Chapter seven. Drop your goddamn weapon. She yelled

" Drop your goddamn weapon! " she yelled.

" Come any closer and he's dead! You hear me? "

" Drop your fucking weapon... NOW! "

Jake sat up quickly, her heart racing. She touched her face, feeling tears still fresh on her cheeks, and she rubbed vigorously. The dream. Always the fucking dream. She wiped at her forehead, feeling the perspiration that had formed. Taking a deep breath, she lay back down, running her fingers through Cheyenne's fur to reassure the dog everything was okay. She'd hoped that the damn pain pill would knock her out enough so that she wouldn't dream. Sometimes, it did. But more often than not, the little boy would visit. She wondered how long it would be before she slept through the night. A part of her feared she'd never be able to sleep through the night again.

Rolling over onto her side, she reached under the covers and touched her wristwatch, checking the time. It was only three. Too early to get up but too late to try for a good night's sleep. She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come. But forty minutes later, she was still awake.

She tossed the covers off and, with difficulty, managed to swing her leg over the side. She sat there in the darkness, one hand absently rubbing along her thigh, feeling the scar tissue that remained after her surgery. Small price to pay. She could have lost the whole damn leg.

Cheyenne moved closer, nudging her with a cold, wet nose. Jake rubbed behind the dog's ear, wondering what she would have done these last few weeks if not for Cheyenne. She was a comforting presence, a silent presence. Every person in her life had asked the same question: Do you feel responsible for the little boy's death? Even those who didn't ask, she could still see the question in their eyes. The question and the accompanying sympathy. And in others, she saw relief. Relief that it was Jake who was first on the scene, not them. All but Rick. Her big, macho partner blamed himself. He should have stayed with her. But instead, he'd chased down a guy running from the scene, a supposed accomplice. He turned out to be an older cousin of the boy who was shot. By the time Rick caught him, gunshots were already sounding in the alley. He'd rushed back to Jake, only to find her shot and bleeding profusely... the uniformed officer Perkins and the little boy lying dead, not five feet apart. Perkins had taken a shot to the neck. The little boy, a single gunshot to the head.

Jake squeezed her eyes closed, trying so hard to forget that night, knowing that she never would. The hardest part was waiting. Waiting to find out if it was her bullet that had killed the little boy.

" Come on, girl. Let's have an early breakfast." Jake grabbed the nightstand next to the bed and used it to steady herself as she put weight on her leg. It was stiff but actually felt much better than she thought it would. Apparently the soak in the tub had done wonders. Reaching for the cane, she walked through the dark room and into the kitchen, flipping on the overhead light, then closing her eyes against the brightness. Cheyenne, too, turned away from the light. She walked into the living room and climbed upon the sofa, curling into a ball in one corner.

Jake lit the propane heater in the living room to chase away the early morning cold, then put coffee on. Leaning one hip against the counter as she waited, she surveyed the small cabin, her eyes lighting upon objects quickly, then moving on. The Navajo rug she'd picked up in Santa Fe years ago. The old wooden snow shoes that hung over the mantel, she'd found in an abandoned cabin high up in the Wet Mountains near the Spanish Peaks. Handmade pottery--vases and bowls--littered her bookshelves and tables. The few prints that adorned the walls were mountain scenes, painted by a local artist in Crested Butte. Jake had stumbled upon her studio one summer when she'd ridden her mountain bike from her cabin to the ski village some forty miles away. She was out of water and had gone begging. Serena, with her long shiny black hair, had offered her kitchen in the back of her studio. Jake smiled at the memory. She'd stayed three days.

" Oh, to be young again, " she murmured lazily. She wondered if Serena was still around. Jake hadn't run into her in years.

The smell of coffee brought her thoughts back to the present, and with automatic motions, she poured coffee and added a tea-spoon of sugar, closing her eyes as she sipped the hot liquid. It was far too early to plan her day, but at least she felt well enough to plan a day. Last night, as she'd struggled with the pain, she imagined she'd be laid up all day, recovering. But, as she flexed her leg, she thought she might even be up to a short hike.

Although, if it was as warm as it had been yesterday, she may simply choose the lawn chair on the deck and sit with a book, soaking up the sun while she still had the chance. Which would be fine. It wasn't like she made a habit of lounging on the deck.

She crossed over into the living room, turning on a lamp as she went. Cheyenne opened her eyes, then closed them just as quickly. Apparently, she hadn't recovered from the hike yesterday, either. Jake eased into the recliner and stretched her leg out, careful not to spill her coffee. She sat facing the large windows that overlooked the Collegiate Peaks. Still a couple of hours before daylight, she stared into the darkness, seeing nothing. It was at times like these that she was most frightened. Awake and alone with no distractions. In her mind, she saw the little boy's face, the scared look in his eyes. And later, the look on his mother's face, the tears, the accusing eyes. Telling herself that she'd done all she could do wasn't helping anymore. She was to blame. She should have taken a shot earlier. She shouldn't have tried to talk to the bastard.

Closing her eyes, she ran her hand over her injured leg, reminding herself that she hadn't come out totally unscathed. No, but she was still breathing. She leaned her head back, bits and pieces of that night flying through her mind in no particular order, the gunshots sounding just as loud in her mind as they had that night.

" Goddamn it, " she whispered.