Leaves crunched nearby, and Hank Callahan joined them, exchanging a quick smile with Carine. He was square-jawed and blue-eyed, distinguished-looking, his dark hair streaked with gray. He had none of the compact, pitbull scrappiness of tawny-haired Tyler North.

"Christ, Ty," Hank said in a low voice, "she's hurt-"

"She's fine."

"I'm scared shitless! Those bastards were shooting at me!" Carine didn't raise her voice, but she wasn't calm. "Yahoos. Hunters-"

Hank shook his head, and Ty said, "Not hunters. A hunter doesn't take a three-shot burst into a boulder, even if he's using a semiautomatic rifle. These ass-holes knew you were there, Carine."

"Me? But I didn't do anything-"

"Did you see anyone?" Hank asked. "Any idea how many are out there?"

"No, no idea." Her teeth were chattering, but she blamed the cold, not what Ty had said. "There's an old hunting shack not far from where the bullets started flying. It looked abandoned to me. I took pictures of it. Maybe somebody didn't like that."

"I thought you took pictures of birds," North said with a wry smile.

"I'm just most known for birds." As a child, she'd believed she could see her parents as angels, soaring above Cold Ridge with a lone hawk or eagle. Ty used to tease her for it. "I was just trying out my digital camera."

But she was breathing rapidly-too rapidly-and Ty put his hand over her mouth briefly. "Stop. Hold your breath a second before you hyperventilate."

Already feeling a little light-headed, she did as he suggested. She noticed the green color of his eyes. That wasn't a good sign. She'd never noticed anything about him before. She couldn't remember when she'd seen him last. Fourth of July fireworks? They were neighbors, but seldom saw each other. His mother had moved to the valley just before Ty was born and bought the 1817 brick house that Abraham Winter, the first of the Cold Ridge Winters, had built as a tavern.