The Outcast

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He was out there somewhere. Alone. Angry. Injured. And afraid he wouldn't live long enough to prove his innocence and make the guilty pay.

Elizabeth Mallory shuddered, as much from the premonition as from the chill of the February wind whipping across the front porch of her mountain cabin home. With a cup of strong black coffee in her right hand, she stood in the open doorway, gazing out over the freshly fallen snow. The first faint hint of morning painted the eastern horizon with various shades of red, from palest pink to deepest crimson. Clouds swirled, dark and foreboding in the gray sky, warning of more sleet and snow.

Elizabeth had sensed a winter storm brewing for days. She was never wrong about her weather forecasts. And she was never wrong in her premonitions. That's what bothered her. The stranger had invaded her thoughts months ago, and no matter how hard she tried to shake him, she couldn't. The first time he had come to her in a night dream. She had awakened from a deep sleep, trembling from the intensity of the vision. She had seen his hands. Big, strong hands-covered with blood. And then she'd seen his stunned face. Those fierce masculine features. Those amber eyes. She had tried to connect with his feelings, but without success. Who was this man? she'd wondered. Where was he? And why was she dreaming of him?

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