, after Sabrina, after leaving his father and the Rocking D twelve years earlier. He’d spent a whole lot of time on the rodeo circuit and he’d met Pilar during those days of drinking and riding. Horses and women. The circuit had been a great place for both.
    Pilar had been in the picture for a while. A bender that had lasted a few weeks before he surfaced and shook himself free of both his ghosts and her. Even low as he’d been at the time, he’d still possessed the wisdom to see that a woman like Pilar would suck his soul dry if he let her get too close.
    Shortly afterward he’d moved to Montana and bought the ranch. Met Margo at a rodeo in Nebraska, and bit by bit, he’d climbed out of what could have been a very dark hole. They’d had Darcy, and Colton had left the rodeo circuit behind for a family that he’d cherished. But it all had come screeching to a halt with the car accident that had taken them from him.
    He’d been thrown into a dark depression, and only recently had he felt the fog lifting and the desire to possibly live life again. He’d been lucky that Cub and the hands had held the ranch together while he’d been dealing with his grief. A little over ten months earlier he’d run into Pilar at his mother’s funeral where, coincidentally, she’d connected with Ira, and though he’d tried to avoid her—he didn’t want to revisit his rodeo days any more than he wanted to talk about the family he’d lost—Pilar had been intent on cutting him from the herd of mourners and getting him alone.
    “Rourke is yours,” she’d told him without preamble, referring to her eleven-year-old son whom she’d brought in tow. “It shouldn’t be a surprise, Colt. Look at him. He’s got that Dillinger red in his hair, and he’s stubborn, just like you.”
    Colton had felt his soul shrink to a nugget. “You’re lying,” he accused, furious with her. “Rourke is Larson’s son.”
    Pilar gazed at him, almost with pity, as if she found his denial pathetic. “Rourke is not Chad’s son,” she said, referring to her deceased husband. “He’s a Dillinger.”
    “What’s your game, Pilar?” he’d