It was Madonna tonight, particularly fitting since he'd thought Sophie Davis was a good woman. The bitch was singing about prayer, and his hands clenched the steering wheel tightly.

He didn't want to run her off the road. His distress and disillusionment was so deep he wanted to use his hands, so that she'd know why she was dying. He didn't want it fast and anonymous. She needed to know why, so she could repent.

The curve by Dutchman's Falls would be the spot. The road fell away sharply there, and her Subaru would tumble end over end, crushing her. It was steep enough that nothing would slow the car's descent, and he could drive back to Colby, secure that he had done his duty.

He passed her on the flat stretch, driving fast so she wouldn't recognize the truck. Not that she knew his truck, of course. But he hadn't survived for so long doing God's work without paying attention to details. He'd considered borrowing a vehicle, even stealing one to keep attention away from his old Ford, but decided that was even more dangerous. No, he was safer using his own truck, taking only a slight chance someone had seen him.

He pulled into the picnic spot that overlooked Dutchman's Falls and flicked off the lights. When she approached the turn he'd pull out, fast, bright lights on full, and she'd jerk the wheel out of the way and go over that cliff with a crash of shrieking metal. And he'd pray for her immortal soul.

It was possible she was a good enough driver to miss him, to keep control of the car, to drive around him. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He didn't want to chase her through the darkness. Didn't want to terrify her-she'd been a good woman most of her life. Surely God wouldn't want him to frighten her too badly.

But her sin was all the greater, because she knew right from wrong. She'd kept herself pure, and then given herself away to a stranger. A stranger who wanted to hurt him.

Over the years many men had sought him, trying to stop the Lord's work, but none of them had ever guessed the truth until it was too late.

She'd surrendered her purity to such a creature. He knew it without anyone telling him. He watched, he observed, he knew things. He knew how to add two and two. And he knew how to subtract. Take one Davis woman out of the picture. Then the others would follow.

The lights of the Subaru appeared on the horizon. She was still driving fast, though not as fast as he would have liked. The teenagers had been easy-they were speeding, enmeshed in each other, barely paying attention to the road. The autopsy showed they'd both been drinking.

But even upset, Sophie drove with relative care. Making his job all the harder.

He hadn't asked for the easy way. He'd been chosen for this holy work, and he wouldn't flinch from his responsibility.

The car rounded the sharp corner by the falls, and he flicked his lights on high beam and stomped on the gas pedal, heading straight at her.

He was coming down the road in her lane. The only way for her to avoid him was to move to the left lane, and then he'd simply move farther over, so that she found herself flying over the edge of the cliff. The engine of the old Ford roared, like a charging beast, and she swerved to the left, exactly as he'd planned.

He moved closer to her, blocking her escape. She had no choice but try to ditch it on the side of the road that overlooked Dutchman's Falls, and he knew how soft the shoulder was. It wouldn't take much to crumble beneath the weight of the car. It would take a miracle to save her, and there were no miracles for sinners like her.

The bright lights illuminated the interior of the Subaru, blinding her. He watched her, fascinated, as he bore down on her. The confusion and terror in her eyes. The tears that stained her face.

Tears? Remorse? Was it possible that this time he'd been wrong? That she'd repented of her sin? It was too late, though. The front fender of his truck clipped the side of her Subaru, and she went spinning toward the cliff, the lighter car completely out of control on the rain-slick highway.

He didn't hesitate, didn't slow down. He simply sped off into the darkness, Madonna singing about getting down on her knees in prayer, and he knew he'd done what he had to do.

It happened so fast Sophie didn't have time to think. Blinded by the headlights, she could only sense the huge vehicle coming straight at her. The crunch of metal, and she was spinning crazily, desperately trying to control the steering wheel as the car bounced off the road.

She slammed on the brakes, and the car kept skidding in the darkness, over rough ground, until it came to an abrupt stop.

She didn't know how long she sat there, numb with shock. She'd had her seat belt on, of course, but she'd still managed to hit her head on something, and she thought she was bleeding. With numb fingers she unfastened the seat belt. The car had stalled out, but the lights were spearing out into the darkness, into nothingness, and the rain was coming down in a steady mist.

Whoever had nearly run her off the road was long gone. It had to have been a drunk driver-the Northeast Kingdom seemed to have more than its share of DUIs. He probably didn't know he'd almost killed her.

She fumbled with the door and pushed it open. She swung her foot out, and felt nothing.

She scrambled back into the car in a panic, and it rocked beneath her. She was an organized woman-she kept a flashlight in the glove box. She found it and shone it out the door. And then dropped it into the cavern below.

It was a long time before she heard it hit. She could now identify that rushing sound. She had had the sheer, incredible bad luck to have come across the drunk driver right near Dutchman's Falls. Another inch or so and she would have gone over the precipice.

She leaned back in the seat, clutching the seat belt, taking deep, steadying breaths. She wasn't safe yet. At least one tire was hanging over the edge, and the car rocked beneath her movements, but it still felt basically secure. She climbed over the gear shift, careful to keep her moves smooth and minimal, and pushed at the passenger door. It wouldn't open more than a crack-the right side of the car was pushed up against a tree.

She got back into the driver's seat, cursing. The rain was still coming down, heavier now. Clearly she wasn't getting out of the car where it was. The only option was to move the car.

She turned it on again, and it started so smoothly she almost cried with relief. She put the gear into Reverse and stepped on the gas.

Nothing of course. Just the hopeless spin of wheels, as the car rocked with dangerous enthusiasm. She let off on the gas, nervously running a hand through her hair. She didn't bother carrying a cell phone-coverage was too sporadic up in the hills of northern Vermont to make it useful. One of the concessions she'd had to make when she moved up here, that and buy a four-wheel-drive vehicle...

She stared down at the gear shift. She'd never tried the four-wheel-drive except when she'd bought the used car, but it was fairly simple to shift. She pushed the button on the gear shift, watching the letters light up-4 WD. Lovely letters.

She put the car in Reverse again, putting just the slightest pressure on the gas pedal. For a moment it edged backward, then the tires began to spin and the car slid forward again.

Sophie squeezed her eyes closed, prepared to go over the cliff, but the car shuddered to a stop, and she opened them, letting her breath out. Then she shoved the gear shift into Low and stomped her foot on the gas pedal.

To her astonishment it moved backward, in a spray of mud and dirt and gravel, so fast that she barely had time to slam on the brakes before ending up against another tree.

The car stalled out again, but at that point Sophie didn't care. She was sitting in the middle of Route 16, just outside of Hampstead, and she'd managed to do a 180, facing back home. It was the right direction-she wanted to go straight back to Colby as fast as she dared to drive.

She turned the key and for a moment the engine spluttered and died. "No!" Sophie whimpered. Route 16 was habitually deserted at this hour, but that didn't mean someone couldn't come out of nowhere and slam into her stalled car. The drunk driver had done just that.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, please, please!" The engine caught, and she shoved the gear into First, skidding as she raced down the empty road.

Her face was wet, and she couldn't figure out why when she hadn't been able to get out of the car into the rain. She put her hand to her head, then glanced at it. She was dripping blood, down her face, into her lap.

As a matter of fact, her head hurt like hell, she realized belatedly. She wasn't quite sure how she'd managed to hit it while wearing her seat belt, but the fact was, blood was trickling down the side of her face.

She couldn't show up back at the house looking like something out of a horror movie, but she wasn't about to drive to St. Johnsbury or Newport to go to an emergency room. Maybe Doc would still be awake when she drove through town-he could be counted on to patch her up so that Grace wouldn't have a heart attack if she happened to be up and wandering.

She should probably go to the police to report the incident, but what good would it do? She hadn't been able to see the other car-her main impression was that it was huge. It might have been a van or a truck.

And it wasn't the kind of publicity she was looking for. Stonegate Farm was a brand-new business-the wrong kind of newspaper coverage and people would start canceling their reservations.

She drove with particular care, back down the long, empty stretch of highway that led to Colby. She was usually organized enough to keep tissues in the car, but Marty had been having allergy problems recently and she'd snitched them. Sophie tried to dab at the flowing blood with the hem of her skirt, but it didn't seem to be making much of a difference. At least it wasn't going into her eyes.

It was after ten when she drove back through the tiny town of Colby, past the quiet town green and up the street to the lake road. Doc's house was dark and closed up, only a faint light coming from one of the upstairs windows. He'd get up and help her, she knew, but at that moment it seemed too much to ask. She kept the Subaru pointed straight, her hands gripped tightly to the steering wheel.

She almost made it home. The aftermath of her near miss began to take effect just as she was turning toward the north-end road, and she realized she was trembling all over. Too much in twenty-four hours, she thought with a trace of hysteria. It was bad enough having sex with a stranger. Almost getting killed was carrying things a little too far.

The rain was coming down at a steady pace, and the road around the lake was more mud than dirt, slick and deceptive. She was driving too fast in her need to get home. She misjudged the turn, missed the corner, and ended up sliding off the road, tilted sideways in a ditch that no four-wheel-drive would get her out of.

Sophie considered herself a tough, unsentimental person. But she burst into tears, loud, noisy sobs, and put her bloody head down on the steering wheel, indulging herself.

She hadn't cried that loudly, that long, for years. She couldn't even remember when. Crying was supposed to relieve stress, but all it seemed to do was wind her up tighter than ever. She was gulping for air in between sobs, having a full-blown anxiety attack.

"Smarten up, Sophie," she muttered through her tears. "This isn't doing anyone any good." She tried wiping her tears away with her full skirt, but it was already wet with blood, and she hated to think what kind of mess she was making.

She knew she couldn't stay there all night feeling sorry for herself, as tempting as the notion was. For one thing, she'd run off the road before the fork, and she was, in fact, closer to the Whitten cottage than the inn. Too close for comfort. She needed to get home, soak for a long time in one of the claw-footed bathtubs, maybe have a nice cup of herbal tea, and crawl into bed. She'd gone through enough for one day.

She slid out of the car, into the rain, sending a mental note of thanks skyward that at least there was ground beneath her feet. She slid as she climbed up the embankment, going down in the mud, but she was beyond caring. If she'd had one ounce of energy left she would have run home. As it was, she could barely drag herself down the narrow drive.

She saw the beam of the flashlight through the rain, and she let out a low, miserable moan. She didn't want to see anybody. Not her family, not John Smith, not the Northeast Kingdom killer. She just wanted to get home. She halted, considering whether she could dive into a ditch again, hide from whoever was out on such a miserable night. It couldn't really be anyone dangerous, though in fact she'd rather run into a legendary murderer than the man she'd spent the night with.

The bright beam of the flashlight caught her, and it was too late to hide. She couldn't see who was behind the light, only a large, shadowed figure, dressed in a raincoat. Shades of teenage horror movies, she thought, standing her ground. If she tried to run he'd probably catch her with some kind of grappling hook.

The ominous figure came closer in the rain-soaked darkness, till he was only a couple of feet away from her. He let the flashlight run over her bedraggled body with impartial interest. "I should have known it was you," John Smith said in a resigned voice. "What the hell happened?"

She considered a Victorian swoon, a graceful faint, to avoid answering his question. Even a flat-out run would be preferable, but none of those options would work. She'd hurt herself if she flopped down into the mud; he'd probably either leave her there or throw her over his shoulder in an undignified fireman's carry, or he'd catch her if she tried to run. Assuming she didn't fall flat on her face.

Rancor might help make him keep his distance. "What do you think happened?" she shot back. "Someone tried to run me off the road."

"They did a good job of it."

"Not here. On Route 16. Down by Dutchman's Falls."

She was vaguely aware of the utter stillness in his body. "How'd you manage to get away?"

"I'm kidding. It was just an accident. Some drunk driver nearly hit me, then drove off without realizing he'd run me into a ditch. Fortunately I was able to use the four-wheel-drive to get back on the road, but then I lost it when I pulled into the driveway. I'm fine, I'm sure the car's fine, I just want to get home and get in a hot tub and get to bed."

She could have cursed herself for saying the word bed, but he didn't seem to notice. The beam of the flashlight swung up the road to her bedraggled car tilted sideways in the ditch. The front fender was crumpled, and she wondered whether that had happened just now or if it was the result of her earlier encounter.

He turned the flashlight back on her, and she squinted through the rain and darkness. "You're bleeding," he said, more an observation of fact than an expression of concern.

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are," he said, flicking off the flashlight, plunging them into darkness. Now was the time to make a run for it, she thought. Not moving.

He took her unresisting hand. "Your place or mine?"

"What?"

"I'm not going to let you wander around in the darkness like some gory lost soul. You're covered with mud and blood, you look like you just managed to escape from an ax murderer, and I doubt you're any more capable of finding your way home in this condition than your batty mother is. Therefore, I'm making sure you get cleaned up and get home safely. Your place or mine?"

"I can take care of myself...."

"I guess it's up to me," he said, more to himself, and began pulling her along after him. She was too dazed to resist, though she knew she ought to run. "And don't think I'm going to carry you," he added. "It's a treacherous night, and you're more of a handful than a sylph. You'll have to make it on your own two feet."

It was enough to galvanize her. "Asshole," she muttered, picking up her feet. "A gentleman would at least give me his coat."

"Yeah? You're wet and bloody and covered with mud. The damage has been done, and if I give you my coat that just makes two of us wet. Besides, what in God's name ever gave you the impression I was a gentleman?"

She had to concede that point. Except where her mother had been concerned, John Smith was a mannerless pig. She was going to tell him that, as well as several other things, and she composed them in her brain, full, flowery insults of really impressive inventiveness like "sour-assed satyr" or "foul-hearted liar." Then she realized they had somehow made it all the way to his front porch in seemingly no time at all.

He opened the door and pushed her through with his usual lack of courtesy, but she was past fighting. The room looked different in the lamplight, and he had a fire going, and for the first time she realized how very cold she was.

She had two choices. One, try to take him by surprise, knock him out of the way and run out into the cold rain again before he could stop her. Or she could move to the fire and let the blessed heat sink into her bones.

He was a lot bigger than she was, and even though he was occupied in taking off the enveloping raincoat he was still blocking the doorway, and he wasn't the type to be taken off guard. And she was so damned cold.

In the end it didn't matter. He took her icy-cold hand and pulled her over to the fireplace. "Stay there," he ordered, and she didn't waste more than a moment considering escape.

There was nowhere else she wanted to be.

Oh, God, not the Curse of the Wilsons, she thought somewhat crazily. Life was complicated enough. She should run away, back home, and lock the doors. Lock him out, lock her ridiculous fantasies inside, and maybe they'd go away.

But they wouldn't. She knew it with a depressing certainty. And she knew that all he'd have to do was come knocking on the door and she'd let him in.

She was doomed.

16.

He'd never seen anyone look more pathetic in his entire life. Sophie had just stood there in the rain, staring at him out of whipped-puppy-dog eyes, and he'd had the absurd longing to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be all right.

He hadn't, of course. Not his style. And it would have been a lie. He'd made a crack about her weight, enough to jar her out of her pitiful daze and make her move. He had to be careful, though. He hadn't seen her in the light yet, but he'd come to the uncomfortable conclusion that her soft, luscious body was almost perfect. It would be a damned shame if he goaded her into starving away her curves.

He grabbed an armful of the threadbare white towels that came with the cottage and headed back into the living room. She hadn't moved from the spot where he'd left her, and the firelight flickered against her blood-streaked face. Her hair was clinging damply to her head, her dress was streaked with blood and mud, and if anyone had ever looked like a drowned rat, she did.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to wipe the blood and mud from her, strip off her ruined clothes and warm her from the inside out. Last night had only been a start, and he'd had a hard time concentrating on anything but Sophie all day long.

And here she was, vulnerable, full of possibilities, and he wanted to explore each and every one of them, slowly, thoroughly. He didn't want to think about murder, about the past, even about the future. He wanted to think about now, and Sophie, and the way she smelled like flowers and fresh-baked cookies.

He dumped the towels on a wicker chair. "Did you see what you look like?" he asked, trying to keep his hands off her.

She looked at him instead, numbly. "What?"

"Over the window seat. There's a mirror."

She turned to look, obedient for a rare moment, and stared at her reflection. He'd half expected her to burst into tears.

Instead, to his surprise, she managed a rusty-sounding laugh. "Damn," she said. "No wonder you're being nice for a change."

"I'm always nice," he protested, starting to dry her head with one of the towels.

"Yeah, right. Ouch!" She grabbed the towel out of his hand. "I hurt my head, remember? I'll take care of it."

"Fine," he said, reaching for another towel. "I'll take care of your body."

She took a step back from him, shooting him a warning glance. "I'll break your hands."

"You and what army?" She was cold-he could see the goose bumps on her arms, the faint shiver in her body. Damn, he really wanted to see her. The darkness had been a sensual treat last night. Now he was ready to get a good look at her.

But she was too miserable for him to push, at least for the moment. "Sit in the chair and I'll get you a blanket," he said after a moment. "Then I'll see what I can do about that cut on your head."