Chapter 1

The sign quivered in a brisk southwesterly wind, welcoming weary travelers to Caprock Canyon, Texas, population 3500, where, evidently, one could find the best vistas in the state. The cheery signpost looked out of place amongst the scrub and prickly pear that dotted the bleak landscape of the high plains.

Despite the sign's message, Marty Hogan didn't feel very welcome. The truth of the matter was she didn't want to be here. She didn't have any interest in the town, its citizenry, or her new job. She sure as hell didn't have any inclination to take in the goddamn views. But then that fickle bitch fate was funny in the way she doled out wisdom. In the last six months, Marty had had enough wisdom shoved down her throat to last a lifetime.

Sighing, she put the Mustang in gear and started toward the main drag. Downtown Caprock Canyon was the length of a football field and just as uninteresting. The red brick storefronts included Jeb's General store, Hawkin's Hardware, a western outlet advertising Wrangler jeans, and the Wagon Wheel Diner where you could get a biscuits and gravy breakfast for $1.99. Outside the barbershop, two grizzled old men sat in matching metal chairs, smoking cigarettes. On the street in front of the diner, three men in cowboy hats climbed into a big Ford pickup where a fat Border Collie waited in the bed.

Born and raised in Chicago, Marty may as well have landed on foreign soil. Or maybe Mars. But after thirty-five resumes and thirty-four thanks-but-no-thanks responses, she figured she was lucky to have a job at all. After a single desultory phone interview, the Caprock Canyon PD was the only department willing to hire a has-been, renegade cop with a bad reputation and semi-truck full of emotional baggage.

Just Marty's luck she would end up in Bumfuck, U.S.A.

Six months had passed since the incident that thrust her into the national spotlight-and the very top of the media's hit list. A hostile media that took what should have been an obscure story and ran it into the ground. Marty Hogan became an overnight sensation, going from street cop to the most hated police officer in America. Depending on your point of view, of course.

Her indiscretion put the phrase Police Trauma Syndrome-an axiom coined by psychiatrists after the Rodney King debacle in LA-back in the limelight. But Marty had heard the other not-so-clinical names, too. Rogue cop. Fascist bitch. Nutcase. The labels shamed her with a passion she could not express. She wished fervently she could dispute them. But like her former partner, Rosetti, always said . . . if the straitjacket fit. In this case, she thought, the fit was perfect. Just ask the amateur videographer who'd caught the whole mess on tape and sold it to the highest bidder. The son of a bitch was probably sipping mojitos and soaking up the sun in Cancun.

In less than twenty-four hours, patrol officer Marty Hogan became Chicago's new obsession. For weeks, those awful clips filled the airwaves from Bangor to San Diego and every po-dunk town in between. Love her or hate her, everyone had an opinion about the female cop who'd gone off the deep end and beat a male suspect to near unconsciousness.

It didn't matter that the bastard had shot and killed a little girl. A nine-year-old hostage guilty of nothing but being at the wrong place at the wrong time. How horribly ironic that a kid's murder didn't garner even half the coverage. Goddamn vultures.

Even now, Marty still received letters-and threats. She got so much mail, in fact, that she'd changed her address to a post office box, mostly for personal safety reasons. She'd changed her phone number, too. Three times to be exact. But the diehards still found her. In a bizarre twist, about half of the people who took the time to contact her praised her actions on that fateful day. People were tired of crime. Tired of criminals getting away with murder. Now was their chance to chalk one up for the good guys. Give the girl a promotion. Pin a medal on her jacket. Reality hadn't been so kind.

Six days after The Incident, Marty was fired from a career she'd spent eight years building. She'd been charged with felony assault. A serious offense that could have garnered hard time and a ten-thousand-dollar fine. But after an expeditious trial, the jury had taken into consideration the extenuating circumstances and the charges were ultimately dropped. Of course, that didn't help when the threat of a civil suit still hovered over her head like a pall. Sometimes the irony of the whole thing was just too much.

Now, having faced professional ruin, incarceration, financial devastation, and public ridicule, Marty almost wished Caprock Canyon was on another planet.

Shoving thoughts of the past aside, she idled down the main thoroughfare, which was aptly named Cactus Street. The old pang sounded in her belly when she passed the police station. That same emotion twisted inside her every time she so much as looked at a cop or a black and white. She could only describe it as a longing for something that was lost. Dreams were so damn hard to let go of.

She watched as a young officer with the requisite crew cut and Arnold Schwarzenegger physique crossed the sidewalk to a white Explorer emblazoned with the Caprock Canyon PD insignia. He looked sure of himself. Cocky. Happy and secure in his job. A young person with his entire future before him.

Marty had been him a lifetime ago.

Don't screw this up, she thought, but cruised past the building, hating it that she didn't have the guts to pull in. Berating herself for putting off the inevitable, she turned around in a Lutheran church parking lot and sped back through town. The young officer and his cruiser were gone when she reached the police station. Pulling into the empty space, she studied the red brick facade. The structure was a neat, one-story building with double glass doors and five reserved parking places in front. She thought about the chief of police and wondered what kind of man would hire a cop with her reputation.

A schmuck, probably.

Gripping the steering wheel, Marty broke a sweat beneath her wrinkled khaki slacks and jacket and tried not to hear the little voice in her head telling her this was a bad idea. She needed to go inside; she was already ten minutes late. Not a great way to make a good first impression. But she was nervous, seriously depressed, and for the first time in a long time, she was scared. Really, really scared.

The irony of that burned. Up until that day six months ago, Marty had never been afraid of anything. She could walk into a dark warehouse with nothing but her Glock to back her up and barely raise her heart rate. She could approach a car full of suspected gang members in the dead of night and not feel the shaky stab of terror she felt at this moment.

Now, fear seemed to be the overriding emotion that drove her every move. It was her best friend and her worst enemy. She second-guessed every thought, every decision, and every action. Not a good state of mind when you were a cop. Unless you had a death wish. If Marty wanted to be honest, she'd considered that, too.

Sick and tired of the incessant thoughts pummeling her beleaguered brain, she climbed out of the car and stepped into sunlight so bright it felt as if it might burn her eyeballs right out of their sockets. She fumbled for her shades, shoved them onto her nose. Around her, Caprock Canyon was as hushed as a ghost town out of some melodramatic Italian western. She almost couldn't believe it when a tumbleweed the size of a recliner rolled down the street. The only thing needed to make the scene complete was a gunslinger with a poncho, six shooter and flat-crowned hat.

The day wasn't over.

Taking a deep breath, Marty smoothed wet palms over her slacks and started for the entrance. She could hear the zing of her pulse as she pulled open the glass door and stepped inside.

The smell of cigarette smoke hovered in the air. Seated at an ugly metal desk, a round-faced person of indistinguishable gender and frizzy brown hair eyed her over the top of a computer monitor. The little creature wore a turquoise jacket with silver conchos, thick-lensed bifocals that made watery blue eyes look huge, and had the most wrinkled skin Marty had ever seen on a living being. Relief skittered through her when she spotted the brass plate mounted on a chunk of walnut identifying the person as Jo Nell Mulligan.

"Hep ya?" the woman asked.

"I'm here to see Chief Settlemeyer."

"You Hogan?"

"The one and only."

"Thought you might be her." The receptionist looked her up and down, a potential buyer eyeing a beef cow, trying to decide if it was fat enough to get her family through the winter.

Marty resisted the urge to squirm.

"Smaller than I thought, but I guess size ain't no issue when you're pissed. Heard you broke your hand." A raspy sound that might have been a chuckle rattled from her throat. "Fed that sumbitch a sandwich he ain't gonna soon forget."

Marty glanced toward the door, wishing she could run, knowing once she started she might never stop. She didn't want to talk to this rude little creep. She could give a shit about the job. The problem was she had no other prospects and absolutely nowhere else to go.

The woman was still talking, but Marty had tuned out the brunt of it. ". . . you got that look about you. Cop look. Guys here all got it. You'd think each and every one of 'em was Dirty Harry hisself." Phlegm rattled in her throat when she laughed. "Never seen it on a woman before, but it suits you just fine."

"What suits whom just fine, Jo Nell?"

Marty turned at the sound of the deep male voice. Surprise rippled through her when she found herself looking at a tall man leaning against the doorjamb of the rear office, taking in the scene as if he were watching some amusing sitcom. His arms were crossed. A toothpick jutted from the corner of a mouth that curved up in a half smile. But what was most surprising about this man was the black Stetson perched on his head. A born-and-bred city girl, Marty wasn't used to seeing men in cowboy hats. She sure as hell wasn't used to cops wearing them. She knew it was silly to let that intimidate her. But it did.

He shifted and the nameplate affixed to the wall behind him came into view. Chief Clay Settlemeyer. Marty couldn't believe he was the man she'd talked to. Over the phone, Clay Settlemeyer had seemed soft-spoken and . . . civilized. The man staring her down didn't appear to be either of those things.

He stood well over six feet tall, but with the hat it could have been twenty. His skin was tanned and far from smooth, but every line only served to make his face more interesting than any male face had a right to be. A day's growth of stubble gave him a rough-around-the edges look. His eyes were as dark as the West Texas sky at night, an unusual shade of gray with a hint of starlight. His mouth seemed to curve easily into a smile. But Marty got the impression he could snarl just as readily.

He wasn't a handsome man; his mouth was too thin. His eyes were too intense. His brows too heavy. His face was as hard and angular as the foothills to the west. But the package as a whole stirred something she couldn't name inside her. Something that made her pulse quicken, her heart flutter uneasily in her chest. Marty had experienced the sensation before and recognized it as a reaction to danger. Of course, that didn't make sense. She wasn't in danger. Damn it, she wasn't some fragile debutante who shrank away from a dangerous-looking man. She'd grown up with cops. Hung out with them most of her life. She could hold her own in any situation-just ask the poor bastard she'd put in the hospital six months ago.

But this man unnerved her in a way she'd never been before. His stare penetrated her cop suit of armor with the proficiency of a double-edged sword, tore away the faade she used to protect herself. He made her feel stripped bare because he was looking at her as if she were a woman at the end of her rope and facing a very long fall.

"I was just about to buzz you, Chief."

"My office is ten feet away and my hearing's just fine, Jo Nell."

"Guess I'll yell next time."

He sniffed. "You've been smoking again."

"I have not," she said deadpan.

Marty couldn't help it; she snickered, drawing a dark look from the chief-and a wink from the very busted Jo Nell.

He pointed at Marty. "You're late."

Six months ago, a smart-assed reply would have sailed off her tongue with the ease of a bird taking flight. Today, she had to work at it for a full two seconds. "Traffic," she said.

Clay Settlemeyer stared at her for what felt like a full minute, his heavy, black brows riding low over those weird gray eyes. His mouth remained as flat as the Texas plain. Marty was usually adept at reading people, but this man's expression revealed none of his thoughts. Fearing she'd ticked him off, she was considering another tactic when he shook his head and let out a chuckle.

"In that case come on in." He motioned to his office.

Squaring her shoulders, Marty gathered the jagged remains of her composure and entered, keenly aware that he was right behind her.

"Have a seat," he said.

She lowered herself into the vinyl chair opposite his desk and tried to relax.

Closing the door, he rounded his desk. "How was the drive?"

The fifteen-hour drive had been long and boring and Marty had had way too much time to think-something she tried not to do too much of these days. A recent insomniac, she'd left at midnight and driven straight through. "No problems."

"When did you get in?"

"Ten minutes ago."

"You find a place to live?"

"Rented a house on the south side."

"Nice area. Close to the canyon. You'll get some wildlife out there."

Since the extent of Marty's experience with wildlife centered around the occasional bar fight or domestic dispute, she had to ask. "Wildlife?"

"Deer mostly. Coyotes occasionally. A few skunk." He raised a brow. "If you own a cat or dog you might want to keep them inside at night."

She found herself thinking of the .22 mini magnum revolver she'd packed in her trunk. "I don't have any pets."

"Probably a good thing. Old man Hardeman'll be a good landlord."

She wanted to know how he knew who her landlord was when she hadn't even told him where she'd be living. But Marty figured in a town the size of Caprock Canyon, you didn't need a genius power of deduction to figure things out. It freaked her out a little to think of living in a place where everyone knew everyone else's business. More than anything, Marty craved anonymity. She had the sinking feeling it was one of many things she wouldn't find here.

She watched as he pulled a manila folder from his desk drawer. Her eyes went to the tab, found her name printed in bold blue on the label. She wondered what was in the file, if he'd done his homework, and she tried not to fidget. "So what made you accept a job here in the Texas Panhandle?"

The word bumfuck floated inappropriately through her mind. Marty smiled, but she wasn't the least bit amused by any of what was happening. "You're kidding, right?"

His eyes narrowed, sharpened. "It's a simple question."

She reminded herself he'd already hired her. She hadn't signed anything, but as far as she knew it was a done deal. Stillthey hadn't talked about The Incident. Surely he knew about what happened in Chicago. Didn't he? "I was ready for a change." Trying to play it nonchalant, she lifted a shoulder, let it drop. "I sent out quite a few resumes. You made the best offer." The only offer, she silently amended, but decided it probably wasn't a good idea to point that out.

"Going to be a big change for you."

"I'm getting that." Realizing that sounded flippant, she nodded. "Like I said, I'm ready for something different."

Reaching into the breast pocket of his denim shirt, he removed a pair of reading glasses, then opened the folder. "In case you're wondering, we have television here in Deaf Smith County." He looked at her over the tops of his glasses. "We also have cable TV, satellite TV and newspapers. Most of us can read, too."

All Marty could do was stare.

"I saw the video," he said softly. "I talked to your superiors. I know what happened."

"So why did you hire me?"

"Any reason why I shouldn't?"

She couldn't curb the laugh that broke from her throat. "For starters, I beat the hell out of a suspect."

"Jury evidently didn't see it that way."

"I can only assume they took into consideration the extenuating circumstances."

"Must have been a fair-minded jury." Frowning, he leaned back in his chair. "For future reference, just because this is a small town doesn't mean we're dumb hick cops."

"I didn't think that."

"Yes, you did." He said it without rancor.

Because he was right, Marty looked down at her hands, willed them not to shake. But she could feel her temper winding up. Nothing new there; she was like a walking time bomb these days. She hadn't driven all the way from Chicago to Texas to get raked over the coals for some penny-ante job where she would more than likely spend as much time herding cows as she did directing traffic.

Settlemeyer turned his attention back to the file. "You have good credentials, Hogan. SWAT experience. Your marksmanship scores are off the chart." He glanced at her over the top of the paper he held. "I talked to the chief of detectives of the Fourth District."

"I'm sure he had some interesting things to say."

"As a matter of fact, he did."

Here it comes, she thought, the deal killer. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. James DeLuca hated her; there was no way this man would hire her after speaking to DeLuca. He'd wanted to crucify her, her partner, and another first responder who'd been on the scene that day. He'd called for a Division of Public Integrity investigation. The next day he'd demanded her resignation. Lucky for Marty the jury had been in a charitable mood when she'd had her day in court or she'd be sitting in a jail cell right now. DeLuca and the rest of the suits hadn't been quite so forgiving.

She stared at Settlemeyer, knowing he was about to drop the hammer. The son of a bitch had changed his mind. He was going to fire her before she even had the chance to prove herself. If things went south here, she'd have nothing. No job. She'd broken the lease on her apartment in Palatine, forfeited the deposits. Now, she had no place to live. No way to pay her bills. Or her lawyer. Her only friends were cops, most of whom wouldn't be caught dead associating with her. Marty was poison to the world right now.

Fuck Clay Settlemeyer. Fuck DeLuca. Fuck them all.

Heart raging, Marty shoved away from the desk abruptly, her chair screeching across the tile floor as she stood. She stared at Settlemeyer, knowing now was the time to say something. To defend herself. Her actions. At the very least she should tell him to get screwed for letting her drive fifteen hours only to have this last chance yanked out from under her.

But Marty's throat was so tight she couldn't speak. There were so many emotions jamming her brain that she couldn't begin to identify them or put them into words. Not that anything would make a damn bit of difference now. "Thanks for your time." Turning, she started for the door.

"Hogan."

Marty didn't stop until she put her hand on the knob. Even then she didn't turn to face him. She didn't want him to see what she knew resided in her eyes. Didn't want him to see just how much this opportunity meant to her.

"Just so you know, DeLuca gave you a favorable recommendation."

She heard the words, but the only thing that registered was the hard pound of her heart, the heat leaching into her face, the tingle in her fingertips as she gripped the knob.

Holding herself together by the sheer force of desperation, Marty turned. "What?"

Settlemeyer's chair creaked when he leaned back. Lacing his hands behind his head, he studied her as if she were some lab experiment that wasn't quite coming together the way he'd envisioned. "I don't know if this matters to you, but I'm one of those people who believes in second chances."

Something akin to panic fluttered in her gut. Marty was adept at keeping a handle on her emotions. She'd been doing it for too many years to count, and couldn't remember the last time she'd cried. Certainly not throughout the fiasco of the last six months. Growing up with two older brothers and working in a male dominated profession, she'd learned early in life that tears never accomplished a damn thing. Most law enforcement types saw them for what they were: a sign of weakness. Marty was a lot of things, not all of them good, but she wasn't weak. But certain things had a way of wearing you down. It was ironic, but most often it was common kindness that undid Marty. She wasn't sure what that said about her as a person.

She stared at Settlemeyer, not sure what to say. But she knew what she felt. Another swirl of panic went through her when telltale heat surged behind her eyes.

Not now, damn it.

"I don't need your charity." The words came out surprisingly strong. She wanted to add some smart-assed reply, just to show him none of this mattered. She wasn't some emotional basket case. She could start over. Maybe in security. But for the life of her Marty couldn't find the words.

"This has nothing to do with charity," he said. "I need a cop. You've got the credentials. A good recommendation. As far as I'm concerned, those two things override what you did six months ago. As long as you can keep a handle on your temper, the job is yours."

"I'm a good cop."

"That appears to be the general consensus."

"There's more to what happened six months ago than the media reported."

"Sometimes the whole story doesn't sell good airtime." He took off his glasses. "So is that a yes or a no?"

"I need the job."

"I'll take that as a yes." Reaching into a drawer, he removed a .40 caliber Glock, leather holster, an antiquated cell phone, and a shiny new badge and laid them on the desk. "Get your uniforms from Jo Nell. I think there's a form or two you'll need to fill out. Taxes and health insurance and such. You start tomorrow, second shift."

Marty stared down at the badge and gun, hating it that the images wavered through unshed tears. Her hand trembled when she reached for them. When she looked at Settlemeyer, his eyes were already on hers.

"I've already got a cell phone," she managed.

"Now you have two. That's the one I'll be reaching you on 24/7." He closed the drawer. "Any questions?"

Marty shook her head.

"Shift starts at 4 P.M. and ends at midnight. Half hour for dinner. You'll be riding with someone for a few days until you get your feet. For starters you get Monday and Tuesday off as well as one Sunday per month. Friday is payday. You getting all this?"

"I got it."

"In that case, welcome to Caprock Canyon, Officer Hogan."