This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Spring Creek Book Co.,

Publishers since April 2004

Copyright by Candace E. Salima

First Printing: December, 2004

Second Printing:  March, 2004

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

ISBN: 1-932898-24-7 ∙ Retailing at $17.95

Printed in the United States of America

Out of the Shadows . . . Into the Light

Book One: Lost Canyon Springs Series

Written by

Candace E. Salima

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart;

and lean not unto thine own understanding."

Proverbs 3:5

Prologue

May 18, 1998

The phone receiver dropped from Caroline's hand and struck the floor, bouncing before it settled. The voice on the other end was so strident, so distant; Caroline stood motionless. Her lungs drawing in a single gasping breath startled her into the realization that she hadn't been breathing. Her son was gone . . .

Journal Entry - September 25, 1998

Patrick, my dearest son, I've kept a journal all my life. Now, you're gone and I'm keeping this journal for you, praying that one day you will know all that has been done to bring you home. I pray that you may know how much you are loved and how much you are missed.

You are gone and now I know why. Patrick, please believe me, it never occurred to me your father would do what he has done. At first I could barely breathe let alone think. But suddenly I was consumed with one thought that you weren't gone but were somewhere on the ranch, anywhere. I don't know why, but I saddled Blue and headed up to the line shack; I hoped I would find you there. I searched every inch of the five thousand acres that make up this ranch. When I couldn't find you . . . when no one could find you . . . I turned everything over to the foreman. I've barely slept since you disappeared. I've scoured this nation for you, from city to city, airport to airport, bus station to bus station. I've looked everywhere I can think of, but I can't find you. I miss you. My heart is shattered; my mind is so numb I barely survive day to day.

I saw a boy about your age in Atlanta yesterday, and suddenly that crooked grin of yours flashed into my mind, and I thought I was going to break right there. You are my life, Patrick. What will I do without you? I can't. I simply can't live without you. I will find you. I promise you this Son. I will never stop looking. I pray with every drop of faith I have that you will be safe and protected until you are home where you belong.

I don't know how to tell you this, Son. Your grandfather had a heart attack yesterday. I flew home immediately, torn between continuing the search for you and going to my father who is gravely ill. With aching heart I flew home, Patrick, and trusted you to the care of the U.S. Marshals and our Heavenly Father. Can I trust them to bring you back? Where are you, Patrick? Are you safe? Are you warm? I miss you so much.

Caroline stopped writing as the agony broke through and tears began to fall in earnest, staining and blurring the ink on the page. The crushing, crippling pain deep within her chest made it almost impossible to breathe as the pen in her clenched fist snapped in half. The fragments dropped from her hand as she crumpled to the bed and curled into a fetal position, giving into the gut wrenching sobs inside.

Saturday, October 24, 1998

Caroline turned from the hospital window to look back at her father. This giant of a man, who had been larger than life, now lay so silent, so pale, so thin, so . . . disturbingly fragile. She'd rarely left his side since notification of the massive heart attack which had felled the father so dear to her heart. The doctors were giving her little hope, and now she stood at a crossroads. It was exactly three months and six days since Patrick had been ripped from her life. Her father now lay at death's door, and the ranch was falling apart. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of ranch profits had been poured first into the search for Patrick, then into the mounting medical bills. She knew it was only a matter of time before they were in real trouble, but the foreman seemed to be holding things together pretty well, so far. But there was no question the man was starting to show signs of restlessness as it became clear that Harlan Maxwell, Caroline's father, wasn't going to recover. It wouldn't be long before he left for greener pastures as it was becoming increasingly clear he wasn't fond of taking orders from a woman. What had once been one of the largest and most successful ranches in the state of Wyoming had dwindled to a mere two thousand acres of deeded land. The recent months of financial drain had brought the ranch to the breaking point, and her father, never saying a word, quietly sold off his prize herds, lands and antiques to meet the bills of her search for Patrick.

The exhaustion that swept over her almost brought her to her knees. Caroline glanced over at her father and saw that his eyes were open. Moving quickly to his side, she grasped his gnarled hand in her own.

"Daddy?" she whispered softly.

"I'm sorry," he coughed, then struggled to speak. "I'm sorry, baby. Didn't mean to . . ."

"Shhh, its okay," she pressed a kiss to his brow then eased back. His skin was so cool to the touch and the gray undertones scared her as very little had in life. She felt as if the one anchor she had left was being taken from her. She didn't know what to do or where to go from here.

He closed his eyes once again, and she pressed her lips tightly together to control the swell of emotion fighting to be free.

"Find Patrick," he said, struggling through the medication, the weariness and the knowledge that his time had come. He had to find the strength to tell her one last time. "Find him . . . bring him . . . home . . . love you . . ." the last word emerged on a sigh as the beep of the heart monitor changed to a solid undisturbed sound and alarms began to shriek at the nurses station. Her heart stopped, then began a slow plodding beat as the pallor of her father's face slowly faded to gray and his features relaxed in death. She was pushed away and out of the room as medical personnel rushed to the aid of their patient. The sounds faded as a rushing sound drowned out all that was happening around her, her pupils dilated until her eyes were nearly solid black and she slipped to the floor . . . so alone. Patrick, where are you?

CHAPTER 1

November 15, 2001

Slade Taggart muttered to himself, wiping the windshield as he nudged the heater fan to full blast. The blizzard had completely obliterated the road. He kept his eyes glued to the tall reflector poles on the side of the highway, as he inched along in his government issue SUV, cursing his decision to leave for southwestern Wyoming right away.

Word had come that Todd Duncan had slipped through the DEA sting again. It had been a joint operation with the Colombian government that stretched from Colombia to Florida. When Duncan's name had hit the federal databases, flags were raised and the information sent straight to the Marshals Service. Their fugitive had been located. Having searched in vain for three years, headquarters believed they were finally within hours of apprehending the man.

Slade, a U.S. Marshal, had just had the case thrown on his desk that morning. He'd spent the morning poring over the files, absorbing all he could on the case. During that time, a solid respect had begun creeping over him for Caroline Duncan, the ex-wife of the fugitive. The picture clipped to the file had shown Caroline and her son with expressions so animated they almost jumped from the frame. But then Duncan escaped custody, kidnapped his son and disappeared. Mrs. Duncan had expended great amounts of time and money trying to locate her son, all to no avail. The file held reports from various agents, as they had attempted to track Duncan, in addition to the record of Mrs. Duncan's efforts to find her son.

Scribbled at the bottom of the report was the name of the private detective Mrs. Duncan had hired to find her son. It was also noted that said private eye was an ineffective pain-in-the-butt and was most likely padding his bill in every way possible. This was a personal note, scrawled in the margins by a since retired marshal who had apparently had his fill of the antics of that particular individual.

Slade determinedly fought his way through total white out conditions, because Todd Duncan, in the past three years, had exhibited an uncanny ability to stay one step ahead of the law, and he was determined that Duncan would not slip away this time.

Caroline Duncan lived in the southwestern corner of Wyoming on a two-thousand acre cattle ranch, so that's where Slade was currently headed. They were covering every possible location where the man might show. Slade had been on the road six hours now, and the last sixty miles to the Lazy M Ranch had been excruciatingly slow, taking at least three of the six. He hunched his shoulders, stretching his neck side to side, never taking his eyes off the road. The burning muscles at the base of his neck were screaming for relief, and he deliberately forced himself to relax slightly. A strong burst of wind shook the vehicle and sent it sliding. Slade corrected with a quiet competence born of experience and continued searching for the turn off to the ranch. If he didn't find it in the next few minutes, he was going to be in serious trouble. Visibility, which had been minimal at best, was quickly dropping and soon he wouldn't be able to distinguish the road from the rapidly disappearing mile markers on the side of the road.

*

It was a bitterly cold night. Caroline Duncan placed her warmly booted feet carefully, one after the other, breaking through a thick crust of ice into the soft layers of snow beneath. Her vision obscured by the high winds and driving snow, she struggled toward the ranch house. With shallow breaths, she huddled into the collar of her coat, tucking her nose into the scarf wrapped around her neck and into the collar of the sheepskin lined leather jacket. With one hand deep in the pocket of her coat, she leaned into the wind, pushing against it with all her strength, the other clenched tightly to the rope which ran from the barn to the house. It was only a fifty-yard stretch, but in the bitter weather it might as well have been miles. The earlier weather report had placed the temperature at about five above zero and cheerfully reported the wind chill would make it feel like thirty below. At the moment, it could have been thirty below or fifty below . . . either way, it was excruciatingly cold.

Caroline had lived on this ranch all her life, with the exception of her years at the University of Wyoming as well as the five years of her less than screamingly successful marriage. Since her return she had poured her energies into keeping it a viable, working concern. A blast of wind shot icy pellets into the exposed skin of her face and, pulling her hand from her pocket, she yanked her hat lower and tugged the scarf higher. With the next step, her foot hit the back doorstep and her breath escaped in a quick puff of relief as she fumbled with the knob, moving inside as quickly as her frozen limbs would allow.

Stumbling into the mud room, her movements sluggish from the cold, she removed her outer clothing and toed her boots off, before padding into the kitchen in thick hunting socks, faded jeans and a comfortable denim shirt. Running her fingers through the matted strands, what she wryly called "hat hair," that fell to the middle of her back, she vigorously shook out the thick, rich mane of auburn hair --- her one vanity. Her features, an odd mixture of strength and underlying fragility, were enhanced by arching brows over eyes reminiscent of the verdant fields of Ireland, angular cheeks and a square chin lightly softened at the corners. The small lines branching out from her eyes, though often mistaken for laugh lines, were courtesy of squinting into the sun, as well as the never-ending struggles of a rancher's life. She'd started using sunglasses far too late in life to avoid developing small wrinkles around the corners of her eyes.

Caroline smiled at the large collie that rose to his feet and padded quietly toward her. She dug her hand into his thick winter coat and scratched behind his ears.

"It's cold out there tonight Ladd, even for you." She noticed with interest as Ladd's ears came forward and his head turned toward the front door. Although he was intent on whomever was on the front porch, it was clear he didn't find whomever a threat because he did nothing more than pad toward the front door.

She had been about to turn toward the sink, instead, she changed direction toward the front room at the sudden pounding on the door. She grieved a little for the fact that she no longer felt safe in her own home. Since the day Patrick had disappeared, she had kept the loaded shotgun standing near the front door. She couldn't decide whether watching the news was beneficial, or the worst thing she could do as a woman living alone. Reports of home invasions, and the rise in crime across the nation, had forced her to become very cautious over the years. And so, moving with quiet grace, she picked up the shotgun with an easy familiarity and cradled it in the elbow of her right arm. With Ladd at her side, she peered out the side window before opening the door. A large snow-covered man stood there, partially protected under the porch overhang.

Brushing the snow from his six-foot, four inch frame, he regarded her with piercing brown eyes. His face was lean and tough with a seeming lifetime of fighting evil written over its crevices and planes, a solid jaw, firm lips, hollowed cheeks and a long straight nose. While there was a goodness about him that couldn't be hidden, she still brought up the shotgun and pointed it in his direction.

"May I help you?" she asked politely.

With a low chuckle, he brushed the last of the snow off his shoulders and removed the cowboy hat from his head.

"May I come in?"

"That depends on who you are."

"Name's Slade Taggart, Ma'am. I'm with the U.S. Marshals Service."

The shotgun wavered momentarily, but she quickly brought it steady again.

"May I see your ID?"

"Yes Ma'am," his left hand disappeared beneath his battered leather, sheepskin-lined coat and reappeared with a worn leather wallet. With a practiced flick of the wrist, he held his identification out for her inspection.

Taking it from him, she briefly examined it before handing it back to him. Satisfied, she gestured for him to enter the house. Nudging Ladd back, she stepped aside as he brushed passed her, bringing with him the bitter cold of a Wyoming winter night.

"Why are you out on a night like this and more important, what brings you to my home?"

"It took me three hours to make the last hour of this trip. Do you have somewhere I can hang my coat before we talk?" he asked, underlying amusement evident in his voice as he shrugged out of his jacket.

"Certainly." A light flush covering her cheeks, she held out her hand for his coat. "Please have a seat. I'll be right back." Taking the coat, she disappeared briefly into the kitchen returning moments later to settle into a huge armchair next to the fireplace. Ladd padded over and curled up contentedly at her feet. Slade made himself at home on the old couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His worn cowboy boots were shaped to his feet, while his relaxed fit boot cut jeans stretched over the tops. His hat had covered closely cropped light brown hair, with a hint of curl obviously stronger than the cut.

"That's a beautiful dog you have there."

"Ladd? He's been with me since he was a pup. We're going on six years now," Caroline replied, a light smile lessening the tension on her face. Ladd settled his head on his paws, and kept his eyes on the big stranger.

"Does he bite?"

"Only if he feels I'm threatened."

Slade smiled.

"You're Caroline Duncan."

Caroline's eyes narrowed as she studied the man sitting directly opposite her. Glancing at the mantle, she found comfort in the old family pictures, especially the one of her then twelve-year-old son.

"Mrs. Duncan?"

"Yes?" Her mind lost in the thoughts of the son she hadn't seen in three years, her tone was absentminded.

"I have news."

"Of Patrick? Has he been found?" Anxiously, she sat forward in the chair, her concentration now solely on the large man seated across from her. "Where is he? Is he okay? Is he safe?"

"We believe we've found your ex-husband. We thought we had him in Colombia but he slipped away. He's been traced to Miami and it should be just a matter of hours before he is in custody."

"Colombia," Caroline nodded contemplatively. "Todd spent a couple of years down there. Well, he served a mission there."

"I wondered about that . . ." As Slade began to speak, a sudden blast of wind battered against the north side of the house. Ladd leaped to his feet with a bark and dashed down the hall. As the snow and wind pounded angrily against the windows of the old ranch house, the lights flickered and died, leaving the living room in complete darkness with only the flames from the fireplace casting a faint, but comforting light.

With anxiety and frustration kicking in, Caroline immediately forced herself to calm down. It's been eight months since I've heard anything new about Patrick. Five more minutes won't hurt. "The generator ought to kick in but I'll grab some candles to be on the safe side." Rising to her feet, Caroline moved quickly toward the kitchen, patting Ladd as he trotted back into the living room.

Still seated, Slade gazed thoughtfully at the door through which Caroline had disappeared. After a moment, he rose to his feet and walked to the fireplace. Crouching, he took the poker in a strong, weather toughened hand, moved the screen aside and rearranged the glowing embers of the fire before throwing on another log from the nearby stack. Hearing Caroline's return, he replaced the poker and the screen and turned to face her as she came into the room.

"I've only lighted a couple of candles, but with the light from the fire this should do the job." With one hand cupped around the flame, Caroline placed the candles carefully on the end table between the couch and chair, glancing at the fire as it crackled and popped, flames licking eagerly at the new wood. As Slade returned to his seat, she offered him a brief smile and gestured toward the fireplace. "Thank you for adding the wood."

"You're welcome." His voice was deep, raspy and it sent a fission of awareness through her that she clamped down on unconsciously. His tone was comforting, which she rejected as well. Her marriage had taught her well that the male of the species was difficult to read and even more difficult to trust.

"Is Patrick safe?"

"He appears to be Mrs. Duncan. Your ex-husband is on the verge of being taken into custody. Within the next twenty-four hours, barring any unforeseen circumstances, your son should be home." Leaning forward, Slade propped his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped lightly together, and gazed directly into Caroline's eyes. "He's going to be very upset. He'd be what, fifteen now? He's going to know what happened to his father, assuming he hasn't already been dragged into the lifestyle."

"Patrick was twelve when my ex-husband kidnapped him. I can only hope he remembers the life he led before he was forced into an existence defined by his father's insanity." With a sad smile, Caroline held to the inner strength that had seen her through the past three years.

"It wasn't easy to accept that what happened was beyond my control.? Caroline rubbed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the chair. "Tell me Marshal, why are you here in the middle of the worst blizzard Wyoming?s seen in years? Couldn't you just as well have told me this over the phone?"

"The name's Slade. Please, use it . . . we're covering every contingency, in case your ex-husband slips through the cracks again. We almost had him in Colombia, but he greased the right palms and got away. We've tracked him to Miami and anticipate he'll be in custody before the night is over. However, in case he shows up here, I'll be waiting."

Startled, Caroline jerked forward. "You're not serious! Todd wouldn't come back here. He hates ranching, Wyoming and everything having to do with the West. I'm afraid you're wasting your time, Mar--uh, Slade.? Shaking her head, she forced herself to relax and settled back into the chair, fixing him with a faintly incredulous gaze.

"It's my time to waste, Caroline. May I call you that?" At her nod of acquiescence, he continued. "I'm here to provide any necessary protection, and if nothing else, I'll keep you company until your son is safely home." As he finished speaking, a deafening crash resounded throughout the house. A sudden blast of frigid air burst into the room, causing the fire to struggle against the fierce onslaught of wind. The flame from the candle was extinguished instantly. Ladd surged to his feet and ran toward the noise, barking. Caroline dashed down the hall toward the back of the house, following the sound of his deep throated barks.

"Mrs. Duncan. Caroline, wait!" Slade followed close on her heels, reaching for the gun in his shoulder holster.

Caroline raced to the back of the house where the roof had caved under the massive weight of snow that had built up over the winter months. Caroline flung the door open and halted in shock at the craggy mountains of snow piled high in the empty room. The boxes and various odds and ends, which had been stored there, were now buried underneath the snow. A swirl of snow continued to blanket the room as the eerie howl of the wind raced above what was left of that section of the roof. Turning suddenly, Caroline spied the weapon in Slade's hand.

"I doubt you'll need that; don't know what you'd shoot first, the snow or the wind," she said, a smile briefly touching her lips. "I'll need to dig out what was in here and close off this room for now." Glancing over her shoulder, her slender form seemed to bend slightly under the overwhelming load of responsibility with this, seemingly, last straw.

"Go back into the living room. I'll handle it." Sliding the gun back into his shoulder holster, he gestured for her to precede him. Slade glanced back as the generator kicked in and a soft light filled the hallway, spilling from the living room. "The generator's on."

"This is my home, my fault, and my responsibility. I knew the roof needed shoveling," Caroline sighed. "I just . . ." The shadows under her eyes became pronounced as her brow creased in the muted light offered by the white snow of the winter evening. Slade looked at her and then at the mountain of snow. He could feel the need to protect rising up in him as the strain on her face became more pronounced. He'd spent the last ten years trying to temper that feeling, because it practically overwhelmed him every time a troubled woman was within spitting distance. The tendency had brought more grief than any one man could ever want and he?d made an effort to clamp down on it. But he'd already gained so much respect for Caroline simply through the files and now, the reality of the woman far surpassed the black and white.

"I'll handle it. I doubt anybody is out on a night like this, so it'll give me something to do. You have any sheets of plywood?"

"In the mud room and you'll find a nail gun there as well. In fact that room's packed with paraphernalia for every imaginable situation. It's a habit I picked up from my father." Caroline smiled ruefully as she shook her head at the snow filled room.

"I'll patch it up as best I can and block the door to keep the cold out. We'll see about getting it shoveled out in the morning. What's under the snow?"

"Just some boxes, things I needed to go through and never got around to . . . just stuff." She sighed when she remembered the genealogical records she'd put in there until she had more time.

"Where do you want it?"

"There?s a food storage room under the garage, let?s put things in there for now."

"Okay." Slade rubbed his hands together and added, "Show me where the mud room is, and I'll take it from there." Slade gave her a gentle shove toward the front of the house. Continuing to rub his hands together to generate warmth, he followed her.

*

10:15 p.m. Miami, Florida

Patrick, now fifteen years old, lay sprawled on the twin bed he'd outgrown a year ago, with his head turned toward the wall. The lights of the city outside played on the darkened wall, and Patrick watched the moving patterns with no thoughts in mind. In the muted distance shots were fired, cars with angry teenagers peeled out from crumbling curbs on the tired streets of Miami's ghetto. A siren grew closer and blasted into his room before speeding past and fading into the night, leaving only the incessant chirp of crickets in its wake.

He pushed the sheet to his waist and rolled onto his left side, looking out the small window to the half moon which hung brilliantly in the southern sky. Stars fought through the cacophony of city lights and night life to reach small children and young girls wishing upon them. Patrick merely watched, idly counting the ones he could see, mentally pushing aside thoughts of all the ones he couldn't. He wondered what was shining in the Wyoming sky tonight and just as quickly pushed those thoughts aside. There was a dim light at the end of the tunnel that had become his life. He would be eighteen in two years and would turn his back on this dismal reality and work to create a better one of his own. Away from his father, away from his mother and away from the Wyoming mountains he'd loved so much. He idly wondered about his grandfather, knowing his mother was being well-taken care of and became angry with himself that he even cared.

When his father had first taken him he'd lived in hopeful anticipation that his mother would come get him. But she'd never even called or tried to find him. He'd worried when they'd moved around so much at first, but his father assured him on a daily basis that his mother knew where they were but didn't want him anymore. He hadn't believed him at first, but as the days, weeks and finally years had gone by and she still hadn't come to take him home, the daily litany of psychological and physical abuse had finally hardened his heart to where he felt little to no emotion. He didn't care, couldn't care what was going on in Wyoming. It was the only way he could survive.

Todd Duncan slammed into the apartment with walls that had once been white. The cramped quarters of the tiny two room apartment closed around him as he struggled himself to think calmly and rationally. The rage, which had been building for the last week boiled over and spewed forth as he kicked the couch. Grabbing the lamp, he fired it across the room where it shattered with a satisfying crash against the opposite wall.

The blackness of his soul was slowly eating at him, until he sometimes felt there was nothing left of that young boy who'd thought the world was his for the taking. More and more, the rage which bubbled just beneath the surface of his self-control was forcing its way out until it seemed that he had never known, nor ever would know, peace. The world which he fervently believed owed him a living was delighting in giving him a serious knocking around, and he was tired of it. He had a plan. It had been carefully thought out and implemented, until now. He had assumed he had kept it completely under wraps. Now he had more than the feds to worry about, and this latest concern was gnawing away at his self-control. If he was found before he could escape . . . he pushed the thought away and desperately reached for the shaky control that was rapidly disappearing from his life.

He might once have been considered a good-looking man with straight brows over deeply set eyes, a prominent nose with a full mouth and solid jaw gone soft around the jowls---if one never looked past the surface; for beneath the muddy brown eyes lay an emptiness of the soul that good looks could not conceal for long.

He'd had to leave the sumptuous condo on Miami's south beach because the property had become too hot. There were feds crawling all over it, even as he slammed his fist into the wall of this dingy little place in which he had kept Patrick for the last two years. The kid had no idea what was going on in his father's life, and he intended to keep it that way. He wasn't so much of a nuisance now that he could take care of himself, but still, just knowing the kid's absence was the sole source of Caroline's anguish was enough motivation to keep him around. Not given to personal introspection, Todd rarely questioned why he had this gnawing need to continually hurt Caroline in the most basic and vicious of ways. Simply put, the pleasure he derived from her certain misery was a temporary balm to his fractured soul.

"Patrick!" he roared as he headed toward his room. Todd didn't spare his son's room a single glance as he stormed by the open bedroom doorway. "Get packed. We're leaving."

Patrick tensed as he fought the urge to pull the covers over his head and wait out his father's rage. But he could hear him throwing things in the other bedroom, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before the storm blew into his room. He heaved a sigh and rolled out of bed. In a brief moment of desperation, he looked at the tiny bedroom window and contemplated the possibility of climbing out and disappearing forever into the night. As another crash echoed from the other room, Patrick sighed and slid into one of the two pairs of jeans he owned. He pulled a sweatshirt over his head and slipped his feet into the worn leather sandals he was rapidly outgrowing. Pushing aside the fear snapping at the edges of his self control, he shoved his meager belongings into the well-worn duffel bag that served as his suitcase. The bag held a small stamp collection, a book, a couple of music CDs, and a small set of scriptures he hadn't opened since the first year he'd come to live with his father. He kept them close by, but always hidden and never opened. Always creeping at the edge of his thoughts was the betrayal of Heavenly Father. He never allowed it to bloom into conscious thought, and so he simply existed, keeping the symbols of his former life with him, but never letting them touch him.

Within five minutes, Patrick had completely packed and quietly walked into the living room carrying the battered duffel bag which now held everything he owned. He paused at the broken lamp, but pulled deep inside himself and simply sat on the couch. Even though he was a tall, quiet teenager with thick curly auburn hair to his shoulders, sculpted cheeks, strong jaw and wounded eyes identical to his mother's, Patrick had learned to make himself as invisible as possible. The past weeks, months and years had merged into one long dark night which held no promise of a new dawn. He merely survived day to day.

The other room was quiet now, and Patrick looked around the small innocuous apartment, reminiscent of a million others in the United States. This place, lacking all pretense at originality, had been their home for the last two years, and he used the word 'home' loosely. The dingy brown carpet, worn thin in places, stretched toward the cracked linoleum of a postage stamp sized kitchen. A tiny sink with twelve square inches which pretended at being counter space was crammed next to the ancient gold refrigerator which boldly stated its construction in the early seventies.

Todd walked back into the room and directly to the small window. Standing back, he nudged the curtain slightly aside and looked out at the street below. "They must think me nine kinds of a fool to believe I wouldn'?t notice that." He continued to mutter under his breath, the tension mounting in the room as he began to pace.

Patrick watched silently, then against his better judgment he tentatively asked, "Who's out there?"? and braced himself for his father's reaction.

The tension grew as Todd pierced him with an angry glare before answering. "The feds," he turned away and whispered to himself, "but they don't matter."

*

Outside, on the street, a lone man watched the beehive of activity deep from within the shadows as every exit to the apartment building was sealed, and sharp shooters were placed on the roofs of surrounding buildings. Todd Duncan had graduated from the nickel and dime world of a small time drug dealer long ago. He was now a federal fugitive, a kidnapper, and had graduated onto an international field. But these were the least of Duncan's problems. Duncan had ambitiously graduated from drug dealer to blackmailer, and this was where the silent Watcher came into play. Blackmail was always paid, not always to the benefit of the blackmailer, but it was always paid.

*

Inside, Patrick stared at his father in puzzlement. "Who . . ." He pushed himself up off the couch and toward the window, but immediately sank back into the cushions as Todd rounded on him with a snarl reminiscent of a rabid dog.

*

Caroline stood quietly at the stove, watching the hot chocolate slowly heating, stirring it occasionally. Ladd was curled in the corner on an old blanket where he'd slept since he was a pup, his feet jerking as he chased something in his dreams. Fighting back a yawn, she closed her eyes and listened to the faint sound of a closing door in the back. She'd changed into the comforting folds of loose-fitting sweats and slippers. As she heard Slade's footsteps, she tensed as a long forgotten awareness stabbed at her nerve endings. Her every sense came to attention as he walked into the kitchen, the smell of the heated liquid chocolate permeating every corner of the room. Pausing, he took a deep breath and smiled appreciatively. He glanced around the room, noting the long granite counters, oak cupboards, the industrial size stove, dual ovens and the blanket in the corner of the room with food and water dishes. The big collie was curled up on the blanket sound asleep.

"Smells good. I've rigged something for the time being. As the storm winds down we'll need to put up something more permanent."

Caroline eyed Slade as he moved across the room with a loose-limbed walk, his boots thudding solidly on the hardwood floor.

"That's my responsibility, Slade. I?ll call someone in the morning to get out here and take a look at it."

"It's not a crime to accept help when it's available." His voice, gently chiding, belied the understanding in his eyes. Settling himself at the table, he leaned back with the ease of a man comfortable within his own skin. "That's a nifty setup you have under the garage."

"Yeah, when dad decided to put the garage in, I begged him for a storage room underneath. He grumbled quite a bit about having to build the connecting hallway under ground, but he did it anyway." She chuckled to herself as the memories of that time flowed into her mind, and glanced up at Slade. Her laughter stilled at the thinly veiled interest in his eye.

"How long have you run this place on your own?" he asked, trying to fill the suddenly awkward silence.

"My father died about three years ago."

"Three years?" Making the connection to the timing of her son's kidnapping, he emitted a low whistle. He asked no more questions as she removed a pot holder from a drawer and poured the hot chocolate into two mugs. Placing the pan in the sink, she quickly rinsed it and turned it upside down. Carrying the steaming mugs to the table, she placed one in front of him before sitting, casually putting the width of the table between them.

"He suffered a fatal heart attack about three months after Patrick was kidnapped. There was no one else left. My ancestors bled and died, filled graveyards, surviving the hell of Wyoming winters, predators, and such to keep this land. I could do no less. This ranch has been in our family for more than a hundred years." Blowing gently on the hot liquid, she took a small sip, holding it in her mouth before swallowing. Cupping the mug between her palms, she met his steady gaze. Again the flicker of awareness touched deep within, and she dropped her eyes. "Where are you from?"

"Montana. I transferred to Cheyenne last year."

"How long have you been a federal marshal?"

"Thirteen years, Ma'am."

"?I guess you must enjoy it." With a small grin, she met his eyes once again.

"I'm not as thrilled with it as I was at twenty-two, but it still has its moments."

"Ever think of doing something else?"

With an answering grin, he glanced around the kitchen and out the window to the unseen ranch. "Yeah. Ranching. I grew up on a ranch in Montana. I couldn't wait to shake the dust from my boots, but now I'm beginning to think there's something to it. You know, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that."

"It's a hard life." Caroline ran her finger around the rim of the hot chocolate mug.

"How many people work for you?"

"I have a ranch hand who comes during the day and handles most of the heavy work. But we're running an experimental herd here, so we keep it small. We take on more hands in the spring, summer and fall, but during the winter months we manage fine with just the two of us.?

"Experimental? How?"

"Beefalo. We're crossbreeding buffalo with Scottish Highland cattle."

"Those the long-haired ones?"

"Yes, they are." Caroline slanted a curious look at him. "How'd you know that?"

Slade shrugged and asked, "Why did you pick those? The Scottish Highlands, I mean." Curiosity piqued, he settled back in his chair and pulled his mug toward him.

"They have a lot of the same qualities as buffalo--and they're cute."

"Cute! You chose a breed because they were cute?" He asked incredulously.

"Well, when everything points in the same direction, you have to have a deciding factor. They're cute and lovable."

"Cute and loveable," he repeated, the disbelief evident in both his voice and eyes.

"Well, they are low in cholesterol and fat and calve easily with a high live birth rate. They can withstand brutal winters with ease, are sweet-natured and have many of the same qualities of the buffalo, except buffalo are meaner than . . ." Caroline cut off her words as she chuckled.

"Meaner than what?"

"Let's just say they can really do some damage if they are so inclined. They don't like being penned. To repeat an oft quoted phrase . . . "you can drive 'em anyplace they want to go and keep 'em anyplace they want to stay.?"  Laughing softly, Caroline shook her head ruefully before taking another swallow of her hot chocolate. Silence settled over the table as Slade did the same. She drained the last of the hot drink and, pushing her chair back, took his emptied mug along with her own. Resting against the counter, she ran the mugs under warm water before placing them next to the pan. "I think it's time to call it a night. Morning comes early for me."

Turning, she left the kitchen with Slade silently following.

"I made up the bed in one of the guest rooms. I hope you'll be comfortable."

"Anything will be fine. I sleep lightly," he replied.

"Why?" Caroline stopped and turned around.

"I'm here to do a job . . . can't do it if I'm sound asleep."

"Oh, right," Caroline began walking down the hall again, but stopped once more. "Slade?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think my son will really be home tomorrow?"

"A lot of things can go wrong, but I do think he will be."

"It's been so long," she whispered. "I think I'm afraid to believe it."

"I can understand that. But one way or another, Patrick is coming home."

Caroline nodded and continued down the hall. Stopping, she turned the knob, opened a door and flipped on the light as she stepped inside.

"You'll be sleeping in here. The bed's a double." She eyed his large frame uncertainly as she glanced back at the bed. "Will you fit okay? I'd put you in the bunkhouse, but it hasn't been used since the summer and I'm afraid it's in no condition for human occupation."

"It'll be fine. Wouldn't work anyway. I need to be where your ex is likely to show up, not in the bunkhouse."

"Oh--well, good night." She carefully stepped around him and back into the hall. "I hope you'll be comfortable. I've put clean towels and a washcloth in the bathroom for you. The bed is freshly made. If you need anything, please let me know."

"Thank you. This will be fine," he replied.

Caroline glanced over her shoulder at him, then continued down the hall, disappearing into a room three doors down and firmly closing the door behind her.

Slade glanced into the bedroom, then turned back and began walking through the house. It was an old structure, maybe a hundred years, but the occupants had made improvements through the decades. The hall branched out into the large front room where they?d been earlier. Caroline had arranged the room, creating a warm and friendly atmosphere. An old worn couch faced the fire, with arm chairs on either side. Above the fireplace hung a picture of Jesus Christ done by a well-known LDS artist, in fact, Slade's own favorite painter of the Savior. The mantle held a wooden train which wove its way in and out of a pine garland toward a picture of Patrick and Caroline and an older man he assumed was her father. The picture showed a younger and happier Caroline with her arm carelessly slung across the shoulders of her father and the other curved around her son. A card table stood in the corner with a half-finished puzzle scattered across the surface and a solitary chair pushed beneath it.

Slade thought back to the moment when Caroline had confirmed Duncan?s two years in Colombia had indeed been an LDS mission. He?d stopped wondering years ago how someone who had everything good and right in their life could willingly choose a life of crime. Todd Duncan had walked away from everything with which he'd been blessed, for a life in the subculture of the American drug scene. He'd clearly used contacts he'd made as a missionary in Colombia to his advantage. His command of the language and understanding of the culture had enabled him to build quite a little organization. Slade had a special kind of disgust for those who took what the Lord had given them to teach the gospel and used it for personal gain and the destruction of others. Instead of asking why people did what they did. He now concentrated on catching them. He left the whys up to the psychologists and profilers.

He purposely turned his mind from Todd Duncan and a smile came to his face, Caroline was clearly LDS and it was tempting to dwell on the fact that she was beautiful and single. He snorted in disgust at himself. She was the mother of a missing son and the ex-wife of a convicted drug dealer and fugitive, but darn, she was beautiful and appealed to him on every level.

Slade was thirty-five years old, single and LDS, the very epitome of Brigham Young's "menace to society." It wasn't that he'd set out to avoid or even delay marriage. Upon returning from his mission to Tahiti, he'd been so caught up with college and the social scene that he'd graduated and joined the U.S. Marshals before it really hit him! He still hadn't found someone he could really love, really commit to--someone with whom he wanted to spend the eternities. He had immersed himself in his work, earning the reputation of a tough but fair lawman. Yet now, for the first time in years, he'd been hit squarely between the eyes by the sight of a beautiful woman. And there was no doubt. Caroline was beautiful, not a fragile beauty, or the kind that graced the pages of fashion magazines. She was a woman who had strong, refined features, who'd faced life and all it had thrown at her and was still standing tall. He sternly reminded himself that instant attraction had nothing to do with love. He was going to stick with that until he was slapped in the face with it. "It" being the closest he'd come to admitting to the mixed feelings of attraction and respect for the woman he'd just met. The timing could not be worse!

He was here in an official capacity to protect this woman, as well as to be a stop gap for anything or anyone who slipped through the cracks. Slade loved his work. The unpredictability of being on the trail of a fugitive, the danger, the puzzles . . . he loved it all. However, lately he?d noticed an undefined restlessness he'd been unable subdue. And in response to that restlessness he'd buckled down harder, putting in longer hours, showing more dedication. Anything to keep from noticing the emptiness of the condo he went home to at night. Life sometimes threw some crazy curves and this definitely qualified. Could the irony be any more apparent?

Slade pushed the troubling thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on his job. Moving quietly through the house, he checked the windows and locks on the doors. He wasn't surprised to find everything securely locked.

*

Caroline shut the door behind her and leaned against it, expelling a deep breath. Slade Taggart was a potent man, but she'd already spent five years in a hellish marriage. It wasn't that her marriage to Todd made her hate all men. Her life had been touched by too many good men for that. But it had made her cautious, so cautious she realized that she hadn't even looked at or been attracted to a man in a very long time. So what was it about Slade that made her feel what she was feeling?

Rolling her eyes heavenward she softly prayed. "Please don't do this to me. I barely survived the last one, and lost my son in the process. Please Father--bring Patrick home and send this man on his way quickly."

A self-deprecating smile crossed her face as she walked toward the large four-poster bed that had belonged to her parents. The new pillow top mattress was heaven to sleep on and was the only thing she'd changed in this room. Sinking onto the bed, she slipped her socks off as she looked at the twelve drawer matching antique dresser with mirror. Only half the drawers were filled. She threw her socks into the hamper in the corner and fell back against the bed.

Slade is a handsome man, not conventionally handsome, but the type of handsome that shouts man instead of boy. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, solidly built. The kind of man who wouldn't run screaming from an angry buffalo, then she grinned, probably just run. Oh, and his eyes, they were so gentle.

Disgusted with herself, Caroline jumped to her feet and began getting ready for bed. Within minutes she was dressed in warm pajamas purchased from a tall women's catalogue. She'd been so delighted finally to find pajamas long enough to fit her that she'd bought several pairs in varying styles. Five feet ten inches didn't seem that tall to her, but the clothing industry had yet to catch up to her way of thinking.

Passing the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself and turned with brush in hand. She looked closer. She supposed she looked okay, but life had changed her . . . her eyes didn't sparkle anymore. She didn'?t laugh anymore, the emptiness of her mother's heart weighed heavily on her soul and showed in her face. She figured the only reason she didn't look twenty years older than her thirty-five years was the grace of God. There couldn't be any other explanation.

You do have killer hair though, Caroline Duncan. Take comfort in that, she thought to herself and grinned at her reflection in the mirror as she finished brushing her hair. She paused and looked at the closed door. Deciding she didn't want to be alone, she quickly made her way to the kitchen.

"Ladd, here boy," she called quietly in the dark. Feeling his nudging muzzle in her palm, she started back toward her room with her hand deep in his mane. They entered her room and Ladd padded softly to the side of the bed on which she slept, curled himself on the floor near the head and drifted back to sleep.

Caroline crawled into bed and pulled a tattered book out of the night stand drawer. Opening where the pen marked the page, she began to write.

Journal Entry - Thursday, November 15, 2001

Hi Son. It seems as though some days, when you feel you can go no longer, when there is nothing left to live for, something happens. Something you know was prompted by the heavens, and you find you can continue after all. Tonight that something is a U.S. Marshal. His name is Slade Taggart. Your coming home, you?re finally coming home. I'm afraid to believe. If not for the blessing your Grandpa gave me right after you were taken, I wouldn't have been able to go on. I was promised that you would come back to me someday, but when? Can it really be?

Flicking off the light, she jumped out of bed, knelt by Ladd and spent a long time in prayer begging her Father in Heaven to keep Patrick safe, to bring him home this time, and to help her understand and know what she could do for him. Her prayers had become specific in the past years, as she struggled to come to terms with a beautiful life gone so terribly wrong from the first day of her marriage. She closed her prayer with the supplication to Heavenly Father, once again, to bring her son home. She crawled back into bed and in short order fell into a fitful sleep. Nothing kept a rancher awake . . . well, almost nothing, except missing sons.

*

Patrick followed his father out of the apartment and down the darkened hallway to the battered door at the end. Todd knocked once and the door was opened by a seedy looking man, whose dirty blonde hair had thinned past the point of baldness and now merely sported a few strands pulled back into a straggly pony tail. With the gauntness of a chronic drug user, the man was small and thin with darting bloodshot eyes, always moving, constantly seeking out the hidden monsters, both real and imagined.

Todd pushed past him and waited until Patrick was in the room before acknowledging the man's existence. "Did you get it?"

"Yeah." The man coughed and rubbed his hand under his nose as he gestured toward a large army issue duffle bag on the faded couch a few feet away. "It's over there; I got everything you asked for. Did you bring it?"

Todd pulled a small packet of white powder from his pocket and dropped it at the man's feet. He fell to his knees, grabbing frantically for the packet as Todd strode to the couch, grasped the duffle bag and motioned for Patrick to precede him to the bedroom.

Patrick followed him, resisting the urge to finger the bruise he knew was forming on his cheek. His father had backhanded him when he?d asked about the feds. The large signet ring that Todd wore had caught Patrick on the cheekbone, drawing blood. He wasn't stupid, he knew his dad was into something bad, he just didn't know how bad. Part of him wanted to just walk outside and tell the feds, here I am, take me home. But he didn't have a home to go to . . . he'd walked away from it with his father three years ago, from a mother who didn't want him to a dad who could barely stand to have him around. But he did nothing, and hated himself for it--he just watched as his father pulled clothes and assorted items out of the bag. He caught the clothing thrown at him and looked down to see what it was.

"What am I supposed to do with these?"? Patrick held up the baseball cap, threadbare jeans, T-shirt and beat up sneakers.

"Put 'em on," Todd snapped back as he pulled his own shirt off.

 "Why . . ." Patrick cut himself off as Todd looked up at him. "Never mind," he mumbled. He quickly changed, and crouching down, stuffed the clothes he'?d had on into the bag with his other things. He jerked when his father pulled on his hair. "What?" he asked.

"You've got about thirty seconds to cut that off." Todd handed him a pair of scissors.

"Mrs. Pescador always cuts my hair," Patrick protested. "I don't know how."

"Figure it out and make it fast. And if you do anything that gives us away," Todd grabbed Patrick's chin, bruising fingers cruelly biting into his face and forced the boy to look at him. "You'll wish you'd never been born."

Patrick jerked his chin away, risking another blow but too confused to care, he fought with the twin emotions of fear and rage that slowly merged into a hollow desolation deep in his soul. He pushed the feelings deep for he simply no longer cared. He couldn?t afford to care.

"How are we gonna get away?"

"Oldest trick in the book, kid." Todd allowed the rebellious action to pass, suddenly feeling optimistic about the future. He loved pitting himself against law enforcement. He was the undisputed winner in this little war. He just couldn't lose. "We're going to hide in plain sight."

Patrick pushed the rage down as Todd walked out of the room. He looked at the scissors and then at the door. He walked over to the cracked mirror opposite the unmade bed and started cutting. When he finished, he was startled to see how prominent his eyes were in a face still softly rounded with youth but beginning to emerge into the planes and angles of a man. The face of a stranger, young and more scared than he'd like to admit, stared back at him from the mirror.

His father liked living on the edge, playing cat and mouse with the cops. He never knew which he wished for more, his father to be caught or for them to get away. The times when Todd would put himself right in front of the cops, simply as a game, were the times when Patrick feared the most. He knew his father liked dancing on the edge. He just didn't know how far out the man was willing to go.

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