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Wendy laced the stiff boots, grimacing. “I’m covering my expenses myself. Besides, I don’t want a guide.”
    â€œWhy don’t you take her?” Barb arched a thick, dark brow at him. “You know every inch of the reserve and exactly where those caribou are likely to hole up.”
    â€œNo!” he and Wendy said in unison.
    â€œWhoa. Sorry. I thought you two were…uh, friends.”
    â€œWe’re not,” Joe said.
    â€œMy mistake.”
    Wendy’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “I’ll, um, be right back.” She headed down the hall toward the bathroom, and when they heard the door close, Barb was all over him.
    â€œWho is she? She’s great! Where did you meet her? What happened with the two of you last—”
    â€œI want you to take her back to her rental car out on the west road, then follow her to the highway. I want her out of here. Got it?”
    Barb’s brown eyes widened. “Got it.”
    â€œAnd don’t ask,” he said, as she opened her mouth to fire more questions at him.
    A moment later Wendy’s footsteps cut short their conversation. “Okay, I’m ready.” She turned to him and stiffly offered her hand. Feeling awkward, he shook it. “Thank you for your…hospitality.” Her tone pushed the sarcastic-meter off the scale.
    At the door their gazes met and, for the briefest moment, in her eyes he read the same unguarded fusion of emotions he’d seen in them last night when she was standing in his bedroom: compassion, longing, regret.
    He was familiar with the last one. God, was he ever.
    Barb called to him over the roof of her department pickup before she climbed inside. “Almost forgot. Your truck’s out of the shop. Couple of guys from the garage are bringing it up later this morning.”
    â€œThanks,” he said, then stood in the open doorway and watched as Barb turned her pickup around and drove Wendy Walters out of his life.
    Good riddance.
    But fifteen minutes later, he couldn’t stop himself from making the call.
    â€œWilderness Unlimited,” the operator uttered in an East Coast accent.
    When Joe reached the senior editor, Wendy’s story was confirmed.
    She was out here to shoot the caribou, only it wasn’t the magazine’s idea. It was Wendy’s. A photo essay slated for next month’s edition had fallen through, and Wendy had cut a deal with the editorial director to hire her as a staff photographer if she could deliver the caribou photos before the issue went to press. No small feat.
    â€œNo one’s ever photographed them up close,” Joe said into the receiver.
    â€œThat’s exactly why our little Wendy picked that particular project. She knew the magazine’s director would be champing at the bit for a coup like that. He couldn’t resist.”
    â€œShe must want that job pretty bad.”
    â€œShe’s desperate,” the woman said. “Can’t say I blame her. After what happened in that loft with that model—geez, he was only twenty-nine, Wendy’s age. So sad. They say it was an overdose of ecstasy or crack, I don’t remember which. Anyway—”
    â€œI get the picture,” Joe said, not wanting to rehash the details he’d read in the tabloid.
    â€œShe’s trying to start over, make a new life for herself. Getting away from Blake Barrett is the smartest thing she’s ever done. She should have done it years ago. That snake didn’t even have the decency to speak to the police on her behalf.”
    Blake Barrett. Joe wondered who he was. Ex-husband, maybe? Lover? Her boss?
    â€œYou take care of our girl, now. I worry about her out there on her own.”
    Joe didn’t bother telling her that the photographer formerly known as Willa Walters was on her way back to the highway as they spoke. Next month’s issue would have to run without those caribou photos, and the petite blond