“You son of a bitch!”

Thinking she would choke on her outrage, Mari kicked him in the shin. He jumped back from her, swearing, his face flushing dark with pain and fury. Belatedly she questioned the wisdom of making him angry. He could take what he wanted. They were in the middle of nowhere. No one knew she had come to Montana. He could rape her and kill her and dump her body in the mountains, never to be found. Christ, for all she knew, he had killed Lucy. But the deed was done. She couldn’t cower from him now.

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get the hell out of here!”

J.D. gathered his temper with a ruthless mental fist. He moved to the front door and leaned a hand against the jamb, looking back at her from under the brim of his black hat. The door stood open to the night, inviting a swarm of bugs to buzz around the antler chandelier in the foyer. “All you had to do was say no.”

He tipped his hat in a gesture that seemed more mocking than polite. Mari followed him out and watched as he mounted a stout sorrel horse that stood waiting in the puddle of amber light that spilled from the house.

“There’s a motel on the edge of town,” he said, settling into the saddle. “Drive slow on your way down. You hit an elk with that damned Japanese car and there won’t be enough left to make a sardine can.”

She crossed her arms against the chill of the evening and glared at him. “You could at least say you’re sorry,” she said bitterly.

“I’m not,” he replied, and reined his horse away.

She watched him ride off at an easy lope, away from the ranch yard, away from the road. The darkness swallowed him up long before the hollow drum of hoofbeats faded.

“Bastard,” she muttered, turning back to go inside.

The adrenaline ebbed from her system, leaving the weight of exhaustion in its wake. The last vestiges of shock lingered like novocaine, keeping the first sting of grief at bay.