Colton On The Run

Where is Skye Colton?

One woman’s disappearance rocks Roaring Springs

When he finds a half-dead woman stranded in his barn, rancher Leo Slattery feels his blood run cold. Though she can’t remember who she is, she insists someone is trying to kill her. With his strong protective streak, Leo brings her into the fold and helps her heal. As they begin to solve the mystery of Jane Doe’s identity, a would-be killer works to eliminate her—forever.

Bestselling author ANNA J. STEWART was the girl on the playground spinning in circles waiting for her Wonder Woman costume to appear or knotting her hair like Princess Leia. A Stephen King fan from early on, she can’t remember a time she wasn’t making up stories or had her nose stuck in a book. She currently writes sweet and spicy romances for Mills & Boon, spends her free time at the movies, at fan conventions or cooking and baking, and spends almost every night wrangling her two kittens, Rosie and Sherlock, who love dive-bombing each other from the bed…and other places. Her house may never be the same.

Also by Anna J. Stewart

Reunited with the P.I.

More Than a Lawman

Gone in the Night

The Rancher’s Homecoming

Always the Hero

A Dad for Charlie

Recipe for Redemption

The Bad Boy of Butterfly Harbour

Christmas, Actually

The Christmas Wish

Holiday Kisses

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Colton on the Run

Anna J. Stewart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09433-7

COLTON ON THE RUN

© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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For Kathryn Lye.

For the vote of confidence and the many laughs.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

A thin beam of sunlight streamed against her aching, heavy lids.

She blinked. The simple, ordinary action sent blades of pain slicing through her head. Her stomach churned as bile rose in her throat. She cried out, but the sound barely reached her own ears, caught behind the taut tape stretched across her mouth. Her eyes widened before blurring against the dim light. She tried to tug her arms forward, but they wouldn’t move. Her wrists strained against the rough rope wrapped so tight she couldn’t feel her fingers.

Her mind cleared, but in stages, slowed by the pain and confusion coursing through her. Her ears buzzed. Her head throbbed. Gray tinged the edge of her vision as she tried to hold on to consciousness.

Something harsh and scratchy scraped against the side of her face as she rolled from her side onto her back. The smell of rotting, moldy hay and old dirt made her choke and lose her breath. Above the ringing in her ears, she heard the chill-inducing scrapings of tiny paws and claws skittering as creatures darted back to their hiding places.

Other than that... She took a deep breath and held it. The world pounded in silence.

Her heart vibrated like a jackhammer against her chest, competing with the earsplitting thudding in her head. Long tendrils of hair caught across her sweaty face and obscured her vision as she winced up at the gaping, worn holes of what must have once been a shed.

She turned her head, scanning the room in the dimming light. Old, warped slats of wood sagged against one another as if about to surrender. Rough, uneven, knotted planks gouged splinters into the sides of her hands, through the fabric of her shirt and deep into the skin on her back as she shifted position. The more she moved, the more every inch of her body ached and burned. Angry, frightened tears she couldn’t hold back trailed down her cheeks. She closed her eyes, desperately searching her memory for how she’d gotten here. What had happened? Where was she? Who had done this to her?

A new tendril of fear curled up from her toes, twining through her body, choking the air from her lungs.

She didn’t know. She had no answers for any of those questions. She had...nothing. A sob escaped her control. Her mind was empty.

Don’t cry. She squeezed her eyes tighter until all she could feel was the pain in her head. Can’t cry. Crying won’t help. Nothing would help except getting out of wherever she was and maybe, hopefully, finding someone to help her.

Help. There was no help to be found here. She had only herself to rely on.

Stop panicking! Giving in to hysteria would only muddle her brain and make it even more difficult to breathe. Breathe. In. Out. In...out.

It took minutes, each passing second echoing in her skull like a sledgehammer against her brain, but she was able to force herself to relax. Muscle by muscle, extremity by extremity. She took a long, shaky breath and turned her head one way, then the other, attempting to get her bearings. A small, square, grime-covered window was situated above a forlorn rider mower with a deflated tire. A table saw, tools and equipment that looked to have been stashed there back at the turn of the century sat against the wall. Ropes, twine and tools hung suspended from rotting cords and blackened or rusted nails. She pushed herself up, dragged her sore legs under her, her bare feet scraping against the raw wood.

Bare feet. She didn’t even have on shoes. She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to think where they might be.

Breath heavy in her chest, she pushed forward onto her knees. Her legs trembled as she stood, pulling first one foot, then the other, under her. She swayed. Her head spun and her stomach churned as nausea rolled deep and strong. She braced her feet apart, took long, deliberate breaths. She couldn’t afford to vomit. She’d suffocate for sure.

Turning in slow, determined circles, she squinted into the growing darkness to scope out her surroundings. To memorize every detail.

The sun was dipping fast, taking with it her only chance at visibility. She needed to escape before whoever had left her here came back. And they were coming back. They knew she was still alive; why else would they have tied her up and gagged her? They didn’t want her making noise, didn’t want her bringing attention to herself. Which meant she couldn’t be too far from civilization. Right?

Curling her bare, polish-chipped toes into the dirt-caked floorboards, she took a step forward and focused on walking. One step, two. Her legs burned. Another step and then another. The thin thread of light caught against a metal circle with rusted, razor-sharp edges. A quick survey of the shovels, spades and trowels gave her little hope by comparison. She tugged at her arms again, hoping the rope digging into her wrists had given way, but they remained as tight as before.

She arched her back, shook her head to whip her hair behind her shoulders and took a cautious step, angling her bound hands toward the exposed blade of the table saw. Slowly, even as her fear screamed at her to hurry, she attempted to stretch out her numb fingers until she felt the blade against her skin. Her shoulders strained and her thighs burned as she stooped to press the rope solidly against the jagged edges of the saw blade.

Forward, back, up, down. She kept a steady rhythm, increasing her speed when she heard the rope begin to rip. Her hands slipped and the blade sliced against the newly exposed skin. Ouch! She sucked in a breath, choked, but kept cutting. The dizziness was getting worse. Her stomach hurt as it clenched around the rising nausea and panicked pressure.

When her hands finally broke free, she nearly face-planted on the floor. She caught herself on the wall with one hand, digging her broken nails into the soft wood, then tugged at the corner of the tape across her mouth.

She whimpered as the adhesive clung to her cheeks and lips, then, irritated with herself, she ripped it off in one violent yank. This time she surrendered to the urge to bend over, retching even as she gripped the splintering stud of the wall and dragged in lung-expanding air.

Pushing her hair out of her face, she looked down and then caught her shirt between blood-caked fingers. The white silk shirt and linen pants were covered in dirt, grime and now her blood. Her left pant leg was shredded, as if she’d encountered a wild animal at some point. A circular bruise around one ankle began to throb.

Darkness wouldn’t be her friend. She needed to get out, away from here, and put as much distance as she could between herself and this place. She spun back to the stash of tools that would have been of benefit to a gardener or farmer, but certainly not a woman in need of aid and defense.

Although...

She bit her lip and lifted a pair of shears free of their hook. After a few attempts, she managed to get the rusted blades open, then headed for the rickety door across the room. She pressed down on the latch and pulled.

Nothing happened. The wood creaked. She tried again, more forcefully. Her entire body shook as she desperately willed the latch to yield. The metal hinges strained, but the door didn’t budge. Anger swamped the frustration mounting inside her, and she pounded a fist against the door before turning to brace her back against it. She hit it again, this time with two fists, as she turned her attention to the shadowy window above the forgotten equipment.

Ignoring the pain in her feet and pushing the garden shears into the back waistband of her pants, she darted across the room again and grabbed hold of the table saw and pulled it out of the way so she could get to the mower. She could feel the rough metal of the shears pressing against her lower spine and shivered. Pulling a long-handled shovel free of its fellow tools, she plowed it through the window and shattered most of the glass. Then she circled the shovel around to clear the opening before tossing it aside and brushing shards of glass off the ripped seat of the mower. A second later, she stepped onto the cushion. Cooler air burst through the window like a slap, a slap she welcomed as it cleared her head. She pulled the shears free and threw them outside before pushing herself through and dropping to the ground.

She hit harder than expected, hard enough to make her head spin, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. She rolled and shoved herself to her feet, grabbed the shears and, after taking a moment to get her bearings, dived into the shrubs. Trees lurched up and around, shielding her both from the elements but also the dwindling light. Branches and overgrown shrubs obscured just how dense and deep the wooded area around the shed was. Heart pounding, she circled to the front of the cabin, where she found fresh tire tracks heading down the unpaved, dirt road.

There, in the distance, a dilapidated cabin erupted from the tree line, made of the same rotting wood as the shed. The out-of-control flora told her the land was uninhabited. Or at least appeared to be. She couldn’t take a chance. Whoever had left her in that shed might be inside. She needed to move!

She was already shivering as the temperature seemed to drop by the second. Her feet and toes had gone numb, either from cold or from pain. There had to be some kind of road that would lead her to civilization or at the very least help. Her head aching, her wrists still burning, she quickly tied her hair in a knot at the base of her neck and headed into the woods beside the road. She’d follow it. And hope she’d find safety at the end.

* * *

Minutes, hours, or had it been days already? The nausea had returned, the physical manifestation of panic and fear, churning in her empty stomach. Sweat, blood and anxiety mingled on her skin.

Whatever adrenaline boosted her through the window faded fast. Her headache was getting worse, but at least her hands and wrists had stopped bleeding. She found herself wondering about a tetanus shot, but that thought passed through her mind as quickly as the sun dipped out of sight and the air grew cooler, leaving the humidity behind.

Her vision was blurring, and she could hear herself breathing as if she’d been sucking on a scuba tank’s regulator. The bottoms of her feet had gone numb as she crunched her way through the woods and whatever else in the direction she’d chosen. Because her arms and legs were getting heavy, she’d stuck the shears back into the waistband of her pants so she could grab hold of the trees as she passed.

She licked her desert-dry mouth. Whatever her life had been before the shed, obviously she’d never taken any survival training, otherwise she wouldn’t feel so completely lost and inept. Even without a memory, life-saving techniques would have stuck...wouldn’t they? What she wouldn’t give to sleep. Just for a few minutes. Just to reboot and regain her energy. Of course, she’d take some water as a second choice. Water. She stumbled, tripping over a thick vine. She landed hard on her chest, the shears pinching into her back, the breath driven out of her.

She braced her hands. Her fingers squished in the mud. For a moment, she thought about staying here. Just...surrendering. But a voice, hers, but not hers, echoed in the back of her mind. Get up! Keep moving! You aren’t dying here. You’re not giving up!

There! Ever so faint, she heard it. The distant echo of an engine. Of a car passing by. And another car. Traffic! She squinted into the distance. Was she imagining the flash of headlights? Was she seeing only what she wanted? Had she finally lost her mind? Or had she somehow found exactly what she needed?

She couldn’t stop now. Not when she might be so close. She shoved herself up and staggered forward, pushing herself from tree to tree. The two-lane road opened up in front of her like an oasis in the desert, but there were no headlights to be found. She stood on the side of the road, her breathing ragged, and, shielding her eyes to narrow her vision, peered into the distance. First one direction. Then the other.

Her blood ran cold.

Spinning lights—red and blue—cut through the night.

Fear clamped hard around her throat. The sob that erupted came up from her toes—a chill of terror arcing through her as if she’d stuck her finger in a socket. Not that way. Not that...

Irrational terror shot through her. She spun, ready to dart across the road, race away in the opposite direction. The sound of squealing brakes, the flash of bright white paint and blinding headlights had her shielding her eyes. The truck skidded to a halt, veering slightly, but not enough. The front bumper grazed her thighs and she jumped back, frozen as she stared through the windshield. The shocked gaze of a teenager stared back at her. Her breathing ragged, she backed away.

He shoved his door open, jumped out of the car. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see... Hey! Where are you going? I think you might be hurt!”

She ran. She ran as fast as she could. Ran away from the truck. Ran across the road and scrambled into the protection of the trees.

Away from the spinning, colored lights she feared more than the night.

* * *

It had been three months since Leo Slattery had returned to Roaring Springs, Colorado. Three months since he’d dropped his duffel containing everything he owned onto the front porch of his grandparents’ farmhouse. Three months and he was still getting used to the quiet.

Ollie, his grandfather’s German shepherd, returned to his side after having finished his breakfast and plopped his behind on the linoleum floor. Leo smiled down at his only companion these days, a zing of energy coursing through him.

After growing up off and on at this ranch, he’d spent the majority of his post-high-school years working oil rigs and pipelines up in Alaska. The absence of whining, grinding machinery, workmen’s yells, and the clangs and bangs of metal against metal took getting used to. He wouldn’t have thought it would be difficult to acclimate to the quiet of his grandparents’ ranch.

The morning began as it always did, with Leo standing at Grandma Essie’s favorite spot—the kitchen window—sipping fresh-brewed coffee as he stared out at the sun peeking up over the glorious mountains on a late-July morning. A sad smile curved his lips as he could hear Essie’s soft, commanding voice echoing through the house she had run with a general’s attention to detail and a gentle, guiding hand. A former army nurse who had left the service after falling hard for navy man Isaac Slattery, this house had been Essie’s pride and joy, while the ranch and the land had been his grandfather’s.

Now the ranch—all of it—was Leo’s.

Unease and grief percolated low and deep in his belly. Some days he still couldn’t believe they were gone. His grandfather had passed of a stroke while out tending the herd late last year, his grandmother only four months later, in her sleep. Their longtime foreman had found her lying in bed, on her side, her hand placed over the spot where Isaac had slept beside her for more than fifty years.

Tethered, Leo had thought when he’d received the news. His grandfather had always declared he and Essie were tethered at the heart; they weren’t meant to be here without one another. And so they’d gone on. Leaving their legacy and all their hard work to their only surviving grandchild. A grandchild who, once his contract expired up north, headed back to the only place he’d ever called home.

“Time to get a start on the day.” Leo’s declaration had Ollie whining in anticipation, and the dog trotted over to the back door to wait. He filled a thermos with the last of the coffee, grabbed a stale bagel left from the grocery run he’d made early last week and shrugged into his grandfather’s old, long suede riding jacket. Isaac’s hat was an afterthought as Leo inhaled the aroma of his grandfather’s cigars—the only thing Isaac and Essie had ever argued about.

Leo took a deep breath of cool morning air once outside. What he wouldn’t give to hear their teasing bickering again. Or to see his grandfather’s dark, obsidian eyes glimmer with love as he gazed upon the woman he’d fallen for at first sight.

He closed the back door behind him and headed for the stable to saddle Duke while Ollie raced to the barn several yards away, no doubt to hunt down that pesky cat that had been lurking around the smaller structure a few days before. The dog was still excited to be back home after being boarded with a foster family after Essie’s death. One of Leo’s many regrets was that he hadn’t been able to claim the dog sooner so they could grieve their loss together.

There were days he wished he had someone to share this life with, someone besides his canine companion, but who had the time to go through all that when there was work to be done. Work that at times took him from sunrise to sunset.

“You’ll do for now, won’t you, Duke?” Rotating among the four horses his grandfather had kept when he’d downsized a few years back seemed the appropriate way for Leo to go about things, but there was something about the chestnut gelding that always called to Leo. Maybe it was that he’d been Essie’s favorite, too. Maybe it was that he could feel the horse grieving his grandparents’ loss as much as he did. Or maybe he had been spending far too much time alone out here on the seemingly endless two thousand acres.

“Won’t be alone for long, though.” Leo grunted as he saddled up Duke, then gave the other horses a good-morning pat. He had his eye on a truckload of new cattle by the end of the year, and he’d need additional help to keep the ranch running smoothly. His grandfather’s foreman had stayed long enough to get Leo acclimated, help with the season’s hay cutting and storage, then retired to spend the rest of his days in New Mexico. The other ranch hands had moved on, as well.

Which just left Leo and Gwen, his grandfather’s right-hand woman for the past four years. Part horse whisperer, Gwen had put herself through school as a large-animal veterinary assistant. The thirty-two-year-old was currently on safari in Africa, an extended honeymoon with her bride, Lacey.