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you.”
    The passion behind those words gave Cain the impression that she was making him an offer. If he’d take her back, she’d become his most ardent defender and the suspicion surrounding him would disappear. But that wasn’t a trade he was willing to make. His feelings for Amy hadn’t changed. They never would.
    “Sheridan would’ve known better than that,” he said.
    Amy’s eyes held his, so full of abject longing he finally had to yank his gaze away. And that was whenhe saw it—a piece of wood lying in the trees behind her. It had a dark, almost blackish substance on one end, a substance that looked like dried blood.
    “I just found his weapon,” Cain said, astonished by the ease with which the object had suddenly stood out when active searching had yielded nothing.
    Disappointment crept over Amy’s features, and immediately turned into a highly focused, razor-sharp hate. But Cain was used to the way her emotions vacillated and cared more about what he’d found.
    He started toward it but Amy was closer. She got there first and nudged it with her toe. “He hit her with this? ”
    Much to Cain’s relief, Amy seemed to have regained control of her reactions. “He used more than his fists.”
    “The fact that he used a convenient weapon suggests he didn’t go after her with the intention of killing her.”
    “He had a shovel. I don’t carry a shovel in my trunk. Do you?”
    Amy bent to pick up the club, but he stopped her. “Leave it.”
    “Why?”
    “He probably threw it down to free his hands for digging. Then he heard the dogs.”
    “So what does it matter if I touch it? I can’t get prints off a log.” Crouching, she plucked a long, black strand of hair from the bark and held it up.
    The sight of Sheridan’s hair and blood on the end of that club called to mind the sight of her lying on the ground—and the feel of her against his bare chest, so limp in his arms. “It would carry his scent.”
    “As well as hers,” Amy argued. “How can the dogs distinguish between the two?”
    “The same way they distinguish between all other scents.” Kneeling beside her, Cain called his hounds over and gave them each a good sniff. Then he told them to “find” and sent them into the woods.
    Koda started tracking right away. He led the others uphill, which surprised Cain. He’d expected them to go east, toward the road.
    He hurried after the dogs, with Amy jogging behind him. She caught up only when he stopped to examine several footprints on the muddy bank of Old Cache Creek. “He crossed here,” he said, and ordered the dogs to do the same.
    Maximillian didn’t like the water. He hung back until the last moment but plunged in when he saw that even Cain was going to wade through it.
    “What was he doing way up here?” Amy called after them.
    Cain didn’t respond. He was scanning the area as he cleared the creek, trying to think like the man who’d used that club.
    “Maybe he’s some vagabond who’s been camping out in these mountains,” she suggested, answering her own question.
    No, it was someone from Whiterock. Cain’s gut told him that. The shooting, the rifle, the beating—there was some connection. “He isn’t a camper. He ran this way because he thought I might come after him.”
    “ Did you?”
    “No, I went for help. When he figured out I wasn’tcoming, he probably wound back to the road and drove off.”
    “Maybe he fell and got hurt and is still out here,” she said.
    Cain cringed to think that Amy was the best the Whiterock police had to offer. “He wouldn’t have come back for his shovel if that was the case.”
    The color in her cheeks camouflaged some of her freckles as she wiped the sweat from her temple and moved farther up the bank of the creek they’d just crossed. “Then this is a waste of time. I say we head over to the road and check for tire imprints before too many other vehicles go through and destroy our chances.”
    When she started off in that