But it wasn't mud on her sleeve. The touch of her own fingers sent a shard of pain up her arm and she blinked in surprise. "Oh, damn," she murmured, rubbing the sticky blood between her fingers. "I've been shot."

A smile curled the corners of her mouth and she giggled to herself, half out of shock and half out of disbelief. "I've been shot." She picked up the cell phone. "I've been shot," she repeated to the emergency operator.

"Ma'am, you say you've been shot?"

"I've always wondered what it would feel like," Perrie explained. "A bullet piercing your own skin. Would it feel hot or cold? Would you know it happened right away or would it take a while?" She closed her eyes and fought back a wave of lightheadedness.

"Ma'am, please don't move. We'll have a car there in thirty seconds. And an ambulance is on the way. Can you tell me where you've been shot? Please, ma'am, stay right where you are."

"I'm not going anywhere," Perrie said as she tipped her head back to rest on the rough brick wall. The rain spattered on her face and she welcomed the cold. It was the only thing that seemed real about this whole incident. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away from this story now," she murmured as the wail of sirens echoed in the distance.

The next half hour passed in a blur of flashing red lights and frantic paramedics. They had hustled her inside an ambulance and bandaged her arm, but she'd refused to be transported to the hospital, choosing instead to watch the scene unfold in the rainy night in front of the warehouse, questioning the detectives who collected the evidence of the Shootout.

"Perrie!"

She glanced over her shoulder once to see Milt Freeman approaching, his expression filled with fury. Ignoring his summons, she turned back to the detective and continued her own interrogation.

"Damn it, Kincaid, what the hell happened here?"

"I'm sure you know all about it by now," Perrie called.

The detective looked up as Milt grabbed her arm. She winced in pain and Milt frowned. "Get her to the hospital," the detective advised. "And get her out of my hair. She took a bullet in the arm."

"What?" Milt boomed.

"I'm fine," Perrie insisted, her attention on the detective. "Why don't you let me get a peek at that wallet?"

The detective gave Milt an exasperated look, then walked away, shaking his head.

"This is it," Milt said, drawing her along toward the ambulance. "Two weeks ago, they tampered with the brakes on your car. Last week, they broke into your apartment. And now you're dodging bullets in the middle of a wise-guy war. I want you out of Seattle. Tonight."

"Yeah, right. Where am I going to go?" Perrie asked.

"Alaska," Milt said, pushing her down to sit on the wide bumper of the ambulance.

"Alaska?" Perrie gasped. "I'm not going to Alaska."

"You're going," Milt countered. "And I don't want you to give me any grief about it. You were shot tonight and you're acting like it was just another day at the office."

"It was only a flesh wound," she grumbled, glancing at the bandage around her arm. "The bullet just grazed me." She grinned at her boss. He was not nearly as amused as she was. "Milt, I can't believe I just said that. This is like those guys that used to cover combat zones in Vietnam. I feel like I've finally earned my stripes. I'm not some wimpy Lifestyles writer anymore. I've actually been wounded in the line of duty."

Milt crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the rear door of the ambulance, sending Perrie a disapproving glare. "I've called an old friend of mine up in a little town called Muleshoe. Joe Brennan is his name. He runs an air charter service. I go fishing up there in the summer and he always flies me in and out. He owes me a few favors."

Perrie ignored his story and concentrated on her own. Milt was a little upset right now. He'd get over it. "The way I see it, we should run the story now. As far as I'm concerned, we've got all the confirmation we need. So I didn't get a picture. I saw Dearborn's chief of staff there with Riordan. That's the connection."

Milt cursed softly. "All I see here is two dead wise guys and no sign of either Dearborn or Riordan. You've got a big empty hole where you thought you had a solid story."

"I do have a story!" Perrie protested. "And it's here, not in Alaska."

Milt Freeman leveled his gaze on hers. "You're acting like Alaska is Siberia. It is one of the fifty states, you know."

"Yeah, but it used to be Siberia," she shot back. "Before we bought it from the Russians. I'm so close on this story, Milt, I can smell the ink already. I just need a few more pieces of the puzzle and we can run with it."

"What you have right now, Perrin Kincaid, is a price on your head. Someone knows you're onto this story and they're not about to let you write it."

Perrie stood. "I've got to get back to the office."

"You're going to the hospital and then you're going to Alaska."

"My files are back at the office. I've got work to do."

"You can turn all your files over to me," Milt said. "And I'll give them to the police."

"You'll do no such thing!"

"And I sent Ginny over to your house to pack some clothes for you. After the doctors check you out, I'm taking you to the airport."

"I'm not going to Alaska," she repeated.

"Whoever shot you tonight will be looking for a second chance. And I've spent too much time turning you from a Lifestyles hack into a decent reporter to have you end up dead. You're going to Alaska, Kincaid."

She shook her head stubbornly. "No, I'm not. I'm staying right here and I'm going to break this story. Now, what do you think about-"

"The police are going to break this story," he interrupted. "After they figure out who shot you, you can come back and write it." He reached into his jacket pocket and held out an envelope. "I had a feeling something like this was going to happen. There's an airline ticket to Fairbanks in there. Joe Brennan will fly you into Muleshoe. I've got a nice safe, cozy cabin for you there. No phones, no bullets, no wise guys. Just peace and quiet. I even asked Joe to stock it with popcorn since you seem to think it's a fair substitute for all of the major food groups. I want you somewhere safe until things cool down around here."

She snatched her notepad from the back pocket of her jeans, wincing as a pain shot down to her fingers, then scribbled an errant thought about the evening's events. "I'm not going, Milt," she said, flipping through her notes. "I have work to do. I won't just sit around all day long waiting for you to call me back here. I can't."

"That's why I've got you a story to cover," he continued. "And this is not a request, Ace-this is an order from your boss."

Perrie glanced up at him and laughed harshly. Milt rarely pulled rank on her. They were more a team than boss and employee. "Oh, yeah, right. What kind of story? Underworld kingpins set up shop in Mulesfoot, Alaska? I don't think so."

"Just last week, three young women from Seattle left their homes and their jobs and traveled to Muleshoe to become mail-order brides. They answered an ad in our paper. I heard your old boss in Lifestyles talking about it. She was planning to send a reporter up to cover their story. I convinced her we should send you."

"What?" Indignant, Perrie jumped up and paced back and forth in front of her boss. "You're sending me back to Lifestyles? God, Milt, I hate writing that dreck." She cursed a blue streak, then shook her head stubbornly. "I'm not going. You can fire me if you want, but I'm staying here to write this story."

Milt leaned closer, fixing Perrie with an intractable gaze. "You're going to Muleshoe, Perrin Kincaid. You're going to rest and recover from your wound and I will call you when it's safe to come back. This story will still be here, I promise."

"I'm not going," Perrie repeated. "I'm not. And you can't make me."

Chapter Two

Joe Brennan stood silently in the waiting area and watched as a line of travelers straggled through the jet-way and into the airport. He glanced again at the board, just to make sure he was in the right place, then held the sign up a little higher. He'd written the name Mr. Perry Kincaid on the back of a battered fuel bill that he had yet to pay, but so far, no one had claimed the name.

Maybe the guy had missed his plane. Or maybe Milt Freeman had decided that whatever trouble his reporter was in, it could be best handled in Seattle. All Joe knew was that he owed Milt a few favors and Milt had finally called one in. Though he couldn't show Perry Kincaid much fun in the dead of an Alaskan winter, Hawk might be able to take him ice fishing.

He scanned the waiting area again and his gaze stopped on a young woman who was in the midst of a heated argument with the desk attendant. She wore a short leather jacket and jeans that hugged her backside perfectly. Her auburn hair had been piled haphazardly on top of her head, twisted into an off-center knot that seemed in jeopardy of slipping over her left ear. A bright yellow pencil jutted out of the knot and he watched as she shoved a pen in next to it.

Joe had learned to appreciate a good-looking woman when he could-whether half-frozen on Denali or in the midst of an argument in the airport. Muleshoe-and most of Alaska's bush country-was populated mainly by men, men who fished and hunted and searched for gold, or men who provided goods and services to those trying to eke out a living in the Alaskan bush. Muleshoe was not the kind of town that women found attractive-unless, of course, they were looking to get married.

Just last week, he'd flown in three women who had answered an ad in the Seattle Star. A group of single men in Muleshoe had decided that they'd never get wives unless the women knew they were looking, so they pooled their money and bought the ad. Erv Saunders asked Joe if he wanted in. For forty dollars, Joe could buy a chance to read through the letters, study the photos and pick himself a potential bride.

But Joe had taken a pass. A woman-especially a desperate woman bent on marriage-would only complicate his life. Besides, in order to get married, a guy would have to fall in love, and Joe Brennan had never been in love in his life. For now, he was more than satisfied with an occasional affair, no strings attached.

He studied the woman at the desk, pushing his sunglasses down and the brim of his baseball cap up to get a better look. His mind slowly formed an image of her face. But then, before the picture had completely materialized, she spun around suddenly. The image evaporated, replaced by one more lovely than he'd even anticipated. He fought back a purely instinctive jolt of desire, an unbidden and electric attraction, then shoved his sunglasses back up on his nose. He forced his gaze to fix somewhere over her right shoulder.

Lord, she was pretty, he thought as he risked another glance. Her auburn hair framed delicate features-wide eyes, a perfect nose, a lush mouth. He found his eyes drawn back to stare, against his will, and to his surprise, he found her staring back.

She narrowed her eyes and a defiant expression settled on her features. Squaring her shoulders, she started across the distance that separated them. Joe glanced to either side to make sure he hadn't misunderstood the object of her attention. No, she was definitely headed in his direction.

She stopped in front of him, gave him the once-over, then sighed. "All right, here I am," she snapped. "Now what are you supposed to do with me?"

Joe blinked, then slowly lowered the sign he held. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're Brennan, right?" She shifted the bag on her shoulder, then thrust out her hand. He hesitantly took it, holding her slender fingers against his palm. Another jolt of electricity, this time skittering up his arm. "I'm Perrie Kincaid."

He frowned, then shook his head. "You're Perry Kincaid? You're a woman."

She arched an eyebrow and regarded him coolly. "You've definitely been living in Siberia too long."

"I was expecting a man. Perry is a man's name, like Perry Como. And Milt lead me to believe-"

"It's i-e, not y," she countered. "And you're not exactly what I expected, either."

His mouth quirked in amusement. Gee, she was a snotty little thing, all full of spit and vinegar. "And what did you expect?"

"Well, being an open-minded feminist, I should have expected Josephine Brennan. But to tell the truth, I expected some potbellied guy with fishing lures stuck in his hat and a cigar butt clenched in his teeth."