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“I don’t snore.”

“But I’m not about to jeopardize your life or mine for a quick screw with a cowboy I’ll likely never see again after we leave here. We’re so close to end, Bridget. Let’s don’t fuck it up now.”

He was one hundred and twenty percent right. Damn him. “And you say I’m the persuasive one. Fine. I’m focused again. Promise.”

He reached out and patted her on the shoulder. The gesture was meant to comfort her. She wanted to shrug it off, rail at him, but she couldn’t. He understood her frustrations because he shared them. It wasn’t fair for her to blame him for something that was ultimately her fault. Would Lyle still be alive today if she hadn’t suggested he share the information he’d uncovered with her? If she hadn’t planted the seed that they break the news by splashing it all across the front page of the newspaper? If she’d insisted that they call the cops first?

Rodney refolded Lyle’s letter and put it back in his pocket as he stood. “Why don’t you expand on your friendship with Todd? See if you can’t find a way to figure out who this Ellen might be.”

She forced her concern aside at Rodney’s worried glance. She gave him a jaunty salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

He laughed, fooled by her feigned attempt at lightheartedness. “I won’t be gone long. Don’t get in to any trouble.”

“I won’t.”

She watched him leave but made no move to rise. She was suddenly feeling very tired.

Three more weeks and the running would stop.

Three more weeks and she could return to her normal life. That thought didn’t bring her as much comfort as it used to. She wasn’t the same woman who’d escaped New York in the middle of the night. That woman was driven, obsessed with climbing the ladder of success. That woman let her best friend sacrifice his life simply to provide her with information for a lousy newspaper article.

That woman didn’t exist anymore. Her life had been snuffed out the instant the judge’s bullet pierced Lyle’s flesh.

Three weeks.

Then what?

Chapter 3

Bridget waved her hands madly, trying not to let her frustration with her charades partners show. She’d always been far too competitive for her own good, never quite mastering the idea of losing with grace. As Rodney, Todd and Stephen continued to yell out inane, stupid, wrong answers, she could see the James brothers grinning gleefully as the clock continued to tick.

“Disco!” Todd yelled and Bridget rolled her eyes. Losing at charades was not going to make for a fun night.

She looked at Rodney in desperation, but he only gave her a quick, sympathetic grin and shrugged, clueless to even venture a guess at her gestures. She couldn’t be mad at him for sucking at charades. Even though, they were only posing at siblings, she couldn’t love him more even if he were her true brother. He’d saved her life countless times, while consoling her through the guilt and anguish associated with Lyle’s death. He got a bye. Her other two partners, however, did not.

“Saturday Night Fever!” Stephen added. “John Travolta.”

“Jesus,” she muttered.

“No talking,” Matt chastised as Mark called, “Time.”

“Tidal wave,” she said, gesturing that she clearly thought her actions had made that clear.

“Tidal wave?” Todd asked. “How the hell was all this—” he starting waving his hands around, and she narrowed her eyes at his imitation, “—supposed to be a tidal wave?”

“I guess I could sort of see it,” Stephen conceded. “Now that you say it.”

Bridget collapsed into the nearest chair, throwing her hands up in exasperation, while everyone laughed.

She’d met the youngest James brother, Jacob, at dinner, and Bridget suspected Rodney was now regretting his assertion that they put a leash on their libidos. There was clearly some chemistry between the two men.

Jacob grinned. “Well, that was the tiebreaker, and the James boys have successfully trumped you guys again. That’s three games to your two.”

They’d begun the evening playing a guys-versus-girls match with other guests in the inn, but as more and more people headed up to bed, the teams had shifted.

Bridget grimaced when Mark and Matt rose from the couch in unison.

Before the last match, some competitive trash-talking had started up and she’d foolishly made a side wager with the brothers. Her father had always tried to impart the concept of playing games for sheer enjoyment, but she’d never been able to resist the almighty bet. She rarely played Monopoly, Truth or Dare, or basketball without some sort of extra incentive—typically monetary—to make things interesting. Dad always told her that her “betting ways would bite her in the ass”. Though she hadn’t always come out on top, she could admit with not a small amount of pride that she won far more often than she lost. Problem with this wager was she didn’t regret losing to the James twins at all.