a solid connection but she unconsciously fought him in her preoccupied state. But wait… there … yes, there… the current between them engaged. Now his hand shook violently as he willed his psyche to occupy every nerve ending in her body. She had his lifeblood in her grip and he was damned if he was going to let her get away.
As if the psychic stream between them was made visible, Jane turned, emerging from the dark recesses and saw him. There on the banks stood Jordan Copeland staring back at her, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The untraceable fuse ignited, jolting Jane off the railing and back onto the safety of the bridge. The minute her boots hit the beaten planks, she stood immobile, not sure of the disconcerting vibration that had bored into her flesh. Jane stared at Jordan, her senses simultaneously alive and hypnotized. She fought the merge, but those penetrating, enigmatic blue eyes sucked her into his desperate grasp.
“ Jane !”
She spun around to the sound of her name. Sergeant Weyler stood on the rim of the highway in front of a borrowed patrol
car with its engine running.
“I’m heading over to the Van Gorden’s house to talk to them!” Weyler yelled above the din of the rushing river. “Follow me!”
Jane fell back inside her body. She turned toward the woods. But she already knew Jordan was gone.
CHAPTER 7
It was a short drive to Blackfeather Estates and the Van Gorden’s stony house that sat tucked at the end of a cul-de-sac off a narrow winding road outside of Midas. Jane factored the distance was a little over one mile, an easy jaunt for Jake to make on a regular basis if he often escaped to the bridge. The unsettling experience on the bridge still vibrated around Jane. It was one thing to churn the memories so unexpectedly about the one who died long ago. But to suddenly come face-to-face with Jordan Copeland in such a disturbing manner and, without even a hint that he was right there and Jane didn’t know it…well, she wondered if she was losing her ability to sense danger when it was that close.
There was definitely something unnerving about Jordan. He had a crazy Rasputin vibe from a distance—an intense, mesmerizing gaze coupled with that grimy, weather-beaten appearance. He was reminiscent of the frightening monster in the woods that wakes children from their nightmares and keeps them up with a flashlight under the covers. She figured that she’d keep her spontaneous unspoken sighting of Jordan under wraps for now just in case connecting with him went against some ad hoc protocol Bo Lowry instigated.
Jane parked her Mustang behind Weyler’s borrowed patrol car half a block from the Van Gordens’ cul-de-sac and got
out, quickly scanning the area. From what little she’d seen of Blackfeather Estates, she didn’t like. The affluent subdivision was another one of those made-to-order enclaves that had infested the Colorado landscape over the recent years. Developers typically bought up acres of ranchland or farmland, making the rancher or farmer multimillionaires and then ruthlessly carved one-and-two-acre plots out of the once rustic terrain. On those plots, they would build the ultimate fantasy Colorado McMansions with floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows, radiant-heated driveways, meticulous stacks of firewood all cut the exact same length, rock fireplaces big enough to hold two lawn chairs and a table, five-car, heated garages and wrought-iron designer mailboxes. Jane had to laugh at the pretreated siding so many of the houses chose; a factory-beaten stippling and shredding, known as “the old barn look.” To her, the choice was ludicrous; an elitist attempt to pander to what they thought would make their estate appear rustic . These Colorado estates all felt the same to Jane—sanitized wooden boxes that stood like architectural eunuchs, devoid of that rough-around-the-edges western mettle.
As for the people who inhabited these ludicrous log lodges, Jane typically found
As if the psychic stream between them was made visible, Jane turned, emerging from the dark recesses and saw him. There on the banks stood Jordan Copeland staring back at her, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The untraceable fuse ignited, jolting Jane off the railing and back onto the safety of the bridge. The minute her boots hit the beaten planks, she stood immobile, not sure of the disconcerting vibration that had bored into her flesh. Jane stared at Jordan, her senses simultaneously alive and hypnotized. She fought the merge, but those penetrating, enigmatic blue eyes sucked her into his desperate grasp.
“ Jane !”
She spun around to the sound of her name. Sergeant Weyler stood on the rim of the highway in front of a borrowed patrol
car with its engine running.
“I’m heading over to the Van Gorden’s house to talk to them!” Weyler yelled above the din of the rushing river. “Follow me!”
Jane fell back inside her body. She turned toward the woods. But she already knew Jordan was gone.
CHAPTER 7
It was a short drive to Blackfeather Estates and the Van Gorden’s stony house that sat tucked at the end of a cul-de-sac off a narrow winding road outside of Midas. Jane factored the distance was a little over one mile, an easy jaunt for Jake to make on a regular basis if he often escaped to the bridge. The unsettling experience on the bridge still vibrated around Jane. It was one thing to churn the memories so unexpectedly about the one who died long ago. But to suddenly come face-to-face with Jordan Copeland in such a disturbing manner and, without even a hint that he was right there and Jane didn’t know it…well, she wondered if she was losing her ability to sense danger when it was that close.
There was definitely something unnerving about Jordan. He had a crazy Rasputin vibe from a distance—an intense, mesmerizing gaze coupled with that grimy, weather-beaten appearance. He was reminiscent of the frightening monster in the woods that wakes children from their nightmares and keeps them up with a flashlight under the covers. She figured that she’d keep her spontaneous unspoken sighting of Jordan under wraps for now just in case connecting with him went against some ad hoc protocol Bo Lowry instigated.
Jane parked her Mustang behind Weyler’s borrowed patrol car half a block from the Van Gordens’ cul-de-sac and got
out, quickly scanning the area. From what little she’d seen of Blackfeather Estates, she didn’t like. The affluent subdivision was another one of those made-to-order enclaves that had infested the Colorado landscape over the recent years. Developers typically bought up acres of ranchland or farmland, making the rancher or farmer multimillionaires and then ruthlessly carved one-and-two-acre plots out of the once rustic terrain. On those plots, they would build the ultimate fantasy Colorado McMansions with floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows, radiant-heated driveways, meticulous stacks of firewood all cut the exact same length, rock fireplaces big enough to hold two lawn chairs and a table, five-car, heated garages and wrought-iron designer mailboxes. Jane had to laugh at the pretreated siding so many of the houses chose; a factory-beaten stippling and shredding, known as “the old barn look.” To her, the choice was ludicrous; an elitist attempt to pander to what they thought would make their estate appear rustic . These Colorado estates all felt the same to Jane—sanitized wooden boxes that stood like architectural eunuchs, devoid of that rough-around-the-edges western mettle.
As for the people who inhabited these ludicrous log lodges, Jane typically found
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